The Blackbirds (42 page)

After Ericka rang the doorbell a dozen times, lights came on upstairs. Ericka rang again and again and again. The porch light came on, blinded her, and made her cover her eyes. Soon lights came on over the grand stairway that led to the foyer. The front door was wood and glass, and the glass allowed strangers to look inside and see the glory of success. Mrs. Stockwell came down the stairs like she was the belle of the ball, the fluid movements of a ballerina long past her prime, but still limber. Instead of carrying her Bible, she carried a gun.

Mrs. Stockwell opened the heavy wooden door, her hair down across her shoulders, feet bare, her body wrapped in a red kimono that stopped above her knees. She had a wardrobe malfunction that created a Nipplegate moment.

Ericka took a deep breath. Her mother was in Jayne Mansfield mode, was trying to be more Marilyn Monroe than Marilyn Monroe ever was. Her mother smelled of a soft perfume. Her lipstick had been kissed away. Or she had lost it when she was on her knees giving head. Her mother held the gun at her side. Ericka was not surprised. Her mother slept nude, “man ready” Ericka called it, and kept a gun on top of her Bible. Mrs. Stockwell had bought her .38 after her estranged husband had slapped her one time too many. Despite all the long dresses her mother wore, at home Mrs. Stockwell was practically a nudist, and the woman would pull a gun on a trespasser like she was Nina Simone having a bad day.

Mrs. Stockwell asked, “Is there something wrong with your mind, Ericka?”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Stockwell. But we know that is not possible.”

“And what did you do with your hair? That's the only reprehensible thing I see.”

“Don't worry about my hair.”

“Why are you bald? That ugly hairstyle you had, it was better than being bald.”

“Worry about getting yours pulled out of your head by the handful.”

Ericka motioned at the vehicle parked in the driveway, the one that would not be able to go anywhere unless it sprouted wings. Ericka was sure that her mother's company had already spied out the window, and if he had thought he could sneak away, he had another think coming.

Ericka said, “The hood of his hot car is stone cold. He's been here supplicating awhile.”

“This is my home, my life, and what goes on between these walls is not your concern.”

“Have the decency to have your
guest
park in
the
garage before you allow him to park inside
your
garage, Mrs. Stockwell. When you screw a married man, he should hide his ride, or at least be smart enough to park two blocks away, in case his wife drives by. My ex-husband never parked in front of his mistresses' homes. You have to learn to play the cheater's game. That's why you're at the door with a gun. In case his wife and daughter were here with me too.”

“Are you here to castigate consenting adults?”

“You deserve severe castigation and a scarlet letter for both adultery and hypocrisy. Women have been turned to stone for less. Women have been
stoned
for what you've done.”

“Are you going to leave now, run back and tell all of your friends?”

“I'm not going to be the one who breaks up her family. That man's wife and daughter would go Dark Continent on you and beat you down, leave you on the floor naked and crying while they waved your panties in the air like their flag of victory, but you don't have any panties on, so
they would pull your precious hair from your head by the roots and wave that instead.”

“Why are you here at this ungodly hour?”

“The chapters from Debra's memoir. I have the four chapters she wrote about us.”

“You are at my door ringing my bell like you've gone mad because of her?”

“It's time for us to face these words, at the hour when God is on Benadryl.”

“You know I have company, yet you come to my door, ring my bell like a madwoman.”

“I can make one phone call and this night will only be the beginning for both of you.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Her mother is more of a mother to me than you have ever been,
Mrs
. Stockwell, and I barely know the woman. But I am not here because of that. I am here because of us.”

“Whatever you have, I don't want to deal with that mess from yesteryear at this moment.”

“You think I give a damn what you feel like dealing with? Do you think I feel like dealing with this? Do you? I am dealing with this now because I am forced to deal with this now.”

“I want you to leave my property, Ericka.”

“I want you to invite me inside of your home.”

“
You're not welcome here
. How dare you invite me to
leave
where you stay, and then have the audacity to show up on my front porch and expect entrance into my blessed home?”

“Invite me in, or I will drag you out and be loud enough to wake your neighbors.”

“Ericka, don't do this. Don't make an ass of yourself.”

“I'm not the ass. He needs to be ashamed of himself.”

“Lower your voice.”

“You need to be twice as ashamed.”

“Don't force me to call the police.”

“I'll call them for you, right after I call Mount Olympus and tell his
wife he's here putting some African inside of your American. You make a call and I'll make a call, and we'll wait on his family.”

Mrs. Stockwell stepped aside, held the heavy door, and surrendered her space.

Ericka entered her mother's version of heaven on Earth.

To her, it was just another beautiful, well-decorated hell.

Those who had the worst behavior seemed to garner the highest rewards.

“Why tonight of all nights did you have to appear at my front door?”

“Ask God.”

