I moved my hand inside the cotton waistband, naively exploring, touching, hopeful I was doing it right. He was hard and thick, the skin surprisingly silky. No wonder they call him Big Johnson.
“Aw, God, Harley-girl,” he murmured, pushing me away from him. He jumped down from the hood, pacing the ground, buttoning himself up. Returning to the Jeep, he quickly zipped up my sweatshirt, pulling my coat around me.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He continued to pace, running his fingers through his hair.
“Then why’d you stop?”
“You’re not that girl...the one who gives it up at Lookout Point.”
Could he read my thoughts? “I know who I am Jeremiah. Maybe I am that girl. Apparently you’ve been here before with that girl. You didn’t stop her, did ya?”
“Yeah, well I’m not in love with that girl.” He offered me his hand to help me down from the hood. I ignored the insinuation he might love me. I didn’t want anyone to be in love with me, and I surely didn’t want to love anybody. My parents fell in love and look where it got them. Love, schmove.
I pushed his hand away, helping myself down to the ground. My ankle, forgotten in the heat of our make-out session, again made its presence known. I shifted my weight to my other leg. “For your information I was going to stop,” I said, hopping around the front of the Jeep.
Jeremiah met me at the passenger-side door, grinning from ear to ear. I knew he purposely let out his inner smart aleck. I didn’t want to hear a joke. I wanted to be mad at him. “It was your hunch-back. Just couldn’t get past it.” He opened the door for me.
I swatted him playfully, unable to keep myself from laughing. I never could stay mad at him. “How about a little Thank you, Jeremiah for stopping you from doing something you might regret? I never get any props,” he continued as I climbed in the passenger seat.
“Yes, thank you, oh, wise one, keeper of my virginity.”
“I like that. Jeremiah Johnson, keeper of virginity.” Quickly changing his mind once the words set in. “Wait, maybe that doesn’t sound so good.”
“Yep, ladies, one night spent with Jeremiah is as good as a chastity belt!” I teased before he closed my door.
Good With Groups
I left school early Monday afternoon, meeting Mom at the county courthouse to finalize the charges against my father. I apprehensively approached the building. The last time I had been to the courthouse was on a fifth grade field trip. As I neared the interior, my nerves settled. It was not nearly as large and frighteningly stoic as I remembered.
Dressed for the occasion, I assumed it proper to wear the best clothes I had, with the exception of an actual dress or anything resembling one. My enthusiastic fashion guru, Kat, helped me put my outfit together. I really wish she hadn’t insisted I wear heels. “Heels make one look taller, implying strength,” she said. The only thing heels implied to me was difficulty walking and the source of unnecessary noise, as I became embarrassedly aware of every clumsy painful step I took across the marble courthouse floor.
My ankle still heeled from my excursion to Lookout Point with Jeremiah. I smiled with the memory. As I neared the last room on the right, I saw Mom inside nervously awaiting my arrival.
“Hi. You must be Harley.” A tall, well-dressed woman stood, extending her hand to me as I entered the room. “I’m Attorney Sylvia Carpenter.” I met her grasp cordially, taking a seat next to Mom.
“You look very nice,” Mom whispered to me approvingly.
“I thought we were meeting with the judge?” I whispered back. Mom quieted me gently, diverting her attention back to Ms. Carpenter. I felt in the pit of my stomach something askew with this picture. I smelled a rat.
Ms. Carpenter sat back in her chair, directing her body language toward me. “Harley, I know you’re young and this may seem like a challenging time in your life. It’s my job to make it tolerable for you and your mother,” she began. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up some paperwork. I understand you’re on a time schedule and have to get back for basketball practice, so all you have to do is go through this stack of papers and sign wherever you see a yellow tab.” Sitting forward in her chair, she pushed the paperwork within my reach, pen provided and clicked, awaiting my use.
