Silent Cry

by Dorothy J. Newton

  I had a friend named Deborah who played sports with me. Her mother was a friend to my mother and was aware of our situation. When we had out-of-town games, Deborah often paid for my meal or ordered double portions and pretended she couldn’t eat it all so she could share with me. Her generosity melted some of the hardness that had developed around my heart. God used her compassion to reveal his love to me. Over and over again, the warmth of Deborah’s kindness melted the cold, hard knot growing within me, allowing me to trust God and know I was in his hands.

  Sometimes, no matter how hard she tried, Mother couldn’t find the money for the things I needed. When times were really desperate, she’d get a faraway look in her eyes, sigh deeply, and say, “I guess you’ll have to ask your daddy.” I’m not sure how he found the money or even why he did it, but he always seemed to come up with what I needed so I could continue to play sports and be involved in all my academic and extracurricular activities.

  At softball games, I sometimes saw my stepfather standing off by himself in the distance. He never came into the stands. He didn’t want to be around people, but he was there watching. When it was my turn at bat, I would think, Come on, Dot, hit this one right over his head! I wanted to make a ball fly right over his head to get his attention!

  I played basketball and volleyball too, but he never came to a single game. Those sports were played inside a gym, and I think the idea of coming inside and being around people was just too much for him. I sometimes wondered if he was ashamed of himself. I hoped he was. More than anything, I wanted him to stop drinking. I knew he could be a good man — he just refused to give up alcohol.

  There were times when the abuse did stop momentarily. Maybe that meant he had a winning streak at gambling — I never knew for sure. When things were really, really bad, my Uncle Sam could actually put him in his place and cause him to back down, even to express remorse. But this lasted only for a day or two, and then the abuse began all over again. It was like living inside a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. It seemed normal. I expected it. I got used to it. That’s just how it was. There wasn’t anything to do but accept it.

  No matter how we begged him to stop or pleaded for his goodness to return, it never did. The abuse continued and got steadily worse. My mother began to have frequent seizures and constant, severe headaches. Several times his blows landed her in the hospital, and I feared my mother would sooner or later die at his hands.

  Finally we realized there was nothing left to do but escape — and the only way to do that was to become self-sufficient. I was in the ninth grade by now, and my brother Gary and I had begun to chip in, working to help support the family. I worked every weekend cleaning houses or picking bushels of beans. I even worked at a shrimp factory, plucking the heads off the tiny creatures and filling buckets with them. How I hated those slimy things! They smelled horrible, and the stench lingered long after I got home and took a bath. It seemed like I could smell them even in my sleep. The outer shells of the shrimp scraped my fingers, and I worked until they were raw and bleeding. I wanted to throw those horrid little creatures back into the Gulf, not painstakingly fill a bucket with them — but filling a bucket meant earning money, so fill the buckets I did.

  During the summer, I participated in a jobs program offered by the Gulf Oil Company. Just two of us from my school were given the opportunity to work for them, painting tanks and mowing the lawn — all in the blazing Louisiana summer sun. But the job paid well, and I was happy to have it. I didn’t like the heat, but it was better than peeling those horrible shrimp! My younger siblings worked too. We all helped out at the school, waxing and buffing floors or cleaning classrooms. We worked hard, and we worked together. Everybody gave their money to Mama to buy food or to save. We all wanted out. We wanted to be free.

  When my mother announced to me that she was planning a shopping trip to New Orleans, I was really excited. It had been a long time since we’d done this. I knew she had to work really hard to save any money, and I had great anticipation for the new clothes and shoes we would come home with. The two of us took the long bus ride into the city, and my excitement grew with each passing mile. But my mood began to change when we stopped for lunch and she explained how desperate our situation was. She was afraid my stepfather was going to kill her — and she’d no longer be able to provide for us or protect us from him. As she talked, the furrows in her brow deepened. Her shoulders were hunched from the weight of a burden heavier than any woman was meant to carry.

  “Dorothy, I know I promised to buy you some new clothes,” she began, “but, baby, we need to use that money to buy a car.” She paused, searching my face to see if I understood. I blinked hard to hold back tears of disappointment. I felt selfish. I had bragged to my friends about shopping in the big city, and now I would come home with nothing — again. How tired I was of not having nice things! But I wanted to escape the abuse — I hated it. Even more than that, I wanted my mother to be free. I swallowed hard and shoved my disappointment down deep inside. I looked her in the eyes, and my selfish thoughts faded away. I loved her more in that moment than I ever had.

  “It’s time to escape!” I said. She breathed a long sigh, and her shoulders seemed to square up a bit.

  “Yes, Dorothy,” she smiled, “it is time for us to be free.” She lifted her chin and closed her eyes, and I knew she was praying.

  We came home from New Orleans without any new clothes, but we now had a car. All the way home, I wondered how my stepfather would react. I wasn’t sure it mattered that much — he was going to be abusive no matter what my mother did, so why not put a plan in place to get free once and for all? I knew Mama was anxious too. She was quiet during the whole ride home. At the same time, there was a determined look in her eyes. She gripped the steering wheel of that car like her life depended on it. She could taste freedom. I sensed she was making plans, thinking things through. Every now and then, she wiped away a tear, looked over at me, and smiled.

