I have warned Jack that getting involved with me means getting involved with Ted.
“You can bow out now if you want,” I told him. “I won’t think any less of you.”
He gave me a sly smile and pulled me into his arms.
“Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily. I can stand it if you can.”
And as for me, I have decided to put Ted in his proper place. It’s like having a chronic health condition that you control with medication. The condition will always be there and you take your pill, but you can’t make a life around it. You can’t be defined as a person because of it. You can’t limit your dreams because of it.
You accept it and go on. Life is too short to do otherwise.
“Mom, you’re a lot different than I thought you’d be,” Imani told me as we packed up her suitcases before she left for school.
I stopped in the middle of what I was doing.
“What do you mean, ‘different’?” I asked, surprised.
“The momma that I knew was quiet and scared all the time. You hardly ever said two words without looking to see what Dad would say or do. You didn’t paint. You didn’t go anywhere. You didn’t even talk on the phone unless you were talking to Grandmother or Grandpa.”
I stood quietly listening. The description sounded like someone I’d known in high school but barely remembered.
“Now …” Imani opened her arms.
“Now?” I repeated.
She beamed at me.
“Now, you live in this huge house that creaks. You paint. You take in boarders. Boarders! People who need help, people who don’t, interesting people either way. You have Jack.…”
Yes. I have Jack.
“You take … cooking lessons! And Spanish lessons! You’re in a yoga class for God’s sake! Momma, you’re turning into a hippie!”
I sniffed.
“I was a hippie before I had you and had to be respectable.”
“You go to church again and see your friends again. Momma, you’re a lot different from the woman I grew up with.”
I sighed.
“Better than she was, I hope.”
Imani shook her head.
“She wasn’t bad, but … you’re not afraid anymore, are you?”
This time it was my turn to smile.
“Nope. The things that scare me in this life are a whole lot different than they used to be.”
“And Dad’s not one of them,” Imani concluded.
“No. Your dad is not one of them.”
“You are sitting under the shade of your own tree,” my daughter said, pulling the zipper around the side of her suitcase.
“The shade of what?”
“It’s a line from a poem. I heard it in a monastery that we visited. It was written a zillion years ago by a Buddhist nun.”
I was impressed. I didn’t know there were Buddhist nuns. When I said so, Imani shrugged and gave me an impish grin.
“Part of that expensive college education that you’re paying for,” she said.
“It’s worth every penny,” I said. “Now, let me hear the poem.”
“ ‘At last I am a woman free!
No more tied to the kitchen,
Stained amid the stained pots,
No more bound to the husband
Who thought me less
Than the shade he wove with his hands.
No more anger, no more hunger
I sit now in the shade of my own tree.
Meditating thus, I am happy, I am serene.’ ”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am learning to sit under the shade of my own tree, but I’ll let you in on a secret: I do not sit there alone.
Thanks, as always, to my dedicated agent, Alison Picard, and to my wonderful editor, Shauna Summers. Shauna, good luck to you.
I appreciate the assistance of the dedicated staff of the Kentucky Domestic Violence Association in Frankfort, especially Keely Bradley and Christy Burch, for listening to my questions on this disturbing issue and gently but firmly correcting some of my own misconceptions. My words in this book are inadequate in describing the tenuous nature of the lives of domestic violence survivors, their bravery and strength. These women deserve medals.
Thanks also to Joseph D. Ketner, director of the Rose Museum at Brandeis University, for providing a historical framework for the phenomenal African American artist, Robert S. Duncanson (1821–1872), a man whose work and influence have been largely forgotten in our own time. Joe was kind enough to listen to my hypotheses and provide insights into the times during which Duncanson lived, and into his life and the impact of his work.
Not all guardian angels have wings. Many, many thanks to Lori Bryant-Woolridge for her friendship, patience, and guidance (and willingness to share long-distance telephone costs!) over these past few months—I couldn’t have done it without you—and to Silas House, who has been so generous with his support, advice, and encouragement.
Special thanks to my high-school classmate, Claudia Cook Ellington, a talented painter whose “kitchen” studio was the model for Opal’s, and to Gayle Harden-Renfro, an inspired fiber artist, who was kind enough to allow me to observe her at work as well as share her observations on her art and work process.
Last, but not least, many thanks to my mother, Myrtle Jones Humphrey, my children, Bethany Smith and Kevin Smith, my sister, Claire Williams, and my husband, Bruce Smith.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sheila Williams was born and raised in Columbus, Ohio. She attended Ohio Wesleyan University and is a graduate of the University of Louisville. Her most recent book was Dancing on the Edge of the Roof. Sheila lives with her family in Newport, Kentucky, and is working on her next book.
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