One Day She'll Darken

by Fauna Hodel

  She was then located in a female holding cell with ten other juveniles. All were either Hispanic or black and appeared to be veterans of the system. For ten days and nights, as the only white-skinned girl, she was deemed an outcast and left alone, a situation she welcomed. She overheard their stories, watched them in anger, or in a moment of joy, or having sex, or in pain. It was both an education and a revulsion. LA was far removed from the spirit of Sparks.

  Each day was filled with boredom, anxiety, and frustration. She didn’t know how long she would be there, nor was she aware of anyone helping her to get out. No one from her family came to visit. The fear from not knowing what would become of her life continually weighed heavy on her. She cried herself to sleep each night.

  On the tenth day, she was informed that a bus ticket, sent by her mother in Reno, was waiting for her. An escort from Juvenile Hall drove her to the depot and gave her ten cents out of his own pocket. She left before lunch, glad just to get out of Los Angeles.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jimmie and Pat didn’t say much to each other that evening—no pleasantries, no questions, no story telling. The tension was there, but they were both too emotionally drained to begin to sort out all that had happened over the past two weeks, let alone the animosity Pat had harbored for the past twelve years. There was so much they needed to say, but Pat knew it would be a waste of energy to confront Jimmie now. All of it was becoming tiresome. All she wanted, was to be left alone to experience a normal, uneventful life like other people.

  Jimmie was humming an unfamiliar tune while her eyes were half-closed. Pat stared at her, a woman she now considered pathetic. Pat’s mind wandered toward her real mother. Would knowing who she was perhaps energize Pat’s life? Pat began to feel closer to this faceless stranger than ever before. At the same time, she felt guilty for wanting to be with her. Pat still felt loyal to Jimmie.

  In the days that followed, Jimmie and Pat acted quite civil toward each other, almost as though they were old friends. There were no apologies. Each of them allowed the other the time to heal their wounded egos. Finally Jimmie confessed that she didn’t want her baby Pat to grow up too fast.

  Pat’s longing for Rudy continued. It was difficult at first to make contact with him. Jimmie had let it be known that Pat was off limits to boys, not to mention men, particularly Rudy. At first, he refused Pat’s phone calls, but about a month later, when Pat finally did get to talk with him, it was as though they had never been apart. The romance still burned. They snuck off together as often as possible, making love whenever they were alone. Rudy was very cautious about their being seen together. He maintained a healthy fear of Jimmie’s temper. But Pat’s thoughts of Rudy occupied all of her time. Her obsession to marry him intensified and Pat became careless. Jimmie again found out that Pat was seeing Rudy.

  It was a Sunday afternoon and Reverend Mayfield was visiting with Jimmie at the house, enjoying a beer or two. Pat was doodling on a piece of paper at the kitchen table while pretending to do her homework. “Looks like you got somethin’ else on your mind besides your school work,” Jimmie said to her. Pat didn’t answer.

  Then Reverend Mayfield said, “Yeah, I think I know what it is.”

  Pat noticed Jimmie steal a glance toward him. “Never mind, ‘you know what it is.’ If you kept your mind off the sisters and your hands off the bottle, you wouldn’t have no problems.”

  Mayfield just raised his eyebrows and took another sip from his drink, then said, “The only problems I got is to keep the church filled.”

  Jimmie put her hands on her hips, looked straight at Mayfield, then said, “Well, Rev. ‘give-me-more-for-the-building-fund’ Mayfield, you spent so much time raffling this and baking that, borrowing from everywhere, then hounding everybody for more, and more, and more, that they just fed up with you begging.”

  “Well sure, that’s true enough, but how else was I supposed to build the church? Now, I got to support it out of my own pocket,” he said with his nose in the air.

  “You didn’t have to build the biggest, chicken fried, pie baking and most expensive church in the whole State of Nevada. You could’ve done with a lot less. Those diehard churchgoers you got would’ve listened to you anywhere. Shit, you could preach to them from the back of a pickup, they don’t care,” she said.

