Sunday You Learn How to Box

by Bil Wright

  When I finally did see her, I knew why Lucille was so excited. Dr. Davis sailed into the group room like a big cocoa-colored ship, with curled blue hair and red-framed glasses. There wasn’t one thing about the way she looked that was what I’d imagined. And from the way they suddenly stopped pacing and tearing tissues, I could tell the other patients were surprised too. “Wha’d I tell ya?!” Lucille yelled across the room at me.

  Dr. Davis sat next to Sarah and put her pocketbook on the floor. I couldn’t tell how old she was, definitely older than my mother, but not as old as Grandaddy. She didn’t have any wrinkles at all, maybe because she was so big. She wasn’t fat from the waist down, but she did have a bigger chest than any woman I could think of at that moment. The blue hair was what made her look old. She should have dyed it any other color but old-lady blue, I thought. Mostly, though, I couldn’t get over Dr. Davis being black.

  “I’d like to know who everyone is,” she said, and she reminded me of Mom because her voice was so clear and you could hear “Don’t you dare mess with me” in every word. She also had a slight accent, which made her voice sound musical, like the organ chimes at Greater Faith Tabernacle. “But I want everyone to sit down first so that we can all see each other when we speak.”

  Probably Dr. Shapiro had started out trying to get everybody to sit down like they were sane when he first started. I had no way of knowing. But it was certainly too late now. Even Sarah looked at Dr. Davis as if to say, “It’s a nice thought, lady. But it’s never going to happen.”

  The patients watched her as if, of course, she was the one who was a loon for even asking. Dr. Davis smiled at them and shrugged. “We won’t be able to begin until everyone sits down.” Maybe what they heard in her voice was “Even if I am bonkers, it’s what I want and I’m determined to get it.” Or maybe it was because they were curious to see what would happen if they all sat down around the big brown ship with the blue hair. Slowly they drifted over like sleepwalkers being drawn into the middle of the room. Sarah looked impressed. Lucille shouted across the circle to me, “Wha’d I tell ya, Louis?! Couldn’t ya just die?!”

  • • •

  Before I had time to worry about what I was or wasn’t going to say to her, Dr. Davis told me to make sure the door was closed. She pulled open one of the drawers at the side of her desk and took out a red plaid-patterned thermos and a small stack of paper cups.

  “You like ginger ale?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She poured, and held one of the cups out toward me. “Cold enough? Or do you need some ice from the kitchen?”

  The accent was West Indian. Mom said West Indians didn’t have any use for American black people, so I wouldn’t mention it to her when I told her about Dr. Davis.

  “No ma’am. It’s fine, thank you.”

  While we drank, she reached for a small gold elephant sitting in the corner of her desk. She lit a cone of incense sitting in a hole in the middle of the elephant’s back. Then she stood.

  “I know you told me your name in group, but it doesn’t feel like we’ve really met each other. I’m Dr. Eleanor Davis.”

  We shook hands. “I’m Louis Bowman.”

  The first few days of seeing Dr. Davis alone were like visiting an older aunt I didn’t know I had. No matter how uneasy I might have felt, she acted as if I was visiting her at home and there wasn’t any reason why we both shouldn’t feel as comfortable as she did. We always had a cup of ginger ale and she always burned her incense. She put on pink hand cream that smelled like roses while she asked me about my mother. Or she told me, “Blue, Louis, is your color. Take good care of that shirt you have on. It shows off how handsome you are.” Like Dr. Shapiro, she told me I didn’t have to tell her anything I didn’t want to. “Don’t feel like talking?” she’d ask. “Sit and rest for a few minutes. If something comes, fine. If not, we’ll be seeing each other plenty. And we’ll be friends.”

  She must’ve seen something in my face that made her add, “I am sure that we will.”

  18

  I didn’t think I’d told Dr. Davis very much, considering how much there was to tell. By the end of October, I knew I could never tell anybody all of it. Unlike Dr. Shapiro, Dr. Davis didn’t mind talking about herself, especially about being a girl in Jamaica. She told me, “I grew up feeling like a unicorn in my parents’ front yard, and that suited me really. But no one else seemed very pleased with me for a very long time. Sometimes you remind me of myself, Louis Bowman.”

