by Mary Morony
My uncle’s little black station wagon had been parked in our garage for a couple of months. Whenever I asked about the car, I got hazy answers. “He’s away,” my mother said once. When asked where, she all of a sudden thought of something else she had to do. Another time she said, “He left it here because he didn’t need it anymore.” Asking why only garnered a vague scowl and an exasperated sigh.
The signs indicated that there was far more to my uncle’s hospitalization than anyone was saying. All my years of questioning had taught me what kinds of questions I could ask and how much I could push for an answer, but even my hard earned detective skills were running up against a brick wall when it came to my Uncle Dennis. No amount of finesse could keep adults from shutting down when I broached the topic. I was beginning to realize that people were afraid of my questions. And on some level, I was realizing that questions have power.
“How come Uncle Dennis was in the hospital?” I asked Stuart casually one afternoon when the two of us were lounging on the back porch.
“Can’t tell,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Don’t know?” I asked.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m not supposed to tell.”
“Me?”
“Anybody.”
“But I heard you talking to Ethel about it.”
“She already knew, and she’s not going to tell anybody.”
“Neither will I.”
“Yeah, right, you little brat. You’d ask somebody some question and then they’d figure out I told you.”
I involuntarily shuddered. “Must be somethin’ big.”
“It is. It’s really gross. You’d die if you knew.”
“Tell me.”
She’d been lazily flipping through a magazine, but she closed it now and set it down beside her. “What are you going to do for me if I do?”
“I won’t tell that you sneak out at night.”
“Old news; I already promised I wouldn’t anymore.” Stuart, ever so casually, readjusted herself on the chaise and started to pick at her thumbnail.
A few days earlier, Stuart had had an argument (now that they were such fast friends I was always corrected if I referred to them as fights) with my mother about sneaking out. That same night Helen and I, lying in bed, too hot to sleep, were humming and singing softly to each other. While we were speculating on who might move into the new house down the street, a tinny jangle outside our window caught my attention. I got up and peered around the curtains to see what it was. It sounded like someone was on the kitchen porch and had bumped up against Ethel’s stack of roasting pans. I knew the sound well.
Ethel used that porch as a staging area for her to-do list and overflow storage for the kitchen. On the floor she parked baskets of unfolded laundry, drying racks, wet mops, and pails of water. On tables and stacks of old newspapers she perched plants to be repotted, piles of coat hangers, and an array of oversized kitchen equipment. Originally, it was just the turkey roaster that was stored on the porch, but over time Ethel had created an amazingly fail-safe burglar alarm. Even in the daytime, it was hard to negotiate her ever widening array of kitchen sprawl.
What I saw was Stuart quietly closing the screen door and creeping down the very far edges of the steps as close to the handrail as she could get. When she reached the bottom, she sprinted off into the neighbor’s yard, disappearing into the darkness. Minutes later I heard a car engine start up.
“I not only saw you, I heard you,” I said. “It’s a wonder Mama didn’t hear you. You made such a racket.”
“When?”
“Two nights ago. You went out the kitchen door at around eleven-thirty. You bumped into Ethel’s tower of pans, and then you went through the Dabneys’ yard. And a couple of minutes later I saw Judy’s boyfriend’s car drive past our house.”
“Can’t prove it,” She said with a smirk. “Ethel really does booby trap that porch, doesn’t she?” We both laughed. “OK. Do not tell anyone!” she said, enunciating every word for emphasis. Then she leaned closer and in hushed tones began, “He was in the state hospital for sexually abusing a little kid, a boy. It’s so gross. I didn’t tell Judy the whole story. I wouldn’t tell anybody. It’s just too gross.”
“Sexually abusing? What’s that mean?”
“Having sex with, you dummy.” She sighed a huge sigh and rolled her eyes.
“But he was a boy!”
“Duh, that’s the point.” She got up, clearly exasperated. “If you tell anyone what I told you, I’ll dismember you. You got that?” Then she turned and left in a huff.