  His reputation as a womanizer and drinker cost him his congregation. Few regular parishioners attended his services and those that did, continued to gossip about his carousing. He maintained control of the Sunday school, but he had to force the children to go to his services. Every Sunday he chauffeured all the children from their homes, and bribed them with money just to add bodies to his otherwise empty church. He would buy lunch and chauffeur everyone home after he was through preaching. They went just for the money and food and to have a good time. He spent every dime trying to keep his church open.

  The dreamy-eyed teenager kept doodlin’, half-listening to them chat about nothing important. But Jimmie interrupted her again. “What’s the matter,” she said. “Ain’t you talkin’ today?” Jimmie looked casually at Mayfield.

  “You were right the first time,” he said. “That child is far away from here. She must be in love!”

  When Pat heard the word “love,” her heart jumped. She looked up at Mayfield and wondered what he was talking about. As she turned toward her momma, their eyes locked. Pat saw her guilt reflected in Jimmie’s hardened gaze. Pat tried to cover up the scribbles, but it was too late.

  “Rudy!” Jimmie rasped as she leaned over the scrapbook. “Is that all you been thinkin’ about?”

  “No! Of course not!” Pat answered.

  “Then why you writin’ his name, doin’ all those scratches over that pad? You think if you draw his picture he’ll pop right out of that damn paper—just like a cartoon? Huh . . . that ain’t never gonna happen, cause you ain’t never gonna see that man again!”

  “Sounds like little Pat has herself a boyfriend,” Mayfield chimed in grinning.

  Pat saw Jimmie’s head turn toward him, her finger in his face, “You mind you own damn business! She ain’t got no damn boyfriend!” Jimmie said.

  Mayfield held up a hand. “Hold on there, Miss Jimmie. You shouldn’t talk to me like that. And besides, Pat should be going out with young boys her own age—to parties and all. It’s natural. Why, when I was her age. . . .”

  “I don’t care what you was doin’ at her age,” said Jimmie. “You ain’t my damn daughter. And you ain’t in heat over some twenty-eight-year-old Casanova!”

  “Ahhh, I see,” said Mayfield. “it’s just a phase she’s going through. She’ll get over it in no time at all.”

  Pat sat in awe, watching the two of them discuss her life and her heart as if they knew what she was feeling. She covered her ears, trying to block out the embarrassment and moved her mind into her dream world.

  “It ain’t no phase,” said Jimmie. “She’s already tasted his sweet cakes and that’s only gonna make her want more.”

  “You can’t blame her for that, living in a promiscuous environment like this. It’s your fault. You’re the biggest influence. The Bible says. . . .”

  “The Bible says shit!” exploded Jimmie “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Jimmie Lee,” said Mayfield, “it’s because you haven’t been going to my church and listening to my sermons, that’s why you let things like this happen. Why, I know this Bible inside and out, and it’s your responsibility to take care of her moral upbringing.”

  “Don’t you talk to me about ‘moral upbringing,’,” Jimmie snarled. “Not when you out screwing all the sisters like there’s no tomorrow. And another thing, if you stayed off the bottle, your church’d grow like scum on a pond.”

  Mayfield’s eyes widened. Pat saw the defensive look of a man with exposed secrets. “What do you mean?” he said. “Why, I live by what I preach. I live by the Bible. I’ve read it through and through—seven times. And I know everything in it.”


  Jimmie Lee sprang to her feet and scowled at the flustered preacher. “You may have read it through and through, but until “it” goes through you—you don’t tell me a shittin’ thing!”

  She turned toward Pat and continued, “And as for you, Miss, if I ever hear any more shit ’bout you sneakin’ round wit’ Rudy, I’ll kick your queeny white ass into Thursday!”

  “I didn’t do nothing. And I ain’t white! I may look white, but I. . . .” Before Pat could catch her breath and finish her statement, the preacher, now indignant, stood up, stuffed his hat onto his head and said, “You had better mend your ways, Sister, or the Lord’s gonna come down on you like a truckload a wet tobacco!”

  “And you had better mind your own business,“ Jimmie interjected, “or I’m gonna come down on you with the fat end of that bottle! Now get your lumpy ass outta here.”

