I had to decide if I was going to be myself again. And if I was going to stick my neck out and lease this old yellow house or play it safe.
As it turned out, other things decided for me.
Chapter Four
When I got back to Pam’s, all hell had broken loose.
The water heater broke, leaving water all over the basement floor. One of the boys was running a temperature. Pam had a class at noon and the baby-sitter called to say that she couldn’t come. Pam’s husband, Ron, a policeman, was working a double shift and wouldn’t be off until midnight. On top of this, there was a very large, ferocious-looking beast sprawled across the sidewalk leading to the front door. I came in through the side door.
Pam was hysterical: “I’ll have to miss class! The plumber hasn’t called me back! Ron’s shift isn’t up until midnight!” she sniffled. “Tyler’s temperature is up to a hundred and two and I don’t have any dog food! It can’t get any worse!”
I glanced over at Tyler, who was just about to throw up. Actually, I thought, it can.
I sprang into action.
Once a mother, always a mother. You never forget how to leap tall buildings in a single bound, send a fax, cook chili, and manage a sick child while splitting the atom.
I handed a box of tissues to Pam, cleaned up the kitchen floor and Tyler, and put him to bed with a cup of ice chips and a video. I sent Pam’s older son, Tré, next door to play for the afternoon. I fixed Pam a sandwich and gave her a Tylenol. Then I called Bette (who knows every plumber, electrician, caterer, painter, tile man, window washer, and masseuse in ten counties) and got the name of a reliable plumber who could come right away.
I told Pam that I would watch the boys.
What else did I have to do aside from trying to decide what I was going to do for the rest of my life?
In no time, the house was calm again. Tyler fell asleep. Relieved, Pam went off to class. I put in a load of laundry.
But there was something I’d forgotten.
Why was I thinking about dog food?
I checked on Tyler, then looked out the front door.
Yep. “It” was still there.
The beast was sprawled across the sidewalk. It looked like a dirty shag rug with legs. One ear was clipped; one ear wasn’t. The fur around its neck was matted and there were sores in a few places. It had a paw that looked as if it had been broken and hadn’t healed right. It lifted its gigantic head to look at me with the saddest dark brown eyes I’d ever seen.
It wagged its tail as I got closer and looked up expectantly.
But I was downwind.
“I’d love to pet you, whatever-your-name-is,” I told it, “but you stink.”
The animal whined as if it understood what I had said.
I mapped out a plan of action.
Food and water first. Next the vet and then a bath. Maybe two baths. A distinct odor hit my nose again. Cancel that. Food and water first, then baths, then vet.
The beast was Pam’s former neighbor’s dog from across the street. They moved out and just left the poor thing tied to a tree in the front yard with no food, no water, and no forwarding address. It had been there for almost a day before folks realized it had been abandoned.
The vet who examined him shook his head. He really did look baffled.
“My professional opinion is that he, that much I was able to figure out, he is a five-year old … something. Combination golden retriever … without the gold … Bouvier de Flandres … with only a little Bouvier. German shepherd I think … and Labrador maybe.”
“Any grizzly bear?” I asked jokingly.
“Could be,” he said, his expression solemn. “Perhaps some Newfoundland.”
“Newfoundland?” I asked. I hadn’t heard of that breed before.
“Yes,” he said, trying to sound more convincing. “Newfoundland. Perhaps …”
I called the walking shag rug “Bear”.
Later, I hovered over the calculator trying to make the numbers on the house work. With a dog as large as Bear, I would have a hard time finding an apartment that would take us. Besides, I rationalized, Bear would make a wonderful guard dog. Once he got over his fear of chipmunks.
In one week, I had to pick up all of my stuff.
And move it. Where?
A sensible two-bedroom place five minutes from work?
A stylish town house with beige walls and matching carpets with a carport, heated pool, and workout facility?
Or a faded Victorian beauty with a coach house, overgrown rose garden, no insulation, prehistoric kitchen, and rumored family secret?
I have discovered something about human nature. If you don’t know where you’re going or what you want to do, everybody (and I mean everybody), their momma, their daddy, and all of the neighbors, will be happy to tell you what to do with your time, your money, and your life. My family and friends were no exception.
Dad tried to keep it light and philosophical. “Baby girl, you don’t want to bite off more than you can chew,” my father said, his voice filled with worry.
Mother was more pragmatic: “Are you crazy? The gas bill alone will eat you alive!” she snapped. “Are you planning to pay the bonuses of the utility hotshots all by yourself?”
Bonnie at work (I know her last name, it’s Stegman, but when I think of her, she’s just “Bonnie at work”) also had an opinion. Bonnie has an opinion on everything. She makes it her business to know as much as she can about her coworkers’ business. That includes me.
“Uh, uh. Prestonn has … a kind of a reputation. You know what I mean?” Her voice dropped to a loud whisper. “Some of the people in Prestonn are a little … you know … peculiar.”
Pam’s husband, Ron, took another approach: scare me into submission.
“You would be safer in an apartment complex with lots of people around.”
Ron is a policeman and I knew that he meant well, but please, this was making me tired.