  She took off her glasses, placed them in the middle of her desk and ran her finger down the bridge of her nose as she spoke gently to me. “The circumstances could not be more different, the places, the people. But the feelings, the feelings I remember well.”

  • • •

  Mom was still taking in ironing, but now she’d also gone back to cleaning offices on Saturdays. She told me, “It’s money, Louis. I close my eyes, think about my check and keep moving.” I took care of Lorelle and ironed anything of her customers’ Mom thought I couldn’t ruin. Jeans, handkerchiefs, underwear. As exhausted as she looked, she was never too tired to battle with Ben. She didn’t seem to be afraid he’d put her in the hospital like several other men in the projects had done to their wives. It was worse though now, because I was always jumping in. Even when I knew she’d started it, I couldn’t stand to see him fight her back. I’d get between them and try to get in a few good punches. As soon as he started to fight me and not her, Mom would cry and beg him to stop. I was glad not to be afraid of him anymore. I fought him without thinking he could hurt me. It didn’t matter anymore.

  When he wasn’t around, Mom would say, “Louis, you’re going to make him murder you if you don’t stop. I can take care of myself, but what am I going to do if he murders you?”

  The Saturday night before my fourteenth birthday, Mom was cooking spaghetti, Ben was upstairs and Lorelle and I were watching television. Mom had called from her office cleaning job and told me to make sure Lorelle took her bath and put on her pajamas. She’d also asked me if I’d ironed the sheets and pillowcases Mrs. Ippolito had put in her basket that week and I told her I had. I decided to wait until she got home to tell her I’d scorched one of the pillowcases. She found it before I got the chance.

  “Why do you have to be such a damn sneak? Why couldn’t you act like a man for once? Didn’t you think I was gonna find it, you little sneak?”

  “I was gonna tell you, Mom. I was gonna—”

  “You’re a liar. On top of everything else, you’re a liar too.”

  I sat staring at the television, trying, in my mind, to make Mom shut up, trying to make her stop calling me a sneak, a liar, wishing I’d taken the pillowcase outside and thrown it away.

  Ben came downstairs. Now it would get worse. She’d drag him into it when it was none of his business. Tonight, he was the good one. I was the sneak, the liar.

  “Turn the news on. Can you do that, at least? It’s time for the news.” A second ago she hadn’t known or cared what was on television. Now, Ben wanted to watch the news. So it was Louis, turn on the news.

  I hesitated. You want the news, here’s some news, you can turn it on yourself.

  Lorelle said, “I’ll do it,” heading toward the television.

  “Oh no, you won’t! Sit down!”

  Lorelle jumped back onto the couch.

  “Louis, what the hell is taking you so long?”

  On top of everything else you sneak why do you have to be such a liarsneakliarsneakliar

  I knew I was moving slowly. I couldn’t go any faster. It was her fault. The louder she got, the slower I moved. Liarsneakliarsneakliar.

  “Can’t move any faster than that?”

  I clicked the channel once.

  “I bet I can make you move faster, you liar. I’ll make you move—I’ll make you—”

  God. I hurt. What had she done to me? I was afraid to turn around. She was still behind me. Screaming. Sorry. Sorry. I could smell her. Scotch. And
sweat. Screaming sorry.

  19

  “Look what you made me do!” Mom moaned, her voice edged with panic. I stared down at the long cooking fork she’d dropped after she jabbed it into me. “Ben, help me. Should we take him to the hospital?”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he didn’t hear her. Finally, he said, “Put Lorelle to bed,” and to me, “Louis, go upstairs to the bathroom.” We filed up the stairs, Lorelle, Mom, me and Ben, splitting in separate directions at the top.

  I stopped in front of the bathroom door, dazed, waiting to be told what to do next.

