With just a few steps, Charles was by my side. He took the lotion bottle from me, dabbed a bit onto his hand, and began to massage it into my back.
“I really am happy to have you home.” His voice was thick as he kneaded that long stretch of skin along my spine.
I said nothing as he continued his massage. His touch was so gentle, so loving. Our first kiss flashed through my mind. The first time he made love to me. The last time he made love to me. I closed my eyes. That was my weapon to fight the tears that were rising. Oh, how I loved this man. I really did.
When Charles finished, he kissed the back of my neck, what had always been my sweet spot. Only this time, his kiss didn’t arouse me. It just made me sad.
Charles rounded his way until he stood in front of me, then he sat on the edge of the tub. Looking up, he said, “You ready to talk to me? Tell me what’s going on?”
I blinked, to hold back my tears, my emotions, my words.
“Is this some kind of I’m-feeling-some-kind-of-way-because-I-just-turned-forty-five?”
“Kind of.” Turning away from him, I moved to my walk-in closet and reached for a maxi dress. I slid it over my head before I returned to the bathroom.
Charles was still perched on the edge of the tub.
Standing in front of him, I said, “It’s not forty-five per se, because I feel great. I’m happy about getting older because there is an alternative.”
“Then what is it, babe?” I didn’t say anything and Charles took my hand. “Talk to me,” he said when I didn’t continue. He peered into my eyes as if he really wanted to know, as if he really cared.
I released a long sigh. Part of me wanted to just do what I normally did—just tell my husband that nothing was wrong and forget about all that I’d discovered in the last two weeks. If I said nothing, we could just go on about our lives. But I’d stayed an extra day in DR just to get up the strength that was needed not to back down or back out. I’d made that promise to myself. I owed this to myself and I was going to do it.
Finally, I said, “Charles, I feel stagnant. Like I’m missing out on the life that I’m supposed to be living. Professionally.” I paused. “Personally.”
Right away, he released a long breath that made it sound like he was relieved. “Oh my God. Is that all?” He laughed. “Oh my God. Whew. Do you know what I was thinking?”
I shook my head. That wasn’t the response I was expecting, but it’s one that shouldn’t have surprised me.
“I thought you were going to tell me that you’d fallen in love with somebody else or something.” He released a relieved chuckle.
“Fallen in love?” I asked. “Don’t be ridiculous. No, I’m just not fulfilled at work . . . in life . . . in general, and it’s taking its toll on me.”
“Half of America is working in jobs they don’t like. Whew.” He blew out another breath before he stood, leaned in, and kissed me. “I’m so glad that’s all it is. As for the life part, you probably just needed that little vacation to rejuvenate yourself. Now I’m really glad you took the time to get that jolt you needed.” Charles hugged me. “Oh, and before I forget, Eric has a basketball game next weekend. I told him I can’t go because I have plans, the play-by-play for the James Harden all-star charity game. But I told him you’d be there and you’d take Anika, if she doesn’t have any other plans. Mom won’t be able to go, remember she’ll be on the cruise. But at least he’ll have you and maybe Anika in the stands cheering for him. He needs that.”
I sat in awe as my husband planned out my schedule as if he hadn’t heard anything I’d said. Or maybe it was worse. Maybe he had heard and it didn’t matter to him. His schedule was still more important than mine. Hell, what he was saying was that even Eric’s basketball game was more important than anything I had to do.
“Did you hear anything that I said?” I asked.
He kissed my forehead. “Yeah, baby. You’re unfulfilled,” he said in a tone that sounded like he was just telling me the temperature. “But that happens sometimes. You’ll get over it.” And then he had the nerve to blow out another “whew” as he walked toward the bathroom door. He paused long enough to say, “I’m so glad this is all that’s wrong.”
I turned and followed him because I just couldn’t believe what he was saying. Inside our bedroom, he plopped down on the bed. “You’ve been gone almost two weeks and I missed you something fierce.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come show your husband just how much you missed him.”
