The Children of Main Street

by Merilyn Howton Marriott

  “My brother and sister belong to Robert too, but, they handle it better than I do.” Bubba wrung his hands. “He has about eleven kids.”

  He adjusted his ball cap; the gauze wrapped around one wrist peeked from beneath the hem of his sleeve. “The other eight have an assortment of drugged and crazy mothers with hairy legs and maybe one full set of teeth between them. He lives over in Simpson.” He nodded his head in the general direction. “You know Simpson, where the family trees don’t fork, where black people can’t live or even visit. Where a kid owns a gun by the time he’s five to shoot at blacks—not that that’s the word Robert uses.” He shuddered. “Well, as my luck would have it …” He held both hands palms up over his lap. “Old Robert fits right into the local culture. Two of my half-sisters told me he raped them. Both have split, and I have no idea where they are. I really don’t care, except I hope they’re all right and never come near him again.”

  Actually, you do care. You care very much. A good kid sat before me. He cared about other people. I could rule out anti-social personality disorder.

  “The only good news …” A look of shock replaced his otherwise flat-affect facial features. “God, did I say good news? Neither of them could be pregnant by him because they’d not reached puberty.”

  A plane rumbled over our head, and I looked up, taking in a deep breath. “Am I shocking you?” he asked.

  “No.” I wish I could still be shocked by stories like Bubba’s.

  I scribbled on my notepad.

  “What are you writing on that clipboard?”

  “Just a few words.”

  “Why?”

  “The state requires that I take and keep notes from each session.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  “It’s pretty benign. Keywords that will help me remember what we talked about.”

  “I still don’t like it.” He pulled his cap down further.

  “Has your fa—”

  He glared angrily at me, reminding me that, even though Robert Grey was his bio-dad, he didn’t consider him more than the sperm donor.

  “Has Robert ever touched you inappropriately?”

  “No. My mom left him when my baby sister was born. I’d turned four and Cory had turned two. Some of his other kids were old enough to start telling my mother weird things, that scared her. That and the fact he beat her every day.”

  He braced his shoulders and winced as if he watched his father beat his mother. “She still stayed until he started to act real angry around us. I don’t think she was willing to stay after their third baby was a girl either. He seemed a little too friendly with his older daughters.” Bubba looked hurt, angry, and like there was plenty more to tell.

  “It’s okay. Talk.”

  “It’s okay? You think this … he is oh? Kay?”

  I shook my head. “What Robert has done is unthinkable. Of course, it’s not okay. It’s okay for you to tell me what is hurting you so badly that you are cutting and drugging yourself. If you’re ever going to be better, you must tell someone this whole story. We’re only as sick as our secrets. Bubba, Robert isn’t here. And he won’t be coming here. I don’t work with adult sex offenders.” I had my hands full with their victims. “You’re here. Keep talking. That’s what I meant is okay. You talking about this is necessary.”

  He glanced at the gauze on his wrists. “I walk around every day with his blood flowing in my veins. Did you ever hear of bloodletting? Sometimes I wonder if I cut myself deep enough, could I rid myself of him?”

  “You would also get rid of you.” My heart hurt.

  “Whatever it takes,” he almost whispered.

  A chill ran down my spine. I felt afraid that he might mean what he said. I’ve heard lots of kids spout off stuff like this but not with the sense of conviction I heard in him. I had a gut-check reaction. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention.

  “Bubba, we have so much talking to do and a lot of work ahead of us, but in the meantime, I believe you are a good candidate for an antidepressant. Would you be willing to give it a try?”

  He stared at me. “I don’t need an antidepressant. I need some sort of genetic suppressant.” He arched his brows. “Can you do that, Doc? Can your drugs do that?” He shook his head. “I need my father’s—Robert Grey’s—blood drained from my pathetic body. He’s the sickest dude I’ve seen. Some things cannot be undone. Unless you can purify my blood, I doubt you or your drugs could help.” He slid further down into the sofa and stared out the window, the trees and flowers no doubt lost on him.

