Silent Cry (5 page)

We looked up Miss Garlington's telephone number, and I called her. I was excited
to hear her voice on the other end of the line, and I almost shouted that we were
at last here in Monroe. We had come just as she had suggested! I expected her to
be overjoyed to hear from me, and I was sure she would come right
over to rescue
us. However, the response on the end of the line was far from the joyful one I anticipated.
She sounded shocked and clearly taken off guard. When I told her my mother was ill,
instead of rushing in to assist, Miss Garlington was hesitant to help. In the end,
she proved to be no help at all.

I was crushed. Miss Garlington had promised to help us escape. She had always been
a mentor to me, and I trusted her. Now, when I needed her most, she did not make
good on her word. I never felt more alone than I did in that motel room. My heart
was broken, and I felt betrayed. I was angry and frightened and confused — and determined
not to go back to my stepfather.

Mother grew sicker and sicker, but we couldn't afford a doctor, much less an extended
stay in a motel. Without Miss Garlington's assistance, we didn't have many options.
Disheartened, we packed everything back into the Impala and headed back toward New
Orleans.

This time, there were no jokes or songs or laughter. The mood in the car was subdued.
My mood was blackest of all. I had convinced Mother to go to Monroe, and I had let
her down — I had let the whole family down. My hope vanished like a mirage in the
desert, and something inside me broke. Hot, angry tears streamed from my eyes.
How
could Miss Garlington do this? What would we do now?
Mother tried to comfort me.
She told me that God would take care of us and that it wasn't Miss Garlington's fault.

We made our way back to New Orleans, not knowing how we would survive. We checked
into another motel, our money all but gone. Sick but determined, my mother called
Ms. Terry, a good friend from the Church of Christ back home. She told her we were
out of money and needed to find a place to stay in New Orleans. Ms. Terry called
Elysian Fields Church of Christ in New Orleans to share our plight.

These beautiful people came out right away to see us. A dear woman who introduced
herself as Sister Rew immediately set things into motion. She found us a place to
live near my great-grandmother's house and somehow gathered necessities to help us
through. All six of us were enrolled in school, though now instead of attending the
same school together, as we had in Buras, we had to be in three different schools,
and I had to go alone.

Each morning, I walked Helaine, John, and Leslie to their school and then walked
about nine more miles to my school. My mother resumed her job as a custodian and
carpooled for the seventy-five-minute commute back to Buras. This required her to
rise before 5:00 a.m. each day to catch her ride by 5:30. The long commute was difficult,
and she still suffered from seizures and headaches. Her absence meant I had more
responsibility to care for my younger siblings. We were far away from my aunts and
our community of family and friends, which meant I was on my own when Mother was
gone. And things here were different — fast-paced and dangerous. We no longer suffered
abuse, but we couldn't exactly say things were good.

In time, I made friends. Most of them walked halfway to school and then caught public
transportation for the rest of the way. I didn't have any money, so I couldn't afford
to ride with them. I pretended I liked the exercise, and I was so athletic that no
one seemed to question my motives.

Many of my friends skipped school and got into trouble hanging around Bourbon Street.
Sometimes these friends offered me rides, but I knew better than to accept. I was
keenly aware of the price my mother had paid for our escape and what she had sacrificed
for our safety. I admired her bravery, and I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing
her or wasting her sacrifice. She wanted us to have a better life. She wanted me
to
get an education and have better choices. I wouldn't have traded that for anything.

I often walked to the corner grocery store to purchase scraps of meat and other necessities.
A nice boy my age worked there, and we occasionally struck up a conversation. Like
others, he too offered to drive me to school, but I declined. When I said no, he
decided he would walk with me and maybe then we could work our way up to riding in
his car. I did like him, but I wasn't ready to trust again. Miss Garlington's betrayal
was still too fresh in my mind. Even this kind gesture felt like pressure I wasn't
ready to deal with.

When the spring semester ended, I was fifteen and had just completed my sophomore
year of high school. We had made our escape and were surviving, but my mother's health
worsened. She could no longer continue the long commute back and forth to Buras
each day. And she was increasingly concerned about how much time we spent alone and
fending for ourselves. Eventually, she secured a job at a hotel in downtown New Orleans
and worked another part-time job to make ends meet. But her body never really recovered
from the abuse she had suffered, and working long hours with so little rest continued
to take a toll. Mother got sick again, and the precarious balance of our lives once
more spun out of control.

CHAPTER 5

Back to Buras

Every tyrant who has lived has believed in freedom for himself.

Elbert Hubbard

M
y mother called me into her room and shut the door.

“Dorothy,” she said, her voice
soft
and
mellow, “I know how hard you worked so we could leave. I don't think I ever could
have done it without you.” She paused to gather her thoughts, and I felt my stomach
tighten. “I am so very proud of you. I want all my children to have the chance for
a better life.”

“You're so smart,” she continued. “I know you can be something and make something
of yourself. You are almost a grown woman.” Her voice trailed away, and for a moment
her thoughts drifted to something far away.