  “You ain’t heard the end of this, Jimmie Lee Faison!” Mayfield stormed out of the house, mumbling something about the wrath of God evicting Jimmie. She ignored his remark and focused her attention on Pat, simultaneously pouring herself another drink.

  “But Momma, I really love Rudy!” Pat blurted out. “And I want to marry him.”

  Jimmie stood with the glass up to her lips. She said nothing, then slowly placed the glass down on the table and folded her arms, sitting in silence. Finally she said, “OK, Miss Know-It-All, if you want to marry Rudy—then that’s what you’ll do.”

  The following day, Jimmie went to the courthouse to find out the legal requirements to marry at thirteen. Pat was anxious and overjoyed at the idea. She immediately called Rudy to let him in on the wonderful news. But to her surprise, he wasn’t as enthusiastic. He was aloof and guarded, trying to dismiss the exciting news as just another plan that would go awry. At the time, Pat was unaware that he was being pressured by his brother and sister-in-law to stop seeing Pat altogether. Not because she wasn’t a nice person, but because she was only thirteen years old, which was young enough to keep Rudy in jail for a long time.

  When Jimmie returned with the details from the court, Pat realized that she wasn’t as mature as she thought. The law was clear. Pat had to wait until her sixteenth birthday. The love she longed for was right at her fingertips, yet too far away to touch.

  Pat continued to scheme on new ways to be alone with Rudy, always trying to fool her momma and disregarding the consequences. With each tryst, she noticed Rudy’s enthusiasm diminish. He became more distant. She preferred to believe it was fear.

  As one season rolled into another, Pat continued to attract boys her own age. Each Friday or Saturday night, Pat’s clique from school got together for house parties. Jimmie encouraged anything that took Pat’s mind off of Rudy. But Pat was still detached. Her limited experience with a man made it difficult for boys her own age to compete. One of her friends was a fifteen-year-old boy, who they all called Pickles. He was big for his age, over six feet, with the body of a grown man, wide shoulders, and broad hips. In spite of his imposing size, his nature was gentle and friendly.

  Jimmie emerged from her room half-lit while Pickles was standing in the kitchen, talking with Pat during one of his rare visits. “Where’s my drink?” she asked, holding a straw broom in one hand.

  Pat looked around, pretending not to know what she was talking about. “I dunno,” said Pat, continuing to wash dishes. “Must of finished it.”

  “No, You threw it out!” shouted Jimmie. “Didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Pat. “I dunno where you left it.”

  “Yes, you did. There’s the goddamn glass—empty, sittin’ on the drain board. You always throwin’ away my drinks; every time I get one, you throw it out!” Jimmie said. “I’m sick and tired of you sneakin’ about touchin’ my stuff.”

  “I didn’t do it!”

  “I’ll make sure you never do it again!” Her movement was quick and deliberate. She grabbed her daughter by the back of the hair and pulled her down on to the floor. In a flash, Jimmie had the broom handle across Pat’s neck, her foot holding it down, forcing Pat to squeal in agony as she tried to hold it back from crushing her windpipe.

  “I’ll kill you!” shrieked Jimmie. “I’ll kill you, you no-good bitch!”

  Pat’s eyes flooded with tears and suddenly the weight was lifted. Pickles picked Jimmie up off her feet and placed her to one side. She began beating on him and screaming louder than before.

  “Mind your own business, stay away from me, stay away!” He barely felt her punches. Pat looked up and saw his big, black frame standing over her, shielding her from the violent attacker while Jimmie pounded on his back. “Get out my goddamn house! You don’t belong here stickin’ your nose in with my family. Get out!”

  Pat stood upright, while Pickles remained motionless, allowing her time to catch her breath. Pat rushed to her room and locked the door with a small wooden chair propped against the doorknob. Pickles ambled out without a word.

  During the night, Pat awoke to a sudden coolness. Silently, in the darkness, she began to shiver. She tried to move her arms to warm the chill, but her limbs did not respond. She tried to move just her fingers, but again, nothing moved. Her body felt paralyzed. She heard nothing, not even her own breath. Suddenly, a brilliant white light appeared from the closet. Her heart fluttered and her bed began to shake vigorously.