  “Do you ever see him?” I asked.

  He turned back to me. “Who? Grey?” Bubba pulled himself straighter on the sofa. The thermostat kicked on, rushing air into the treatment room.

  “Yes.”

  “No, ma’am. Last time I saw him was at least two years back. I had a terrible dream that I’d turned into him. It scared me so much I drove all the way to his house to look at him to make sure he was him, and I was still me.” He spat some non-existent thing from his mouth. “I knew he would be home. He doesn’t work … he’s on disability because he’s a drunk. Old Robert sat on his front porch chugging vodka from a jelly jar.”

  I bit at the inside of my lip and kept listening.

  “I got out of my truck and tried to talk to him,” Bubba continued, “But no words came out. He never got out of his chair. It was so freaky it started to feel like the dream was happening. I never could tell if he recognized me. I ran back to my truck and left. I looked back over my shoulder, and he took another long drink from his jar. And I just stepped on the gas.”

  I sat in silence for a few moments. I clasped and unclasped my hands. “Bubba, talking is a very good thing, but you’re exhausted. These sessions aren’t set up in fifty-minute segments just for my convenience. This is gut-wrenching work for both of us. That’s all for today, but I want to see you tomorrow.”

  “No, I can’t do this again.” He shook his head adamantly. “I absolutely cannot do this again.”

  “I understand the feeling, but the conditions of your leaving the hospital dictate that I see you every day for a while.” I laid my pen on the table and closed his chart. “That’s a good thing because for now, I want to see you daily.” I smiled at him. “I have some homework for you to do tonight.”

  He stuck his chin out. “Well, I’m not doing it.”

  Well, well … finally some fire. For a minute, Bubba became a typical willful teenager. “Yes,” I said. “You will do it.” But I smiled.

  “You can’t make me do any homework.”

  “Fine.” I glanced down at his chart. We both knew it held his hospital records. “Personally, I think your naked bottom hanging out the backside of a hospital gown would suit that look on your face.”

  He tried to muster up a little anger but didn’t invest much energy in it. He acquiesced readily. “What do you want me to do? At least at home I can smoke dope while I’m doing whatever it is.”

  “First, we’ll get you started on the antidepressant. It won’t help you, by the way, if you mix it with marijuana.”

  “Forget it then.”

  I slid to the edge of my chair and grabbed his eyes with mine. “Lock you up then.”

  He seemed to think about his options for a minute, then said, “Okay.”

  “Second, I want you to write.”

  “I don’t have nothing to write about.”

  “Most depressed, angry people don’t in the beginning, soooo … I’ll give you a handy little autobiographical outline, that asks all the questions and you answer them.” I took a drink of water. “It can’t be all that much harder than feeling the way you do now.”

  “I’ve never felt much different than now.”

  “Bubba, you’ve just confirmed my worse fear for you. Before I let you leave, you must sign a suicide pact with me. Place your name on the dotted line that you’ll not hurt yourself before you see me tomorrow. Not hurting yourself includes not cutting yourself.”<
br />
  “Cuttin’ don’t hurt.”

  “It’s still in the pact. I won’t negotiate with you about harming yourself. We use my definitions, or I send you back to the hospital.”

  “I bet you just happen to have that handy little form available too.”

  I smiled. “Uh-huh. And Bubba, lay off the ‘hood rats’ and I mean it.”

  “Get off my case. It’s always consensual. I’m not my father.”

  “And I’m not your mother. But, I have some information for you. Don’t even tell me how old these girls are because I don’t want to know right now. If, however, as I suspect any of them is under eighteen, there’s no consensual sex because their bodies aren’t legally theirs to give. They belong to the state of Texas. Intimacy with a minor is a prosecutable offense, and you have enough issues.”

  His eyes registered nothing. “Whatever. I told you it’s no big thrill.”

  “Hang on to that thought,” I said. “I’ll walk with you to the front, then give you the forms, have you sign the second one, and find a time when you can come tomorrow. It’ll have to be afternoon for me.”

