by Pamela Morsi
“We’ve got to go,” she said. The directive seemed as much for her as me.
“I don’t understand,” Mary Jane said as my mom hurried me across the lawn. “What do you mean you’re leaving?”
“Something’s come up,” Babs told her. “We’ve got to go.”
“Something came up? Between last night and this morning?” Mary Jane didn’t seem to believe it. “What about Laney’s school? Should I still pick her up this afternoon?”
“She won’t be going back to that school.”
That statement stopped me in my tracks.
“I’m not going back to my school?”
Babs didn’t answer, she hurried me even more forcefully. When she got the car door open, she actually picked me up and sat me inside.
“Where will you be?” Mary Jane continued. “How will I contact you?”
There was an instant of speechless hesitation on my mother’s part and then she responded decisively.
“We’re going back to California,” she said.
“What?” The incredulous response was spoken by Mary Jane and me both.
“Some of Tom’s friends have found me a great job,” she continued. “But I’ve got to hurry out there. I’ll call you when I get an address.”
“It’s all so sudden, too sudden,” Mary Jane said. “You were going to help me get to the hospital.”
The last sounded almost accusing.
“If Burl can’t get here to pick you up, maybe you should call a cab,” Babs said.
“A cab?”
“Look, I’ve got to go,” my mom told her. “I should have been out on the road at dawn.”
“Okay, okay.” Mary Jane’s voice was quiet, almost forlorn.
My mom stopped then, next to the car and gave Mary Jane a little hug. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll be fine, everything will be fine. I’ve got to get on the road immediately. I’ll call you, I promise.”
A minute later Babs was behind the steering wheel, backing out of the driveway. As soon as we were turned forward in the street, she hit the gas, a little too hard and we squealed away from the duplex and Mary Jane.
“We’re going back to California?” I asked.
“No,” my mother replied.
I was stunned to think that Babs had lied to Mary Jane. But I didn’t question her about that, my curiosity about my future was a much stronger concern.
“Where are we going?”
She glanced over at me, clearly annoyed. “I don’t know that yet,” she said. “We’re just leaving.”
I didn’t think that could be true. She rushed so forcefully ahead, driving faster than usual and barely pausing at stop signs. We raced through parts of town that were completely unfamiliar. The wind that blew inside my window all new and never seen. The truth of her statement became clear when she pulled into an empty church parking lot. She turned off the ignition and laid her head down on the steering wheel.
“What are we doing?”
“Shhhh!” she answered. “I’m trying to think.”
I kept quiet, but her thinking took a very long time. Finally I got my schoolbag out and began to sort through my things. I found some chalk and got out of the car and drew a hopscotch on the concrete. I was really good at hopping. I could even make the circle turnaround on one foot without losing my balance. Nobody at my kindergarten was that good and some of the girls in first grade couldn’t do it. I entertained myself with the game. That was okay for a while, but eventually, I got tired of playing all by myself. I wished I was at my school. It was probably recess by now. All the kids would be having fun. I couldn’t believe that I would never go back there. That couldn’t really happen, I assured myself. Then I remembered our house in California, my sidewalk, my neighbors. One day it was there and the next it was all gone forever. Yesterday I had friends and went to school. And today I was stuck in an empty parking lot. I didn’t like being alone, but I didn’t get back into the car.
Babs was crying now. It wasn’t the little tears of a skinned knee or a broken toy. She was wailing as if my dad had died all over again. I didn’t know what to do. So I didn’t do anything. I sat down next to the car, leaned my back against the wheel and waited for it to pass. I pulled my salt and pepper shakers out of my pockets. I felt a little bit guilty about having them. I’d never really disobeyed so completely. But still, I was so glad I’d saved them. They were smiling up at me. The one with the broken hat and the one that was fine, they both were smiling, happy to be with me. They were my friends, I decided. My always cheerful, always available friends. From now on, whenever they were with me, I was never alone.
BABS
IN THE WEEKS following the move from the duplex, I was acting almost totally on instinct. I tried to stop and reason. I tried to figure out a plan of what to do next. But every time I took the time to think the images and memories of what had happened filled my brain. It made me sick. It made me scared. So I was better just moving forward robotically and keeping my mind in neutral.
I did manage to realize that I couldn’t just walk away from my job. I had no money and I knew we wouldn’t survive unless I could make some. When I showed up for work three hours late with my daughter in tow, Mr. Donohoe took one look at me and didn’t even comment. Maybe he was simply the kind of man who knew when not to ask questions. But what I felt was that what had happened to me must be written across my face.
That was the reason I couldn’t just go home. Home to McKinney, to Aunt Maxine and Uncle Warren. That was what Laney wanted. But I was afraid that they would know. They had loved me and cared for me and tried their best and now my life was ruined and there was nothing anyone could do. I began to think about Tom. In the months since his death, I’d been busy, sometimes frantic, and directed toward getting on with my life and supporting my child. That had done much to hold back the grief. Now it washed over me like a deluge and I was drowning in it.
