This psychologist is saying that for men who hit their wives, or their lovers, murder is a short step away. I turn off the TV and pour a small bottle of juice for Cheyenne. The doctor said the more liquids the better. She sucks at the bottle listlessly, her usually dancing eyes glazed with fever. God, it scares me when she’s sick. I don’t ever want her to be hurting, or in danger.
I hold her warm body close and rock her gently. I sing her favorite song to her, “The Circle of Life,” from The Lion King. She has a tape of that music, and she plays it so often I’ve memorized the words.
She falls asleep in my arms, but I continue holding her and rocking her, watching her. In three more weeks Rudy and I are supposed to be going to Las Vegas to get married, but I’m not sure. I keep thinking about that abuse stuff. I’ve never thought about “abuse” or being “battered.” I’ve just thought, Rudy got mad and lost his temper. But abuse, battered, those words sound so extreme. Of course, when he hits me it feels extreme.
***
The first time Rudy ever hit me was just a few months after we’d started being together. He’s three years older than I am, so he was eighteen and I was fifteen. I think that time, when we first loved each other, was maybe the happiest time in my life. I was totally inexperienced with boys, not very pretty, and with my K-Mart wardrobe, I didn’t expect to ever have a boyfriend. But Rudy saw me one day, standing in the rain, waiting for a bus. He offered me a ride. I never take rides with strangers, but I was so cold and wet, and he was so cute, I got in his car, and that was the beginning of it all.
But back to the first day he hit me. I was at the comer, waiting for the bus again, when Sean came running up to me. I hadn’t seen him since Santa Anita closed its season the previous spring.
“Hey, Melissa,” he said, “you look great. How’ve you been?”
“Good,” I said with a smile, thinking of Rudy. “Really good. How about you?”
“Oh, you know, same old stuff. Listen, I’ve got to go for a job interview, but I really want to talk to you and get caught up. Here’s my new phone number. Give me a call tonight, can you?”
“Sure,” I said. “I want you to hear all about my boyfriend, and
I want to know everything you’ve been doing since I saw you last.” It felt so good to be talking to Sean again.
We were just saying goodbye when Rudy came driving past. He made a big U-turn in the middle of the street and stopped in front of where we were talking. He reached over and pushed open the door and told me to get in.
“This is Sean,” I said, starting to introduce them, but Rudy pulled me into the car and peeled away before I could even finish my sentence.
“What’s wrong?” I said, thinking maybe there was some emergency or something, he was in such a hurry.
“What do you think is wrong?” he sneered.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Don’t act all innocent with me!”
He pulled the car to the curb, slamming on the brakes.
“What’s wrong?” I yelled. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
He swung his right hand from the steering wheel to my face in an instant. He hit hard, with the back of his hand. I was stunned.
“Don’t you ever let me see you talking to no guy on no street corner like you’re nothing but a slut.”
“That was Sean, my friend from a long time ago,” I said, crying, holding my hand over my smarting cheek.
“Yeah, well, I’m your friend now. Not Sean, nobody else but me.”
I was so hurt, my cheek, yes, but more, deep inside me. For the first time in my life I had felt loved and secure with Rudy, and in one quick blow he’d shattered those feelings.
“I’m taking you home,” he’d said that day. “I’ve got to go to work, but you just stay at your house until I get there later tonight. You got it?”
I nodded.
“What did he give you?” he said.
“Nothing. We were just talking!”
“He gave you something. I saw him hand you something!”
“He just gave me his phone number,” I said, taking the piece of paper from my pocket and waving it in front of him. He grabbed it from my hand, crumpled it, and threw it out the window.
“You wanna talk to someone on the phone, call me,” he said. “Only me.”
Once home, I washed my face and put ice on my cheek. When my mom came in from work and asked me what happened, I told her I’d tripped and fallen against a light pole. She just shrugged.
