A little person tugged on the hem of my skirt.
“Auntie Opal? Where’s this?” Tyler was having a wonderful time. His eyes were shining with excitement.
“Take that to Mommy, Tyler.” I pointed him in the direction of the kitchen, where Pam’s monologue was continuing on the ancient age of my sink.
“I can’t believe these cabinets!”
“Give it a rest, Pam!” I shouted.
Just as I turned away, I heard someone call my name. I almost bumped into a man who had appeared at my elbow.
“Oh! Excuse me!”
“Ms. Sullivan?”
A stocky man dressed in a T-shirt, paint-splattered jeans, and work boots leaned into the doorway. He slid off his baseball cap, revealing a bald head.
“I’m Rodney Hayes,” he said with a friendly grin. He extended his hand and gave me a bone-crushing handshake. “I called about the plasterwork.”
“Oh, yes, Rodney!” I exclaimed, looking at my watch. Twelve noon, right on time. I loved it when folks were on time. “Come on in.”
Rodney wiped his feet about twenty times on the doormat, then stepped gingerly into the front hall. Obviously, the man had good home training.
“Solid house,” he commented, stroking the wall as if he were caressing his girlfriend. He closed his eyes as his hand stopped on the center of the wall, and then he moved it gently in a circular motion. Obviously Rodney has a thing for walls.
It was 12:30; the movers were almost finished, I had a plumber and electrician picked out, the exterminator had done his work, my new refrigerator and stove had been delivered, and I had contracted with Rodney for the plasterwork. Suddenly I was tired. A nap sounded like a good idea.
But something caught my eye outside. Coming from around the side of the moving van were a woman and a boy. The woman had a piece of paper in her hand and she stopped once to look at it, said something to the boy, then continued up the driveway. Just before she reached the front sidewalk, she threw down the cigarette that had been hanging out of her mouth. I headed toward the front door.
“Can I help you?”
“Are … are you Opal Sullivan?” she asked in an uncertain tone.
“Yes, I am,” I answered. “Something I can do for you?”
Her eyes flickered for a second, then narrowed.
“Is … is this your house?”
“Yes, it is,” I told her. For just a second, I was angry. Do you want to see the deed? My driver’s license, maybe? I counted to ten.
“Oh. I’m Gloria Estepp,” she told me in a voice sanded down by Marlboros and beer. “My social worker told me to come here.” It was more of a question than a statement. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers that she pushed into my hand. Then she remembered the little boy standing beside her. “This here’s my son, Troy.”
“Won’t you come in?” I said.
She stepped into the foyer holding her son by the hand. With wary dark blue eyes, she sized up the front parlor to the right and the dining room to the left. Then she sized me up.
I didn’t have to look at the papers in my hand to know what I was dealing with.
All I needed to know about Gloria Estepp was written on her face.
She was small and thin, with pale freckled skin that was the texture of parchment paper. Her frizzy hair had been dyed so many times I couldn’t tell what color it was supposed to be. She had the shadow of a recent black eye and there was a large bruise on her forehead that was still purple and gold.
Troy was a scrawny little boy.
But it was the scrawniness of an active child, not a starving one. His cheeks were rosy and his strawberry-colored hair was neatly cut and shiny. His eyes, dark blue like his mother’s, were bright and intelligent. His clothes were worn and old, but his blue jeans had been ironed and had a knife-sharp crease in them.
Gloria had used the energy that she had left after fighting with her husband to take care of her son. I could tell from looking at her that there was never enough money, energy, or time left to spend on herself.
I closed the door behind her and glanced at the papers. Early thirties, GED course work, laid off from the paper plant, husband set fire to their home (and himself) when he passed out while smoking a cigarette. He was in the hospital and would be for a while. And Mrs. Estepp was taking this opportunity to get out of Dodge. Permanently.
