Crave

by Laurie Jean Cannady

  I’ve always been fascinated with the way children make things fit. I’ve watched in awe a child wrestling a left shoe on a right foot. She loosens strings, pulls in toes, rounds her foot, attempting to make it smaller. When that doesn’t work, she entreats the shoe to be larger, to open wider, until fabric or foot gives way and there is the sliding in. After the struggle is done, she can walk, but never straight and never in comfort. But she can walk. That is how I fit into Sanford.

  Sanford ran on the track team. Despite never having had an interest in the sport, I became the team’s manager. He played football. I became a majorette and a permanent fixture at the games. He spent hours street-balling on the court and I cheered as he’d dunk and stick his tongue out Jordan-style.

  We spent most evenings together, and on weekends, I’d concoct lies so I could spend nights with him too. Most nights I’d tell Momma I was staying with my friend Veeta or my cousin Lisa, and I’d be sure to call to let her know I was okay before she called to check on me.

  My deception only began with getting to Sanford’s house. Once there, I’d sneak into his grandparents’ home by climbing the side of the house to the roof and sliding into his bedroom window. On cold or wet nights, I’d hide in his sisters’ room until his grandparents went to bed. Then, I’d rush up the stairs as he shielded my body with his body.

  On some desperate nights, when I wanted to feed him in the way he fed me, we wouldn’t wait to get into the house. On the cold asphalt of his grandparent’s driveway, I endured rocks pressed into my backside, dirt in my hair, grit scratching the backs of my legs. Hidden by the car and the side of the house, I gave myself to him in the way I’d learned women give themselves to men. As his hips rose and fell, the weight of his body purged the hungry Laurie. I gazed at the stars, felt the cold concrete beneath and the warm skin on top. I chose the skin, the warmth. Then, I understood Momma and that which pulled her nightly to Mr. Bryan. The cold, the dirt, the rocks would sustain, but the warmth, the skin, that was the salve that numbed.

  In Sanford, I’d found an escape from Lincoln Park’s shootings, Momma’s absence, and perpetual hunger. He also found an escape in me. He and his two brothers and two sisters stayed with his grandparents while their mother lived in New York. I didn’t know much about her, other than Sanford’s proclamations she had beautiful, flowing hair, a svelte body, and the tenderest of smiles. I never pried beyond his initial description because I sensed a hesitation, a suppression of something when he spoke of her. I wanted to know why he was in Virginia and not with his mother, so I told him about Momma and her hotel room, about Pee Wee, Mr. Todd, and my absent father. I recounted to him every pain I’d experienced, with hopes he could recount his pain to me. Still, his narrative remained.

  Despite his mother’s absence, it appeared Sanford had a good life. His grandparents provided for him in a way Momma could not for me. They had a beautiful home, with a living room filled with plush furniture and expensive looking trinkets, and a large den, where Sanford and I spent most of our time during the day. They also had a kitchen, similar to the Wall Street one that always smelled as if something had just come out of the oven. Their refrigerator was big and filled with the food I lacked in my own home.

  At times, I felt guilty about eating Sanford’s food, especially if it was the end of the month when I knew my brothers and sister were hungry, but I ate anyway, like Momma, filled with remorse, filled with the saltiness of hoagie sandwiches Sanford purchased for me.

  Access to food wasn’t the only benefit that came with Sanford’s home. His house had air conditioning that welcomed me like a cold rag against my sweaty face. The cold in his home was in stark contrast to the cold we inhaled as we sat at the closed door of Momma’s bedroom, hoping some of the air-conditioned breeze would slip through the door cracks.

  Sanford and I perfected a routine that ensured we’d spend as much time together as possible. When he began to work as a dishwasher at Portsmouth Waterfront, I’d walk him to work. I didn’t mind that the walk was three miles both ways. We’d pick up a couple of sandwiches and share a soda on the way.

