When Horses Had Wings (16 page)

~

“Are you okay?” Momma asked. “You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine. That time of the month, I guess.”

Ricky sat at Momma’s kitchen table, repairing a portable radio. “On that note, I think I’ll leave,” he said. “Come on, Seany. Let’s me an’ you go back here. Us men don’t belong in
that
conversation.”

I caught sight of an entertainment magazine Momma had left on her kitchen countertop. The front cover headlines announced a local tycoon had been accused of hiring someone to snuff out his wife. I leaned my elbows onto the bar counter and asked, “Momma, you ever thought about killing Daddy for what he done to you?” I said it just like that, like I’d asked her if she’d ever considered purchasing a wrinkle cream or shaving under her arms.

“Why land alive, No! What would make you think such a thing, Renee? Do I look like a man-killer to you?”

“Of course not. I just wondered if you ever got that mad at him, seein’ as how he shamed you like he did.”

“Well…” Momma looked like she was straining to recall. “I suppose I did think about it once. Not seriously, I mean. I did wish him dead once or twice.” Momma studied my face. “Why? What’s Kenny done
now
?”

“He’s been Kenny. I reckon that’s enough.”

Momma shook her head and grinned. “He’s done
one
thing right.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” I couldn’t think of a single praiseworthy accomplishment he’d achieved.

She pointed toward Ricky’s bedroom. “He produced that precious grandson of mine.”

Momma acted like I’d had nothing to do with Sean’s birth. Nothing at all. “Hmph. Produced one life, destroyed another.”

Momma screwed up her face as though she was struggling to decipher my comment. I didn’t waste any effort trying to explain. Later, my energies would be needed for a better use.

~

The drive home from Momma’s gave me more time to assess my decision. Somewhere between the Dairy Queen and my driveway, I partially regained my senses. At a core level, I didn’t really want to
murder
Kenny. I simply didn’t want to live with him anymore.

If Kenny aimed to shoot me, as he’d repeatedly blustered, then he’d better do it
now
, I decided. Because I’d reached that point where dying looked better than living like a hunted duck. Given the choice of staying with Kenny or being murdered by him, I planned to go down staring into the coward’s beady yellow eyes. He wouldn’t surprise me from behind, the chicken-shit way. I would face him, openly defy him, and tell him I was leaving. If it came to such an end, I would hold my neck stretched high and my chin proudly cocked forward, and I’d take those slugs one by one. Whether he shot me or let me go free, either way, there’d be an improvement.

With the grace of a homecoming queen, I breezed through our living room. Kenny, partially clad in a pair of briefs and believing himself irresistible, joked, “Whadda you want first? That burger...or me?”

I set the DQ bag on our coffee table and wandered, zombie-like, into the bedroom. I could hear Kenny fingering the paper food wrappers.
If there’s a God in Heaven, maybe He’ll intervene now and let Kenny choke to death.
No sooner had I thought this than I noticed Daddy’s Bible. It was sitting on top of a box filled with old photo albums Momma had given me months earlier. Suddenly, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt like praying—on the outside chance there might really be such a thing as Divine Intervention. I’d never seen any evidence of it, but I hadn’t exactly given up the idea.

I lifted the Bible and unzipped the cover, dislodging a bookmark. I grabbed the marker as it floated down, catching the laminated cardboard before it hit the ground. Staring at the keepsake, I read, “
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Psalm 27:1.
” Those words cloaked me, resonated through me, and brought me comfort. I stood there, my eyes brimming with tears. Yet some part of me felt oddly elated, almost superhuman, as though I could rise above every challenge I’d ever had. Here was my proof. God
must
exist. I felt Him inside of me, right then. He’d delivered His message, right when I’d needed it, dropped it into my very hands. I had nothing to fear. Not Kenny, and certainly not death.

I set down the Bible and bookmark, exchanging them for the gun.

Like some kind of apparition, I floated into the living room where Kenny sat finishing off the last of his fries. Ghostlike, I stood before him.

Because I’d broken the sightline between him and the television, he noticed me right away.

He squirmed from a partially reclined to a fully upright position, his eyes transfixed on the Remington. “What the fu—”

“I’ve got something to say to you,” I said, my voice unwavering. I felt calm, sure of myself, even courageous. “I’m leaving you. Right now. This minute. So I’ve brought you your gun.” I held the weapon at arm’s length, pointed toward the heavens. “Here.” I shoved the rifle closer to him.

