Yvonne, another teen mom who I sort of know, is waiting, too.
“I thought you went to Hamilton,” she says.
“I do, but I’m taking a math class here.”
“Computer math?”
“Yeah. I need the credits to graduate,” I tell her.
“Good luck,” she says. “I couldn’t get through it—had to go back to an easier class.”
“Well, it does seem hard.”
“I think you’ve got to be some kind of brain, like that Jerry
guy who practically lives with computers,” she says.
“How’s your baby?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.
“Oh, God,” she sighs. “He’s got another ear infection and he kept me up all night. He’s sick all the time.”
I nod in sympathy. I’m so lucky Cheyenne is healthy and happy. A lot of the babies at the Infant Center are sick more than they’re well. With all I’ve got on me—if Cheyenne were sick all the time . . . God. Suddenly the thought that I could be pregnant fills me with fear. Even though we only did it once . . . well . . . one night, and day . . . I think back, count up. It was only for a period of about a day and a half before we started using condoms.
My hands are all sweaty and my heart is beating fast. I don’t think I could take it, another baby, what with Rudy being the way he is, and Irma still all mad. I try to block the thought. Maybe it’s okay. Probably it’s okay.
“Melissa!”
I look up to see Yvonne leaning from the van window, looking in my direction. Grabbing my backpack, I step inside the van.
“I’ve been calling you,” Yvonne says, with an expression somewhere between confusion and irritation.
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
When I get back to the Infant Center, Rudy is there waiting.
“Where you been?”
“Sojourner High, getting set up for math.”
“Let’s go,” he says, his face set in that stony look I had hoped never to see again.
I gather up Cheyenne’s things and call her from the playhouse.
“How’d it go?” Bergie asks.
“Good. It’s hard, but I’m determined to do it,” I tell her.
She laughs. “I bet you were a ‘baby-help’ baby when you were little, just like Cheyenne is now.”
I laugh with her, but inside I feel sad. My mother never told me anything about what kind of baby I was, or what cute things I did. All I know about my early life has to come from my memory, and it’s hard to remember back to being two years old.
Rudy is watching from the doorway, still stony-faced.
“Come on, Chey-Chey,” I say. “Let’s go.”
She struts out of the playhouse singing the ABC song. She is so smart, and cute, my worries dissolve when I see my girl.
Rudy says nothing on the way home. I don’t care. I don’t much want to talk to him, either. Once inside, I get to work washing dishes, putting in a load of clothes, straightening and dusting the living room. Rudy sits in front of the TV watching “Geraldo.” Cheyenne stands on a chair and measures soap into a little cup, then dumps it in the machine. She looks for a long time at the empty cup, its sides dusty with soap powder.
“No drink!” she says, shaking her head vigorously.
“Noooo,” I say, very serious. “That would be bad for you.”
“Bad!” she says, throwing the cup into the still open washing machine.
I retrieve the cup and put it back on top of the detergent box. Taking Cheyenne from the chair, I give her a big kiss and set her in front of the cupboard where we keep pots and pans. I hand her a spoon to stir with. She can play there while I get dinner started.
“I don’t want you going to that school!” Rudy yells from the living room.
I look inside the refrigerator and see that Irma’s bought stuff for salad, and some hamburger.
“You hear me, damnit?” Rudy yells.
I turn to face him. “I hear you, Rudy. Probably the neighbors
even hear you.”
“I don’t want you goin’ to that low life school,” he says, his words now quiet and mean-sounding.
“It’s the only way I can get the math credit I need,” I tell him.
“Fuck the math credit! You’re not goin’ to that school!”
“You can’t tell me what to do, Rudy Whitman! I’m taking math at Sojourner and I’m going to graduate!”
Rudy stands abruptly and kicks the wrought iron magazine stand across the room. Magazines go flying and the rack hits the wall with a bang.
Cheyenne stops stirring her empty pan and looks first at him, then at me, then stands beside me, hugging my leg. I reach into the cupboard and take out a bag of rice. Rudy comes up behind me, gripping my arm.
