When I was nine years old, Mom and Lebanon bought me a pink-and-white bike. It also had pink-and-white streamers and a pink basket in the front. I wanted this bike for months, so my parents scrimped and saved. And, the morning of my birthday, at the edge of my bed stood my new bike. Oh, I was so happy. I rode it all day. When I thought my parents were asleep, I rode it in the alley behind my house that night. But, when I tried to do this really cool trick, I fell off and broke my left arm. Lebanon found me and my parents took me to the hospital. When Lebanon went back to the alley to retrieve the bike later that evening, it was gone, stolen. I wore a cast for six weeks.
I’ve told this story dozens of times to Grandma Naomi, teachers, adults at church, my mom’s friends. The story of my youthful exuberance, eventual disobedience and my punishment: the fall, my arm, the stolen bike.
That was about the time when I started losing faith in God. People, losing faith in them, happened before that. I knew way before most kids there was no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy. I wasn’t a jerk. I didn’t ruin the make-believe for the other kids. I just thought they were stupid to believe in those things. I had bigger issues living in the house with the apple blossom tree in the front yard.
He would come in drunk, after working at the bakery or after Bible study where he pretended being some pious believer. You gotta admire the dysfunctional hypocrisy in that kind of act. Mom would always try to calm him down by being as perfect as possible: a neat house, his favorite foods cooked to his liking. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. So they would go down to the basement and that’s when I’d hear the thumps, the breaking of glass or, if he was in a particularly foul mood, a piece of furniture. Mom learned to cry softly, to not wail or scream. She didn’t want the police at the house. How would that look to others? Someone at the church could find out. What would people think about her, that she wasn’t a good enough wife for her husband not to beat her?
I learned the consequences of calling for help that day with my bike. If you ask for help, you’ll be hurt by the person who’s supposed to protect you. If you call for help, your Mom can’t help you because two of her ribs are cracked and no matter how much she begs and pleads, she can’t do anything. But you need a way to explain away the broken bone, the scrapes and bruises, so we blamed it on my bike, which never existed. Because the truth was far uglier.
Lebanon was beating Mom. I tried to stop him, and he threw me against a wall, breaking my arm. But we couldn’t tell that story. So, in an emergency room sitting next to Mom, she made up one to tell the doctor and we told that story to Grandma Naomi and people at church. If you repeat something untrue over and over, you can start to believe it.
That’s where Mom found her comfort. That’s where Lebanon discovered his power.
If Mom couldn’t tell the truth, if not acknowledging it made her feel better, how could she stand up to the man who hurt her child? If she couldn’t see a way out, how could I raise my voice? I did what I was taught. I lied about my pain. To cover Lebanon’s abuse. To maintain my family’s image. And I sat with a broken arm in a noisy hospital, collateral damage of shame and shadow.
Save yourself, baby.
I make it a point never to come to this neighborhood. If you’re not known by others, you’re not safe, but someone here has what I need. Night rushes to consume the pale blue-gray light of the fading afternoon. The two or three boarded-up homes on this block aren’t abandoned. They look that way for the sole purpose of avoiding attention. I walk around the back. The overgrown shrubs and weeds would make Mom itch. The white back door bares black scuff marks, different sizes and shapes. The dents mark the edges. I knock twice, wait five seconds and knock three more times.
“You crazy you know that, doing all that coded knockin’ shit. I got a peephole. I can see it’s you.”
“I try to be careful, LeTrell.”
His chestnut-tinged skin looks even darker in the stingy evening light. His head barely clears the top of the door frame. “What happened this morning? I waited outside of church like you asked.”
I rub my left wrist. “Sorry about that. Change of plans. I got caught up. Family situation, you know.”
“Yeah, heard about your mom. Grandma Anne told me when I came by to see her yesterday. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
LeTrell moves into the living room, the glow from the streetlamps and a television guide his way. The wideness of his shoulders and his height smother the remaining light in the hall. He cranes his neck back at me and says, “It’s cool though. I caught up with a few people from the block. You know I saw your friend today, Layla, and your dad. Offered me a job in his bakery. Seems like a cool dude.”
I let my silence speak for itself.
“Oh so you ain’t close with your pops? It’s cool. I ain’t close with mine either. Don’t even know if he’s dead or alive or what.”
“Better off not knowing,” I respond.
“Guess so.” He flops down on his couch and lights a cigarette, taking a long slow drag. He places a dog-eared copy of Moby Dick on the table in front of him, a tattoo on his left hand spelling his grandmother’s name, Anne, is etched in evergreen-colored ink.
“You have it?”
“Yeah.” LeTrell exhales the smoke billowing out of his broad nostrils like some lazy dragon. He bends down. His fingers pry open a small slat of wood in the floor. Before he hands me the purse, black leather with a gold buckle on the front, he asks, “You sure you want this?”
I snatch the purse from his hand, stuff two hundred dollars in its place and leave the house. I quickly walk north two blocks then one block east. The corner is deserted except for me and an old man waiting for the last bus headed east to the Lakefront. The purse is pretty. I could take this on a date or to church if I ever bothered to go anymore. My fingers trace the slightly raised pattern of the purse and when I open it, I’m hopeful again.
I know what needs to be done.