  “Whatever, Doc.”

  I stood.

  Bubba followed. He measured even smaller than I’d realized.

  “I told you I could like you,” I said, taking a step toward him.

  He took a step back, almost spilling onto the sofa.

  “I like to hug people at the end of a session.”

  He cocked his head toward me while tapping himself on the chest. “Hug?” He rolled his eyes. “Like you and me?” His eyes darted toward the door. “Man, I gotta get outta here.”

  “Immediately after I hug you,” I said. “Oh, come on, I have all my teeth, and I shaved my legs this morning.” I tossed him a wink.

  He softened a sliver. He let me hug him with arms plastered to his sides.

  As we walked into the foyer, Tabbi stood and started toward us.

  I noticed Bubba’s body stiffen. I pushed my palm toward her, and she backed off. As Alicia walked Bubba through the rest of the process, I motioned for Tabbi to return to the conference room.

  “Bubba, see you tomorrow.”

  He made the slightest nod.

  I smiled warmly, trying to throw him a lifeline with my eyes.

  He looked interested, but not hopeful.

  “Tabbi, I want to see you this afternoon,” I said, as I entered the room behind her.

  “I can come tomorrow, but I have to work this afternoon,” she explained. “I’m missing work to be here now.”

  “So do I, and now I’ll be working later because I must talk to you today.”

  “I’ll work out something.”

  “I expect you to.”

  “I’ll be here whatever time Alicia tells me to come.”

  I hugged her, too. “Thanks, Tabbi.”

  Two sessions later, Alicia busied herself at the sink as I came from my treatment room.

  She looked up at me. “Six o’clock is the only thing I could do about Tabbi, and you haven’t eaten anything today.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Six o’clock.”

  I walked toward the playroom door, but she stopped me. “Bailey went home with Bella, but she wants you to swing by for her on your way home.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s getting more attached to you every day. She loves Bella but asked three times if I’d remember to have you pick her up.”

  Alicia washed clusters of fat green grapes and sliced strawberries then sprinkled the berries with sweetener. She knew I’d grab a bite when passing the coffee bar between clients. “I just want you to be okay … you know … about Jordan.”

  She waited, but I didn’t answer.

  “I ran to the corner market on my way to the bank. The strawberries looked ripe. Hope they’re tasty.”

  “Thanks bunches.”

  Alicia wiped her hands on a paper towel. “About the berries, personally, I think some chocolate would do you worlds of good, but I know I have better luck tempting you with fruit. Someday, I predict research will prove health benefits associated with chocolate,” she said as she peeled a gigantic Hershey bar stuffing half of it into her mouth.

  I chuckled. “The berries look good.” I touched her shoulder. “Alicia, I couldn’t do this if you didn’t do what you do.”

  “I love you, too.” She smiled and ran to grab the phone. She almost bumped into my next client coming down the hallway. I grabbed two more grapes and headed into my treatment room.

  Chapter 16

  At 6:02, Tabbi angled into the parking spot in front of the large concrete porch. I knew this had been a bad day. I saw her coming up the steps between the yellow hibiscus plants. The beautiful golden plants and the hanging baskets of periwinkle were lost on Bubba’s mother. I met her standing in the front door. My nostrils were assaulted by the smoke of her hastily snuffed-out cigarette. We retreated from the Texas humidity by stepping into the building.

  “I got here as quickly as I could,” Tabbi said as we walked toward my office.

  “I know you did.” I picked up a strawberry. “Coffee?” I’m not a coffee drinker, but the rest of the world seems to be, so Alicia always kept it fresh.

  “Oh, mercy yes.” Tabbi lifted a cup from the clean rack and filled it with steaming coffee. She shunned sugar and creamer. She wanted her coffee undiluted. “What did Bubba say? Did he tell you what in the name of Pete he was thinking?” She entered my office and slid back into the sofa. She blew into her coffee cup, attempting to cool its contents quickly. “Is he mad at me? Is he angry with Bo?” She leaned toward me slightly. “He seems to care more about Bo sometimes than he cares about me, so I can’t imagine that it’s about his stepfather.” She took a big drink of her coffee. I could see from her large eyes that it was still too hot to gulp. Pulling one of my tricks. Tabbi’s emotional pain evidently prevented her from attending to the temperature of her coffee.