“It says there on that paper,” she pointed to the documents that I was holding, “that I can get some res … respite housing with you. Until I can find a place for me and Troy.” She glanced down at her son. He looked up and smiled at his mother, but his dark eyes were serious.
“Yes,” I said, handing the papers back to her. “Two rooms. Well, I will have two rooms. But not for three weeks.”
Gloria’s eyes narrowed.
“I can’t wait no three weeks,” she said. “Troy and me are sleeping on the couch at my brother’s house, but we can’t stay there much longer. My sister-in-law is threatening to throw all our stuff out in the yard.”
OK, I said to myself, taking a deep breath while I tried to think.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Estepp, but …” I gestured toward the towers of boxes in the dining room and the mess that was growing in the front parlor. “I’m just moving in today myself. I’ve got to paint some of the rooms, and only one of the bathrooms is even functional. I’m not even close to being ready.”
Gloria glanced into the dining room and then looked at the staircase that wound its way toward the second floor in a graceful curve.
“The social worker said that you might not have anything for a while.…” Her voice trailed off. “It don’t look so bad to me, though.”
“Look,” I said, trying to buy some time. “Do you have someplace that you could stay just for another, say, two weeks? That would at least give me time to get the room painted and repair the bathroom.” I was trying to think ahead. She wasn’t in any physical danger, since her husband was safely anesthetized in the burn unit of the hospital.
She looked at me as if I were the man in the moon. Her eyes were hard.
“Yeah, the social worker said I could try the women’s homeless shelter over in the city.” Her voice was harsh, angry, and dripping with sarcasm.
That wouldn’t work. A woman running for her life, from either a burned-out house or a messed-up home situation, will take a mat on the floor if the mat is clean, the floor is warm, and she will be left alone. But that’s only if you are alone. The homeless shelter, with its population of wandering alcoholics and troubled souls, was not the place for a little boy like Troy.
Gloria barely gave me time to change my mind.
“I ain’t begging you for nothing,” she snapped, grabbing Troy by the arm. “Come on, Troy.”
“Mrs. Estepp,” I said quickly.
She kept walking.
“Mrs. Estepp!”
She whirled around.
“What?” Her expression was like granite.
“I have a half-painted room with twin beds, towers of unpacked boxes stacked in the corners, one hardly working bathroom on the second floor with an antique sink and a Loch Ness monster swimming in the toilet. If you can overlook those,” I paused, “minor inconveniences, then bring your stuff day after tomorrow if you want.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice still harsh. But I saw the gratitude in her eyes and it made me feel small.
“Thank you,” came a strong little voice from the boy standing at her side. He gave me a smile.
“You’re welcome,” I told him, wondering how I could get that room ready in less than twenty-four hours.
By evening, the place had settled down. The movers left at six, and the last of the contractors (a roofer who was overpriced) left at seven. Neither of the prospective tenants showed up to look at the coach house, and that was disappointing. But there was so much to do that I decided
to worry about that tomorrow.
Bear and I spent the evening on the south porch watching the day turn into dusk, him with his pig’s ear, me with a cold drink. In the South, you have either a cup of coffee or a “cold drink.” There is nothing in between. The phone rang a couple of times. Bear is very sensitive to noise. Every time the phone rang, he dived under the wicker settee.
Let me rephrase that.
Every time the phone rang, that damn dog tried to dive under the wicker settee. Since he is too large to fit beneath it, I had to keep rearranging the settee after he had knocked it over. I decided then and there I’d better get a Pekingese, Yorkie, or Chihuahua. I needed a watchdog. Bear wasn’t going to be of any use at all.
But later, when I got ready to go in, Bear suddenly stood up, his one unclipped ear perked up, his tail rigid.
“Bear? What is it? What’s out there?”
The yard was dark and the street was empty as far as I could tell. Light twinkled from the porches of my neighbors. Another dog barked in the distance.