“Ron, a woman was shot to death by her boyfriend in a third-floor apartment at Autumn Chase just last month. It was all over the TV; don’t you remember?”
He did. How could anyone forget?
The woman’s neighbors listened to her screams and pleas for almost half an hour before they called the police. Safety in numbers? I didn’t think so.
“If Ted wants to find me, he’ll find me,” I told Ron. Saying it aloud was sobering. It was a reminder to me not to get too comfortable. It really didn’t matter where I lived. It really didn’t matter how far away I moved. Unless I could make myself invisible, Ted could probably find me. That reality would be part of my way of life from now on.
Pam just smiled at me and said, “Do what you want to do, Opal.”
Now I had to decide what that was.
It was a Sunday afternoon. Pam, Ron, and the boys were at a soccer tournament and would be gone until evening. I took Bear to the dog groomer, who looked at him doubtfully. “I’ll do my best,” the woman said with a grimace. “But I have to be honest with you: when I’m finished I think he’ll still look like a bear.”
With time on my hands and a tank full of gas, I found myself driving around in circles as I thought about what I was going to do.
My mind kept spinning. And I kept driving. Not going anywhere.
Then I did something really stupid.
Without thinking, I drove to the house that I had shared with Ted for over twelve years. Like a homing pigeon, I had returned to my base.
It wasn’t safe for me to be there except that Ted was working second shift. He was the assistant plant manager at an automotive supplier.
Our house was in a neat little neighborhood that looked like something out of a cereal commercial. Wide boulevards, tree-lined sidewalks dotted with children riding bikes or folks walking dogs. The lawns were neatly manicured—the neighborhood association sent you a friendly reminder if you forgot—and every th
ird house was identical, so there wasn’t much individuality here. Brown trash cans dotted the edge of each lawn. Monday was trash day. Fourteen-thirty-five Fallen Brush Lane was no exception. Except for one thing.
Five trash cans and a tower of boxes stood at the edge of the curb. They were completely filled. With my things.
I don’t remember parking the car. I may have left it running.
I was like a crazy woman.
I pulled my winter coat out of one can, a pair of pumps out of another, and a stack of books from one of the boxes. Practically everything I owned was in those trash cans and boxes. Some of my clothes had been cut to shreds. The heels or toes of my shoes had been hacked off. He’d thrown out my canceled checks, cosmetics, family pictures, even sanitary pads. Nearly every damn thing that was mine he had thrown out. Many of the “personal belongings” that the court had allowed for me to pick up next week were in those trash cans.
Then I noticed a long, flat box crate leaning up against one of the cans. My breath caught in my throat.
Oh, Lord.
The canvasses I’d hidden behind the furnace years ago. The ones that I told myself I would recover someday when it was “safe.” Only it was never safe.
I knew what I would find before I pulled the first painting out.
It was in shreds.
I pulled out another one and then the rest of them.
All of them were in shreds. A few were sliced up so badly that they looked like painted icicles ready for a Christmas tree.
I’d painted some of them almost thirty years ago in high school. Many were from my college art classes, and a few were the slowly evolving works I had begun after my marriage. These last ones were the most precious to me because they were painted in the stolen moments of my life, when Ted was out of the house or when Imani was napping or in school. They were the “me” that I hadn’t been able to express anywhere else. A brush stroke here, a brush stroke there, sometimes two brush strokes was all I could get done in a sitting. It’s a wonder that I had finished them at all. I could only paint a few times a month, and many months, then years would go by when I wasn’t able to paint at all.
Now they were gone forever.
I cried. I wanted to shut myself up in a room and stay there for a month. I thought about dressing myself in black as if I was in mourning and never smiling again. A part of me was gone. A part that I had ignored and forgotten about was gone forever because of my fear.
I could buy a new coat, new shoes. They sold cosmetics at Walgreens and I could even replace my books. But my paintings? I had put myself into the colors and shapes on those canvasses.
I saw Ted’s car coming down the street.
It was the first time that I had seen Ted since I left him. I knew that he wouldn’t be in a good mood. He was angry with me for making him throw out all of my stuff. Angry at me for making him spend money on an attorney and having to take time off from work for court dates. He left me voice-mail messages at work threatening me because of what I was doing to him. This situation was entirely my fault.
The dark gray car was coming closer.
I was supposed to run for my life. I was supposed to be frightened.
But the body snatchers arrived on time and returned the real me, the one that had been missing for nearly twenty years. I felt something warm seep through the soles of my shoes into my feet and surge up my body, exploding into my brain like a jolt of electricity. My hair was standing on end. My eyes felt as if they were on fire.
The bitch was back.
And she was mad as hell and looking for a pair of boxing gloves.
Have you heard people talk about “seeing red”?
Ted was just turning into the driveway when I approached. His car was still running. He had barely gotten the words, “Stupid bitch,” out when I marched up to him, reached through the open window, and grabbed him by the collar with both hands. Ted is a good-sized man, but when you see red, size means nothing. I figured that I could pull at least half of him out of the window and if the other half broke off, oh well. He was able to pry my hands loose a few times, but it took more effort than he ever planned to expend on the likes of me. He was shouting at me, but the buzzing in my ears (you “hear” red, too) blocked out the sound. I just saw his lips moving. I heard my own voice, though. I was calling him a bastard and a mean, nasty son of a bitch. I kept smacking him on the head over and over. And, for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.