Kenny seemed paralyzed by my words. I tensed, waiting for him to rip the gun from my grip. But he made no effort to take it from me.

“If you mean to shoot me, then I’m ready to die,” I said, blinking back my grief. “I’ve thought about it. I’d rather be
dead
than to live one more minute with
you
.”

For the first time in my life, I felt powerful, mightier than any force Kenny could launch against me. I was leaving him. He couldn’t stop me. All he could do was assist me in the process. He could either let me go or blast me to smithereens. Either way, I was on my way out.

Kenny eased the weapon from me. His face contorted. Gently, he set the gun on the sofa. As if he’d been only a reflection in a funhouse mirror, the giant before me morphed into a pint-sized image. The monster I’d feared had disappeared.

Kenny dropped to his knees. “Oh, baby, don’t leave me. I swear I’d never shoot you. I never meant that. I only said that to keep you here. I love you, baby.” He clutched my thighs like a frightened toddler. “Please don’t
leave
. You
know
we can work things out.”

“Nothing to work out. I want out. Out of this hopeless marriage. Away from you.” I looked over his bent body and into his empty recliner. “And as far as I can get from that disgusting, hideous chair.”

TWENTY-THREE

I
wasn’t thrown off-course by Kenny’s instant personality change. Matched against his need for control, I could almost guarantee his remorseful state had no staying power. Like one of those childhood bubbles I used to puff through a make-believe pipe, at any second his mood was subject to burst and dissolve. Though I’d initially been awestruck by Kenny’s premier attempt at honesty, I held fast to the knowledge that I remained one false step away from total destruction. If Kenny sensed his amended ways had no bearing on my attitude, if he thought I might never return, he’d no doubt resort to direct combat. Therefore, to discourage Kenny from reversing his strategy and using my head for a trophy, I told him I wanted only a trial separation. You’d have thought he would have known better, considering I’d already found an apartment and revised Sean’s childcare arrangements. But I guessed Kenny wanted to believe me as much as I wanted to believe him.

On Saturdays, when I pretended to already be a single woman, Sean stayed overnight with Kenny. That kept Kenny’s temper in check and Sean from telling anyone about the man who made Mommy smile so wide she showed all her teeth, even the chipped one. I couldn’t wipe that grin off of my face for anything, except when Kenny came around. Then, you’d have thought I’d just put down the family dog or worse. But of course, we didn’t own a pet. I could barely afford
our
food.

With my hair mussed and flattened against one ear, face striped with yesterday’s mascara, and my body sheathed inside a pair of baggy sweat pants, I’d greet Kenny at my door. “Wha’choo doin’ tonight?” he’d ask.

Having memorized the TV schedule, a skill I’d perfected while living with him, I’d rattle off a list of programs I planned to watch that evening. Sometimes, though, I’d say I’d made arrangements to see Pearly. In reality, I hadn’t spoken with her in a couple of months. She and Jarnell had stopped by to visit once, right after I’d moved into my apartment. Other than that, we checked in with each other by phone from time to time.

For the most part, my fake schedules were enough to nix Kenny’s requests and send him on his way. Occasionally, though, he’d assume a forlorn look and say, “Why don’t you come with me and Sean? It’d be good for ya.”

It hadn’t been good for me for years, was what I wanted to tell him. But I didn’t. Instead, I’d scoff and say, “And do what? Hang out at Neta Sue’s all night? No, thanks.”

I wondered what he thought I’d do if I ever agreed to go with him. Sit inside his momma’s living room, mentally noting all the stuff she’d stolen from me? If I had to bet my last dollar, I’d wager that Neta Sue hadn’t let the fat on my hamburger congeal before she’d shown up with that borrowed livestock trailer. Twenty-four hours after I told Kenny I was leaving him, Neta Sue had arrived to claim all of what I didn’t want—and most of what I did. I saw her there when I’d sneaked back to nab the rest of my belongings. I’d noticed the pipe-rail trailer filled with furniture, including my childhood bedroom set. The manure-crusted contraption was parked in our front yard. Inside the hauler, my chenille bedspread had been thrown carelessly to protect a few worthless items: a fifties-style nightstand, Sean’s broken baby chair, and a rusted-out set of metal shelving. Our joint assets.