A low, menacing growl came from Bear’s throat as he slunk to the edge of the porch and stood at attention on the top step. I grabbed his collar and looked out into the darkness. I didn’t see anything. Bear growled again, then barked.
Then, just across the street, the lights of a car that I had not noticed before came on. Bear tensed. The car idled for a moment, then pulled out from the curb and sped down the street. It was too dark for me to really see if I recognized it. But a chill crawled down my spine.
Was it Ted? Was he out there in the darkness watching? And waiting?
“It’s all right, boy.” I scratched Bear’s head. I strained my eyes trying to see in the darkness. “It’s OK, just someone visiting the neighbors.” I could tell that Bear wasn’t buying it. I wasn’t even convincing myself.
Bear didn’t move until the taillights disappeared.
Cars had been coming and going all night, but this was the first time I had ever seen him act like that.
I shivered in the warm summer air and stepped inside.
I had to call Bear several times before he followed me.
Chapter Six
One of the most sobering truths that I have had to wrestle with since my “liberation” is the fact that there is really no escape from a situation like mine. You are never completely “out.” When I was in my marriage with Ted, I figured that I was beaten because I was, physically, there. I couldn’t leave Ted (this is what I told myself) because he threatened to kill me, he threatened to hurt Imani, he threatened my cats, and on and on. So I stayed out of fear. But it was the most insidious kind of fear. I was afraid to stay with Ted. And I was afraid to leave him. So I did nothing.
In my daydreams, I always imagined taking a road to freedom, much like the clandestine route that fugitive slaves took to the North before the Civil War. In those rosy scenarios, I lived in a utopian community where I was safe and free from the violence that had dominated the most intimate layers of my existence. Ted was no longer a factor in my life.
I did not realize that physical escape from my marriage and our home was only the smallest part of my new life. The rest of it focused on staying alive. The first time I heard this, I was ready to give up, go back to Ted, and forget all about going it alone. What was the use?
LaDonna was sympathetic but unyielding.
“Look, when I left my husband, he took it out on my son. But Junior was eighteen, so he left, too. Then Winslow trashed the yard at my new place, slit my tires while I was at work, and called me so much on the phone that I almost lost my job. He caught me at the grocery store once and I thought he was going to kill me then over the cantaloupes. He stalked me, he harassed my mother, who was in a nursing home by the way, and he even threatened the nice little high school teacher that I had started dating.”
LaDonna fiddled with her saucer-sized earrings.
“I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, but it finally dawned on me that the bastard was never gonna let me go. Either I’d have to die or he would have to die. It was never really going to be over.” She pounded the table to emphasize each word.
I felt sick to my stomach.
This was not what I wanted to hear from LaDonna. She was supposed to encourage me and support me, tell me that everything was going to be all right now that I had walked out on Ted. I felt as if she had cut my legs off.
“What about the restraining order?” I ventured in a weak voice. LaDonna gave me a withering look. “Counseling?” I offered.
LaDonna let out a hoot of laughter at the mention of the C word.
“Yeah, yeah, the latest thing is sending the men to ‘anger management’ and group counseling sessions.” Her laughter was bitter. She shook her head and the silver satellite dish–shaped earbobs swayed. “How effective is the anger management course for an angry man who has been ordered by a court to attend and who doesn’t want to be there? And don’t get me started on counseling sessions!” She was grinning from ear to ear. I was too upset to find any humor in what she was saying. “They are usually all male. Don’t you know that the bastards sit around and swap trade secrets about better ways to abuse and harass their wives and girlfriends? Without leaving marks or getting caught? Isn’t that brilliant? The sessions set up to correct this horrendous behavior are making the guys better at it!”
I closed my eyes, said a prayer, and waited for the floor to swallow me whole.
“It’s never going to be over,” I murmured, wondering now about the wisdom of entangling myself in a house that was only forty minutes away from Ted. And what about the other women who needed help? Their troubles would follow them to my doorstep. So much for serenity and a new life.
