Crave (9 page)

He didn't have to warn me again. I knew telling would only mean bad things for me. “Now go into the bathroom and pee,” he said.

I was so grateful to be out of Momma's room, so afraid I would have to go back, that I forced urine out of me as quickly as my bladder would allow and wiped from front to back as Momma had always instructed me to. I felt a void, an absence of flesh in the middle of me, even though I saw red tears trickling onto the surface of the water. I wiped again, front to back, and then again, front to back, until the red trickles ceased.

By the time I left the bathroom, Pee Wee was on the loveseat, watching television. His legs were in their usual position, draped along the arm of the chair and he had one hand resting on his belly, while the other one was wedged behind his neck.

“Get me a cup of Kool-Aid, Laurie. Then you can go back outside. You can have a cup for yourself too.” I poured Pee Wee's Kool-Aid in a glass that had a crack, which ran from the bottom of the cup to the brim. I stared at it curiously, wondering how it still had strength to hold itself together while so broken. Then I poured a cup for myself. I sat there and sipped the Kool-Aid, afraid if I gulped, I would choke. It was cold going down my throat, but it tasted saltier than it did sweet. I realized the sweet was mixing with the sweat on my upper lip, which made me think of Pee Wee's sweat. After that, I couldn't drink anymore. I tiptoed past Pee Wee, placed the cup on the coffee table, and found the once locked door, unlocked and slightly opened. I carefully went down the stairs and sat where the porch and the steps met. Champ and Dathan had finished their last match with Ryan and Tyler and were covered in dirt. They ran over to me on the porch, panting out words that were supposed to describe how they'd kicked Ryan's and Tyler's butts. Dathan spotted the red line atop my lip and asked, “Laurie, you got some Kool-Aid? I want some? How come you able to get some when it's not lunch or dinnertime?”

“Yeah,” Champ echoed, “How come you were able to get some?”

I didn't know what to say. I had no answer for what I had done, what acts had led to what I once thought was a gift. Champ then
began making his way up the stairs, “I'm gonna ask Pee Wee can I have some, too,” he said, envy floating through his words.

“Champ, you don't want to do that,” I said, afraid Pee Wee would think I had told and Champ possibly wanted the same thing I had gotten.

“Why not,” Champ asked, “If you got some, I can have some.”

“Yeah,” Dathan said.

“You don't want it, Champ. It's not even good. It tastes like it has salt in it, like he mixed it with salt instead of sugar. I put most of mine back. So, don't ask him for any 'cause he's gonna get mad if he knows you know.” Champ looked at me with skepticism, but eventually turned away.

“Man, I don't want no Kool-Aid anyway. Dathan, let's go over to Ryan and Tyler's and see if they mixed anymore of their daddy's beer with Kool-Aid. Maybe they'll give us some this time.” Both Dathan and Champ hopped off of the porch and made their way to the Wozniaks' house. I, again, was alone.

The sun shone so brightly, I could barely open my eyes. I felt as if I were burning, even though there was a small breeze caressing my skin. I sat on the porch and looked out at the cars zooming on the interstate. The reds, the blues, and the greens were all a blur. I wondered about the people in the cars and if some of them held the same secret I now held. I wondered if their worlds allowed people like me to live in them despite the awful thing I had just done. I thought about Pee Wee upstairs on the couch, gulping down the Kool-Aid, tasting every grain of sugar. I wanted nothing more than to be away from him, riding in one of those cars, transformed into a red, green, or blue blur. But I knew that could not be. There wasn't a car big enough to carry my family and the secret I now owned. So, I sat on the porch and looked at the black oak, waving in the wind, strong, tall, solid. The opposite of me.

Learning Curve
Learning Curve

There's a learning curve to being a victim. It's not something most people know how to immediately do well. Just as the first time a child sets out to ride a bike and her feet search for ground, there is a yearning for balance, a straggling between the lines of victimhood and survival. The abuse continued, but life happened in between. Pee Wee no longer had to threaten me. He could smell my fear whenever he hugged Momma or picked up Mary.

After the first time, I knew exactly what would happen when Momma left the house. And when it didn't happen, I wondered what was wrong, what had hindered him from calling me into the room and “doing his thing.” It was on those days fear set in. If he wasn't doing it to me, whom was he doing it to? I started watching Champ and Dathan, praying I wouldn't see the same haze in their eyes I imagined everyone saw in mine.

