I sat transfixed as Danny and Rex got up from their seats and lifted my mother’s head up off her plate, wiped her face, and half-walked, half-carried her to the guest bedroom. They were more than kind, more than gracious. When they came back, Hugh made some joke to get us back into the holiday spirit and try to erase what had just happened. But nothing could erase that sight from my mind.
It seemed to me that that night was Helen’s ultimate triumph. My mother had been completely humiliated, and I had been made to witness it. My mother had lost all remnants of her self-respect—and she had lost some of my respect in the process. Helen, on the other hand, seemingly cold sober, was the exemplary hostess as she smiled graciously and led us in small talk.
Helen had seduced us all. She had made each of us cross boundaries we never should have crossed, behave in ways we normally would never behave. Her continual filling of my mother’s glass and insistence that she drink more even when she tried to decline had caused my mother to become drunker than I’d ever seen her, and to lose her dignity in the process. Her seductive talk and dancing had turned Danny and his friends on, and even though I already had a history of making out with older men, I was trying to close the door on that chapter of my life. But Helen had the power to make us all feel things and do things we shouldn’t do.
Usually my mother was the smartest person in the room, but she’d met her match with Helen. In fact, Helen was far more manipulative, far more cunning. My mother still had the good witch part of her intact. She basically had a good heart. Once she let you in, she could be kind and generous. But Helen was all bad witch. Looking back on it now, I realize that when she pretended to be generous, plying my mother with liquor and me with food, lavishing us with compliments and attention, what she was really doing was trying to control us.
I didn’t like seeing my mother as the victim. I was used to seeing her with all the power. On the other hand, I also felt vindicated. For once someone else was putting her down, humiliating her and making her feel small the way she always did to me.
My mother soon grew tired of Helen, and she didn’t like the fact that she always woke up the next day with a horrible hangover, so she began to decline her invitations. But Helen clamped onto my mother like a dog does a bone. My mother would make up excuses when Helen called, saying we were busy, but Helen was somehow always able to talk her into changing her mind. My mother actually got up enough nerve to give her a firm no one Thanksgiving, saying that she had to work, but even after that Helen continued to call and invite herself over to our apartment. This usually happened on a weeknight, and even though my mother had to go to work the next morning and I had to go to school, my mother always gave in to her. I don’t know why, since, as she did with other friends, she always complained about having to see her and criticized her behind her back. But Helen’s presence in our lives continued all through my high school years.
I learned some important lessons from Helen. First of all, I learned that women can use their sexuality to manipulate men, and that there is power in that. Before spending time with her, I saw men as having all the power and I’d only experienced being the victim to men’s sexuality. Helen taught me that women could be as powerful as men.
She also taught me that women can be just as dangerous and manipulative as men. I didn’t know it then, but Helen was a sexual predator; in fact, she was probably capable of most anything when it came to sex. Her seductiveness with me and especially Danny, her own nephew, was a testament to this.
Helen also confirmed for me what I had already begun to learn from my mother and her family: a great way to cover up your own insecurities and your own shame was to act as if you were more powerful than everyone else, and humiliate them in order to make yourself feel better.
chapter 29
It was finally the summer before my junior year; I was one year closer to escaping Bakersfield. My mother had started drinking more—or perhaps she was just getting drunk faster, I’m not sure. I’ve heard that as people get older, women especially, they don’t metabolize alcohol as well, so maybe that was what was happening with her. At any rate, she often slurred her words and stumbled when she walked, even though she was still only drinking beer. Several times I saw her fall and knock over a lamp.
Each time this happened I felt a hot red flash of rage build up inside me. My mother had been many things over the course of my young life—neglectful, selfish, cruel—but at least I had always respected her. It was hard to respect or admire a drunk. And when she was drunk she frequently became the angry, sarcastic “wicked witch” version of herself.
That summer, the summer of 1963, was one of Bakersfield’s hottest in years, often getting to 110 degrees before noon. It was too hot to go outside; when I tried, the heat slapped me in the face and took my breath away. So I was basically stuck in the house all day. Even there I couldn’t fully escape the heat, however. We only had what was called a “swamp” cooler—a unit installed in a window with water flowing through it, to keep the air colder—and it was in the back bedroom, so the living room and kitchen were never really cool. If I tried to clean house or iron or do any other chore, I was dripping with sweat within minutes.
I could find no jobs except the occasional babysitting gig, so I sometimes spent entire days lying on our couch watching old movies, getting up only to pee or get yet another white-bread sandwich. About an hour before my mother came home from work, I’d scramble around the house washing dishes, taking out the garbage, picking up the clutter, and starting dinner. After she got home and we ate, I’d spend the evening watching more television with her.
When my mother came home from work, exhausted and testy, I knew to stay away from her and keep quiet. After two or three beers, she’d suddenly become friendly, chatting up a storm about whatever was on television or what had happened that day at work. By her fourth beer, however, the ranting and raving usually began. One of her favorite things to rant about was the Civil Rights Movement. Being the racist she was, she was appalled that Negroes were demanding equal rights.