“I'm asking you.”

“Put the gun down, pick a Bible up, fall on your knees, and ask God to forgive you for being on your back with a married man, shower, then meet me in your lovely dining room.”

From Chapter 16 of the Memoirs of Dr. Debra Dubois

Faith said, “Put your boxing gloves on, Debra.”

I said, “What's up?”

“Mrs. Stockwell is here.”

“For what?”

“Annual checkup.”

“Great. I am always so happy to see that woman.”

“Oh, the sarcasm.”

“Well-deserved.”

“Straighten up and fly right. I've got a couple more here for prenatal, so take Mrs. Stockwell to room one.”

My lips moved and formed a very nasty word, but it wasn't heard.

I said, “Is Ericka with her?”

Faith said, “Yeah. That poor child is at her side.”

My attitude softened. Some. I did a breathing exercise, stalled another minute just to make her wait a little longer. A moment later I was in the lobby waiting for Mrs. Stockwell to hand Ericka her purse and keys for safekeeping. Mrs. Stockwell was a shrewd bitch of a woman. My concentration went from her to her daughter. Ericka's flesh was pale, almost the color of bone, all except for her cheeks. It looked like blood had risen to the surface due to sudden pain. Under her puffy eyes I saw a weary child with flaking hair and skin that was about to turn pimply.

Ericka put her textbooks and paper down long enough to try to smile when she said, “Good morning, Miss Mitchell.”

I smiled. “Good morning, Ericka.”

“I like your uniform.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn't know nurses could wear pink uniforms.”

“We can wear any color uniform we want.”

“Miss Mitchell, how long did it take you to become a nurse?”

Mrs. Stockwell interrupted, “Ericka. Please. Hush.”

There was a pregnant pause between us. Ericka's eyes went to her mother, then back to me. I wasn't in the mood to be controlled.

I moved closer to Ericka and said, “Studying?”

“Uh-huh.”

Her mother made a sound of disapproval.

Ericka corrected herself, said, “I mean yes.”

I asked, “How are you feeling today?”

“Scared.”

“Why?”

“I keep throwing up.”

“That's not good.”

“I've been eating too much Mexican food and it's making me run for the border.”

I laughed a little. So did Ericka.

Mrs. Stockwell made a grunting sound. Ericka's eyes went to her mother.

My eyes went the same way.

Mrs. Stockwell and I stood face-to-face. No words were shared between us.

I led Mrs. Stockwell down the hallway, but my mind was with her pregnant daughter. Ericka Stockwell was thirteen. I wondered how Ericka had done the deed, how many times, with whom she had done it, and how many boys there were. I wondered what words had led this innocent child down the road of surrender. I wanted to know what kind of pleasure she could have gotten out of an act she didn't understand, something her body wasn't ready to receive. But pleasure had nothing to do with pregnancy.

I kept my true feelings in check, masked my mixed emotions with an air of nonchalance, and worked with a soft adept tone and expressionless face as I took Mrs. Stockwell's weight. Measured her height. Next would be temperature and blood pressure. I reviewed her medical history and did my best to put my mind in many places, refused to let my anger and disgust for the heartless woman sitting in my face reveal itself, refused to give her any victory by letting my feelings show. I thought about the comedian, thought about Leonard Dubois, the man I had just started dating, the man who would eventually become my husband, and he was the only thing, the only person I could think of to keep me anywhere near a smile. I wrapped myself around the memory of our first kiss, of the memory of his tongue waltzing with mine and tried to create a pillow-soft cloud to float on.

On the back of the door, at eyesight level, was a chart detailing STDs and their symptoms. Staring at that chart got Leonard off my mind real quick.

When I put the blood pressure cuff on Mrs. Stockwell's arm, she asked, “Do you have the recommendations I requested?”

I pretended that I didn't know what she was talking about. I had hoped she wouldn't bring it up, but she had.

“What recommendations would those be?”

She lowered her voice. “For an abortionist. Time is of the essence.”

“You will need to confer with Faith regarding that issue.”

“I see.”

“So, Ericka is with you. Is it an in-service day?”

“She is out of school on a few days' sabbatical so we can handle this family emergency. The sooner the better. Soon she will start to show, and we can't have that. Rumors will spread. Then this will become more than it really is.”

I said, “Please remove your clothing. Put on a gown with the opening in the front. Faith will be with you in a moment.”

Without acknowledging her with any real eye contact, I handed her a hospital gown, then I walked toward the waiting room and took another patient to another room. I began taking the next patient's stats. Minutes later, I was back in Mrs. Stockwell's room with Faith. Mrs.
Stockwell's clothes were neatly hung on yellow plastic hangers she had brought with her. Faith was getting ready to inspect Mrs. Stockwell's grotto, the place Mr. Stockwell had released his pleasures.

