Mom and Clark
tossing back shots of
brandy and Johnny Walker Black,
transporting them to
nowhere I wanted to be,
and I cursed under my breath,
ducking outside
without giving notice.
“Nowhere to run to, baby.”
One door-slam later,
and I closed my eyes,
pretending to be
the lone dancer
in the middle of the street,
stomping out my hatred of Clark
while doing the Mashed Potato,
wadding up my anger at Mom
and drowning it in
Smokey Robinson and the Miracles’
“Tracks of My Tears.”
Sweat pouring off me,
I surrendered to
the happy beat
of Chubby Checker,
who helped me
plant my feet
in the moment,
and twist, twist,
twist the night away.
Notebook
Funny how, no matter what, morning comes. How weird is that?
The sun makes no sense when everything inside
is shadow.
RECORD KEEPING
My spiral notebook bulges
with poems and prayers
and questions only God
can answer.
Rage burns the pages,
but better them
than me.
FRIEND SHIP SAILS AWAY
I’m sure I made friends in Brooklyn.
So why can’t I
remember them?
Or the schools I attended?
Or the teachers I loved?
Instead, my
Brooklyn recollections
are all of Mom
filling her days
with blue thoughts
and blackberry brandy,
of her recurring trips
to the psych ward,
of me tap-dancing past
the local gangbangers
until I couldn’t.
And then there’s all the
unwanted memories
of Clark—always Clark,
thrusting his ugliness at me,
raking my
woman-child flesh
with a greedy hunger
in his eyes,
and him clawing
at my innocence
with filthy fingers
until there was
little room left
in my memory
for much else,
which is a shame, really,
because the friends
I do remember
were splendiferous.
BIRTHDAY ASSESSMENT
Thirteen was a year
of revelation.
I turned out to look
not so bad, thank God—
despite my detestable
horn-rimmed glasses.
Then there was my natural
try-and-stop-me stubbornness
and wicked-as-all-get-out wit,
attractive qualities
on their own.
My sister—damn her—
turned out to be voluptuous,
while I was merely cute.
It hardly seemed fair,
but, for the record,
by thirteen,
I ended up the tallest
in my family, a proud fact
which, at times,
made me insufferable.
I often called Mom Pygmy.
Believe me, she was not amused.
But, the way I figured,
since she’d saddled me
with this oversized proboscis,
I had every reason to tease her
limited stature.
We all have our crosses
to bear.
CRIMINAL INTENT
2 a.m.:
I woke to voices clanging like
a discordant gong.
Clark’s deep voice
in menace mode:
“Get off my back, woman!
If you don’t want to
work overtime, don’t!”
Then Mom: “I wouldn’t have to
if you’d keep a job
for more than ten seconds,
always talking about how
‘The Man’ treats you
with no respect, as if
you’d earned any.”
It was an old argument
that went nowhere.
Like always, I pulled the pillow
over my head, but this time
there was a scream
and the sound of something
bump, bump, bumping
down the stairs.
I grabbed the butcher knife
from beneath my mattress
and sprang into the hall.
Clark swayed dangerously
at the top of the stairway. Alone.
“Where’s Mom?” I demanded.
Before he could answer,
I leaned over the banister behind him,
saw her crumpled motionless
on the floor below.
“Mom?” I called.
“Mom! Talk to me!”
When she didn’t, I thought
That’s it, and moved toward Clark
in what felt like slow motion.
His back to me,
I raised the butcher knife
in a daze, about to swing when
Mom’s voice
cut through the haze.
“Don’t, honey!” I froze.
“Mom?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“Really, honey. I’m fine.
Don’t do this, baby. Please.
He’s not worth it.”
Clark turned to me,
trembling.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out!” I shouted.
“Get out, now!” and for once,
Clark acted like he had some sense,
raced down the stairs
and slipped out the door.
My eyes burned into him
as he bolted,
and I thought of something
Mrs. B. used to say:
“God don’t like ugly.”
You see this, God, right?
I know you do.
I know it.
I ran to my mother and,
for a while, we wordlessly
held each other.
My breathing slowed,
and I began to shake,
staring at the deadly weapons
connected to my wrists,
the pair of hands that nearly
killed a man.
How could they be mine?
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,”
I whispered. Still wobbly,
Mom fought to sit up,
took me in her arms,
and cried the tears I wouldn’t.
Notebook
After all this time of keeping him away, Mom must have called Daddy. He came to pick me up, said I’d be staying with him for a few days. She’d call the school and tell them I was sick, so no worries there, but I wasn’t sure about leaving Mom. She looked at me steady, clear-eyed, and said, “I’ll be fine now. Trust me.” Something about the way Mom said it let me know she meant it. I packed an overnight bag and left. Before I did, I set that butcher knife on
her nightstand.
REVELATION
Daddy picked me up
for a quick and quiet drive
to his apartment.
When he arrived,
I stood stiffly for his hug,
still uncomfortable
being touched.
Besides, I hadn’t seen him
in ages.
He ushered me into
the mess of his
two-bedroom flat,
clothes strewn everywhere,
dirty dishes in the sink,
nothing in its place.
Who’d want to live here?
I thought about when
he’d said he didn’t know how
to care for little girls.
I finally believed him.
Even so, if he’d kept
Carol and me,
Clark could never have—
No point in going there.
I didn’t even want Daddy
to see that thought on my face.
I’d keep this ugly secret
from him.
There’s nothing he could
do about it now, anyway.
“Excuse the mess,” he said,
clearing space for me
on the sofa.