  I let Bubba’s folder that I’d retrieved from Alicia’s desk fall open on my lap. “You know I’m not going to tell you what Bubba said.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, staring. “But obviously, this is about Bubba.” She inched closer to the edge of the sofa.

  “This is about you, but it concerns your son.” I’ve never looked any more directly into Tabbi’s eyes than in that moment. It caused her visible discomfort. She set her coffee aside.

  She shifted her weight then crossed and uncrossed her legs then tugged at her skirt. “What? My fault, right? Everything is always the mother’s fault. You don’t have to be a psychologist to know that. What does he think I did this time?” She winced as though she expected me to slap her with words, then rested her forehead in her cupped hand.

  “Tabbi, I need you to you calm yourself as much as you can.”

  She looked up.

  “I know you’ve had a horrible day. I know you need to be home checking on Bubba, and I know you need to crawl into bed and have Bo pull you into his arms.”

  “The answer is D: all of the above.” She bobbed her head. She appeared exhausted and overwhelmed about her son … and about life.

  “I’ve known you for a long time. We go back to the first office building I set up practice in.” My eyes pinned her to the sofa. “You’ve trusted my judgment on multiple occasions when crises have visited your home.”

  She slammed herself back into the sofa cushion, and a pitiful moan escaped her lips. “What a lovely way to speak of devastation and heartbreak, ‘crises visiting my home.’ I’ve envied your vocabulary many times, but today I would settle for your optimism. Catherine,” she said with tears starting to flow. “Oh, mercy no,” she said. “I cannot start to cry.”

  “Why not?” I pushed the tissue box toward her.

  At first, she waved it away. “Because, once I start, I may never stop.” She tried to slam the brakes on her tear ducts, but the floodgates had opened. She reached for the box.

  I left my chair to sit beside her on the sofa until part of the storm pa
ssed. I knew better than to pat. Pats can staunch the flow of tears, so I tried to strengthen her with my presence. I didn’t know anyone who needed a good cry more than Tabbi Phillips.

  Her tears were frequently interspersed with, “Oh, God, please help me,” and “Catherine, how am I going to help Bubba?” Other than that, she didn’t try to talk. Her grief nearly smothered her.

  Fifteen minutes passed as she wept.

  Eventually, Tabbi’s tears slowed, and she could look up.

  I returned to my chair so I could sit face-to-face with her again. “Early in our relationship, after you’d been seeing me about a year, you came in one day and said you needed to tell me something that only two people in the world knew.”

  “What?” She looked dazed. “What did you say?”

  “Six years ago, when I still practiced on Maple Street—”

  “Why are we doing this? I need to find out what’s going on with Bubba, and you want to talk about something I said six years ago.” She jumped to her feet and headed for the door. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right here.” What was she really doing? Would she bolt from the building? “Tab, please don’t leave.”

  She turned to me, stunned. “Why would I leave? I just need to use the bathroom,” she said, still standing in the doorway.

  “Okay.” I couldn’t decide if she really didn’t know what I was about to say or if she chose not to remember. Repression can be a beautiful thing. “I’ll warm your coffee for you,” I offered as I lifted her cup from the table.

  I got back to the room with fresh brew ahead of her. As I waited, I prayed for wisdom. I cannot set Bubba free without Tabbi’s help. Give Bubba’s mother courage. Sustain us both with your strength. Lord, in Your mercy, hear this prayer.

  As she re-entered, the drag plate attached to the bottom of the door, to provide additional soundproofing, made its familiar swooshing sound as she closed it behind herself.

  I put her cup in her hand.

  She took it gratefully. “Now. What were you talking about?” she asked as she sat back down and then sipped.

  “Bubba.”

  “No, you said you wanted to talk about something I said first.”