I’d driven over that day expecting to retrieve the last of my personal things while Kenny was at work. But after seeing a Jumpin’ Janitors truck hitched to that doublewide horse trailer, I looped around and then swung back by from the opposite direction. In the process, I decided that if I never again had to fall victim to Neta Sue’s hissy fits, despite what I might forfeit, that would be a good trade.

Those first few weeks Sean and I lived in our apartment at Jewel Gardens, I thought I’d never stop pinching myself. I decorated Sean’s premier private bedroom until it didn’t look one bit adult. I even covered Sean’s single bed that one of Momma’s neighbors had sold me—mattress and all for twenty-five dollars—with a Superman spread. Ricky gave me an old light fixture that somebody had thrown in the trash and he’d repaired. The antique car lamp fit squarely on top the double milk-crate nightstand I positioned next to Sean’s bed. Inside the plastic bins, I neatly arranged Sean’s plush toys: Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, and a stuffed parrot doll. It wasn’t exactly designer. But sometimes, when the light was just right, I stood in the doorway and took in his room, thinking how it could be the bedroom of almost any five-year-old.

The rest of my apartment remained spare. I didn’t own a dining table. And my bedroom had no contents whatsoever. I slept in my living room on a sofa I bought real cheap.

Daddy mailed me a check for a hundred and fifty dollars; out of guilt, I supposed. He said he wanted me to use the money to get reestablished, which was mighty big of him considering I’d written and told him I thought Celeste looked like a flower child. Anyway, I used Daddy’s money to purchase an ultra-modern couch. It wasn’t much other than a couple of oversized corduroy cushions, one stacked on top the other, with two L-shaped bolster pillows forming the sides and back. At night, I threw the bolsters to one side and used the base to sleep on. But I viewed this as a temporary arrangement. In the near future, I’d have a queen-size bed to sleep in—and Anthony, my soon-to-be next husband, to share it with. The fact that I hadn’t yet legally divorced Kenny was immaterial. Our marriage, like some kind of prehistoric beast, had fossilized a couple billion years earlier. All that remained were the faint impressions.

~

One Saturday night in September while I was getting ready for a date with Anthony, I heard sounds coming from the other side of my bathroom wall: the neighbors. I stood at my sink, smudging a glob of turquoise eye-shadow across my lids and thinking how lucky I was to have a couple move in next door to me. As I primped and groomed, inspected my blush color, and inventoried my facial flaws, what I’d previously thought to be idle chatter escalated to an audible brawl. From the opposite side of the drywall, a woman shouted, “Get out of here! Go ahead, asshole. Leave! See if I care.”

A thud shook the mirror in front of me.

A man’s voice boomed, “Wha’cha say, now? Huh?”

Silence.

“You wanna get messed up, do ya?”

The woman screamed. “You goddamn bastard! I’ll call the cops if you touch me again—”

My reflection vibrated. Then something hard, like maybe an elbow or a skull, knocked against the wall. I heard crashing sounds. The woman yelled, “Stop! You idiot! Help—”

I dropped my mascara wand in the sink. Inside my veins, I could feel adrenaline coursing. I knew what it was like to be the woman on the other side of that wall, how degrading it was to be attacked physically by your closest relation, to suffer blows and bruises from the man whose children you’d borne, whose body you’d once lovingly accepted into your own.

Should I call the cops?
They’d arrive an hour from now, especially once I gave them the location: Jewel Gardens. It was one of those subsidized housing projects where the police get summoned so often they might as well open a precinct on the premises.

I could call the after-hours security number.
What were the chances of an unarmed, minimum-wage-earning security guard intervening in a domestic disturbance? Zip. Nada. No, I’d have to take a different approach.

Fastening my jeans, I shoved my feet into my denim platform sandals. Maybe, I decided, he’d stop hitting her once something distracted him. I sucked in my breath, exhaled deeply, and marched next door to protest the noise.

“Stay back!” I heard the man say to the woman inside. For her sake, I prayed she wasn’t married to this jerk.

The neighbor’s apartment door opened to reveal a surly Neanderthal in his mid- to late-twenties. His stringy shoulder-length hair looked like it had been brushed with an eggbeater. A paunch hung over his grease-stained blue jeans. I’d seen this guy once before, I recalled, on the sidewalk, repairing a motorcycle.