  Buying the car was the right choice. I knew it was. But it was only one step in the plan, and it had taken all of our savings. We couldn’t escape until we had some money to run with. We needed enough cash to find a place to live and to survive until my mother could secure a new job.

  Throughout this difficult season, one of my teachers was particularly kind to me. Miss Garlington knew about the violence at home and the emotional roller coaster I lived on. She often encouraged me, calmed me down, redirected my energy into positive pursuits, and challenged me to dream of a better future. Her presence in my life was a bright beacon in a dark sea. So when she accepted a teaching position 350 miles away in Monroe, I was devastated. How could she leave? She was the one person in my life who seemed to really understand how awful it all was.

  As the day for her departure approached, I panicked. But Miss Garlington held out hope to me. On her last day, she pulled me aside and said, “After I get settled, maybe I can help you all move to Monroe and get away from your stepfather. I could help your mother find a job.” My heart soared! Of course she would help us. Surely, this was our answer to prayer. How long had I asked God for an escape — and here it was! Miss Garlington wouldn’t let me down. Now I just needed to convince Mother that the time was right.

  I was convinced the pieces of our plan were falling into place. I had the promise from Miss Garlington tucked in my pocket, and we had a car. With help from friends, Mother was even learning to read and write, and her confidence was growing. All we needed now was enough money to run with. However, even with all these little steps moving us in the right direction, we were still trapped. The abuse worsened. My stepfather stopped contributing money to the household altogether, and my mother saved every possible dime for our great escape. We ate free lunches at school, and in the afternoon we drank milk from leftover school milk cartons and ate mayonnaise sandwiches. For the first time in my life, I realized we lived in poverty, and I felt ashamed.

  My older brother Gary was now sixteen, and his boyhood ang
er had developed into full-grown hate. One night, he jumped on my stepfather, hit him hard, and then ran away. The next day, my stepfather tried to run over him with his truck. Just in time, my brother dropped to the ground and rolled beneath our trailer. The brakes grabbed and the tires locked, throwing a huge cloud of dust as the truck stopped mere inches from our mobile home. If Gary hadn’t rolled under the trailer, I was certain my stepfather would have killed him.

  This marked a turning point in our family dynamics. From that moment on, the abuse began to filter down to the six children. My stepfather still reserved a special kind of meanness for just my mother, but his rage was no longer confined only to her.

  CHAPTER 4

  Freedom

  Freedom means you are unobstructed in living your life as you choose. Anything less is a form of slavery.

  Wayne Dyer

  Mama!” I cried. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I was both frightened and angry. “Mama!” I said again, louder. I stroked her forehead and cheeks with a cool, damp cloth. She was so still. After another beating by my stepfather, she’d had a severe seizure and lost consciousness.

  I looked down at her face and thought how beautiful she was, even with the bruises. I loved her deeply. What if this was her last beating? What if she didn’t wake up? I shook her gently, praying she would open her eyes and look at me.

  “Mama,” I said, softly this time. One of my tears splashed on her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open. She grimaced in pain and looked around in confusion. She felt so small lying there in my arms.

  “We must leave, Mama,” I urged, my mind racing with fear. “Please?” I begged. “Let’s just get in the car and go!”

  Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I could see she was seriously considering it. “Please, Mama!” I said again. “We can go to Monroe. Miss Garlington promised she would help us. She’s been waiting for us to come. Let’s just go!”

  And go we did.

  It was Christmas break. Seven of us packed everything we could fit into the car and then squeezed ourselves in. Anxiety kept us all quiet at first, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Would we ever return? What would my stepfather do when he found out? Would he follow us? Where were we going? What about our friends? Would we see them again? Would Mother be okay? Where would we live? What about school?

  The farther away we drove, the more our mood lightened. Freedom! We could taste it. Someone told a joke, and we all laughed, releasing the tension. We sang a Christmas carol, and suddenly our anxiety gave way to a sense of adventure. Relief swept over us, and there was no looking back. We had done it! I resisted the urge to let out a yell, and I secretly wished I could see the look on my stepfather’s face when he came home in the wee hours of the morning screaming for his supper and found us all gone!

  We stayed a few nights in New Orleans, first with my great-grandmother and then with a great-aunt, but both homes were small — and seven extra people would have been difficult to accommodate no matter what size the home. My mother didn’t want to be a burden, so after we woke up, we tidied everything up and stayed outside during the day. We had to find activities to keep all the children busy, and this proved increasingly difficult to do. Staying with relatives was not the answer.

  After a few days, my mother decided the only thing to do was to head for Monroe and find Miss Garlington. We had no idea where she lived or how she might help us, but we were determined to find a better life, so we packed up again, piled into our Chevrolet Impala, and headed for Monroe. On the trip there, my mother began to feel ill. By the time we arrived, she was very sick. We checked into a motel, but Mother had caught the flu and was too ill to look for work.