When Rudy came over that evening he asked if I would please go get a bite to eat with him. I had thought we were through, but when I saw the pleading look on his face I followed him to the car. We picked up a couple of burritos and drove back to his house.
“Come on in,” he said. “My mom won’t be around for a while.”
He took a package from the glove compartment and we went inside.
“Sit by me,” he said, patting the spot next to him on the couch.
I hesitated.
“Come on, please, Melissa. Please, Missy.”
I sat down and he pulled me to him. “God, Missy, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If you left me, my life wouldn’t be worth shit.”
He kissed my forehead, then nestled his head against my neck and shoulder. I could feel the warm dampness of his tears against my neck. I reached up and dried his cheeks with my hand.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I love you so much. I’m so afraid of losing you.”
He handed me the box he’d taken from his glove compartment. In it was a gold bracelet with a single charm—a heart.
“This is to tell you I promise you, with all my heart, that I will never ever hit you again. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
I took the bracelet and he fastened the clasp for me. And I had hope again that someone loved me, that I belonged to someone.
In the past three years Rudy has hit me more times than I can count. I still wear the bracelet, but it doesn’t mean much to me anymore. Usually he only hits me if he’s been drinking, but lately he’s been drinking more than ever. I think if he’d just stop drinking we’d be fine together.
Rudy’s mom says I’ve just got to learn when to keep my mouth shut, like it’s my fault when he hits me. I used to think that was right, but I’m beginning to think otherwise.
“He’s like his father was,” she told me once. “I finally learned how to handle him. I just shut up and stayed out of his way when he was drinking. That’s all you have to do.”
“Did you end up with a happy marriage?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t say we were the picture of happiness, but at least he hardly ever beat the crap out of me after I learned to zip my lip. I guess we were happy enough. I sort of missed him when he died.”
I don’t know. Rudy says things will be better when we’re married. He won’t need to hit me anymore because he’ll know I’m all his. But what if things aren’t better when we get married? Then what? Sometimes, though, Rudy is really sweet to me. And I know he needs me. Not many people need me.
Cheyenne’s bottle drops to the floor. I take her into our room and put her down in the crib. She stirs a bit, but she doesn’t wake up. Maybe now I can get some reading done. I’m behind in English and history. Sometimes I have a hard time keeping up. Not that I’m stupid, but there’s a lot to do, taking care of a baby and doing the housework and laundry for four people. Plus, I’ve got a lot on my mind.
When Cheyenne wakes in the morning she’s bright-eyed again. She stands at her crib, smiles, and says “Up?” just like always. I am relieved to see her feeling better.
Rudy goes to lift her from the crib, but she starts saying, “Baby help! Baby help!” frowning and holding on to the crib slats. I go over and lower the side rail.
“Let her climb out by herself,” I tell Rudy.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, putting her down. “What’s with this
kid, anyway?
”
“Nothing. She just wants to do it herself,” I say.
“Well, everything takes twice as long with this baby-help crap.”
“But she’s learning how to do things,” I say.
“So?”
“So, do you want coffee before you leave?” I ask, changing the subject.
On Friday, the last day that Paula is going to be in Peer Counseling, she brings the director of a battered women’s shelter with her. This woman, Pam, tells us about the way they do things—how they protect women and their children from abusive husbands, how they help them find jobs and housing to get back on their feet. “It’s a six-week program,” she says.
I raise my hand and ask, “What happens after six weeks?”
Leticia looks at me funny, I guess because I never ask questions in class.
“After six weeks they get settled in another place—their own apartment, or a kind of half-way place, sort of a group center.”
“How much does it cost?” I ask.
“No one is turned away because of money.”
Pam says how hard it is for abused women to break away, and that some end up going back to their husbands or boyfriends.
“Man, I’d never do that,” Leticia says. “That’s stupid to the maximum!”
“Sometimes, in spite of reality, it’s hard for women to give up on whatever dream they had of the man who’s beating them. These guys can be very charming.”