“I’ll straighten up a bit,
then you can go to sleep
on the pull-out.”
I nod,
offering no help.
The way I figure,
he could use some practice
taking care of his
not-so-little girl.
DISORIENTED
I woke, startled that
there was no knife
underneath my mattress,
then remembered
I was at Daddy’s place.
My shoulders relaxed
as I rubbed my eyes,
grateful
for a little peace.
COMFORT
The next night,
we silently shared a booth
at a neighborhood pizzeria,
and later sat on his sofa
watching who knows what
stupid show on TV,
something that would
make me laugh.
Instead of plying me
with questions
I wasn’t ready to answer,
he reached for me
and, after a moment’s hesitation,
I let his arm
make itself at home
around my shoulder,
squeezing love
through every pore—
his silent assurance
there was enough of it
to fuel me
no matter what.
Notebook
Too bad I couldn’t stay with Daddy longer.
Clark’s back again, like nothing ever happened. So he’s sleeping on
the couch. So what? I’d be happier if he was sleeping in the street.
That’s where he belongs.
Why is the devil
back in my mother’s bed?
Leave it to him,
she’d be long dead.
One thing, though:
I bet he now knows
not to mess with me.
SHOTS FIRED
Altogether,
1963 was a terrible, horrible,
no-good, very bad year.
One November evening
I came home from school
to find my mother
clutching a photo
of John, Robert, and Ted Kennedy
flashing those
impossibly white teeth.
Below the photo, the words
“Dear Bernice,
Thank you for your support
of the Democratic Party.”
Mom delicately ran her finger
over John’s image,
and emptied out
every tear in her body.
I knew just enough about
JFK and hope
to join her.
Notebook
Carol’s got her own apartment. She called as soon as she moved in. She says it’s not very big, only a studio. But still. It’s hers. Seventeen, with her own apartment! It’s up in the Heights, not far from Aunt Edna and Uncle Abe. She’s working as a cook to pay for it. Good thing she’s learned how to. I don’t think her customers would like that raw oatmeal and buttermilk she used to feed me! Anyway, since she’s underage, the restaurant’s paying her under the table, until her eighteenth birthday.
I’ve been thinking, maybe I should go stay with her. No. I can’t leave Mom. Not as long as she’s with Clark.
TURKEY TROT
Thanksgiving brought with it
new notes of grace.
Clark left. Wrote himself
out of our story.
That’s all the ink
I’m willing to spill
on the matter.
Notebook
I went to the library today, returned five books. I thought about not returning A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I want to read it again. I read it twice, already. In some ways, Francie’s just like me. We both know the color of hell by heart.
REST
I count down the days of quiet,
enjoy the calm
before the next storm
Mom is sure
to invite.
Notebook
I was never happier to leave a place.
No matter where we end up, Clark won’t be there!
I packed up my room before I was even asked.
The moving truck couldn’t come fast enough.
A GOOD GOODBYE
I sealed the last box in my room,
shoved it out into the hall,
eyes sweeping walls,
dresser, bed, each holding
the imprint of my fear.
Good riddance, I thought
and slammed one door,
ready to walk through another.
New neighborhood,
new school.
New Mom?
The night before,
she’d gathered every bottle
of gin and brandy
hidden in the house
and poured the contents
down the drain.
“I’m leaving this place behind,
and the drinking along with it.”
Silence was the only honest answer
I could offer.
“I mean it, this time,” she said.
“I hope so.” I was past the point
of pretending to believe.
Still, I’d heard of such things
as miracles.
BOOK FOUR
1963–1966
“Tamar put ashes on her head, and tore the long robe that she was wearing; she put her hand on her head, and went away, crying aloud as she went.”
—2 Samuel 13:19
My narrative’s a puzzle.
What’s next and next and next
I couldn’t say.
The moments, hours, days
a jumble.
The only thread connecting them
is me, and even then
the thread is frayed—
the break, at most,
a hair’s breadth away.
THE HEIGHTS
Money thin as tissue,
the issue before us
was what we could afford.
Solution: become boarders
in a rooming house.
The stay would be brief,
Three months, maybe four,
long enough to pocket
rent and security for
a proper apartment.
Until then, Mom and I,
galaxies apart,
would share one room, one bed.
Great new start! Not.
Moving from two stories
to two nightstands between us,
squeezed was a word
too big to fit
the miniature space,
the new place we were
supposed to call home.
Night One, walls pressing in,
I ran out to the stoop for air.
Amsterdam Avenue
was waiting there,
apartment buildings
close enough to kiss,
liquor store on one corner,
Holy Ghost Revival Center
on the other, barber and
beauty shop in between,
and the sweet stink
of Sherman’s Barbecue
tickling my nose from next door.
Mom joined me outside,
said we should try
barbecue for dinner
and my stomach
growled on cue.
Still, my thirteen-year-old self
stood there, eyes closed
for a minute or two,
breathing out Brooklyn,
breathing in
Washington Heights.
Notebook
I’d like to miss the bay windows
in that Brooklyn brownstone
where I could curl up
and read for hours,
or miss those planked
maple-wood floors
slick enough for me
to slide across
when the mood hit.
I’d like to miss
the curving banister
that I would sniff
when it was newly polished
so I could catch that whiff
of lemon scent.
But how can I miss
window, floor, or banister
when that house flooded with
an ocean of ugliness
that practically
swept me away?
MATERIALIZED
Clark finally gone,
I get to see Daddy
whenever I please,
even though I’ll be living
Ordinary Hazards Page 9