“Who do they think they are?” she cried. “They should shut up and just be grateful that they are no longer slaves! Those Negroes are just a few steps away from being the monkeys they once were. They aren’t smart enough to know how to vote, much less be able to choose who they want to vote for! Why should we give them equal rights when they haven’t earned them? Most of them are criminals or living off welfare.”
If I could block her out and not get caught up in arguing with her, she’d be passed out in bed by nine or ten and I’d be left alone again with my TV.
We still didn’t have a car, and my friends seemed to have other things to do during the week. But on Friday and Saturday nights, six of us girls would all cram into Florence’s baby blue Mustang for a big night out on the town, which consisted of getting shit-faced drunk and cruising up and down Chester Avenue all night long until someone got so sick we had to stop the car for a puke break. That usually dampened our spirits some, and soon we’d head home to make someone’s curfew.
After the weekend, it was back to the same old routine: spending my days alone, wishing I had someone with me, spending my nights with my mother, wishing I were alone. I was a sinking ship, ready to grab on to any lifeboat that came my way, not caring whether it was full of stinking sardines or smelly sailors. I was becoming increasingly depressed; I needed to be away from my mother and out of that tiny little cracker-box apartment. I needed light, freedom, and most of all, stimulation.
So when Sue Campbell came back into my life, I jumped at my chance for escape, however short-lived. The last time I had seen her was just before we moved away from Janice Drive. At the time, she had still been grieving her mother’s death and was heartbroken because Glenn had just been arrested for robbery and was going to prison.
Sue just happened to go into Brock’s one day and was surprised to see my mother working there. They struck up a conversation and my mother came home that night with Sue’s number. I
called her and we picked up right where we’d left off, becoming instant friends all over again. She hadn’t heard from Glenn in a couple of years and was now married.
“Doyle has a good job and you should see the cute little house we bought,” she told me during our first phone conversation. “I feel so lucky to be married to a man who goes to work every day and wants to take care me. I love staying home and being a housewife.”
As it turned out, Sue and Doyle lived a short way from me and my mother in East Bakersfield. Sue made a big thing out of the fact that Doyle didn’t drink or carouse with women, and I guess that was important to her since her mother had been an alcoholic and a whore. Sue wanted to be upstanding and she was proud of her new life, her little house, and the fact that she had left the country slums of Janice Drive. That’s something we had in common: our desire to start over and shake off the chaos and filth of that terrible place.
When we got together, Sue looked so different I barely recognized her. She’d always been a pretty girl, and she still was, but a lot of her glimmer had faded. Her hair, which had been long, shiny, and sparkling blond was now short and mousy brown. Her once clear blue eyes were grey now, and her mouth turned down at the corners in a permanent look of sadness.
The house Sue was so proud of was little more than a dollhouse sitting smack dab in the center of a rather large lot. Although she kept it immaculate and it felt cheerful inside, with lots of light streaming in through the two picture windows, the rooms were tiny and there was only one bedroom. But you’d think it was a mansion the way Sue talked about it. They did have two swamp coolers, one in the living room and one in the bedroom, and the cool temperature felt like a real luxury to me.
Sue had her own car but because Doyle called her several times a day and she wanted to be home to answer, all we ever did was hang out at her house and play cards all day long. At the time I thought it was strange that he called so often, but I figured he just really loved her. She’d pick me up around noon and we’d spend the day playing canasta, smoking cigarettes, and drinking sugary iced tea. It may not sound like much fun, but to me it was. I was out of my dark apartment and spending time with someone other than my mother—someone who seemed to like me and could make me laugh.
Around five o’clock, just before Doyle finished work, Sue would take me home, oftentimes starting dinner before we left. One day, however, the time got away from us altogether. We were laughing hysterically about something, feeling a little batty after hours of iced tea and canasta, when Doyle’s car suddenly drove into the driveway. Sue scrambled up out of her chair and went into a panic. “Put that cigarette out!” she yelled, waving her hands wildly in the air, trying to clear the air of smoke.
When Doyle walked in, Sue’s face turned pale in contrast to his, which was beet red.
“What the hell are you two up to?” he bellowed. “It looks like a poker den in here!”
Sue silently walked into the bedroom, put on her flip-flops, grabbed her purse, and motioned for me to come with her to the car. As the screen door thudded behind us, I heard Doyle in the house yelling, “Goddamn woman doesn’t even have my dinner ready! What am I, a meal ticket or what?”
We drove to my house in silence. I was worried about Sue— she’d told me Doyle had a bad temper—but I knew better than to say anything to her. She was a private person who never shared her feelings or her problems. Even when her mother was murdered, she hadn’t talked about it with me. She never cried in front of me, and I don’t know if she ever did at all. That was just the kind of person she was.
I was worried about what would happen when she got home. Later that night, she called. “Would it be all right if I spent the night?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Without asking any questions, I checked with my mother to see if it was okay.