  Sanford, a natural comedian, made everyone laugh by impersonating characters from Keenan Ivory Wayan’s In Living Color. He could morph from Wanda’s “I’m ret to go” to Fire Marshall Bill’s “Lemme show you something” in one class period. His favorite actress was Bernadette Peters from The Jerk and I felt a tinge of envy as he pined over her pouty voice and facial expressions while we watched the movie. Because of my history of having a bad attitude, my classmates believed I’d lucked out by snagging such a kind-hearted boyfriend. I, too, considered myself lucky.

  One day, Sanford came to my locker while I was discussing a homework assignment with a male classmate. He wore his usual smile when he asked to speak with me and as we arranged to meet later that night. I’d done my duty of sneaking into his bedroom by climbing on top of the roof and sliding into the window. After a brief session, we lay under the covers and talked. Our discussion turned to my conversation with my classmate. Sanford had questions he hadn’t asked before: “What were y’all talking about?”

  “Nothing, just work,” I replied.

  “Why was he all up in your face, leaning against your locker, grinning and shit?”

  Now, I had earned the label of bad attitude that followed me around school for a reason and I believed the funny, soft Sanford I adored needed to know he couldn’t talk to me “any ol’ kinda way.” That was my intent when I spoke, to inform him of this, as I spewed, “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my momma.”

  As Sanford drew his face closer to mine, white, foamy spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. Those brown eyes I’d gazed into when he told me my eyes were so beautiful he wanted to keep them in a jar after I died grew accusatory, menacing. I didn’t want to see that Sanford anymore, so I wrapped myself in the covers and turned my head toward the wall. Then came the poking and pushing, punctuations between my “Stop,” “It’s over,” and “I’m going home.”

  This poker and puncher was not my Sanford. I needed to meet face to face with this new man, so I turned, readying my mouth for a heated retort. My face met a flying fist that landed under my right eye. I recoiled, covered my eye with both hands, and folded into the fetal position. He straddled me and wrapped his hands around my hands as he attempted to pry them from my face. Through his voice, broken with tears, I heard, “Why did you turn your head? I didn’t mean to hit you. Oh, God. Let me see. I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

  The next morning, I stood in the mirror examining my face, gently pressing the grape-sized lump under my eye. I made sure to stay on my left side as I slept in Sanford’s arms, as his kisses and later, the sex, erased the pulsing of pain radiating up and down my cheek. If I hadn’t turned at that precise moment, he wouldn’t have struck my face. That meant he hadn’t intended to hit me at all. After all of the tears dried, he explained how much I’d hurt him when he saw me talking to that other guy. He claimed he knew the guy wanted me and for a second, he’d thought I wanted him too. For that, he felt immense guilt, but he needed me and couldn’t live without me. I decided his anger had been a barometer for his love. The more he loved, the angrier he had gotten, which was quite comforting. It meant he loved me more than I’d imagined.

  In the midst of our kisses, I apologized, even though I knew it wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t deserved to be hit, but one punch couldn’t erase all of the walks from Prentis to Lincoln Park, listening to the trees clamoring in the wind. It couldn’t erase the movies, the laughs we had while watching Steve Martin dance in The Jerk, and it couldn’t replace our Sundays, when we watched football together, me rooting for the Broncos and him rooting for the Raiders. If neither of our teams won, it didn’t matter because we were winners together. I needed that winning, so I stayed and vowed next time, I wouldn’t speak so quickly and so loudly. Next time, I’d be sure to keep my head turned away, in hopes he’d miss me all together.

  That
next weekend Sanford took me to Tower Mall and purchased jeans, off the rack, not from Salvation Army, shirts that fit just right because they hadn’t been stretched by another body, and my first new sneakers, a baby-blue pair of hightop Filas. I sat with those shoes on my bed, sniffing the soles, lacing and relacing them until they had the right tightness. I went to school the next day, not feeling like a walking hand-me-down, but brand new. My man had bought me those clothes and those shoes and I wore them as a tribute to him, making sure to be at my locker, alone, when he came by, and at his house, as soon as I got from school.