I suppose I let that happen. Even with all the pain involved in thinking about Tom’s death, it was better than thinking about what had happened to me in the duplex. And, of course, if Tom hadn’t died, nothing would have ever happened.
So, instead of crying about Burl, I cried about Tom. That was more acceptable. The emotions there were strong and could blot out all other feelings. I tried to take comfort in the Good Shepherd of the stained-glass window. But again and again the image of those ceramic salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table overwhelmed my efforts. The remembrance of evil was just underneath the surface of everything. It showed itself in a new distrust and fear.
Mr. Donohoe was nice to me. I worried about that. The guys in the trucks had always joked around. Now, it seemed as if every glance in my direction was threatening.
I’d moved Laney and myself into a run-down motor court just off Highway 78. It had little cottages with kitchenettes. I made a deal with the old woman who ran the place, Mrs. Petit, to work the after dinner hours and the weekends in lieu of rent. She also kept half an eye on Laney who now came home from her new school on a big yellow bus and was responsible for herself until almost six. Not the finest plan for care of a five-year-old, but it was the best I could manage at the time.
Every evening I sat in the little office of the Shady Bend Motor Lodges sick with fear every time a car pulled up to the entrance. I couldn’t trust my judgment anymore. I couldn’t count on my instinct to warn me about who might be a threat. So everybody became one.
Or almost everybody.
It was about a month after I moved out of the duplex when Acee Clifton showed up at Big D Cement.
He looked totally different than I remembered, yet I recognized him immediately. He was slimmer, which perhaps made him seem taller than he was. Most of his hair was gone from the front. He was dressed in a very expensive and well-tailored suit. Still, he was obviously Acee. My reaction was unexpected. He should have been virtually a stranger, but he evoked memories in me of a sweeter, safer, less complicated time. The sight of him brought a strange
and welcome sense of relief.
“Hi,” I said, casually, as if I’d just seen him in the Malt Shop the day before.
He smiled back, apparently just as pleased to see me.
“I’m sorry to bother you at work,” he said, giving a slight nod to my boss across the room. “But I needed to talk to you and your phone had been disconnected and the mail came back, Moved: No Forwarding Address,” he said. “I went by your house. Your neighbor seemed to think that you’d gone to California.”
I didn’t respond to that. In truth, it kind of scared me to think of my name even being mentioned back at the duplex.
“I...I was running out on the rent,” I told him.
I made up the lie on the spot. It wasn’t a very good response, but it seemed like a better explanation than the truth.
It shocked Acee. Mr. Donohoe also stopped and looked at me askance, then hurriedly made himself scarce.
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I’ve been in negotiations with Freddie and LaVeida’s lawyer,” he said. “They haven’t dropped the case.”
“I thought you said they couldn’t win.”
“They can’t,” he assured me. “I mean, they most probably won’t unless...well, unless they can convince the judge that you’re actually doing something terrible. But just continuing with the case gives the Hoffmans some leverage toward involvement in Alana’s life. I’m sure they’re thinking that perhaps they could get court-ordered visitation or simply get it on record that they are an alternative for her in case you do get into some trouble.”
“Okay.”
Acee hesitated then lowered his voice in a concerned whisper. “I have to tell you that running out on the rent is not a good way to impress a judge about your fitness to be a mother.”
“It won’t happen again,” I assured him.
“Where are you living now?”
“Out on the highway. Not far from here.”
Acee smiled, sort of sarcastically. “That doesn’t sound much like a mailing address.”
“It’s called Shady Bend Motor Lodges,” I told him.
His brow furrowed. “You’re living in a motel?”
“They’re little roadside vacation lodges,” I countered, dodging behind semantics.
Acee was nodding, slowly, but he looked worried.
“Babs, that won’t sound good to a judge,” he said. “Raising a little girl in a motel.”
“They’re just little cottages,” I assured him. “And in the center there’s a grassy area with a big tree and a swing set.”
“A swing set is not a yard,” he said. “And there must be people coming and going all the time. You need to find a better place.”
“This is a good place,” I assured him. “The old woman who owns it takes care of Laney after school.”
I knew I sounded defensive.
“You don’t have to convince me,” Acee said. “I’m sure that if you like it, then it’s fine. But I’m not the judge, I won’t be the one holding it up for comparison with that brand-new house of Freddie and LaVeida’s, on a nice residential street, with a big backyard.”
“I’m Laney’s mother,” I pointed out, firmly. “That counts for more than all the houses in America.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “It’s absolutely true.”
I continued to argue about how good things were. That our little cottage was like living in a dollhouse. Everything was neat and clean and nearly new. I told him about how happy Laney was and how much she liked riding the school bus. It was a huge pack of lies and the more I told it the bigger it got.
Acee listened politely, nodding from time to time.
“Just think about coming up with a more traditional living situation,” he suggested finally as he began backing toward the door.
“I’ll think about it.”
“And call Maxine and Warren,” he added. “They were worried about you when I called.”
“Of course,” I told him. I did feel guilty about hiding out from them.
All in all, I was extremely grateful when he left.
I didn’t take up any of his advice. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I thought it was a good idea. I wanted to take up “a more traditional living situation.” But other, more immediate and frightening concerns took precedence.