“Yeah?” he grunted. “What can I do you for?”

“Uh...I...uh...heard a loud racket and wondered if everything was okay over here.” I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

“Racket? He turned and looked over his shoulder. “Linda Gail, this here neighbor lady says she heard something...some kind of loud noise. You hear it?”

A female voice said, “I think it came from next door.”

He shrugged. “Hmph. She thinks it came from somewheres else. We’ll follow up on it, if we hear it again.”

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, backing away slowly. He stared at me as if my forehead might be see-through and my thoughts readily divined. The bruiser held his door open and continued standing there, watching me as I turned to leave. I could feel his eyes sizing me up as I walked away. He could gawk all he wanted because already I knew more about him that he’d
ever
know about me.

For the first time, I noticed the dim corridor lights and wished they were brighter. I thought how, under the haunting glow of those yellow bug-proof bulbs, the man next door had resembled a mass-murderer whose photo I’d seen on the nightly news. Strutting back toward my apartment, I was determined not to let the bastard intimidate me. I owned a phone, and I was literate enough to dial 9-1-1 if he caused any more trouble.

Behind me, in the breezeway, I heard footsteps.
Geez
, I prayed,
please tell me that overgrown ape isn’t following me.
I picked up my pace.

Almost there. I had plenty of time to lunge inside, away from whoever was on my heels. My hand reaching for the doorknob, I dared to look over my left shoulder.

Kenny.

The caveman I’d just confronted closed his door.

“Renee! Wait! I wanna talk to you,” Kenny hollered.

Safely inside my living room, I stopped and braced my partially open entry door with one foot. “Kenny,” I said, still riled from my encounter with Mr. Manson. I did my best to sound calm. “What are you doing back so soon? Where’s Seany?”

“He’s
home
, where he b’longs. And where
you
b’long, too.” He’d acquired that bully tone again, the one that implied he owned me. “What the hell you doin’ over there?” He gestured toward the adjacent apartment. “Is ‘at where you go ever’ night? You go slippin’ out like that, all dressed up?” He scowled, his face a radiant red. “Whadda ya trying to do, screw every man in the complex?” He continued shouting accusations as he wedged a size-ten loafer past my threshold, extending one arm against the door. Any second now, his next move would be to force his way inside.

I stepped back, offering no resistance. In a surprise twist, using both my hands, I thrust my full weight against his chest and shoved him backwards. As soon as he’d cleared the doorjamb, I slammed the steel-reinforced barrier into his unprotected toes. No socks, as usual.

Kenny hopped and howled with pain. Inflicting further injury upon himself, he kicked the door once, hard.

I listened until I heard him limp away.

He wouldn’t go far, I guessed, probably not past the parking lot. There was nothing to do but wait him out. If I left home, Kenny would follow me. Or worse.

Breathless, I lifted my kitchen phone receiver and dialed Anthony’s number. “Omigod! You’re not going to be
-lieve
this!” I said when he answered. “He’s
in-sane
, I’m telling you. He’s out of his
mind
!”

“Who?” Anthony asked.

“Kenny! Who do you
think
?”

Anthony’s sentences all ran together
.
“Is he
there
? Are you
okay
? Tell me what’s going on.”

I gave him a recap. “He’s probably still sitting out there waiting for me to leave.” My hands shook so badly I could hardly hold the receiver.

I could hear anger and disappointment in Anthony’s voice. “What’s his
prob
-lem?” He sighed.

Kenny had destroyed the evening for both of us. We’d planned a casual night of take-out pizza and dine-in romance. But now I couldn’t risk driving across town. And Anthony certainly couldn’t chance being seen at my apartment. We’d have to meet each other another time.

“He must have been stalking me,” I said, thankful Kenny’s timing had been slightly off. “Man, it’s a good thing he caught me talking to the creep next door instead of
you
!”

“You got a goddamn right to speak to anybody you want to! Who does that
prick
think he is, anyway?”

I’d never before heard Anthony use words like that. Kenny had a way of bringing out the worst in anyone. Chances were good that Kenny had been thinking exactly what I’d led him to believe, that I hadn’t yet severed my connection to him. How could I explain that to Anthony? “He thinks...well, you know...that he’s still my husband,” I said. “But he won’t be for very much longer.”