LaDonna sensed what I was thinking and patted me on the arm.
“I’ve been where you are,” she said. Her eyes were soft. “You want to give up. But you can’t give up, Opal; you can’t. Not only are you saving yourself; you’re saving others, too.”
“But what kind of life is that?” I asked, frustrated. “I feel like I should be in Witness Protection. Change my name, dye my hair red, join the Foreign Legion. What kind of life am I going to have, being afraid all the time?”
I was already paranoid. I circled parking lots at least three times before deciding on a strategic spot. Bear and I patrolled the yard every night before turning in. Then I locked the doors and windows and set the alarm. I checked the locks again. And the windows again. And the alarm. Over and over. Answering the telephone had become a game of Russian roulette. Was it Ted? Was it my parents? Was it Imani? I couldn’t not answer. And caller ID was no help at all. It was always a guessing game as to who would be on the other end: “Who the hell do you think you are?” or “Hello, Opal? This is Sue; how are you doing today?”
LaDonna shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, that’s up to you.”
Now it was my turn to shake my head.
“No. It’s up to Ted.” I felt like giving up.
The corners of LaDonna’s mouth began to curve upward into a wry smile.
“Only if you let it be,” she said. “It’s your life. You can let Ted control it as he’s always done. Or you can control it yourself.”
The very thought of Ted having power over my life, after I’d left him, after I’d divorced him, was enough to make my blood boil. Who did he think he was? OK, I had to be realistic, and LaDonna pulled me back to the real world once I’d gotten over my ranting.
“He’ll always be angry at you; he may still threaten you and stalk you. Your challenge is to live safely, violence-free, and in your own way.”
The war stories I’d heard made me painfully aware that moving to China was no guarantee. And shooting him dead, an option that I had considered, probably wouldn’t work, either. For some reason, the legal system takes a dim view of that, despite a substantiated claim of domestic violence.
My only choice was to be car
eful, mindful, and alert. And get a watchdog.
“Bitch, who do you think you are?” had been Ted’s parting words to me.
Both he and I were about to find out.
The yellow house filled up faster than I imagined with both two-legged and four-legged visitors. I had hoped to have the house cleaned up, stripped, painted, and completely repaired by the time my first “guests” arrived. But it just did not work out that way.
Life with Gloria and Troy Estepp began with a cloud of smoke and the smell of stale beer and old cigarette butts.
Her brother dropped them off. He drove up with a screech of tires and a toxic cloud of dark bluish-gray smoke in a rusted-out truck that had rolled off the Ford assembly line forty years ago. The antique truck groaned when he jerked the gears into neutral and threw on the parking brake. The scraping sound of metal on metal made my teeth hurt. Then he jumped down from the cab and ran to the back of the truck. A cigarette dangled from his lips. With a grunt, he hauled out four garbage bags and a couple of boxes full of stuff, threw them onto the front walk, and hopped back into the cab. I thought that I heard him say something like, “Is that it?” Judging by his expression, however, what he probably said was, “Get the hell out.”
Gloria and Troy had just enough time to close the door on the truck before he backed down the driveway, flying like a bat out of hell. The gearbox jammed for a split second and I thought for sure there’d be a pile of metal left in the middle of the street. But he managed to move the gearshift around again and pulled off. The brakes squealed with such a high-pitched whine that Bear groaned and ran around to the back of the house. I wondered if the man had to stop the truck with his feet like Fred Flintstone.
Gloria watched her brother with an expression like granite. Neither she nor Troy said a word. Not even “good-bye.”
“Let’s get your things into the house,” I said, grabbing one of the huge overstuffed bags.
I explained the rules as we dragged Gloria’s things into the front hall and up the stairs. I had, finally, talked with the social worker this morning. Gloria could stay for up to six weeks while she looked for a full-time job and an apartment. LaDonna had signed her up for weekly counseling appointments at the Center.
The Shade of My Own Tree Page 7