“Are these the rehab papers?” I asked, looking first at Mom and then back to Ms. Carpenter. My mother completely ignored my glance, steadying her eyes in Ms. Carpenter’s direction. They didn’t look like rehab papers to me as I saw release and charges in the same sentence, quickly scanning the first page. “I would like to talk with the judge, please,” I said, somewhere between a plea and a demand, shoving the papers away. My own mother, would she really do this?
“I have a daughter about the same age as you, Harley. I understand how situations can take on a life all their own. A simple altercation snowballs out of control...”
“A simple altercation?” I interrupted.
“You both got carried away,” Mom said, putting her hand atop mine I hastily pulled my hand from hers as the plot unraveled.
“Your mother has already signed. All you have to do is the same.”
“And then what? He’s released of all charges?”
“Precisely,” she said, as if that were a good thing. “You and your mother can pick him up at county, once the paperwork is signed and reviewed.”
I partially unbuttoned my blouse, exposing bruises and scratches that were now starting to turn a purplish color and scab over. “Does this look like a simple altercation? Would you let your daughter anywhere near a man who did this to her?”
“Harley, close your shirt,” Mom said.
“No, I won’t close my shirt. Take a good look, Mom. It should be familiar, as many bruises as he’s given you. Maybe you’ve gotten used to it. Maybe it doesn’t bother you anymore. But it bothers me!” I paused momentarily, taking a deep breath. I did not want to be disrespectful. My mind chaotic and jumbled, I just wanted to scream until someone heard me.
“Harley, this isn’t the time or the place. Calm down. Stop it.”
“If there’s something in the paperwork you don’t agree with, we can make revisions,” Ms. Carpenter added.
My emotions poked and prodded. My almond was getting its workout today. I spoke low and controlled, “Mom, we’ve done it your way for years. We’ve hid it, denied it, and pretended it didn’t exist. Even believed it would get better because that’s the way you wanted to handle it. I’m done. Enough is enough.” I stood from my chair gathering my belongings. “And if you think for one minute I’m signing those release papers, you’re crazy.”
“I’ve talked with your dad, if we drop the charges, he’ll start going to outpatient rehab, and he promised to quit drinking. He can’t do the inpatient program. He’s not good with groups Harley, you know that.”
I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling as it always helped to numb the pain. “Yeah, because we all know how good he is at keeping promises. Don’t tell me you believe him? You have chosen him time and time again. Kat and I never stood a chance, did we? I really thought you would support me this time. Guess I’m as gullible as you.”
“Harley, sit down, this is no time to be ugly. Just sit down and we can talk through this. It doesn’t have to be this way,” Mom continued in her subdued manner. Far be it from her to make a scene.
“I will not sit down. I’m not signing your cagey papers. And since you’ve already been there this morning, and I’m sure you’ll return immediately after this delightful little ambush, tell your husband, you know, the one who’s not good with groups, that he better get used to it. A group of cellmates or a group of people attempting to better their lives through rehabilitation, pick one. I’m not dropping the charges.”
I held my chin up storming out of the room. I walked heavily, briskly to the information desk, my heels clumsily clip-clopping the entire way. It sounded as though the Budweiser Clydesdales had taken over the courthouse.
The receptionist looked up at me peering over the top of her bifocals, “Yes?” she offered.
“I need to speak with the judge, a female judge.”
She focused her eyes through her bifocals, reading from her directory below. “Judge Bernadette Simons will be out of session around two o’clock.”
I heard footsteps behind me approaching the desk, followed by a smooth, deep voice, “Can I help you?” Is James Earl Jones a judge? I wondered, the voice behind me quite similar. I spun around to find a tall, robust, straight-faced man with his hand extended to me, “Judge Winston Jackson,” he said.
“Harley...Harley LeBeau.” I nervously shook his hand, which was as big as my baseball mitt.
“You might consider buttoning up your shirt, young lady.”
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed, covering myself, quickly fastening buttons all the way to my neck.