A few days after Acee’s visit I was sitting on the dispatcher’s stool giving directions to a driver over the radio. I don’t know what caught my attention, but I happened to glance out the window. On the street in front of me an automobile, same make, model and color as Burl’s, was driving by.
With a sharp intake of breath, my heart was in my throat. My whole body was rigid with fear and nausea churned inside me. I watched the car slowly inch down the street, visibly hesitating at the corner where my Ford was parked.
I convinced myself that it was not him. There were hundreds of cars exactly like his in a big city like Dallas. He wouldn’t seek me out. He wouldn’t want to see me any more than I wanted to see him. He’d got what he wanted. He’d humiliated me, dominated me, terrorized me. He’d left his filthy stain on my body. He was done. What more could he do?
I comforted myself with that conclusion for several days.
I’d just been to the bank to make the payroll deposit. Mr. Donohoe waved me over to his desk.
“You just missed your boyfriend,” he said. “Now, what you do on your own time is your business. But I’d just as soon you didn’t run your love life out of Big D Cement.”
I was embarrassed and quickly corrected what I thought was his misapprehension.
“I don’t have a boyfriend. Mr. Clifton is my lawyer,” I explained. “However, I will ask him not to interrupt me during business hours.”
“Clifton’s the short guy, right?” Mr. Donohoe said. “I didn’t mean him. I know he’s not your boyfriend. This guy was tall, blond, good-looking. He told me that he was your boyfriend.”
My heart caught in my throat. Burl had been there. He had stood in the building where I work and he’d asked about me. The level of my fear went into high gear.
It became harder and harder for me to concentrate on my job. I was making mistakes, a lot of mistakes. At first, I just apologized and Mr. Donohoe was forgiving. But as the days went on and I messed up more and more often, he became less and less patient. So I began to try to hide the worst of my errors. That took up what little was left of my concentration. I fouled up deliveries. I fouled up payroll. Some suppliers were paid twice and some not at all. I couldn’t get a handle on what I was doing. I was watching out the window all the time.
I was in the middle of a very serious reprimand when I finally saw Burl pull up and park in front of the building. My emotions were an unblendable mix of panic and relief. No more waiting. Burl was going to do whatever he was going to do to me and then it would be over. But I was terrified at the remembrance of what he could do to me.
“This business competes on its reputation,” Mr. Donohoe was saying. “If you hurt that reputation, we lose business.”
Burl was stepping out of his car.
“Big D is always on the job when we say we’ll be there,” Donohoe continued.
Burl was on the sidewalk reaching for the door handle.
“That’s our standard, our minimum. I won’t...”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to...I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
I briefly glanced toward my boss. His jaw had dropped open in shock. I didn’t have time to explain.
“Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you,” he called out to me angrily.
I wasn’t walking. I was running, running toward the back of the building. The restroom was one dark, windowless closet about five feet square. I rushed inside and jerked the bolt across the door. Immediately I looked around for a weapon. There was nothing. The room was empty except for the sink and toilet and a roll of paper hanging from a length of wire attached to a nail. There was nothing with which I c
ould protect myself. I was vulnerable, attackable. I took a defensive position on the far side of the commode. I squeezed myself in between the cold white porcelain and the rough red brick. I tried to make myself small, very small, so small that I would be invisible. I tried to make myself so small that I wouldn’t exist anymore.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The banging of a fist on the door scared me so much I screamed.
“Babs? What the hell is going on?”
The questions came from Mr. Donohoe.
For a couple of seconds I couldn’t remember how to speak. Finally I answered, “I’m sick.”
There was hesitation from the other side of the door.
“That boyfriend guy is out here wanting to see you,” he said.
“Tell him to go away,” I answered. “Tell him I’m sick and to go away.”
More hesitation, then I heard his footsteps retreat. I didn’t move. I didn’t get up. I waited. I couldn’t be certain that Burl would actually leave. I didn’t trust Mr. Donohoe to persuade him. The minutes ticked on. I stayed hidden in my safe spot on the restroom floor.
I don’t know how long I was there on the floor. Minutes? Hours? In memory it was a lifetime. Then Mr. Donohoe knocked on the door again.
“He’s gone,” the man said.
“Okay.”
Slowly I got up. I walked to the sink and turned on the water. I washed my face and then stared at myself in the cracked mirror. I was unrecognizable as the happy, carefree young woman who’d come so close to being the Cotton Queen.
I found Mr. Donohoe at the dispatch desk, busy doing my job.
“Sorry,” I said. What else was there to say.
He nodded. “You know that you’re fired, of course.”
The man’s brow was furrowed in concern, but his words were unflinching.
“I’m sure you’ve got a lot of problems,” he said. “I’m sorry for that. But I just can’t have them here on the job.”
I shrugged. “I would have to quit anyway,” I admitted, honestly. I was embarrassed about what had happened, but I was more afraid of the future. I could never come back to Big D. If Burl knew where I worked, it was only a matter of time until he showed up again. Even if he never came inside the building, he could follow me to where I lived.