  We looked up Miss Garlington’s telephone number, and I called her. I was excited to hear her voice on the other end of the line, and I almost shouted that we were at last here in Monroe. We had come just as she had suggested! I expected her to be overjoyed to hear from me, and I was sure she would come right over to rescue us. However, the response on the end of the line was far from the joyful one I anticipated. She sounded shocked and clearly taken off guard. When I told her my mother was ill, instead of rushing in to assist, Miss Garlington was hesitant to help. In the end, she proved to be no help at all.

  I was crushed. Miss Garlington had promised to help us escape. She had always been a mentor to me, and I trusted her. Now, when I needed her most, she did not make good on her word. I never felt more alone than I did in that motel room. My heart was broken, and I felt betrayed. I was angry and frightened and confused — and determined not to go back to my stepfather.

  Mother grew sicker and sicker, but we couldn’t afford a doctor, much less an extended stay in a motel. Without Miss Garlington’s assistance, we didn’t have many options. Disheartened, we packed everything back into the Impala and headed back toward New Orleans.

  This time, there were no jokes or songs or laughter. The mood in the car was subdued. My mood was blackest of all. I had convinced Mother to go to Monroe, and I had let her down — I had let the whole family down. My hope vanished like a mirage in the desert, and something inside me broke. Hot, angry tears streamed from my eyes. How could Miss Garlington do this? What would we do now? Mother tried to comfort me. She told me that God would take care of us and that it wasn’t Miss Garlington’s fault.

  We made our way back to New Orleans, not knowing how we would survive. We checked into another motel, our money all but gone. Sick but determined, my mother called Ms. Terry, a good friend from the Church of Christ back home. She told her we were out of money and needed to find a place to stay in New Orleans. Ms. Terry called Elysian Fields Church of Christ in New Orleans to share our plight.

  These beautiful people came out right away to see us. A dear woman who introduced herself as Sister Rew immediately set things into motion. She found us a place to live near my great-grandmother’s house and somehow gathered necessities to help us through. All six of us were enrolled in school, though now instead of attending the same school together, as we had in Buras, we had to be in three different schools, and I had to go alone.

  Each morning, I walked Helaine, John, and Leslie to their school and then walked about nine more miles to my school. My mother resumed her job as a custodian and carpooled for the seventy-five-minute commute back to Buras. This required her to rise before 5:00 a.m. each day to catch her ride by 5:30. The long commute was difficult, and she still suffered from seizures and headaches. Her absence meant I had more responsibility to care for my younger siblings. We were far away from my aunts and our community of family and friends, which meant I was on my own when Mother was gone. And things here were different — fast-paced and dangerous. We no longer suffered abuse, but we couldn’t exactly say things were good.

  In time, I made friends. Most of them walked halfway to school and then caught public transportation for the rest of the way. I didn’t have any money, so I couldn’t afford to ride with them. I pretended I liked the exercise, and I was so athletic that no one seemed to question my motives.

  Many of my friends skipped school and got into trouble hanging around Bourbon Street. Sometimes these friends offered me rides, but I knew better than to accept. I was keenly aware of the price my mother had paid for our escape and what she had sacrificed for our safety. I admired her bravery, and I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her or wasting her sacrifice. She wanted us to have a better life. She wanted me to get an education and have better choices. I wouldn’t have traded that for anything.

  I often walked to the corner grocery store to purchase scraps of meat and other necessities. A nice boy my age worked there, and we occasionally struck up a conversation. Like others, he too offered to drive me to school, but I declined. When I said no, he decided he would walk with me and maybe then we could work our way up to riding in his car. I did like him, but I wasn’t ready to trust again. Miss Garlington’s betrayal was still too fresh in my mind. Even this kind gesture felt like pressure I wasn’t ready to deal with.
r />   When the spring semester ended, I was fifteen and had just completed my sophomore year of high school. We had made our escape and were surviving, but my mother’s health worsened. She could no longer continue the long commute back and forth to Buras each day. And she was increasingly concerned about how much time we spent alone and fending for ourselves. Eventually, she secured a job at a hotel in downtown New Orleans and worked another part-time job to make ends meet. But her body never really recovered from the abuse she had suffered, and working long hours with so little rest continued to take a toll. Mother got sick again, and the precarious balance of our lives once more spun out of control.

  CHAPTER 5

  Back to Buras

  Every tyrant who has lived has believed in freedom for himself.

  Elbert Hubbard

  My mother called me into her room and shut the door.

  “Dorothy,” she said, her voice soft and mellow, “I know how hard you worked so we could leave. I don’t think I ever could have done it without you.” She paused to gather her thoughts, and I felt my stomach tighten. “I am so very proud of you. I want all my children to have the chance for a better life.”

  “You’re so smart,” she continued. “I know you can be something and make something of yourself. You are almost a grown woman.” Her voice trailed away, and for a moment her thoughts drifted to something far away.

  She lifted my chin and smoothed my hair with a gesture so gentle you would have thought I was a newborn baby, not a young woman about to enter her junior year of high school. My heart was racing. I looked into her eyes, searching for a clue about where she was going with this conversation. Before she even said the words, I knew they were coming.