  But resurface, it did. One punch became many punches. One grape-sized lump became two black eyes. I manufactured lie after lie to explain my bruises to Momma. I’d been elbowed in the eye as I wrestled Veeta. I’d hit myself in the face while trying to catch my baton. Bites on arms, wrists, and legs were obscured by long-sleeve shirts and pants, even in the summer. And the hair, well, the hair had always been an issue, but in Sanford’s hands, it became the rein he pulled when he wanted me to obey, and it was the pressure he maintained, taut, yanking, cueing me to move left and right, to wake and sleep, to come and go.

  In between the fights, I got a job at Rally’s and Sanford decided to get a car. We walked from Prentis Park to the Charlie Falk dealership to discuss possible financing options. Rows of new cars lined the parking lot, and I became as excited as Sanford about getting a car. Not having to walk back and forth from Lincoln to Prentis Park and from Lincoln to Rally’s would have been a welcomed relief. We walked to the dealership, me in shorts and a T-shirt, with my blue Filas, and Sanford in his usual Jordan attire.

  A tall, older, white man, clenching a cigar between his lips came out to meet us. He spoke slowly, like he had a mouth full of spit. The way he inspected us with his eyes, I could tell he wasn’t keen on serving us. He walked us from the front of the store, where all of the new cars were, to the back where the dealership kept the clunkers. Sanford found a car he liked and they began discussing finance options. The man surmised Sanford didn’t make enough with his income alone, so he asked if I had a job. Eager to help, I recounted the many overtime hours I worked at my Rally’s job. Even though I was only fifteen, the man said he could use my income in order to finance the car for Sanford. The dealer asked me to bring my paystub the next day. Since Sanford had to work, I went alone.

  The salesman appeared happier to see me than he had been the day before. He kept me in the front of the dealership, asking which cars I’d like if I could have any of them. I pointed out a red car that really appealed to me. As he entreated me to inspect the car, he moved closer, put his hand on my back, smiled with stained teeth, and said, “We can work something out if you like. You know, you do something for me and I’ll do something for you.” I felt immediate disgust for that man, old enough to be my grandfather, propositioning me for a car, one I was certain I would still pay for even if I slept with him. I thought about the men who’d propositioned Momma in the same way for food, for money, for rent, and she, with five hungry children, had been unable to decline. I felt the need to shower and wash away his nasty thoughts and the generations of exploitation that had plagued my family.

  I wanted to tell Sanford, but I feared he’d think I’d flirted with the man. While I wanted him to defend my honor, I might have needed to be defended against him. I finally decided to tell. My disgust, I believed, would shine through and he’d know I hadn’t welcomed that man’s advances.

  Sanford said his question, “Would you do it if we could get the car?” was meant to be a joke, but there had been a pause usually attributed to questions that required answers. My wide eyes and agape mouth gave my response.

  We eventually went to another dealership, a mom and pop dealer on High Street. I wasn’t propositioned for sex, but my pay stubs were still required. At fifteen, I’d cosigned a contract for a car loan. While I’d hoped the car would be a source of relief for me and Sanford, it became an additional source of frustration. It was a space where Sanford could scream, punch, bite me, and pull my hair. He’d collect my paycheck on weekends, in order to pay the car note, and I wouldn’t see him again until all of the money had been spent. Many nights, when I closed at work, he left me waiting, sometimes until one or two o’clock in the morning. Those were good nights. On bad nights, he didn’t come at all and I’d hitch a ride with a coworker or wait until Momma and Mary walked Frederick Boulevard to pick me up.

  As if the physical abuse weren’t enough, the mental abuse amped higher. He cursed my mother, called her a bitch, and claimed she didn’t care about me the way he did. “She doesn’t even feed you,” he’d scream. His proclamations became my own. If Momma weren’t feeding me, that meant I wasn’t worthy of being fed. At least, if Sanford hit me, he fed me too.

  He moved beyond insulting Momma to threatening to kill me, Momma, and my brothers and sister if I didn’t do what he wanted. He then began dating other girls, driving them in the car I helped pay for. I not only had to battle Sanford, but the girls who felt they had a right to him as well. There were many confrontations with those young ladies, where threats were hurled back and forth. Part of me wanted to thank them for occupying Sanford’s time and to tell them how to make him as happy as I once had so he would be with them forever, but they were my rivals. I had a responsibility to battle them in order to reclaim what had been mine.