“Of course,” my mother said. She liked Sue. She thought she was a good influence on me and always said, “That Sue has a good head on her shoulders.” She didn’t know she let me smoke or that Glenn had been sent to prison. She did know about Sue’s mother, though, and she felt sorry for her because of it.
It was Friday night and Florence and the girls were already on their way over to pick me up, so I was gone before Sue got to my house. But Sue was almost as much my mother’s friend as she was mine. Even though she was only four years older than me, she was far more mature.
My mother and I agreed before I left that Sue would sleep in my bed and I’d sleep on the couch so I wouldn’t disturb anyone when I got home late.
I got home at midnight that night, and as soon as I came inside, Sue came out into the living room.
“Go ahead and sleep in your own bed,” she said. “I’ll be okay on the couch.”
I could tell something was wrong by the look on her face. I assumed she and Doyle had had a fight, and I asked her if she wanted to talk. She gave me a peculiar look and then told me more than I ever wanted to know.
“Your mother got really drunk tonight, so we went to bed early. About an hour later, a noise woke me up. When I opened my eyes, I saw your mother hovering over me. I asked her what she wanted but she didn’t say anything. She just leaned down toward me like she was going to give me a kiss on the cheek. But instead she gave me a deep open-mouth kiss—you know, the kind lovers give each other.”
I was horrified. I couldn’t believe my ears. My mother did what?
Momma and I hadn’t been getting along lately, and there had been many times I had complained about her drunken behavior to Sue, but this was different. A rush of shame washed over me, though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. This was my mother who’d done this disgraceful thing to my friend. My mother. Somehow, it felt like this was my shame too. I didn’t feel my usual detached feelings of anger and disgust at my moth-er’s drunken conduct. For the first time, I actually felt like my mother’s behavior said something about me too.
I tried to explain, even though I didn’t really understand it myself. “Oh, she was just drunk,” I said weakly. “She probably didn’t know what she was doing. She often gets lost on the way to the bathroom when she’s been drinking. She probably mis-took you for me since you were in my bed.”
I flushed, recognizing that made it sound even worse. I realized there was nothing I could say that would explain away or excuse my mother’s behavior—or take away the shame I was feeling.
I really didn’t know what to think. My mother was definitely a different person when she was drunk, but I hadn’t known she was capable of something like this. I was used to feeling like she was an enigma, like the fact that she was so asexual yet walked around the house nude a great deal of the time. But this was truly baffling. She, the woman who had always accused me of being sexually precocious, had done something like this. I began to see her more and more as a hypocrite and I wondered just how many secrets she was hiding about her sexuality.
Sue was gone when my mother and I got up the next morning. My mother told me that Doyle had hit Sue the night before and that was why she’d wanted to spend the night. Sue never said another word about the incident with my mother and neither did I—not to Sue, and not to my mother. But Sue was never close to my mother after that.
I guess all that happened should have made me and Sue feel closer, seeing that both of us were in the same boat: me with my crazy mother, her with her crazy husband. We were both just biding our time before we could jump ship. But I guess sometimes knowing too much about another person ends up tearing you apart rather than bringing you closer together.
That summer got weirder as it went along. It turned out that Doyle was a jealous, abusive man who constantly accused Sue of being with other men and beat her often. Life got so bad for her that she started going to the little white clapboard church on the corner across from her house. She had never been a religious person, but sometimes pain makes you reach out when nothing else will.
Glenn was released from prison after serving only four years of his sentence. It seemed he’d found the Lord wh
ile in prison and become part of a ministry that reached out to prisoners. When he got out, he decided to join the very church across the street from Sue and Doyle’s.
As Sue explained to me later, “The first day I went to church, I looked up and saw Glenn standing behind the pulpit leading the congregation in song. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I felt like my prayers had been answered, because I’d never really gotten over him.”
She told me how she went up to him after the service, not knowing whether he was married or still felt the same about her. “Thankfully, Glenn was just as happy to see me,” she told me. “But it turns out he is married—to the preacher’s daughter, no less.”
Sue explained that even though she still had strong feelings for Glenn, she didn’t want to become a home-wrecker; he was married and she needed to respect his wife. Besides, she was deathly afraid of Doyle.
“If he caught me with Glenn, he’d kill me,” she said, and I knew she meant it. I could see the fear in her eyes as she was talking. I believed Doyle was capable of killing her in a jealous rage as well, and I breathed a sigh of relief when Sue told me she wasn’t going to pursue a relationship with Glenn, even if she did still love him.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of the story. At first Sue and Glenn just saw each other at church, but their feelings for each other were too strong and they eventually started sneaking out to Glenn’s car after the Wednesday night service. Soon Glenn started coming over to Sue’s house during the day while Doyle was at work.
When Sue told me about this, I became afraid for them both. I couldn’t believe they were taking such a risk.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked when she finally told me what was going on. “You know Doyle is capable of killing you, don’t you?”
Raising Myself Page 18