Later that day Gordy and I had a conference in his room. He lay on his bed while I draped myself across the other bed on my belly, elbows propped up and head cradled in my hands. From his third story window, we had an excellent view of our front yard. We watched someone walking by on the sidewalk across the street. “She must have been kidding. Boys can’t do it with each other,” Gordy said.
“She wasn’t. I could tell. She was telling the truth.” I kicked my feet together, trying out different cadences. “Maybe sexual abusing means something different than doing it.” I was way out of my depth. “We could look it up in the dictionary.” The dictionary was my best friend. I could find the meanings of words I didn’t understand without asking anyone. The dictionary never told me it was none of my business or chastised me for eavesdropping. “There’s all kinds of words in there,” I said, “like sex and penis and stuff. I even found shit in the big dictionary downstairs.”
“Na,” he said, dismissing my idea with a wave of his hand. Gordy was never one for reading or looking up words. I decided that I would look up sexual abusing. “Remember when his car was here? Remember we found those pants that we thought were mine in the back of his car?”
“So what?” My feet tapped in time to the pedestrian’s footfalls.
“So maybe they belong to that kid. Maybe if you told Stuart about the pants she’d tell you more, like what sexual abusing means.” Gordy insisted.
“Hey wait, I just remembered, a while back I heard Leola tell Ethel something about CL living next door. She said he r-a-p-e-d a colored boy. Remember when Uncle Dennis came to that party Mama had for ‘em? He said that CL Dabney was a good buddy of his. Mama looked liked she’d about puke when he said that. Like she didn’t know or I don’t know.”
Gordy looked stricken. Do you know what r-a-p-e-d means? He asked.
I shook my head, “no. Maybe Ethel might...” I tried to get the beat of a trot.
“No way. Whatever you do, don’t ask her.” He made his eyes go out of focus and pretended to take off the lid of a trashcan.
“Yeah, I hate it when she starts rooting around in the trash.”
Gordy and I had known for some time that, though Ham Bone had taken to avoiding the house after our mother scolded Ethel for his visits, he hadn’t stopped delivering gin to her. He’d put the bottle in an empty trashcan at the bottom of the driveway on trash day. She only brought the trashcans up from the curb when there was a bottle in it.
“I know, I’ll ask Mama,” I said, my feet tapping now at a fast trot.
“Are you nuts? She’s not going to tell you anything,” Gordy announced with an incredulous look and a shake of his head that implied that I might become dangerous any minute.
“I’m not to ask about r-a-p-e-d. Leola spelled it. It’s gotta be bad. I’m going to ask...Watch.” I jumped up and ran down one flight of stairs and mounted the second floor banister sidesaddle, sliding down to the front hall. I heard my mother thank the paperboy as I landed. After I pushed open the door to the porch, I flopped into a wicker chair across from her.
“Can I have the comics?”
“Well, hello to you too. Here.” She handed me the local section of the paper.
I checked out the comics and then scanned the front headlines looking for any article that might have the word abuse in it. I couldn’t find one, but decided to go ahead with my plan anyway.
“Mama?”
/> “Yes, dear?”
“What does ‘abuse’ mean?” The screen door slammed. Gordy plopped down in the chair beside me. He sat back in his chair resting his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers. He looked like a prim old lady.
“Why do you ask?” She responded, not looking up from her paper.
“It’s in the paper. I don’t know what it means. I just wondered.”
“Where? What’s the article about?” She leaned forward as if to take the paper from me. I pretended not to notice.
I casually continued with my interest in an article that didn’t exist.
“It means different things. How is it used?”
Gordy started to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” she asked him.
“Nothin’.”
“Let me see what you are looking at,” she said to me. “Give me the paper.”
Gordy started to laugh.
“What is so funny, young man? It’s not nice to laugh in front of others and not share the joke. What was the word? Abuse? The paper…here…give it to me.”
“Nevermind,” I said, deciding it wasn’t worth it. “I guess it just means hurt. Right?” I folded the paper neatly, slipped out of my chair and said to Gordy, “Wanna swing? I’ll race you.”
“Wait. Show me where you saw it. Abuse means different things in different contexts. I need to know the context.”