For one tiny moment, Ted was afraid.
Of me.
It was enough.
In retrospect, I can imagine what I looked like: a brown Medusa with teeth bared, hair flying every which way, and eyes shooting bolts of lightning. No wonder he was scared. He had never seen me this angry in his life! I had never been this angry in my life.
He fumbled with the door handle, but it wouldn’t open.
“If I get out of this car, Opal, I’m gonna kick your ass!”
“You’ll have a fight on your hands, you son of a bitch!” I yelled back at him, tightening my grasp on his collar as he tried to pry my fingers off. “You threw out my stuff! My books! You cut up my clothes! And my paintings!
“Who gave you the right? Who?” I bellowed.
He swatted at me, still trying to open the car door. But I had a death grip. All I could see in my mind was his open mouth against the background of my shredded paintings. The more I thought about those canvasses, the more pissed off I got.
“Just wait till I get outa this car,” he finally managed to growl.
“Take your best shot, asshole,” I growled back. “This won’t be a knockout.” My voice came out deep and mean, like the bark of a big dog just before he bites you on the ass.
Ted just stared at me, his mouth open in amazement.
This was a new thing for Ted. He had always been the angry one. He had always had the upper hand, making me say, “I’m sorry,” while I cried and cowered in pain and fear.
Not this time.
Now he heard a voice that he didn’t recognize.
Mine.
And it scared the shit out of him. (Excuse my French.)
Ted finally pried my fingers from his collar and pushed me away. I whirled around ready to defend myself, but instead of getting out of the car, he put it in reverse and zipped out of the driveway. I couldn’t have been more surprised. In the middle of the street, he screamed out of the car window at me.
“Bitch! You forget who you are!”
I just stood there, staring, as he flew down the street at fifty miles an hour.
I have to give Ted credit. He is an abusive, mean, drunk-ass son of a bitch, but his parting shot to me was and still is one of the most inspirational things I have ever heard. Sometimes you really do have to give the Devil his due. Ted reminded me of what I had left behind and what I needed to do to get it back. I had forgotten who I was. I had buried her, hidden and neglected her. I thought that I was keeping her safe, but I almost let her die.
But those days are over, I swore to myself, savoring the memory of Ted’s panic-stricken expression. I knew that it wasn’t over. That he would find a way to even the score. But I had my voice back. No matter what happened, no matter if he stalked me, threatened me, killed me, no matter what.
I would not forget again.
In Prestonn, I walked on the path that follows the river. A few joggers passed me panting and several young families pushing the huge European strollers moved like semi-trailers along the trail. I stopped and watched a family of ducks quarreling in the water near the bank. Geese had taken over part of the sidewalk, leaving a trail of goose shit everywhere. Nice touch. Two winos sat in the grass enjoying the sunshine, their bottles securely wrapped in brown paper bags. I meandered along the trail and then crossed over the main road into the town’s square.
The “new” downtown is a hub of boutiques, hair “design studios,” and antique shops.
The restaurants are always written up in the food sections of the local papers. But they don’t serve real food. As far as I can tell, they serve thin strips of meat decorated with weeds, twigs, and edible flowers. I decided right then and there that I wouldn’t eat in any of these places. I don’t care how good they are for you; I am not eating weeds.
There’s an Oriental rug “boutique,” a mirror and glass “boutique,” and a row of “interior design” studios. Beamers, Jags, and Benzes populate the street-side parking spaces.
But while the “new” downtown receives more press, it is only part of the picture. It is wrapped around the “old” downtown, and that is the real heart of Prestonn. Next to the Oriental rug boutique is Earl’s Gun & Bait. The Main Street Hair Design Studio and Spa patrons share a parking lot with the Prestonn Bar & Grill (no extra e there), where breakfast is served twenty-four hours a day and hamburgers are fried in their own grease, by God. Designs by Sylvia Gold is right across the street from the Red Fox, a rough, worn-out-looking place that, according to its sign, specializes in GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.
The superthin, very blond things who come out of the restaurants (no wonder they’re thin; they’re only eating weeds!) share the sidewalks with good old boys who wear oil-stained ball caps and drive trucks that the Chevy dealership doesn’t carry parts for anymore. And they know how to make use of tobacco in this state. If they don’t smoke it or sniff it, they chew it. Spittoons dot the tree-lined street. Very thoughtful.
Miss Pearl’s Place de Beauty is about the only salon I know of that rolls, perms, teases, and sprays hair that can stand up to the summer humidity and the tornadoes that come through this part of the state two or three times a year. They don’t set hair like that in the Main Street Hair Design Studio & Spa.
I turned off Main Street and it was an entirely different world. This is where people lived. Houses and yards and kids and bikes and gazebos and few driveways. The houses are all museum pieces whether they are restored or falling down. In front of some houses, a boxy Volvo or BMW sits gleaming in the sunlight. In front of others, an old Oldsmobile rests on cement blocks.
The Shade of My Own Tree Page 5