“Don’t get me mad, Melissa,” he says, tightening his grip. “I love you is all, and I don’t want you hangin’ out with gang bangers and punks.”
“Let go. You’re hurting my arm!”
“Don’t hurt Mommy,” Cheyenne cries, pushing at Rudy. He pushes her away and squeezes my arm even tighter. Cheyenne cries louder, watching Rudy.
“You don’t love me,” I tell him. “You don’t care about me at all. All you care about is pushing me around. And babies. You like to push babies around, too.”
As much as I don’t want to cry, I can’t stop the tears.
The headlights from Irma’s car flash across the window as she turns into the driveway. Rudy gives my arm a final, painful squeeze, and shoves me against the counter. Then he goes back to the living room, puts the magazine rack in place, and is stretched out in front of the TV by the time Irma walks through the door.
I pick Cheyenne up and hold her close, trying to comfort her. I rub my arm, feeling a knot already forming. How could I have expected things would be different? I’m such a fool.
Irma puts her purse and a sack of groceries on the table, then reaches out for Cheyenne.
“How’s Gramma’s baby?” she asks, reaching for her.
Cheyenne, still crying, hides her face in my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Irma says. “Doesn’t Gramma’s baby feel good?”
“Daddy-Mama-Owie,” Cheyenne says, muttering the words together, keeping her head down.
I know Cheyenne is telling Irma about what just happened, and how Rudy hurt my arm. But Irma doesn’t get it. Maybe Irma doesn’t want to get it because she doesn’t want to face how messed up her son is—or how messed up her own life was with a husband who beat up on her.
Irma stands watching us, looking from Rudy, sulking in the living room, to me and Cheyenne, both trying to stop crying. For an instant I think Irma’s hard shell might crack. She might see that I’m not the main problem here. Our eyes meet, briefly, and she looks away.
I wipe Cheyenne’s face with a damp paper towel.
“Say hi to Gramma,” I tell her, forcing a smile.
“Hi, Gramma,” she says, almost in a whisper.
“Sweet baby,” Irma says, kissing Cheyenne’s neck. “Come to Gramma now?”
Cheyenne leans toward Irma. “That’s better now,” Irma coos.
Her tone turns to all business when she asks me, “Did you find the hamburger?”
“Yes, I was just getting ready to start dinner when you drove in,” I tell her. “Hamburger Helper and rice and salad?”
“Let’s just do hamburgers,” she says. “I bought buns.”
I nod, knowing that when Irma says “let’s” do something she means for me to do it. I put the rice back in the cupboard, get the hamburger from the refrigerator, and start making big, thick patties, the way Rudy likes them.
Irma, still carrying Cheyenne, goes to the living room and
sinks into her recliner with a sigh.
Maybe if I think about something besides Rudy I can stop crying. I try to think of something happy and end up remembering when Daphne and I took the kids to the park, and how we laughed and took pictures and played with the kids. It was a “freedo
m time,” is what Daphne said. The memory dries my tears.
“Oooh, I’m tired,” I hear Irma say to Rudy. “My boss says for you to come see him around two-thirty in the afternoon if you’re interested in the job.”
“That’s not a good time,” Rudy says. “That’s when I have to get Melissa at school.”
“Since when?” Irma says. “Isn’t the van running tomorrow?”
I slice tomatoes and onions, listening.
“I don’t want her riding the van anymore,” Rudy says.
I pull leaves from the head of lettuce and wash them, keeping the water running low, so I can hear.
“I’m about at the end of my rope with all this,” Irma says, waving her arm in a gesture that takes in the whole house.
I put the lettuce, tomatoes and onion on a big plate and place it in the middle of the kitchen table.
“I can’t support you, and a baby, and Melissa, and your car, and pay the rent, all on my own, while you sit here day after day watching TV.”
Whenever Irma gets mad, she says how she supports us all, as if I weren’t paying more than half her rent with my checks. “Four mouths to feed,” she says. “It counts up.”
