Beautiful Otherness

by Shirley Simmons

  Two guards quickly rushed over as other guards began to frantically remove everyone else from the large room. People shouted and cursed as the guards tried to take control of the room. Phillip was furious. He lunged and swung his arms as he tried to get to Sheila, but the guards surrounded him and were like a wall of protection, blocking him from getting at Sheila or anyone else.

  Phillip shouted, “Let me go you punk motherfuckers. Get your goddamn hands off me!”

  In a matter of moments, Phillip’s calm had turned into an uncontrolled rage. “You crackers don’t know who y’all fucking with.”

  Sheila was scared. I remember looking at her and her eyes were really wide. She was breathing really hard and hugging herself.

  “Bitch, when I get my work release pass, I’m going to kill you.” There was venom in his words and a kind of confidence that I now know was a combination of false bravado and psychopathic rage.

  Sheila stood there frozen in fear. I stood there frozen in fear. Aunt Queen looked at Phillip with disdain, knowing now that all the efforts she had put forth to protect him had been in vain. She had called in favors. She had used up much of her political capital, wasted it on this nephew she once loved. She now saw him for what he really was.

  During my childhood, and what I had heard about him, I often thought he enjoyed his chosen life of hurting and killing women.

  When we left the prison, I questioned Aunt Queen.

  “Why doesn’t he just go home? Who wouldn’t want to go home?”

  She told me that you could not go home when you wanted to if you lived there. And you had to behave. Phillip had not “behaved”, she said, and he would have to stay there even longer now. It made me wonder, at six, if I had behaved well enough to stay out of that place. Regardless, I would be on my best behavior now, I thought.

  A killer is exactly what he is, and I do not think I’m wrong to feel that way. He boldly flaunted his actions, describing and embellishing them to anyone who would listen. How could someone be so proud of taking a life?

  I had often wondered if he did it to intimidate people or to gain control over others. I guess in many ways it worked, but at what price? I saw the price he was paying.

  BEST DAY EVER

  I remember being overwhelmed by the whole ordeal of visiting Phillip in prison. Queen commanded me not to tell my parents about any of it, especially not about Sheila and what happened between her and Phillip. But at six years old, the first thing I wanted to do was tell my mother.

  “It was so scary, Mommy,” I lay my head on my mother’s lap. “Phillip was mean to this lady named Sheila. He said he was going to kill her.”

  “What are you saying, child? Who is Sheila? Where was your Aunt Queen?” My mother hit me with so many questions at once.

  “She was a lady who came to see him like Aunt Queen and I did. He was nice at first; I think he liked her. Then he got mad at her.” My mother rubbed my head as I shared the whole sordid visit with her.

  That night, I heard my mother, Mary, and her husband, my adoptive dad, talking in their room. My daddy made it clear that I would not be going anywhere near Queen, Phillip or that prison again. He said he would die first before he would ever let that happen again.

  *

  On Sunday, after leaving church, we drove to the lake just as we did every Sunday to feed the ducks. I was always so excited, and my parents were so patient and caring with me. Mary and Earl loved me unconditionally. Mary worked part-time. Earl was retired from the Army and the railroad. Even though he was almost twenty years older than mom, he was all too eager to be a parent. Having children was the one thing that they could not do together. They adored the task of raising a child even if it meant challenges.

  “Kennedy, don’t get too close to the water!”

  “I won’t, Mom! Dad, can we catch one? Please, please.” I would beg my dad to let me catch a fish.

  “The best day ever! What a beautiful day!” Dad would always say at Sunday dinner after going to the lake. He would take his place in the big chair and I would climb onto his lap. We would tell each other corny jokes until we both fell asleep. Indeed, life was perfect!

  As much as my parents tried to make my life normal, things were always a little different from the other kids I knew. And having Phillip as a father did not help.

  I always had more than other kids. Was it because I felt some guilt over not being able to conceive? Was it because they were trying to erase the smudge of having a father like Phillip? I never really knew for sure. But whatever I wanted, I got.

  One day, returning home, Dad and I saw the kids in the park playing with their yo-yos. They were doing tricks, twirling them in the air, and it was simply amazing.

  I cried and cried, pleaded, and begged for a yo-yo. I just had to be the first in the neighborhood doing tricks with a yo-yo. Off we went to the store in search of the perfect one.

  Blue? No!

  Red? No!

  Red, Green, and Black? No

  That is it! A pinkish one with sprinkles of glitter on it. We rushed home with our purchase and things quickly began to fall apart, including my patience and behavior.

  As much as we tried, we could not get the thing to do a single trick. Heck, my dad did not know how to yo-yo. He would fling it and it would crash to the ground. I do not think he knew to put the string on his finger.

  “Make it work! Do a trick!” I would say to him.

  “It’s broken! It does not work! Let’s take it back! We’re taking it back!” Dad was so aggravated.

  We must have eventually bought every type of yo-yo at that store. I gave up, and they soon became decorations in my room, decorations that no one could touch. That was how most of my childhood adventures with my parents would end.