I blinked, but I didn’t think that it would be enough to hold back my tears this time. Turned out that it was enough.
“Come on, babe,” Charles said again. “I missed you. I missed my wife.”
I stared at him for a couple of long moments and then, even though I’d discovered myself while I was in the Dominican Republic, within one hour of being home, I lost myself once again. And so I did what any dutiful wife was supposed to do. I walked over to the bed and made love to my husband.
Chapter 13
I was back on the grind, on my way to work and feeling worse than before I’d left for my birthday celebration. It was because I had no courage. All the powerful advice I’d gotten from strangers this past week—Jewel, Don Juan, even the man on the plane—and nothing. It had been two days since I’d returned and I’d yet to get up the nerve to tell Charles I wanted out.
I was so mad at myself for breaking my promise. And not only that, I’d slept with Charles, and that had been a big mistake. I had never felt so empty after making love, and afterward, as a single tear had trickled down my cheek, Charles kissed it and said, “I missed you, too, baby.”
Still, I had remained silent, because I had no courage to hurt the man who loved me so much.
“You are not obligated to stay in a relationship that has outlived its purpose.”
I wished that I’d asked Jewel for her telephone number. Not that I was sure she would have given it to me or that she even had a phone. But if she did have one and if she’d given it to me, I would have been calling her right now, getting all the encouragement that I needed to do what I had to do.
A car honked, snapping me out of my thoughts, and I realized that I had drifted into the next lane.
“Sorry,” I mouthed and held up my hand, apologizing to the driver, who sped past me with a growl on his face. His lips moved and I imagined that he was calling me all kinds of names that I didn’t want to hear.
I sighed. I wanted to curse out my own self. But I couldn’t keep thinking about what I needed to do at home. I had to work, and I needed to get my head in the game. Signaling, I exited the freeway, then made a couple of more turns before I slowed my car to find the number of the house that I was visiting. Just as I edged my car to the curb, my cell phone rang.
I needed to get inside, but when I saw Roxie’s number, I answered.
I said, “Hey, girl. It’s about time that you called me back.”
“Really? You just texted me five minutes ago.”
We laughed together; she knew that I was kidding. “So, how was the real estate convention?” I asked.
“It was great, chica, but I want to talk about you. I’m glad you came to your senses and finally came home. You know I was worried sick about you. Nichelle and Simone, too, especially when you wouldn’t answer our calls or return any of our messages.”
“I texted you.”
“And you better not have been driving.” She laughed, but only because she knew I didn’t have a car while I was in the Dominican. But any other time, she would not have been kidding. Roxie was like the text police, and that had brought on too many clashes with my friend. Being in the car with her was hell for both of us. But I got her concern. Her husband, Brian, and their only child, my godson, Brendon, had been killed by a distracted driver fifteen years ago. So Roxie hated all things that took your attention off the road. I knew it was not safe, but I had mastered the ability to keep my eyes on the road while texting.
“Anyway,” she continued, “a
few texts weren’t good enough. We wanted to hear from you.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that I didn’t feel like answering any more questions because I really didn’t have any answers.”
“You know I had to keep Simone from getting on the plane and coming back down there.”
“Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t get back on the plane yourself.”
“I thought about it, but this convention had been in the works for a year. Besides, I’ve known you for how long now? I knew you wouldn’t do anything stupid. I could tell you had to work some stuff out.” She paused. “Did you?”
I leaned over to the passenger seat to peer at the rickety old gray house. It had been a while since I’d visited this family, and all the houses were beginning to look the same to me.
“I’ll have to fill you in later. I just pulled up to my client’s house for a home visit.”
“Wait, you just texted me,” she replied. “You better have been at a stoplight.”
I shook my head. “Can I get this lecture later?” I asked. “I need to get inside.”
“Fine. Call me as soon as you leave. Before you begin driving,” she added.