On the days it did happen, I lay still, soaked in Pee Wee's sweat, counting the birds that flew by the window, counting the pumps of his pelvis. I sometimes pondered what Momma was doing at work and if she was thinking about me. I wondered if she'd cook biscuits that night, and how I needed to work on my dough-rolling technique. I wondered when it would be over and then I wondered when it would happen again.

As life grew from day to day, month to month, I learned my mind didn't have to reside where my body did. If I tried hard enough, thought hard enough, there were other places in the world I could be. Like on Virginia Beach, sitting in the sand with Momma, watching her hair blowing in the wind and her flat stomach pressed against the front of her bathing suit. I wondered how we'd all fit in there, whether there was enough of her left inside after we left her body. I'd see Momma take two of our hands and then instruct the others to do the same. She'd take all four of us, all of her kids, and walk
us into the ocean, letting the waves beat at our feet, then our knees, then our waists. The sun would shine so heavily on our backs and shoulders we'd retreat farther into the water, thwarting its attempts at burning flesh. We'd form a small circle, allowing the water to make us all one body, and we'd drift together, unafraid of the vast sea, keeping each other afloat.

On good days, I could make an image like that last from beginning to end. On not-so-good days, I was jolted out of my dreams and hurled back into a moment of stabbing pulses, splitting me like a nut. On those days, I felt everything, the softness of the bed as Pee Wee pushed me deeper and deeper into it, the saltiness of the sweat that dripped from his chest to my lips. I heard the panting from deep inside of him, smothering me with its weight. On those days I panicked. I feared I'd never feel, smell, taste, or hear anything else again.

One night Momma agreed to let us put our mattress on the living room floor because
Charlie Brown
was coming on television and we kids had been celebrating since we'd seen the commercial. While Mary and I jumped around the room singing about Charlie Brown's big head, Champ was trying to kick an invisible football. He kept falling on his butt, which caused all of us to grab our bellies and laugh. Just before the show came on, there was a hard knock at the door, one that made us scurry into Momma's room where safety was supposed to be guaranteed. Momma had also heard the knock and quickly put on her robe, making her way to the door. Champ, Dathan, and I stood peeping out of her bedroom door, ready to pounce, but just as happy to remain in the quiet of the room. Momma opened the door and two policemen were standing there with hands on guns and scowls on their faces.

“Ma'am,” one of them said. “Is Louis Thomas Carr here?”

“No,” Momma replied, “I haven't seen him.”

“We have this as his address and it's imperative we locate him.”

Momma asked, “What's wrong? Maybe if I know what's wrong, I can get a message to him.”

“We can't share that with you, but I can say it's extremely important we find him.”

“Well, when I see him, I'll be sure to call the police.” Momma softly pushed the door closed and then erupted into action. I couldn't understand what was going on, but she was going through all of the papers in the living room, leaving whatever popped out of the drawer on the floor. Her hands moved so fast I could barely see them. She then went into her bedroom and combed through her junk drawer, which was filled with miscellaneous papers. Momma found what she was looking for and rushed to the door.

“Champ and Laurie, watch the kids. I'll be right back,” she said as she rushed out of the door. Champ and I stared at each other, looking for understanding in each other's eyes. We sat alone for about ten minutes, watching the blue and red lights dancing around the walls of the living room. Momma came back in the house and ordered us to get on the mattress and turn off the television. There would be no
Charlie Brown
for us that night. Mrs. Walker, our next door neighbor, came back with Momma and tried to cajole us to sleep as Momma paced from room to room.

Mrs. Walker was at least twenty years older than Momma and each line in her face and forehead proved that. She had a daughter, Towana, who was about six years older than me. I wasn't fond of her because she liked pulling on the billowy ponytails Momma put on the top of my head and calling them “doo doo balls.” This angered me, but I'd then joke on the fact that her momma straightened her hair with old chicken grease and that's why she was bald headed. Towana came over after her mother and sat with us. Mrs. Walker went into the kitchen with Momma where I heard hiccupping cries escaping Momma's mouth. I began to cry too and the rest of my siblings followed. Towana whispered into my ear with a quietness she'd never had before:

“It's okay, Laurie. Your Momma's okay.”

“But, what's wrong?” I asked. “What's happening?” Towana looked over to the kitchen, making sure Momma and her mother couldn't hear.

“The police are looking for Pee Wee because they say that he grabbed a girl and tried to do the nasty to her.” I heard Momma pleading with Mrs. Walker in the other room.