  A few weeks later, I was at my friend’s house playing. The day was as perfect a day as a child could ask for. We played with our dolls, we played hide and seek and any other games that we could think of. The backyard was filled with our laughter. As we played jacks, our game was interrupted by my friend’s grandmother.

  “Kennedy, Phillip just killed another lady! I heard it on the news. Some lady named Sheila is what they say her name was.” She said it with such ease. She delivered the announcement like it was normal or something that was expected.

  I wished he weren’t my biological father. I never understood why my mother loved me so much and spoiled me beyond belief. But after Sheila’s death, I had a lot of questions.

  I had a mother, a father, and Phillip. It just was not making any sense to me. We had everything a happy family could have: a home, cars, and money. I had everything a little girl could want, and I loved it; all but Phillip. Why was there a Phillip and why did I know him?

  My mother was a very private person. She was super conservative and lived and did everything with discretion and the guidance of the Lord. But when it came to raising me, she would always say, “I will never withhold from you. I will make sure you have everything you need in order to succeed in this life.”

  I climbed into the bed next to my mom and asked her, “Mom, why did my friend’s mom tell me what Philip did?”

  She sighed, “Baby, you are going to hear all kinds of things about Phillip, some true and some not. You are not going to like a lot of what you hear, and some people will say things just to hurt you or provoke a response from you. Their words don’t require a response.” She looked me in the eyes. “Kennedy, do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Wiping the tears from my eyes we continued to lie there.

  “Kennedy, you know how I always say to you that I will never withhold from you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Papa Earl and I tried but we could never have a baby. We prayed and prayed for a baby. It was the only prayer we prayed for a full year and God answered my prayer with you.”

  With a look of confusion and excitement, I replied,

  “Me?”

  “Yes! Before you were born, I m
et a beautiful young lady named Kim who lived close to the other house we had. Kim was pregnant and we arranged for me and Papa Earl to adopt you once you were born.” Springing up from the bed she rushed to the closet, reaching deep into the back of the top shelf. She found what she was looking for, holding a folder of adoption papers high in the air.

  “I promised her that I would give you a good life, Kennedy. A life with no boundaries. A life where you saw the world differently than the black folks in this town was used to.” My mom smiled as she touched the papers. “Kim, your biological mom, agreed, with the understanding that she and your biological father would have a relationship with you. But Phillip did not like that Kim allowed Papa Earl and me to adopt you. He was—and still is--very upset over that.

  “Even though nothing has been confirmed, we believe he did hurt Sheila and Kim. I know this may be difficult or you may not understand completely, but I love you more than life itself.”

  Just as Mary began to cry, Earl entered the room. “Why are my girls crying?”

  Falling into the bed, he scooped both of us into his arms squeezing us tightly, kissing us as he whispered, “Best day ever! What a beautiful day!” Every time he said that it made everything feel better.

  DAMN YOU PHILLIP

  My mother used to give me so much information and advice. But most times she would only have half of my attention or I simply did not want to hear it. Then there would be those times when what she was saying would stop me in my tracks and never leave me. This was one of them. I do not recall how old I was, but I do remember being in my room listening to music. She walked into my room and turned everything off. My mother was never forceful about anything. However, this day she took me by my face and held it firmly.

  “Kennedy look at me! Every day that you get up, the devil has already been awake waiting for you. When you have an anointing on you, which you have, he knows it and he will use everything in his power to keep that anointing from you. The devil does not fight fair. He will use your friends, your family, your career and your faith to try and shy you away from your calling.” She kept her grip tight on my face. “Kennedy, you have to know that you’re in a battle, and when you don’t know what is possible you will settle for what is available.”

  It was one of the most powerful things my mother ever told me.

  ____

  “There she is! There is my precious girl!”

  The sight of my broad, snaggletooth smile did wonders for Earl’s morning. My grin widened as the sound of my make-believe big-girl heels clicked on the hard wood floors. Taking my place on his lap, I lay my head on his chest. Leaning in I planted a kiss on his cheek, the rasp of his beard tickling my nose making me smile. “Papa, your heart is beating fast!”

  Rubbing his chin, Papa Earl pretended not to hear my comment and said, “Momma needs to give me a shave. Don’t you think so?”

  “I can do it,” I said.

  “She is the only one that can shave me, maybe she can teach you someday.”

  “What about when I get bigger?” Kennedy reached up and scratched at the bristly beard. “It’s sticky.”

  At that moment, everything was perfect in my young life. Philip was really nonexistent. But there were always subtle and not so subtle reminders of him everywhere. People in the small town thought it was appropriate to remind me that my father was a killer.

  But my home was a safe space that always put me at ease. Home was the perfect protection. It was a fortress of love.

  Momma started singing one of her favorite songs, “Hallelujah”, the one about David playing a secret chord for the Lord. She used to sing that song to me every night.

  “Earl! Kennedy!” Mary called from the kitchen, “Breakfast is ready!”

  “I think we should hurry along.” Papa rubbed my hair lifting me off his lap. With big smiles on our faces, we quickly took our places at the table.

  “Pancakes are my favorite! Yours are the best, Momma!”

  Mary smiled softly and returned to making our plates and cleaning the counter and stove in a single multitasking motion. All those years of perfecting cooking and house cleaning were finally paying off.