  Beads of sweat crept from her forehead onto her brow. As the white light grew brighter, Pat fought desperately to close her eyes, but she couldn’t move. It was hopeless. Fear overwhelmed her.

  And just as her heart pounded loudly enough to hammer the silence, an apparition of Big Momma appeared, surrounded by a brilliant glow that emanated from the closet. To Pat, Big Momma seemed to have come through from the “other side.” The soft, reassuring voice whispered in her ear. “Pat . . . Pat,” she called, “get out of this house. If you don’t, someone’s gonna die—and it will probably be you!”

  Big Momma had always loved her. Pat knew she was telling the truth.

  The light faded, the shaking stopped and the chill vanished just as quickly as it appeared. Pat relaxed. Her arms and legs moved freely. She sat up in bed; a sheet pulled up close to her neck. Her fears subsided. Exhausted and confused, she fell asleep in spite of her strongest efforts to keep watch.

  In the morning, she waited until Jimmie and Homer left the house before calling Aunt Rosie to let her know what had happened. Pat was afraid and wanted some type of protection. But instead of Rosie, Roxy answered the phone. “My mother’s not here,” Roxy said. “She already left the house.”

  “But I gotta talk to her. Where’d she go? To work already?” Pat asked.

  “What’s the matter with you? You in some kind of trouble?” Roxy asked.

  After Pat relayed the events of the night before, Roxy took matters into her own hands. “Well, you get over here, right now. Soon as I hang up I’m gonna call the Welfare Department.”

  “Wait, don’t be rushing into stuff like that,” Pat said. “I mean we just can’t go down there and say what happened. Who’s gonna believe me?”

  “Well if I believe you, why wouldn’t they? They ain’t no different than me. I talked to those people before lots of times. Like when they was interviewing my momma about the woman who used to live next door. She was trying to be a foster parent and they came to the house. They ain’t so tough. Ain’t no tougher than you.”

  “But I don’t have to do nothing, right?” Pat asked. “I mean, we could jus’ go talk to them and see what they got to say.”

  “It couldn’t hurt. They might be able to help,” Roxy said, “Who knows?”

  The social worker assigned to her case was Mrs. Morrissey, a woman in her late forties. She spoke softly and didn’t seem to be surprised at the fact that Jimmie had tried to kill Pat. “I hear this every week,” the woman said, “so don’t feel afraid. You’re not the only one out there who is in trouble. Just know that it’s our job to protect you from danger, no matter who causes the problem.” Mrs. Morrisey put d
own her pen and folded her arms, sitting back on her small office chair. Her eyes flickered back and forth from Pat to Roxy, finally settling on Pat.

  “I’m still confused. Tell me again how you got to live with your momma.” She said.

  “I already went through that twice,” Pat said. “I was adopted, period.”

  “But my concern is that you’re so white. You don’t look like you fit in with your family,” Mrs. Morrisey said.

  “Well, I do belong; I’m mixed, half-white, half-black. Some mixed people are real dark brown, others are light brown. Their skin is mixed and stirred. Mine ain’t. I’m black inside and white outside,” Pat said. “And I can’t never change any of that. It just is.”

  “Okay, I’m still confused, but I get the picture. Let’s take care of one problem at a time. The way I see it, the first thing to do is to relieve the tension at home. I’ll call your momma, Jimmie Lee and. . . .”

  “No, no, you can’t even think ’bout doin’ that,” said Pat. “If she finds out I talked with the Welfare Office, she’ll go crazy!”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Morrisey, “then we’ll just have to place you in the hands of a foster parent—someone recognized by the State to be responsible for you, at least temporarily.”

  Roxy interjected. “Why can’t she stay with us? My mother always said that if Pat can’t handle Jimmie, then she should come stay with her.”

  “Is she a foster parent?” Mrs. Morrisey asked.

  “I dunno; she knows how to take care of us kids.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Morrisey said, “but she must be qualified by the State and registered through our office. Now in the meantime, they will remove you from the house where you live—tomorrow. Since you believe that it’s too dangerous to confront your so-called mother, I’ll just leave her an official notice telling her that the State has decided to remove you from her care for your own safety. She will then have to contact them, and they know how to deal with her.”