“It’s OK. I don’t care. I don’t even know what context means.”
Gordy looked like he was going to pop from stifling his glee. He got up and went into the house. He didn’t slam the door this time. He just sort of vaporized through it.
I handed my mother the paper. As she opened it, I saw a headline I’d missed before. Garden Week: This Week Gardeners are Abuzz.
She seemed relieved. “That’s ‘abuzz.’ When people are excited; making lots of noise about something like a bee buzzing—not abuse.”
“Oh.” I too vaporized off the porch.
Gordy was on the swing when I found him. “Pshew, that was close,” I said.
“‘I’ll ask Mama. Watch,’” he mimicked as he hurled himself off the swing into the air.
Chapter 16
Ethel
1930
Five whole years had flown by since Early and me first met. I never worried much ‘bout gettin’ pregnant—didn’ much want no children. I liked things the way they was. Slowly, though, I started to suspect that somethin’ wasn’t quite the way it had been. Mama wasn’t all that free on giving up information. I ‘spect she figured I’d work it out on my own, or Roberta would tell me what I needed to know. You could count on Roberta for tellin’ what needed to be told. I somehow missed that tellin’. So when I didn’t bleed for a time I didn’ pay it no mind. I never had paid it much attention.
If I live to be a hundred, I ain’t never gon’ forget the mornin’ I knew for sho’ I was pregnant. The last cow was milked. I was washin’ up out at the pump tryin’ hard to keep breakfast down. Thought I would die sloppin’ the hogs; they smelled clear to heaven. Early had slipped into letting me do the mornin’ chores since I had to be at work just before daybreak. Miz Nancy had begun grumblin’ ‘bout my being late most days. I went about getting the stove lit and haulin’ water. My head was swimmin’ and my stomach was churnin’ like a storm at sea. Not like I had ever seen one, but I heard they was mighty rough, and that was how I was feelin’—rough. I had a terrible pain. It felt like a claw had grabbed my belly and commenced to squeeze, like to crack it, and wouldn’t let up. It hurt so bad, it knocked me down. I was hanging on to the well pump, sweatin’ wit’ the chills, my teeth chatterin’ and my knees knockin’. I couldn’t stand up. Ever’ time I went to move, I felt like somebody had punched me in the gut so hard it knocked the air outta me.
Early said he found me up aside the well pump pantin’ like a dog. He got me to my feet and half dragged, half carried me into the bedroom, and then he ran fast to get the doctor. Dr. Green said he had no time and sent Early down to Aunt Annie, the colored midwife. By then whatever chance there was for my baby was long gone. They cleaned up the room pretty good. When the doctor finally come in, he and old Aunt Annie huddled out on the stoop talkin’ ‘bout what had happened. I heard her say, “They was nothing to be done but…”
Dr. Green come into my room. “Miss Ethel,” he began. I remember he said “Miss.” Most white folk ain’t as respectful as Dr. Green was. He was a carin’ man; I ‘spect that’s why he went into doctorin’. “Miss Ethel, you won’t have to go through that ever again. That is the good news. As far as having any babies, you won’t be able to. I’m sorry.” With that he picked up his little black bag, put on his hat, and headed out the door. The screen door slammed after him. Aunt Annie bustled around a bit, straightenin’ up this and that, and then she too let the screen door slam on her way out. The call of a whip-poor-will was all the sound there was. Early and I laid together on the bed—after the sad little funeral we had for our dead baby—like two lost souls, holdin’ each other and takin’ turns cryin’ and comfortin’.
When I was able to get on my feet without the world goin’ swimmy, I went down to the boardin’ house to see Miz Nancy. I was still too weak to be much account at work, but I thought I best put in an appearance. She came out on the porch and just shook her head, lookin’ sorry and sad. She said, “Miz Dupree say they no job here for the likes a you. She say she don’ want no harlot workin’ in her boardinghouse.” I heard Miz Dupree call, “Nancy,” and Miz Nancy had to turn and go without another word.