She lifted my chin and smoothed my hair with a gesture so gentle you would have thought
I was a newborn baby, not a young woman about to enter her junior year of high school.
My heart was racing. I looked into her eyes, searching for a clue about where she
was going with this conversation. Before she even said the words, I knew they were
coming.

“We can't stay here in New Orleans anymore,” she said. “We need to go back home.”

Silence.

I held my breath. I wasn't sure what to feel. Waves of emotion rolled over me like
the crazy pattern of the waves in the Gulf before an approaching storm. My mind raced.
Home?
I thought.
Is she crazy? He'll kill us!
I was holding a handkerchief in my
hands, and I twisted it round and round, trying to settle my mind and emotions.

“What is the plan?” I finally asked, breaking the silence. “When do you want to go?
What do you need me to do?”

In the next few minutes, my mother rattled off details like a military general. I
could tell she had been thinking this through for some time and there would be no
changing her mind. She kept assuring all of us that things would be different. She
was sure my stepfather would be so happy to have us home that he wouldn't want to
drink anymore. We were less enthusiastic, but as we packed and talked about seeing
our aunts and cousins again, the mood in our little place brightened. Life in New
Orleans had been hard, and it was easy to believe that going home might be the best
thing after all.

Mother was right. Lester was really glad to see us. I don't know what he and Mother
talked about, but he was eager for us to move back into the trailer, and he was genuinely
helpful getting us settled in.

For the first few months, it seemed like a dream. There were lots of big family dinners,
and it was lovely to see my aunts and laugh with my cousins again. Things felt familiar
and safe and normal. The people at our church were overjoyed at our return and made
us feel welcome. My mother got her old job back. She looked younger, and she smiled
more often. My stepfather seemed to want this to work as well. He had missed us.
I know he loved my mother, and he seemed to love us too.
Maybe this would work out
after all!

My stepfather and I even had some good times together. He decided it was time for
me to learn how to drive. We spent many hours together as he taught me how to steer
and use the gas pedal and the brake. It was the most fun I had ever had with him.
During my driving lessons, I imagined this was what normal dads did with their daughters.
Things really were different. Everything was going to be okay — this time for good.

But it wasn't for good. A few weeks later, I awoke to a crash in the kitchen. It
was 3:30 a.m., and an angry voice had shattered the stillness of the night. There
were harsh words — something about my mother being worthless and why didn't she have
something decent ready for him to eat. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping this was a
bad dream. Then another crash, and a cabinet door slammed shut. My mother was crying
now. I couldn't actually hear her, but I knew she was crying. The nightmare had returned.

I heard the unmistakable sound of a hand striking flesh and felt sick to my stomach.
I felt as though a giant hand were pressing me into my mattress. I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't move. I was bound as surely as if shackles were locked tightly around
my arms and legs. “God!” I shouted. Another slap. “Jesus!” I cried. I sobbed until
my pillow was wet with tears. “Please,” I whispered. I was gripped by fear and anger.
I felt like I was choking. “Please, God . . .” is all I could manage to say.

In the morning, I got up for school and headed to the kitchen. There was no trace
of the fight. My mother had cleaned everything up like it never even happened. We
were all quiet — deathly quiet. Even the birds were silent. No one dared to speak.
Mother fixed breakfast without a word, but no one had any appetite. “Eat, children,”
she commanded, but there was no energy in her words. We dutifully took a bite or
two, and one by one we slipped out for school.

The fairy tale had ended. The routine of drunken violence returned as though nothing
had ever interrupted it.

Located on our property, sitting parallel to our trailer, was an even smaller, vacant
two-bedroom trailer. One day after school, Mother announced we were moving over there.
It was crazy. All seven of us were going to move into that tiny space and leave the
larger trailer for my stepfather. It didn't make any
sense, but none of us even bothered
to ask my mother why he didn't move out instead. We simply packed our clothes and
bedding and walked across the yard to our new home.

My mother continued to cook, clean, and do laundry for my stepfather. They stayed
married, but lived in separate trailers. Sometimes he came home drunk in the middle
of the night and banged on our door, screaming for my mother to come outside. Those
were terrible nights. We kept the door locked and huddled in the dark, waiting for
the alcohol to make him sleepy so he would leave. Sometimes he cried or begged or
apologized, and my mother cried too. Even though he was terrible, she loved him.

Eventually, my older brother Gary couldn't take it anymore. He left school and got
a job. Before long, he was married and determined to have a better life, or at least
a new one. The physical abuse was less now that we lived in a separate trailer, but
the emotional and verbal abuse was disruptive and damaging. Long after the yelling
stopped, I could still hear it in my head.

I often felt like I lived two separate lives. One life was at home — and everything
there was mechanical. I did chores, cooked food, washed clothes, took care of my
brothers and sisters, and worried about my mother. I felt trapped. I loved my family
but hated how we lived. But at school, things were different. There, I was alive.
I made choices for myself, and people respected me.