I put catsup, mustard, mayonnaise, and pickle relish on the table.
“By the time I was your age, Rudy Whitman, I was supporting my mother, not the other way around.”
“Okay!” Rudy says. “Just shut up about it!”
Now I hear nothing but the steady drone of the TV while I finish setting the table and fry the hamburger patties. Cheyenne comes back into the kitchen and stirs her pot some more. I turn the patties, pour iced tea into glasses, and empty a bag full of potato chips into a bowl.
“Dinner’s ready,” I call to the silent TV watchers.
“Time to wash hands,” I say to Cheyenne, picking her up.
She reaches her hands under the faucet. I turn on the water and soap up her hands. She rubs and rubs, front and back and between her fingers, like I’ve taught her to do. Then she rinses all the soap off and keeps rinsing, laughing at the feel of the water. I dry her hands and set her in the high chair. Irma and Rudy are already at the table, chomping into their hamburgers. I sit in the chair closest to Cheyenne and cut food into little bites for her.
“It’s a good job, Rudy. If you work hard and are dependable, they’ll move you right up. The night manager’s about your age and he makes real good money.”
Rudy nods, chewing a mouthful of food.
“And it’s clean, and steady. Not like construction where you’re out of work any time it rains.”
“More!” Cheyenne says, pointing to the potato chips.
“Finish your meat,” I tell her, “then you can have more chips.”
“You’ve got to keep a lid on that temper of yours, though,” Irma says.
Rudy picks up his plate and carries it back to the living room where a news program still drones on.
Irma finishes her dinner, not talking. Leaving her dirty plate behind her, she kisses Cheyenne on the cheek and goes to her bedroom. I sit feeding Cheyenne, picking at my own food, not hungry. I wonder what people talk about on Sesame Street or in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood when they sit down to dinner.
CHAPTER
12
It is starting to get light out when Rudy moves close to me in bed and reaches for my hand. I lie quiet, hoping Rudy will drift back to sleep.
“I love you, Missy,” he says.
I sigh, wanting to believe him, not knowing what to say.
“I get scared you’ll leave me again,” he says.
In the dark I feel the knotty bruise on my upper arm.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I say. “I want us to get along—all happy days.”
“We will. I promise,” he says, pushing my nightgown up.
“Maybe, if we went to one of those support groups . . .”
“We don’t need that support group stuff,” he says, rolling over on top of me. “I know what we need.”
I feel him pushing at me. I open my legs for him, but it’s as if I’m somewhere else, floating over the bed instead of in it. When I first came back from the shelter, sex felt like love. I was wild for Rudy, wanting him all the time. Now the love part seems missing. I just want him to hurry up and get it over with.
When Rudy drops me and Cheyenne off at the Infant Center he gives me a quick kiss, then leans down to kiss Cheyenne.
“Mama-Daddy-Owie,” she says, frowning and backing away.
He looks at her, frustrated, then tells her, “Whatever.”
He turns back to me. “I’ve got to go see that guy at my mom’s work—get her off my back—but I want you to come straight home after Hamilton.”
“But Rudy . . .”
“No! You go over to that lowlife Sojourner school and you’ll be sorry! I guarantee it.”
He looks me in the eye for what seems like a long time, then peels out down the street. Bergie jumps at the squeal of tires. When she sees it’s Rudy acting up, she looks toward me and shakes her head. I turn away. What can I say?
“I forgot a couple of books that I planned to take to Sojourner yesterday. Do you need a ride today?” Bergie asks.
“Sure,” I say. “I haven’t got a bus schedule yet.”
“And Rudy’s not picking you up?”
“He’s got a job interview today.”
“Well, that’s something,” Bergie says.
For a while it seems as if things are going to be okay. Rudy started out part-time at Kinko’s, but two people quit the same week he was hired, so he got moved to a full-time schedule right away. Sometimes he even gets overtime. Rudy’s happier when he’s busy and has money coming in, and when Rudy’s happy, I’m happy, too.