  “Go in, and take down your pants,” Ben said. “See if you’re bleeding.”

  I went in, closed the door, and began to undress. My baggy corduroy pants were sticking to my thighs. I knew before I looked what the answer was.

  “Well?” Mom asked.

  I quickly locked the door. “Yes. I’m bleeding.”

  “For god’s sake, Louis. Open the door and let me in. I want to see how bad it is.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “What do we do?” I heard her ask Ben.

  There was a moment of silence. I turned my back to the sink and looked over my shoulder to the medicine chest mirror above it. I could only see as far down as the middle of my back. Where she’d jabbed me with the fork was lower, closer to my butt.

  “Open the door,” Ben was telling me. “If you lose too much blood, you’ll have to go to the hospital.”

  I looked at the door, imagining the two of them out in the hall, staring from the other side. The only thing that could make this worse would be going to the hospital and having a lot of strangers look at me naked. I pictured lying on a metal table under a spotlight, with about a dozen doctors in surgical masks, all examining my butt at the same time. I pulled up my pants, unlocked the door and opened it.

  “I am bleeding, but not much.”

  “Let me see.” Mom pushed into the bathroom.

  “No.”

  “Then Ben, you look at it, would you please?” she wailed. Ben didn’t move. “Ben, please.”

  Ben and Mom changed places, as I stood in the middle, holding my pants up with both hands, nauseous. My butt continued to sting. I looked past Mom, standing in the hallway again. Lorelle was behind her, clutching her pillow, whimpering. I closed the bathroom door.

  Ben sat on the side of the tub, waiting. “I don’t think it’s bad,” I told him.

  “Let me see,” he said quietly. My stomach clutched at having to take my pants down in front of him, but it didn’t seem like I had a lot of choices. While he ran some warm water in the tub, I stared down at my underwear, soaked with blood.

  Ben turned me around and blotted with a washcloth until he could see how bad the wound was. But he didn’t tell me what he thought. He stepped away from the tub and ordered me to get in.

  As I lifted my leg slowly, Mom suddenly pushed the door open. I wanted to sit quickly, but it hurt too much. I covered my crotch with both hands.

  “Sit with your back to the faucet,” Ben said calmly. Mom rocked back and forth on the toilet crying. “Why did you make me do this? Why?!”

  She came over to the tub. I leaned away and closed my eyes, afraid of what she’d do next. Reaching into the water, she squeezed my hand. “Don’t ever tell your grandfather. He’ll put me in jail. He’ll take you away from me.” I nodded, my eyes still closed, my head against the bathroom wall. “You’ve got to promise me, Louis, you won’t tell. Not just him. Anyone.” I wanted to hit her. Instead, I promised. She let go of my hand and went back to sit on the toilet.

  When she asked Ben, “Has the bleeding stopped?” he didn’t answer. He turned the faucets on harder and told me, “Stay under the water.” Then he started out of the bathroom. I stared down at the cloudy, red water, wondering how long it would take.

  “We won’t have to take him to the hospital, will we?”

  Ben was already in the hallway when he told her, “You’re gonna kill somebody before it’s all over.”

  • • •

  “Dr. Davis,” I wanted to say on Monday while she was circling her palms with hand cream, “my mother put two little holes in me Saturday night because I scorched a pillowcase and didn’t change the channel fast enough. Do you want to see them?” But I didn’t. I didn’t pull up my shirt, push my pants down and peel back the bandage for her like I daydreamed I would, lying in bed on Sunday. I didn’t wince from how sore it was when I sat next to her in Group or across from her in our private. I kept my promise to Mom.

  Dr. Davis knew something had happened to me anyway. She waited till Wednesday. Then she dropped the “you can tell me as little or as much as you want” routine.

  “You’ve got something important on your mind, Louis? I would hope you’d trust me enough to talk about it.” She put both creamed palms on her desk and leaned across it. “But I won’t press you.”

  She often said things I didn’t usually hear people say, like “I won’t press you.” Sometimes I’d take something she’d said and use it in school like I’d been saying it for years. “I won’t press you.” That was a good one.