Towana continued, “They said he tried to kill the girl and threw her in a dumpster. He's going to be in so much trouble when they find him.”

I couldn't believe Towana's words, but I also couldn't believe how conflicted I was about the news. I had so many questions gnawing at my mind: Would he go to jail? Would Momma be okay? Could he have really tried to kill a girl? Maybe she had talked when he told her not to. I was happy I hadn't.

I knew Pee Wee could harm because I had seen that in his eyes, but could he have almost tried to murder someone? Could his threats have escaped the confines of Momma's bedroom? I began to cry again, but I didn't know why. I could feel Momma's heart breaking in the other room. I could hear the anguish weighing on every part of her as she called out for Pee Wee and began praying on his behalf. I wanted him to come back so Momma could stop crying, but I wanted him to stay away so I could stop crying when Momma wasn't there.

We all cried that night, about the past, about the future, about what was lost, and what was gained. One fact was not lost on me in that moment. If the police caught Pee Wee, I would be free. There would be no more counting birds while counting thrusts. There would be no more runs for Kool-Aid, while being shuffled into Momma's bedroom. There'd only be the memories of those things, memories I could rewrite because they'd be imprisoned along with Pee Wee.

The police eventually caught Pee Wee and he was tried for the crime of rape. Momma never discussed the trial with us, but words were not necessary. I could see in her body and her actions when things were going well. On those days, Momma came home walking tall and we'd all spend the night playing with our new brother, Tom-Tom, and laughing about how much he looked like his daddy. When things weren't going well, Momma returned late
and only had enough energy to make a dinner of flour bread with cut up hotdogs that rolled around on our plates. We didn't talk much about Pee Wee on those days. We didn't talk much at all.

Those were days when I was most conflicted because I allowed myself to believe Pee Wee wouldn't be coming back. I allowed myself to celebrate, even though I hadn't trusted myself for a long time. Still, I hoped and dreamed about days where Pee Wee's return wasn't an ever-looming possibility.

After the trial ended, Momma secluded herself in her bedroom. Frightening groans rose and fell, pulled from the deepest parts of her as she cried for her man. Towana sat in our bedroom with us while we waited for answers. “They found Pee Wee guilty,” she said as she shook her head from side to side. I wasn't sure what that meant, but by Momma's cries, I knew he'd never come back. I knew then I was safe. For the first and only time in my life, I found pleasure in my mother's tears.

No-No Zone
No-No Zone

During the middle of my first-grade year we moved to Academy Park. That meant a new home and a new school. It was a newness I relished, hoping I'd be able to leave behind old memories. When I was in Mrs. Roundtree's second-grade class, we had a special speaker come in one day. She was the tallest woman I'd ever seen. Thick, greasy hair sat like worms on her shoulders, and she had a face the color of milk. I sat in the front row of class and listened as she showed us, on the silhouette of a body, our “no-no” zones.

“No one should touch you here, here, or here,” she said as she slapped the ruler against the three red circles on the poster board. “If anyone does, you need to tell a grownup as soon as possible.”

As she elaborated on how bad it was for someone to touch the red zones, I began to feel like the ceiling, the walls, and the floor were folding around me. All eyes seemed to be zeroing in on the back of my head, reading the words “I'm guilty too” flashing inside me. I tried not to look into her face as she explained we should not keep this secret and it was wrong. I didn't need her to tell me that. I knew my secret was the wrongest thing about me. Even as the woman said it was never the child's fault, there was a knot settling in my throat I couldn't ignore. My mouth was dry and my nose began to itch, but I was intent on staying still. I had, for so long, been alone in my secret. That there were others, like me, like Pee Wee, petrified my breathing.

After the lady left, I decided I'd tell Momma everything that happened between Pee Wee and me. I already believed I was wrong for letting it happen and wrong for keeping it secret, but I didn't have to be wrong forever. I could find right through telling Momma. There were no butterflies in my stomach, only the roughness of a dry cocoon, twisting into itself inside of me.

I rushed through my spelling test and daydreamed through my Social Studies lesson, wishing I were home telling Momma my
secret. After school, I flung my book bag over my back and hurried home. I rushed into the door, inadvertently slamming it into the wall as I dropped my things to the floor. Momma was sitting in front of the stove straightening her hair. Clouds of smoked escaped into the air each time she pressed the metal into her wavy mane. I had always been mesmerized by the way she held the parted hair between her pointer and middle fingers, pressed the hot comb as close as she could to her scalp, and ironed out her hair's original texture. With each section she finished, there wasn't a trace of the curls and tangles that had populated the space just minutes before. I wondered if she could iron my secret out of me.