“Those are some nasty bruises you have there,” Judge Jackson commented curiously. I said nothing. I was sure a female judge would be more empathetic toward my situation, even though a female attorney, Ms. Carpenter, didn’t seem to see things from my point of view. Get a clue, Harley. I looked nervously down the hall toward Ms. Carpenter’s office as I heard my mother and her making their way toward Judge Jackson and me.
“Judge Jackson,” Ms. Carpenter called as she and Mom neared us. “Maybe you could be of assistance. Judge Jackson, Marilyn LeBeau,” she made introductions. “Your Honor, I have some paperwork for this young lady. Her mother would like very much for her to sign.”
He reached for the paperwork, gave it a quick look through, and handed it back to her. “I assume if Harley,” he exaggerated my name, “wanted to sign the paperwork, you would have her signature, Ms. Carpenter.”
My mother stood beside me wringing her fingers and shifting her weight from one hip to another. I wanted to reach out and hold her hand, to steady her, let her know it would be okay, but I could not. I would not. I stood with my arms folded.
“It was a family altercation that got out of hand, and that’s where her mother would like to keep it, in the family,” Ms. Carpenter pled her case.
“Those bruises on your chest, Harley, how did you get them?” Judge Jackson asked.
I could feel Mom’s eyes appealing to me, hoping I might glance her way, wishing me mute. I stared at the floor and reluctantly answered, “My father.”
“She did fight back, Your Honor. It’s in the police report,” Ms. Carpenter said.
“What would you have her do?” he asked defiantly.
“She is a minor and her mother would like her to sign these papers, releasing all charges. It will only make matters worse for the family if she files.”
“Minors are now devoid of rights, Ms. Carpenter? Where exactly did you study law? As a woman and a mother, I expect you would have more regard.” Judge Jackson extended his hand in the direction of his office. “Now, Harley, if you would like to accompany me to my chambers, you will find I can be quite accommodating.” I fell in stride with him.
“Harley,” Mom called after me. I hesitated at the sound of her voice, slowing my pace. Judge Jackson put a gentle arm around my shoulder as we continued to his office. He offered me a seat across from his desk.
“You play any sports in school, Harley?”
“Basketball.”
“What position?”
“Point-guard.”
“Great. You’re well prepared then. Consider me your shooting guard, forward and center. You make the calls, I follow your lead.” He smiled.
I nodded my head, while in the back of my mind, unsure of what I was about to do. I knew Mom would not be happy with me for airing our dirty laundry. It would only bring her more shame and embarrassment. It would appear in the papers. Everyone would know what really goes on at my house. My dad would be irate, completely pissed off, and it could make things worse for Mom in the long run.
But I couldn’t back down. My father never took responsibility for anything. He never suffered the consequences. He made all the rules. If I backed out now, he would see it as a sign of weakness, and much like an animal with its wounded prey, he would pounce.
“Harley,” Judge Jackson recalled my attention.
“Yes, sir?”
“You are not alone.”
I didn’t visit my father in rehab, not once. I thought about it, but I knew he would not care to see me. Mom reported he was not happy at all.
“I don’t have a problem. I’m not like them. They’re all a bunch of nuts. I don’t need rehab to quit drinking. I can quit whenever I want to. I’m just going through the motions, getting by on good behavior. I’m smarter than the psychologists. They only think they’re running the show,” he said.
We had heard the same thing for years. He was the genius and everyone around him was a bunch of idiots. How did he function at such a level of denial?
I simply rejoiced at being out of his world, out of his grasp, for the time being, anyway. For once he couldn’t affect my life and life was beautiful. I had the privilege of resting well every night, not worrying what he might do next. He ignited such turmoil in our household and in our lives for years. It was freeing, a true and wondrous relief, just to be. A little piece of me felt guilty that I seemingly had no more regard for my father than for a total stranger, but I was having such a good time living, guilt seemed a waste of time.