Mostly he works a swing shift, starting at three in the afternoon and getting off anywhere between eleven at night and one in the morning. So we don’t see much of each other these days. Cheyenne and I are usually asleep when Rudy gets home from work. At least Cheyenne’s asleep. I’m either asleep or pretending. And then Rudy’s still asleep when I leave for school. Or maybe he’s pretending, too.
I think that night Rudy yelled at me and hurt my arm really affected Cheyenne. If Rudy’s sitting in a chair, or stretched out on the floor, she walks way around him, out of his reach. I’d kind of like to talk to Bergie about it, see what she thinks it means, but then I know one question will lead to another, and I’m not sure I want that. Maybe I’m as bad as Irma, not wanting to look at the total picture.
The main contact I have with Rudy these days is the telephone. Always he calls right after I get home from school. It’s not like he has much to say—more like he’s checking up on me. Then later, there’s a silent phone call. I’m pretty sure it’s Rudy. Every night sometime between nine and ten, the phone rings. By that time, Irma’s in her bedroom with the door closed, so I always answer the phone. I say hello a couple of times, and when I get no answer I hang up. Every night that Rudy’s working this happens. It never happens on his days off, when he’s home.
Anyway, Rudy hasn’t said a word about me staying away from Sojourner since he started working. I guess he’s been too busy. I’m glad. I don’t want to fight with him about it, but I’m for sure going to finish the math class and graduate on time, on stage.
At first, computer math seemed way too hard, like I’d never understand it, but now it’s all beginning to make sense. What I really like about it is how the computer gives the same response each time I do a particular thing. Like if I go to the “catalog” file, and open “data entry,” the same thing will come up on my screen, every time. The computer is not moody. I like that.
When Cheyenne and I get home from school Thursday afternoon, I see that the answer machine is blinking. There’s a message for Irma from her sister, and a message from my mom. I can hardly believe my ears. I tried to call her after I left the shelter, just to let her know where I was, but I couldn’t reach her. So then, I called Sean’s mom, who said she’d get
the message to Mom. But I never heard back.
On the recording, Mom leaves a new number and says she’s going to be in Los Angeles for a while, and she’d like to see me and Cheyenne. I call back.
“June Fisher here. Leave a message.”
That’s my mom all right—no wasted words.
“This is Melissa. I’ll call back later,” I say, and hang up, disappointed.
It’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen my mom. Not that we’re mad or anything, we just never seem to get around to it. I guess that shouldn’t bother me, but it does sometimes. Leticia’s always got some story about her mom bringing home something new for her to wear, or giving her some wise advice. I think I’d like that.
Now that Rudy’s not usually home for dinner, Irma and I don’t sit down together. That’s fine. It’s easier because I don’t have to fix a regular dinner, and there’s not so much clean-up to do. Honestly though, sometimes I miss the shelter. There was always someone to talk to there, and in group meetings we talked about things that really mattered to us, and there was always something going on. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’ll always feel lonely wherever I go.
I bring Cheyenne’s ABC train puzzle into the living room and help her with it and try to read at the same time. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is the title of the book. It’s a true story, about the early life of a famous black woman. It’s hard to understand how people can be so awful to each other—like white people not letting black people drink from the same fountains, or go to the same schools—or, on the other hand, those black guys that beat a white truck driver almost to death, just because he was white. I hope all that race hate stuff is over by the time Cheyenne gets to school. Well, it won’t be, I know. But I hope it is, anyway.
“Look Chey-Chey, you’ve got ABCDEF, now what comes next?”
She picks up a Y and tries to make it fit.
“No, try singing the song. Remember?”
Cheyenne sings the ABC song while I point to the letters that are already in place.
“A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . . ”
“Yea! G’s next,” I cheer her on. “Can you find a G?”
She looks at the big plastic letters strewn all around her. I pick up a J, an L, and a G and place them in front of her.
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