The sun shined in from the screen door as Momma sat at the kitchen table with the mirror propped on her legs. A comb hung in her hair as she guided the hot comb from her scalp to her ends.

“Momma, is Pee Wee still in jail?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, being careful not to burn her scalp as she straightened another portion of her hair. The smell of burnt hair mixed with Blue Magic grease made me a little dizzy.

“How long will he be there?”

“A long time, baby.”

“But how long?” I asked again.

“About fifteen more years.” I did the math in my head. That would be long enough for him to forget about me. I took in a deep breath and pushed the words out:

“Momma, Pee Wee used to do the nasty to me.”

Momma paused, then slammed the straightening comb onto the flames. The stovetop shook violently as Momma hissed, “That motherfucker.”

I quickly retreated into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. I sat on the tub with a grimace, even I couldn't understand. Listening for screaming or crying, I stayed huddled in the bathroom, wishing I had never told. After I heard a small tap on the door, Momma poked her head in and asked if she could enter. She normally went into any room without requesting entry. She wouldn't even let us close doors because she said they all belonged
to her, but there was something different this time, this space that now stood between us.

Momma sat on the tub beside me. She took my hand into hers and stared straight into my eyes. I tried to look away, but the curve of her downturned lips held me captive.

“Laurie, you know the difference between a lie and the truth, right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“So, you need to tell me the truth right now.” There was a quiet panic to her voice that made my heart beat fast.

“I will,” I whispered.

“Now, tell me what he did to you.”

“The nasty. He did the nasty to me.”

“What does that mean?” Momma asked. “What exactly did he do?”

“He made me lay on the bed and he stuck his thing in me.” She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Where was I?” she asked.

“At work, mostly, and sometimes at the store.”

Momma released my hands and lowered hers to her lap. She began to strangle the bottom of her shirt as she held it clenched in her hand.

She spoke slowly, as if she were afraid to hear the answer to the next question, “Laurie, are you sure he was inside of you?”

I didn't know what she meant. He had definitely been inside of me, inside of my mind, inside of my body. Since that first day in that room, “doing the nasty” had always meant
inside of me
and I'd just assumed it meant the same thing for Momma.

“Yes, ma'am. I'm sure,” I said.

“But how do you know?” Momma asked as she leaned toward me. I turned over in my mind how it was that I knew, working to find which answer would be the right one. I knew because he had lain in open parts of me and, as a consequence, there were bits of me that never fit together again. I knew because of the rawness that stung in between my legs as I tried to keep up with Dathan and Champ while we chased each other after . . . I knew because I had
looked down as he went deeper, as his hips bumped my hips. That, to me, was enough, but I could not say all of those things to her.

“Momma,” I said, “I knew because it hurt.” She raised her hand and wiped it across her face. She inhaled deeply and looked up at the small window over the tub. I wanted to go wherever she was going, where her mind was taking her to safety. I wanted to fly away too, away from reality, away from my secret, but I couldn't go because my eyes were focused on the tears that crowded Momma's eyes.

“I'm sorry that happened to you, Laurie,” she paused. “I saw blood in your underwear once, but he said you fell on a fence. How did I not know? I'm so sorry I didn't know.”

I interrupted, something I'd normally never do when Momma was speaking, but we were sharing and I could feel there'd be no offense, no feelings of disrespect between the two of us there.

“I saved you, Momma,” I said. “That's why I didn't tell—because he was going to kill you and Mary.” Momma looked at me and nodded as if she understood. She stared into my eyes, her mind asking questions of me she'd asked of herself years earlier, reliving nights in her daddy's house, men with trembling hands, barely able to hold liquor, pulling her body, palming it, rubbing it, all while her daddy did business in the next room.

He would have killed each and every one of them, if he had known what they were doing to her, just as Momma would have killed Pee Wee if she had known. Still, this happened again and again, to mother, to daughter. The questions live beyond the abuse, and the answers are elusive, racing from one generation to the next.

Momma rose from the side of the tub and pulled me by the hand. She held me close and wrapped her arms around me. I heard her insides moving as I rested my head on her stomach. I held her tightly, wishing I could squeeze out the pain, her pain, my pain. We stood and cried, not as mother and daughter, but as two girls trying to understand why being a child, with dolls, days filled with play, and childhood fantasy, could not be enough, not for either of us.