  “My family is finally complete,” Mary whispered and smiled as she watched us from the kitchen, humming her song.

  “No elbows on the table when you eat, Kennedy! That’s not proper table manners!”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Mary turned her attention too Earl. “Earl, are you okay?”

  He shrugged, “I think I have a little heartburn. I was hoping to spend the whole day with my girls; the three of us don’t spend enough time together you know.”

  “Well you are welcome to join us, Earl. I must sign Kennedy up for dance classes and I must take the cakes over to the church. But you can’t rush us.”

  “If that is the only rule, then it’s settled. I am yours all day. We can have lunch at that new barbeque place across town. I hear it’s rather good, and they got ice cream.” Winking his eye at me.

  Looking at me, Mary chimed in. “No manners, no ice cream!”

  I quickly removed my elbows from the table and looked away as if no one saw me or nothing happened.

  “If you are done, you may be excused from the table to get dressed.” Wasting no time, I thrust a “Thank you ma’am” over my shoulder and rushed to my room.

  Mary laughed. “Make sure you wash your face and hands,” she called.

  I was so excited that day. I jumped and danced on the bed when I reached my room, performing my dance moves for my teddy bears and other stuffed animals.

  And then there was an earsplitting scream from the kitchen. I jumped from the bed and flew down the stairs. I could see Papa lying on the floor.

  “Momma, what’s wrong with Papa?”

  “I don’t know baby! Go back to your room!”

  I did as I was told, mounting each stair slowly, looking back, frightened by something I didn’t understand. From my room, I could hear the sirens approaching the house. Sitting on the bed, bending over my legs and holding my socks, attempting to make a circle that afforded some kind of comfort, I could hear the voices of the paramedics in the kitchen.

  “Dear God, please let Papa be okay. I promise to be a good girl,” I prayed.

  Several minutes later, Momma entered my room, her eyes red rimmed from crying.

  “Don’t cry, baby. Everything is going to be alright. Papa is going to be okay. Let’s get your shoes on. We have to hurry to the hospital.”

  Sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by beige walls and the patter of staff going up and down the halls, Momma held my tiny hand tightly. Words failed us for what seemed like an eternity as we stared straight ahead, unblinking, an occasional tear slipping out of momma’s eyes. Every so often we would look at each other, try to squeeze out a smile and return to looking at those beige walls.

  “Momma, here comes the doctor!” We stood, anticipating his words.

  I hung closely to Momma’s side with both arms wrapped around her as the doctor delivered the news of Papa’s passing. Their attempts to save him had failed, though they did everything they could, he said. The doctor was polite and professional. Papa Earl was gone.

  “Momma, no! I want my papa!” The words got choked in my throat and died on a whimper. Momma had collapsed into the chair and I broke down crying in my mother’s lap. My prayers to God did not work.

  To this day I have never had, nor will I ever have, beige walls in my home, no matter how popular the color might become.

  Later that evening, I clung to my mother’s every move as all the family and guests visited to console us. They talked about how devoted Papa was to his wife, Mary, and about his twenty plus years to the A & A railroad. They spoke of how people respected him and how proud he was to be a father.

  After all the guests had gone, Momma prepared the bath for me. She stared at the wastebasket in the bathroom in an attempt to distract herself from the fact that Earl was gone. As she mindlessly studied
the basket, she noticed a crumbled-up letter sitting at the top of the normal items of bathroom use.

  Reaching into the basket, she quickly noticed that it was sent from a prison. She nervously unraveled the letter, only to find a few haunting threatening words.

  “I’m going to kill you and your wife. That is my daughter.”

  Momma began to cry as she rushed to her room trying not to alarm me. “Damn!” she yelled with her face buried in the pillow. The soft-spoken Christian had never cursed before. However, this time she just could not hold the emotions in. Laying there crying, she must have wondered if that letter was the only one. And if it has caused Papa Earl’s heart attack. Jumping to her feet, she quickly dismantled the closet in a whirl of flying clothes and shoes, but she did not find a single letter. Frustrated, she turned her attention to the dresser.

  I had quickly dried myself and followed her from the bath. I didn’t want to be alone—without Momma—for even a minute.

  “There has to be more!” she whispered as I watched her through the crack in the open door.

  One by one she went through the drawers, only to find some used undershirts neatly folded in the back of the last drawer. She would have never noticed them, but they did not bend when she picked them up. Momma’s nerves began to boil. She retrieved the packet and fell to her knees, the carefully hidden letters in her hands. As she read their threatening words, she could not believe Papa Earl was able to keep them from her for so long. Every letter mentioned Phillip planning to escape prison so he could come and kill my parents.

  “Earl why? Why wouldn’t you tell me?” She cried out as she looked up at the ceiling.

  Phillip had claimed another victim…my Papa.

  NEXT

  I was raised in a black family in a black neighborhood in the South. However, if you were to travel the country and visit any black community you would find the same rules of behavior and discipline in just about every home. I am sure you have heard a comedian tell a story or joke about your parent telling you to go get a switch or being beat with a belt or extension cord. In most cases, that joke was very much true.