Faith went into the routine. “Scoot down. Feet in stirrups. Relax your knees.”

I handed her gel and tongs.

Faith said, “You're going to feel a little pressure.”

Mrs. Stockwell
humphed,
then glued her eyes on the ceiling and said a bitchy, “Until your teenage child becomes pregnant, you don't know what pressure is.”

When we finished, Mrs. Stockwell raised the issue of the abortionist again.

Without making a comment, Faith reached into her smock and pulled out a sheet of paper and several numbers. Mrs. Stockwell didn't bother with a thank-you.

Faith took a short breath, then said, “With Ericka in her second trimester, it won't be a one-day, two-hour thing. It's going to be a complicated procedure.”

Bottom lip trembling, Mrs. Stockwell barked, “And you think having a problem child is not complicated? You think being a parent is a one-day, two-hour thing?”

“That's not what I was implying.”

“What were you implying? Just say it to my face.”

“They will have to prep her on day one, then induce labor on day two. That's all.”

Mrs. Stockwell said, “After you ladies leave, will one of you have Ericka come here so that I may speak with my child about our predicament while I am getting dressed.”

I volunteered to go get her.

Shaken, emotional, Faith went across the hall to another examination room. But by the time her fingers touched the doorknob, her professional face had returned. Those two moments of empathy were twice as much as I was used to seeing. I headed toward the lobby. Each step down the gray-carpeted hallway felt like I was going to get a pubescent prisoner and escort her to death row. It didn't feel natural. Nothing
about the situation was natural. But it happened. This was the reality for many. Ericka's body had the physiology and capabilities of a woman, but she was nowhere near being an adult mentally. In theory, she shouldn't be going through this. But theory wasn't reality.

There was another patient in the lobby, a woman who was bringing her sixteen-year-old daughter for a simple checkup and a recommendation for birth control, but no Ericka.

I said, “Did you see the girl who was sitting right there?”

They hadn't.

In one of the mauve-gray seats were schoolbooks and a purse, all in a disarrayed stack, like they had been dropped or thrown to the floor in anger. Mrs. Stockwell's purse and King James Version were dropped on top of it all. The handbag was sideways and wide open. Heart racing, panic in my every motion, my first thought was that if her mother's purse had been left unguarded, Ericka couldn't be far. That was what I hoped.

I checked outside to see if Ericka had stepped out to get some fresh air, didn't see her, then came back inside and checked the bathrooms, the lounge, went back outside and walked around the back of the building, double-checked the parking lot to see if she was resting inside her mother's car. I didn't see Ericka. I told Mrs. Stockwell and she fell into silence and anger while she fought to get her clothes on as fast as she could, but she made sure everything was proper and in place before she went into a room filled with other people. Image was priority. Mrs. Stockwell checked her purse when she got into the lobby. Everything was there, except six hundred dollars in cash. That was the money Mrs. Stockwell had withdrawn to pay for Ericka's procedure. Mrs. Stockwell had planned on getting the procedure done under an anonymous name. She didn't want it on Ericka's charts. Mrs. Stockwell clutched her Bible, went outside and screamed her daughter's name, over and over, like she was a woman gone mad. She screamed Ericka's name like her anger was the magnet to bring her daughter back home to her. The woman screamed until her throat turned raw.

She marched from the Marshalls, still screaming, to the Wyndam Bel Age Hotel, still screaming, to the Fox Hills Mall, still screaming. She
drove her car and checked from Sepulveda to La Cienega, and there was no sign of Ericka Stockwell. When Mrs. Stockwell came back, her voice was almost gone. She dabbed sweat from her forehead with a white handkerchief and asked if Ericka had returned. I told her no. Without asking, she brushed by me and went into Faith's private office. Mrs. Stockwell phoned everyone she could think of, including the middle school Ericka attended.

I said, “The boy.”

Mrs. Stockwell snapped, “What?”

“The boy she is pregnant by, would she have gone to him?”

“She refuses to say who the bastard's father is. She's living with her legs open and her mouth closed. If she has, at least she can't get pregnant again.”

“Mrs. Stockwell?”

“Why are you asking questions? Can't you see I'm in the middle of a crisis? Help or be gone. I've already taken a day of work—without pay—and now this . . . this . . . this
shit
.
”

A curse word was at the tip of my tongue.

I was about to ask her if she cared about what her daughter was going through, but I didn't. I would have gone nuclear. I let my words hang in the air like a kite on a windy day. Her fingers were busy dialing more numbers. That lasted another hour. Faith and I were busy with other patients, doing prenatal and postnatal, trying to keep the trouble of the morning covert and the air as serene as the jazz playing over the building PA system. After her anger changed to worry and nervous words, Mrs. Stockwell called the police.

Within minutes, three squad cars were at Faith's office.