We said our goodbyes, but still, I had to summon up the strength to go inside. This was the part of my job that I used to love so much—the home visits. I loved sitting down and speaking with families, guiding them, helping them to get their lives together so they could be better parents to their kids. I loved saving kids and repairing families. But after twenty-two years of the same grind, the same sob stories, the same heartbreaking situations, this had long gone past the point of old. This was ancient.
I’d celebrated my promotion almost twelve years ago that had taken me out of the field and put me into an administrative position. But just like Karen told me all those years ago, it was budget cuts and short staffing that had me in the field once again. The only saving grace was it wasn’t every day because I still had my administrative responsibilities.
I took a deep breath, fought off my disdain for this part of the job, then suppressed thoughts of my mangled personal life as I slipped out of the car, and hit the remote to lock it . . . twice. I walked up the pathway that was half dirt, half paved and knocked on the front door.
“Who is it?” a male voice yelled from the other side.
“It’s Aja Clayton with the Department of Human Services and Child Protective Services.”
“Bitch, get away from my door.”
I gritted my teeth. I assumed that was the voice of Mr. Ozell Jackson. He hadn’t been home on any of my other visits in the past few months, but judging from his file, he was not someone who was going to make my job easy. “Mr. Jackson,” I began, keeping my tone even, “please don’t make me call the police.”
First, the sound of heavy footsteps, and I imagined a burly man, an ex-football player type. But then the door swung open and a straggly-looking man whose skin was barely hanging on to his bones stood at the door. He had no shame standing there in a once-upon-a-time-white wife beater and plaid boxers. A red Solo cup was in one hand and a cigarette dangled from between his fingers in the other.
“What?” he snapped.
“Good morning, Mr. Jackson,” I said as if he hadn’t just called me out of my name. “We had an appointment today.”
“I don’t know nothing about no appointment. Come back later. We busy.”
As he moved to slam the door, I moved closer to the threshold, putting my hand out. “Sir, you know I have to do a family inspection.”
“Well, my wife ain’t here.”
“I understand that,” I said, keeping my voice at a normal level even as he shouted. “But I still have to do the inspection. It’s been on the books for three months.”
“I don’t give a damn about your books,” he said.
The stench of liquor emanating from his breath, from his skin, caused my nose to twitch. It was just eleven in the morning and this man smelled like he’d been dunked in a bucket of cheap whiskey. I wondered what he’d smell like by noon.
“Mr. Jackson, is Juwan here?” I pushed the door aside so I could get a better look inside. Mr. Jackson jumped in front of me, blocking my view.
Now my volume got a bit louder. “Do I need to call the police to help me? I need to see Juwan.”
He huffed, flicked his cigarette on the front porch, gave me a long glare, and then finally stepped aside to let me in.
The moment I stepped in, I wondered if I could count it as a home visit if I saw Juwan on the porch. The house was filthy. No, the better word was disgusting. There were empty bowls of molded milk where I guessed Juwan had eaten cereal, sitting at the coffee table in the living room. But it was as if a bowl was never washed—there were a half a dozen of them stacked there. Next to the bowls were cartons of take-out food and frozen dinners. It seemed like whenever someone finished eating, they just got up and left everything there—for days.
I guessed they ate in the living room because the kitchen wasn’t an option. Even from where I stood, I could see the table completely covered with beer cans, pizza, bottles, and . . . clothes.
I squealed as a roach, and a few of his friends, scurried across the floor toward one of the empty cartons, and when I glanced up, Mr. Jackson smirked.
Karen and I were going to have a talk. Budget or no budget, I couldn’t do this anymore.
Then I spotted Juwan and my eyes narrowed. He was to the right of me, sitting legs crossed, facing the corner. “Juwan.” I called out his name, but he didn’t turn around. “How are you today?” Still, there was no reply. “Can you turn around and talk to me?”
He slowly turned around and right away, I saw the fear in his eight-year-old eyes.