The Boots My Mother Gave Me
Alas, June arrived. We had three days until graduation, three days until freedom. My father returned from rehab, his behavior somewhat improved by default. He remained on probation for three years, during which he could not drink or he would have to go back to rehab or jail. It pleased me to see him show some reserve when it came to alcohol and that he could be tolerable, even if it made him unhappy. We unhappily tolerated him for years.
Mom, nervous about my leaving, busied herself with preparations. She took me to the bank, where she co-signed my first loan so I could reimburse Benny for my car. Determined to assist further, she scanned the attic for anything and everything I might need. After finding a few buried treasures, she insisted I come by and pick them up.
As I stepped into the house clear of my father, I heard Mom and Kat’s voices coming from the open hatch in the living room ceiling. I climbed up the ladder, poking my head into the attic.
“Harley, look at this,” Kat said giggling, as she held a mint green polyester woman’s suit with flared sleeves and bellbottoms. “Mom used to wear this! Do you believe that?”
“Yes. Look at how she used to dress us.”
“There was nothing wrong with the way I dressed you girls. It was the style,” Mom said as she reached forward, grabbing at the garment in Kat’s hand.
“Can I have it? For material?” Kat pleaded.
“Oh, so now it’s not such an eyesore?”
“It won’t be when I get done with it.”
Mom chuckled, obliging her. “I don’t know where you get your flare for making clothes, probably your grandmother. Well, I did sew a bit in high school.”
“You sewed in high school?” I asked surprised, making my ascent.
“Yes,” Mom said defiantly. “You’re looking at Lambo High’s 1967 Homemaker of the Year.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Whoa!” I lost my footing on the ladder. Mom grabbed me by the arm, steadying me until my foot made contact with the rung again. I pushed and she pulled until my feet planted firmly on the attic floor. “I just never saw you sew before,” I finished my sentence, greeting her with a hug.
“Guess I lost interest,” she said. “Did I ever tell you about the time I almost fell out of the attic while I was pregnant with you, Harley?”
“That’s what’s wrong with her!” Kat joked, hugging me.
Mom gave us her be quiet and listen look, before continuing, “I was about to pop, eight-and-a-half months at least. I wanted my suitcase from up here to pack an overnight bag for the hospital. You’re dad was in the bathroom shavi
ng as I came down from the attic, and the ladder came out from underneath me. I screamed ‘John!’ He came to my rescue lightning fast. He scooped me up in his arms before I even had time to process everything. To this day, I don’t know how he did it.”
I stayed quiet momentarily. I didn’t have many heroic stories about my father. It was nice to hear. Every kid wants to believe her dad’s a hero, right? “And you’re sure he knew you were pregnant with me?” I joked.
“Harley,” Mom scolded.
“Hey, check it out.” Kat excitedly opened a box full of our grade school projects. “You kept all this stuff, Ma?” Mom and I made our way toward Kat. I knelt beside her, rummaging through the stuff.
“You think I threw it away? I treasure those things. I’m proud of you girls.”
Kat grabbed a bouquet of pipe cleaner flowers planted in a Styrofoam egg carton. “Oh, my gosh, I made this in kindergarten. Look at the colors I picked, none of them compliment the other, not a single one. You’re proud of this, Ma?”
Taking the bouquet from Kat, “You gave me that for Mother’s Day,” she said. Turning it upside down, she read the inscription, “‘To The World’s Best Ma. I love you. XOXO. Love, Katrina.’ That’s so cute. See how you put Ma? Not Mom...The World’s Best Ma. Everybody got the biggest kick out of that.”
I glanced inside at our childhood in a box. Report cards, poems, crafts, and school projects, everything. Mom kept it all. I looked back at her watching us with quiet pride. I guess I never thought about it much from her perspective, the life we lived. Surely she didn’t set out to live such a life. I don’t think little girls sit around thinking about the abusive man they’re going to marry. Did she have a childhood in a box? If she did, where did all those pieces of her go? When did she lose herself?
The Boots My Mother Gave Me Page 6