I dragged myself on home and went back to bed, miserable as could be. Thing is, losin’ that job wasn’t nothin’ compared to the loss I felt over my child. I had never thought about children much, but suddenly they was all I could think about. I’d fall asleep and dream about my little baby who I’d never even known was growin’ inside me. I’d dream he was born and healthy and smilin’, and then something awful would happen to him. Sometimes I dropped ‘im down the well, hearing his little body go “splash” in the water below. Other times I’d go to pick him up and he’d already be cold as death. Every night that baby would die all over again in my dreams, and I would wake up cryin’ and hurtin’. Early would hold me and he’d cry, too. Some nights I don’t think either of us slept.
A few days after I lost my job, Mama came by to see me with her new baby, Viberta. She was so proud and I couldn’t blame her. Viberta was a sweet looking soul even though she only had three fingers on one hand. “Honey, I’m sorry you feel poorly, an’ I ain’t been much help to ya, I know.” She nodded down to little Viberta. “You wanna hold ‘er?”
I shook my head, tears streamin’ down my face.
“I’m sorry, honey. I truly is so sorry.”
“It’s all right, Mama,” I said. “I ain’t never really want no baby…that is, ‘til I found I was havin’ one, an’ then…” I tried to choke back the tears.
“I know, sugar. I know,” she said, patting my hand while gently rocking Viberta.
“Is Early that do; he half crazy with grief. I’s don’ know what to do. Doctor say I can’t have no mo’. Das whats really got Early riled up. He ain’t stopped drinkin.”
“What’s you need is a job, darlin’. I heard Miz Sinclair lookin’ for a nursemaid for that boy a her’s.”
I winced as I thought ‘bout taking care of someone else’s baby boy.
“It do ya good to spend time wit’ a child. You kin love a child wit’out givin’ birth to it. A child’s love is good for the soul, honey, and you’s got a soul thas a hurtin’ an’ needs that love. Go on down an’ talk wit’ Miz Sinclair—she a good woman. She know you is, too.”
Mama was right. Miz Sinclair hired me the day I went to see her. It took me a week to screw myself up to a place where I wouldn’t cry just to look at the baby. Baby Billy Sinclair was the best thing that had happened to me in a good while. He was a sweet baby. The work was easy. I had a half day off ev’ry Sunday, and a full day off once a month; a
nd the pay was better, too. Miz Sinclair was easy to work for, but then I suspect most people would be compared to old Miz Dupree. Every day, Billy got a little bigger and my ache got a little smaller. But even as the hurt softened and faded, I kept right on feeling that loss inside me.
Not three weeks after I came to get that job, Early got fired from his for showin’ up drunk. Now with nothin’ but time on his hands, he hit that bottle every day ‘til the money ran out. Drinkin’ like that makes a body hurt, and a man mean. So I stayed ‘way as much as I could. I told Miz Sinclair, “Yes’m, I be happy to spend the night ‘til the baby gits over his colic. No ma’am, it won’ be no problem at all.” Every chance I got to get out of the house I took for a good six months.
Havin’ no job is doubly hard on a man. The more time went by, the nastier Early got. One night I came home and found him blind drunk in the kitchen, ravin’ ‘bout how I was a no good, two timin’ tramp. He beat me bad. So bad I was laid up for a week.
Roberta came over to see me the next day. When nobody answered the do’, she let herself in. “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” she called as she poked her head first into the sittin’ room, and then the room ‘cross the hall.
“Git’er outta here,” Early groaned.
“How I’m suppose ta do that, me layin’ up here in bed beaten bloody?” I hissed. “You the one that got us here; you be the one the git her out.”
Roberta stuck her head in the room. She gasped as she looked ‘round the room at the mess and began sputterin’ “Early Thompson, ya outta be ashamed a yerself! Is true then what people been sayin’ bout you and yo’ first wife. You best be breakin’ that habit, you hear me? Or I got news fo’ you: If’n I ever hear ‘bout you layin’ a hand on my sister again, Imma be comin’ for ya.” She turned on her heels and stomped out. I never felt so loved by my sister before or after.
Early moaned and turned his head ‘way from me to face the wall.