This was a completely different world from my only-child existence in the frigid house of my grandparents. My mother and I lived together in one small room. Meals were promptly served at 5:30pm and all were expected to attend. My toys were limited to coloring books and one doll with no more than seven outfits. I migrated to the books in my grandparent’s vast library to ease my painful boredom. No other children were allowed in the house hence, I had no friends to speak of. Cavorting with the children of my mother’s friends gave me a sole source of imposed friendship that would last through my elementary years. In the run-down slums of my mother’s friends, surrounded by dope and drinks a great thrill of rebellion lodged itself in the marrow of my bones. Not one to initiate impishness, I was a willing victim to the streetwise ways of my mother’s friends’ children.
The last time I stayed at Debbie’s, her father knocked on the apartment door and Debbie’s oldest sister let him in. He brought his own beer. Things didn’t seem quite right. The sisters sat quietly on the couch saying nothing and I followed their example. He made himself a sandwich, opened a beer and turned on the television. I hoped we might go into the bedroom and play with their mother’s new poker chips but, no one moved. We all fell asleep on the couch watching I Dream of Jeannie.
I awoke to the sound of our mothers coming up the steps of the apartment. There were men with them. They had brought men home with them before and I liked that. The men would join in our games, bring pizza or give us coins from their pockets and we would all stay up a little later and laugh. But, tonight, I felt sick – just like the time Debbie’s sister told us those ghost stories.
When Debbie’s mom entered the apartment we were all awake but quiet. Debbie’s dad stood up and Debbie’s mom asked him what he was doing there. My mom motioned for me to come to her and I walked to her as fast as I could. She took my coat from the coat hanger by the door. One of the men brought me my shoes while my mother bundled me up. I stayed very quiet, watching Debbie’s mother and father. The girls never moved from the couch. As the scenes on the television flickered and changed, I could see Debbie leaning against the couch rocking herself and staring at the floor. It dawned on me that Debbie never spoke. She laughed and played and invented and imagined just like her sisters but, she never spoke. I remembered first grade, when Mrs. Fox would ask her questions she could never answer. I had thought that she was dumb but, now I knew she was afraid.
I began to cry and my mother hushed me. I cried all the way home and my mother kept asking me why I was crying. ‘Did he hurt you?’ she poked. ‘Was he mean to you?’ she prodded. “Did he touch you?’ she persisted.
I could not find words to paint the ache in my heart. And my mother couldn’t find the right question to ask. That’s where threats and powerlessness and violence lived in my hometown – in the questions that were not asked. And so, the ache was left unspoken and undefined. My six-year old intuition told me that something awful was about to happen to Debbie. I was filled with grief and guilt at leaving her behind but had no words to define where I had left her. The truth was the damage had already been done and her father’s reappearance had only re-opened the wound.
Our mothers did not go out again after that. Debbie and I moved on to two different classes and did not see one another at school except in line for the restroom or water fountain. But, in these carefully constrained cattle calls, we could not speak to one another so, I just looked at her and she looked at me. Neither of us smiled.
The word was ‘island’. |