I look at my bracelet, the heart gleaming with sunlight from the window behind me. Charming is right.
A week before we’re scheduled to go to Las Vegas, Rudy comes home late. I smell beer on his breath when he kisses me, but he seems to be in a good mood.
“C’mon, come listen to this.”
I check on Cheyenne. She’s sound asleep. I walk out to the car and sit in it. Rudy turns on the tape player. It’s a rap tape that he knows I don’t like, with the words over and over saying, “You’re my bitch, my bitch, my bitch.” He’s got it cranked up so loud it hurts my ears. I get out of the car and walk back into the house.
“Hey, what’s with you?” he says.
“I hate that tape, and besides, I think you should have bought a muffler. We’re driving all the way to Las Vegas next week and your car sounds like it will barely make it around the comer.”
Irma comes in and flashes me her shut-up look, but I don’t care.
“Oh, you don’t like my bitch tape, Bitch?” Rudy says, walking over to where I’m standing.
“No, I don’t,” I say, not backing away.
“Rudy, honey, why don’t you come in the kitchen and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee,” Irma says. Rudy pays no attention.
“And you don’t like how I spend my money, Bitch? The money I work my butt off for?”
“I didn’t say that,” I tell him. “I’m just worried about the car. I think it might not make it to Las Vegas.”
“I told you. You think too much!” he yells.
“You can’t tell me not to think, Rudy Whitman!”
“I can’t? I can’t?” he says. Then he does what I know he’s going to do. He hits me. Hard. In the face. I fall backward against the couch. He hits me again, harder. I cover my face with my arms, sobbing.
“Rudy, stop,” Irma is saying. “Stop now.” She grabs his arm. He shakes her off and raises his fist again, then lowers it. He is red in the face, breathing hard. He spits at me, then goes to our bedroom, turns on the light, and starts rummaging through the drawer where he keeps the money he’s been saving for our Las Vegas trip.
“Daddy?” Cheyenne says, waking.
I go into the bedroom, half-covering my face. I don’t know how I look, but I’m sure it’s nothing I want Cheyenne to see. “Up?” Cheyenne says.
Rudy walks over and picks her up.
“Baby help,” she says, pounding her little fists against him. “Baby help,” she says, starting to cry.
“Stop with that goddamned baby help crap!” he yells at her. He lifts her from the crib with a jerk. She’s screaming now. I rush to her and pick her up. Irma runs into the room.
“I’ve had all I can take of this place—I think this and I think that, and this constant baby help crap! I’m outta here!” he says, taking the money from the drawer and walking out the door.
I hold Cheyenne close, rocking her back and forth. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I tell her over and over again, but she cries harder and harder.
“I’m telling you, Melissa, you’d better learn when to keep that mouth shut. You know better than to cross him when he’s been drinking . . . Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Is Cheyenne okay?”
“I don’t think he hurt her physically if that’s what you mean by okay,” I say. I walk into the bathroom and start the water in the tub. I check my face in the mirror. It’s already starting to swell. I take off Cheyenne’s clothes and my own, and we get into the soothing warm water. I check out her legs and butt, stand her up, turn her around, have her lift first one leg, then the other, checking her over.
“It’s okay, Baby, you’re okay,” I tell her. Slowly, as I wash her all over with the soft washcloth and soap, her sobs subside. But even after she stops crying, her little face looks tight and worried. I wash my own face now, very gently. Irma comes in with an ice pack.
“This will help the swelling,” she says, then leaves.
After our bath I take Cheyenne back to her crib. I give her a bottle, to soothe her, and I crawl into bed, too. I don’t think Rudy will be back tonight. Usually when he leaves like that he stays away for a day or so. I’m awake most of the night, tossing, turning, thinking. The left side of my face throbs. I refill the ice bag and take some aspirin and try to sleep.
In the morning, I am awakened by Cheyenne’s voice calling, “Up?”