  Even that was impossible. If I spoke to one of the girls, Sanford would assault me later that night. I couldn’t fight them and Sanford, so I ignored the lipsticks in the car, the clothes in the back seat, the many days I saw him flirting with girls in school. He could be with whomever he wanted, but I couldn’t look at a guy. Even spending time with my cousins, Lil Barry, Kevin, and Shawn, was forbidden. To Sanford, they were men who might want me, even though they were family.

  When the punching, biting, pulling, and mental abuse became too much to bear, I went, in my mind, to my safe place, Virginia Beach. Sanford had never taken me there, so it was a place in which he did not reside. There, I floated on proclamations of love and was then pushed under by bites on my wrists and shoulders. I could be sun-kissed under the deliveries of food and gifts of money and then burned by the midnight hours I spent standing outside of Rally’s waiting for him to take me home. The mental trips I’d taken as a girl, working to escape Pee Wee’s panting and sweating, differed from the ones I took to escape Sanford. In my most recent excursions, I did not have Momma and my brothers and sister to keep me afloat. I floated alone, catching glimpses of my family on the horizon, navigating their own waters. I wanted to flail my arms, to scream for help, but I did not, out of fear they’d witness my drowning.

  In between the fights, he’d cry, beating his chest, his hands cradling his head, exclaiming how much hurting me hurt him. He loved me so much and if I could stop making him angry, things would be okay. One of my many offenses included my work on the high school literary magazine, the Presidential Pen. Several of my poems with titles like, “Defeat,” “Why Don’t You Love Me?” and “The End of Love,” had been published that year. For a moment, I felt like my normal self as classmates congratulated me in the halls for having so many poems in the magazine. Sanford quashed that normalcy when he cornered me in the hallway and ordered, “Stop writing shit like that. You have everybody thinking I’m dogging you.” I didn’t publish another poem that year.

  The abuse had gotten so suffocating, I searched for relief. I decided, as Sanford had diagnosed, I was the problem, so I must have the cure. I stopped arguing. I stopped complaining about the other girls, the car, and the money. I stopped living for me and totally lived for him. One afternoon, I went to Sanford’s home, intent on mending what I believed I had fractured. He led me to bed and gently placed me at the head. As we kissed, as he draped his leg over my legs and pressed his body into mine, I sobbed, burrowing my face into his neck, pulling him close, so he could feel the broken beats of my heart. As he kissed my tears, I pleaded, “Please stop the hurting. I love you so much.�
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  “I’ve always loved you, Laurie.” His words came slowly, broken by his own tears. “I don’t understand why things have gone the way they have. I just don’t understand.”

  By then, both our bodies shook with sobs. We held each other so tightly, my sweat became his sweat, my tears his tears. He moved my fingers to his eyes, “See, my eyes are crying. I don’t want us hurting anymore.”

  We appeared to be suffering the same pain, and I wanted an end for us both, so I proposed my best offer, an agreement that could free us. I pried myself from his embrace, and leaned on one arm as I placed my hand on his chest.

  “We can start over, baby,” I begged. “We can leave everybody behind, all of the other girls, my family, everybody. We can go away and you can have me all to yourself. You can do to me what you want as long as you become the Sanford you used to be and I can be the Laurie you used to know. Can we please start over?”

  He pulled me to him and we continued to cry in each other’s arms. We then kissed. Our lips pressed so hard, I tasted blood. We pulled at each other’s skin, wrapped our arms so violently around necks and waists, I believed we could sex our way back to our former selves.

  Sanford rolled back on top of me, our joint tears streamed down his face.

  “Can we start again?” I asked, filled with the hope of what a new start would mean, knowing we knew better, so we wouldn’t make the same mistakes.

  He looked in my eyes, and shook his head, “No, I can’t,” he said. “I can’t stop.”