“Are you okay?” I asked him. A too-small T-shirt clung to his small frame and he wore no pants—only a pair of dingy underwear.
Juwan’s eyes darted from me over to his father, and with his father’s eyes still on him, Juwan nodded.
His father said, “I told his little bad ass to get somewhere and sit down. He wants to play with that stupid truck.”
“Because that’s usually what kids do,” I replied.
“Well, they don’t play in my house.”
Because it’s such a beacon of perfection, I wanted to say.
Moving closer to the child—I had to step over a half-filled trash bag—I asked, “Are you excited about going back to school next week?”
He still didn’t part his lips, so I reached for his hand. “Come on, Juwan, let’s go sit and talk,” I said, really having no idea where I was going to sit and talk to him. But that thought left my mind when I touched Juwan’s elbow and he winced. I knelt to get eye level with him. “Juwan, are you okay?”
He blinked, fighting his tears and he shifted and pulled his arm closer to his body.
“Juwan,” I said his name softly, “do you mind if I take a look at your arm?”
His glance rose above my head, but I didn’t turn around. Not even when Juwan began to whimper. I imagined his father glaring at him, but I wanted Juwan to see that I wasn’t afraid.
“I mind,” Mr. Jackson said over my shoulder. “You inspected. Now get out my house.”
Standing slowly, I rose all the way before I turned my glare to him. “You do know I have the authority to examine him, right? And if you need to be reminded, I can have the police here in just under five minutes.” Now I wished that I’d called for the police in the first place. I should have done it the moment he called me a bitch. And now, the way his bottom lip curled, I really regretted my decision. I’d seen this look before—a few years ago an irate father had dang near broken my arm when I tried to remove his kids.
But it didn’t look like I was going to have an issue this time. Mr. Jackson huffed, but he backed up. I gave him a “smart move” nod, then turned back to Juwan. Crouching again, I slowly raised up his arm. He flinched; it was tender, but it didn’t seem like he had any broken bones.
“Turn around,” I told him. �
�I want to look at your back.”
He gave his father a long glance, but finally, he did what I said.
“I’m going to raise your shirt now,” I said, wanting to inform and assure him at the same time.
He shivered when I lifted his shirt, and for the second time since I’d stepped into this house, I released a sound that I couldn’t keep inside. This little boy’s back—it was like someone thought he was a canvas and had painted black and blue marks all over him. There was hardly an untouched spot. I had to breathe deeply to hold back the bile I felt rising at the thought of what this boy had gone through to have this as the result.
When I stood again, I faced his father. “What happened?” I shot him a piercing glare.
“He fell down.” He spoke so casually before he took a swig of whatever was in that red cup. “I told you he was in here playing. It ain’t enough room in here for all that. A kid is bound to hurt himself.” Then he had the nerve to grin and shrug.
“All these bruises wouldn’t be caused by falling down.”
When I pulled out my cell phone from my purse, the smirk faded from Mr. Jackson’s face. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I ignored him, then shifted a bit so that he couldn’t see what I was doing. Let him think that I was calling the police, though, I was dialing my office. Before I could finish punching in the number, Mr. Jackson whisked over and slapped the phone out of my hand.
I jumped back in shock and fear.
“I wish y’all would stay y’all nosy behinds up out my business,” he spat. “This me and my family’s business. That boy right there is my son, and ain’t no damn gov’ment gonna tell me how to raise him.”
As if I didn’t have a snippet of fear inside me, I casually reached down, picked my phone up, then held my hand out to the little boy. “Juwan,” I said, now gripping his hand in mine, “I need you to come with me.”
“Bitch,” he put down the cup, “if you don’t get your hands off my son.” Reaching around me, he grabbed the little boy and Juwan screamed. Mr. Jackson pushed me so hard I fell to the filthy floor. I jumped right up and my first instinct was to fight. But that wasn’t the best of ideas. First, Mr. Jackson was stronger and drunker than I was, and I’d already been hurt by one violent parent.
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