I go to the crib and lower the rail so she can climb out. She holds her arms out to me.
“Baby help?” I say to her.
She leans closer to me, frowning. “No baby help. No,” she whispers.
I reach for Cheyenne and pick her up, then set her gently on the floor by the crib. I watch her as she stands quietly, as if she is unsure what to do next. I lift her back into the crib.
“Up?” she says, holding her arms out to me.
“Baby help?” I say, wanting so much to see her determined struggle to climb out of the crib by herself.
“No baby help. No,” she says, reaching for me.
Again I lift her from the crib. In my head I hear Rudy’s furious scream of “Stop with that goddamned baby help crap!” and suddenly the white hot anger I’ve not felt for myself starts in my belly and moves through my body, filling me from head to toe with a fiery rage, clearing my brain, showing me the way.
I’m getting out of here. I’m getting Cheyenne out of here. Maybe he could break my spirit. Maybe I didn’t have much spirit to begin with. But he won’t break Cheyenne. I shove as many clothes into her and my backpacks as I can. I change and feed her. Irma comes into the kitchen and asks how I am.
“Good,” I say. “Really good.”
She looks at me as if I’m crazy, but the truth is, for the first time in three years, I’m sane.
“You just be careful what you say when he gets home, and everything will be okay.”
“I’ll say what I want,” I tell her. “I’ll think what I want. And so will Cheyenne.”
“You’re asking for trouble,” Irma says.
“I’m asking for a life,” I say.
I wipe Cheyenne’s face and take the tray off so she can climb from the high chair. She holds her arms out to me.
“Baby help?” I ask.
Still, she holds her arms up, waiting. I take her from the chair, get our backpacks and my notebook, and walk out the door. Halfway to the bus stop, Rudy drives up. He looks at my face.
“I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry,” he says. “Get in the car. Let’s go talk.”
“I’ve got to get to school, Rud
y,” I say. “We’ll talk tonight. Don’t worry.”
“You can’t go to school with that face,” he says. “What’ll you tell people?”
“I’ll make up a good story,” I say. “I’ve got a lot of them.”
“Jesus, Missy,” he says, looking as if he’ll cry. Then he looks at Cheyenne.
“Hi, Baby,” he says. She hides her face in my shoulder. “Oh, God,” he says.
“Go home, Rudy. Get some sleep. We’ll talk this evening.”
“Sure?”
“Sure,” I say.
I don’t feel sorry about making a promise I know I won’t keep. I undo the latch on my gold bracelet and let it fall to the gutter.
At the Infant Center I ask to use the phone. I take the number from my Peer Counseling notebook and call. Six weeks. That’s not long to try to figure out a new life for me and Cheyenne. But I’ve got to try. After I make the phone call, I explain to Bergie what I’m doing, and that someone from the shelter will come to get me and the baby around noon.
“You’re doing absolutely the right thing,” she says, giving me a long hug. “I’ve been worried about you. Light poles seemed to be getting in your way more and more often.”
“I loved him so much,” I say, feeling my throat tighten. “I thought we could make a life. I tried so hard.”
Bergie pulls me to her and holds me while I cry, the way I’ve seen her hold the toddlers.
“He can be so nice. But then he can be so mean.”
“Nice doesn’t make up for what he’s done to your face,” she says, handing me a tissue. “You’ve got to go to a safe place, and
Cheyenne needs a safe place, too. Even if he never touches her, if she grows up seeing you pushed around, that’s tremendously damaging.”
“Will it be bad for her not to be with her father?”
“Not as bad as it would be to grow up around someone who beats on her mother.”
Cheyenne, who has been sitting in a high chair eating graham crackers, calls to me, “Mommy. Up?”
I go over and take the tray off, waiting to see what she’ll do. She just sits. I lean over to pick her up. She pushes me away.
“No. Baby help,” she says softly, climbing down from the chair.
Beyond Dreams Page 5