  I liked that she knew something important had happened whether I told her or not. But no, Dr. Davis, I thought, don’t press me.

  • • •

  That Friday was my birthday. Dr. Davis announced it in Group. Lucille started singing so loud and off-key, I started laughing. No one else was singing, not even Sarah or Dr. Davis who’d brought it up in the first place, so it was pretty embarrassing. Lucille screeching, “Dear Looooisss! Happy Buuuurthday tooo Yuuuuu!” Embarrassing, but fun.

  When I went to her office for my private, Dr. Davis told me like she had the first day to make sure the door was closed behind me. She lit a cone of incense and asked me as she blew out the match, “What are you going to do to celebrate your birthday, Louis?”

  “My mom will probably give me some presents after dinner. And she usually makes a cake.”

  “Good,” Dr. Davis said. “But what are you going to do to celebrate yourself?”

  I twisted a little in my chair and smiled. She didn’t really expect me to answer that, did she? She was looking at me like she did.

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Well, you should. I always celebrate my own birthday. If you don’t, why should anybody else?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “What do you do?”

  “Never mind what I do. Think about what you want to do for yourself. Doesn’t have a thing to do with anybody else. You’ll know it when you think of it.”

  She pulled a cake box from her side drawer and told me to open it. She’d bought two big pieces of chocolate cake with coconut icing. I wasn’t crazy about coconut, but it didn’t matter. How could she have known?

  Instead of ginger ale, she’d brought apple cider in her thermos. When we were almost finished eating our cake, she realized she’d forgotten these napkins in her pocket-book that said Happy Birthday on them. She pulled them out and put them on the desk. “Oh well”—she laughed—“I’ll keep them for us. And we can have more parties anytime we want to.”

  I said less that Friday than I’d probably said since the first day we’d had a private. I’d never cried in front of her before and I didn’t want to start.

  • • •

  The week before Thanksgiving, Mom announced it was time to see if my back was healed. I begged her to let me take the bandages off myself, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Put a towel over yourself if you’re so embarassed.”

  She sat on the toilet seat and slowly pulled the adhesive away from my skin. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on what Dr. Davis had said about a gift for myself. I still hadn’t figured out what I wanted yet. Mom sighed loudly when she saw the place where the fork had gone into me.

  “I hope you never make me do anything this crazy again, Louis. I just pray to God.”

  “No ma’am,” I said. “I won’t.” I was thinking that the only way to stop her was not
to be there. Maybe that was my gift.

  20

  By December, Mom was pretty sure Ben had a girlfriend he was going to see on the weekends. I couldn’t imagine anyone waiting all week to see Ben. Girlfriend or not, though, for the past two months, Friday morning was usually the last we saw of him until Monday after work.

  I daydreamed now more than ever about leaving. I kept thinking about Mom sending me to New York the first time, the tag pinned to my jacket, her running alongside the train shouting for me to make sure I did everything she’d said. I remembered how glad I felt when it went too fast for her to keep up, and I was alone, moving away from her and Ben.

  There were days I wanted to tell Dr. Davis how much I wanted to disappear, but I hadn’t told her any of the really important stuff, so it wouldn’t make sense to start with this. In our privates, she said she wasn’t worried about how long it took for me to tell her things. “We have the time,” she’d say in her Jamaican accent. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  • • •

  She wasn’t lying exactly, although that’s what it felt like when two weeks before Christmas, Dr. Davis told me she was going home to Jamaica and wouldn’t be back until after New Year’s.

  “Am I not allowed to have a holiday?” she asked me.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well then, take off that sour face you’re giving me. I want to wish you a Merry Christmas, Louis Bowman.”

  She gave me a present. It surprised me, like the cake she’d brought for my birthday. It meant she thought about me when we weren’t at Burgess.

  She said it was only for a couple of weeks, but I said a real good-bye to her for myself in case I never saw her again. When I got home, I opened her present. It was a small blue book with blank pages. There was a note inside.