Chapter 5

December 1995

In December 1995, I had my first Christmas as a college student. While everyone else was putting wreaths up on their doors and lights around their rooms, I was avoiding the truth. The truth was that I had no intentions of going home. I would not drive the five miles to my grandmother’s house. I would not endure another Christmas like the last one, where I’d missed my mother so badly it felt like I had lost a limb. This would be my second Christmas without her, and I’d just as soon spend it alone.

Not even my sister, Maren, could change my mind.

“El, you have to come home.” She called just as I was returning from my last exam, biology. I already knew I aced it.

“I’m not coming. I can’t be around him.”

I’d made a pledge to myself never to talk to my father again. It wasn’t practical, but the thought of it—freedom from a man I believed I hated—was satisfying.

“It’s not just Dad. Grandma Esther isn’t doing all that well.”

My stomach lurched, but I said nothing. I knew my grandmother was ailing. She hadn’t been well since the first stroke. But my self-preservation instinct was stronger than my compassion for a woman I’d known only a year. To stay sane, I had to stay away from my father.

“I know. I’m sorry about Grandma Esther.”

I remembered last Christmas. My first without snow, without piles of gifts under the tree. I’d spent the days leading up to Christmas looking for a part-time job, dreading the actual day that would be spent trying not to fall asleep or be saved at my grandmother’s church. I’d felt utterly alone, more so than if I actually had been alone. I had no intention of repeating that experience.

“What about me?” Maren’s voice sounded small and young, as if she were six instead of sixteen. I thought about all she’d been through during the past year; we had shared some of the same experiences, but she’d also been subjected to different, worse things. The guilt of leaving her behind in the house was mitigated only by the fact that she seemed to be able to forgive our father his shortcomings. I would not. Could not.

I told myself Maren would be okay. But it wasn’t a case of believing what was most convenient. I knew she would be all right, not because of anything I could do, but because she was stronger than me. I envied her way of looking at the world through a veil of optimism. The veil would protect her. My emotions, on the other hand, were raw and exposed. She could spend Christmas making the best of things, hoping that someday we wouldn’t need to pretend everything was fine. In my darkest moments, I didn’t think anything would ever be fine ever again.

“I love you, Mare. But I can’t.”

I knew she would understand. She always did.

She sighed. “We’ll miss you.”

I said nothing. We both knew this wasn’t altogether true.

“I’ll miss you.”

“Me, too. But you’ll visit me after Christmas. Come stay with me for a few days. See what college life is like.”

Maren laughed. “I’ve stayed with you before. I know what college life is like.”

I smiled. “Not in January. You don’t know what college life is like in January.”

* * *

“Come home with me,” Jason said. He was packing his duffle bag with the few items he would need to spend two weeks at his parents’ home in Baltimore.

I shook my head. “I’m not a charity case—I could go home. I just don’t want to.”

I could tell Jason wanted to ask why, but he didn’t. It was one of the things I liked about him.

Jason punched me in the shoulder.

“I don’t care about you, idiot. I need someone there with me.”

“Ouch.” I rubbed my arm.

“I’m serious, you big baby.”

“Isn’t the rest of your family going to be there?”

Jason shrugged. “That’s the problem. My family.” He gave me a pleading look. “So?”

I wondered if it was wise to get in the middle of another family’s drama. But anything was better than the alternative.

“I’ll go, but you have to promise not to hit me again.”

“Okay, deal. Now pack up and let’s go.”

Jason’s father had been the coach of the Baltimore Bombers for nine years, and there were already elaborate plans in the works to celebrate his tenth anniversary. In those ten years, he’d taken the Bombers from mediocre to one of the premier teams in the NBA. He won three championships there and was the sports world’s version of royalty. Some people loved him, more people hated him, but everyone agreed that he was a winner. It was, after all, part of the title of his recent autobiography: Winner Take All: My Life on the Sidelines.

Jason told me all of this as we approached Washington, D.C., during the five-hour drive from Durham to Baltimore. We rode in Jason’s car, a brand-new Lexus SUV with black-tinted windows. I felt like I was riding in a spacecraft, hovering over the other cars.

“You sound like a press release.”

Jason laughed. It was a hollow, forced sound. “What I sound like is my dad. There’s nothing he likes better than talking about himself. So be prepared to hear it all again.”

I looked out the window as we crawled through Washington traffic. The man in the next car had a strained look on his face, as if the traffic caused him physical pain.

“Anything else you want to warn me about?” I glanced at Jason, who wore the same pained look as the man in the silver Volkswagen.

Jason shrugged. “My father is embarrassed that I don’t play basketball. He’s mad that I chose to go to Duke because he hates the coach. He’s mad because my mother won’t give him a divorce no matter how much he cheats on her. He wishes I were someone else’s son, and he wishes he had more children, but I’m an only child and he can’t deny that I’m his. Is that enough?”

We were at a standstill, so Jason took his hands off the wheel and sat back. We looked at each other for a long moment. I wasn’t sure who laughed first, but it didn’t take long for our cackling to fill and shake the car. We only recovered from doubled-up hilarity when the car behind us produced a long honk.

Jason shook his head, and I wiped my eyes.

“Well, this’ll be fun.”

* * *

Jason’s house, or, as he referred to it, his father’s house, was the largest, most sterile home I had ever been in. It was in a posh neighborhood called Mount Washington, full of modest homes, condos, bungalows and huge Victorian and Georgian mansions like Coach Grant Davis’s home. It sat at the top of a hill, looking down on the other homes that were not so fortunate. The Davis home was a two-story Georgian made of pale yellow brick with pillars accentuating the front entrance and either end of the home. The windows were all framed with dark green shutters, and chimneys indicated multiple fireplaces throughout. A vast expanse of emerald lawn carpeted the land in front of the house. I marveled that there wasn’t a hint of brown in the grass, even though it was December, and I considered how much money it must cost to fight nature. I might have mistaken it for a typical New England home except it was three times the size.

Jason used his key to open the door, and he led me into a foyer with eighteen-foot ceilings and a crystal chandelier that reflected the setting sun like a prism. I was disoriented as I watched my shadow play on the creamy wall nearest me. The wall was bare floor to ceiling, except for a framed drawing that seemed dwarfed by the space. I didn’t understand why the drawing was all alone until I stepped closer. It was black and white, a group of musicians drawn with child-like broad strokes: large heads, prominent noses, instruments clutched in hands and against torsos. The style reminded me of ancient Egyptians pictured on the walls of caves, of Picasso, of tight, smoky rooms filled with music. A discrete rectangle underneath gave information: Le Jazz, c. 1967. I recognized the name. Romare Bearden. I had seen other works by the artist in the Chicago Museum of Art.

“Do you like Bearden?” The voice, not Jason’s, startled me from my reverie. I whirled around to face Grant Davis.

He towered over me. I only registered the man in segments. Enormous, manicured hands. Expensive charcoal-colored suit with a white shirt open at the collar, no tie. Black loafers that reflected light from the chandelier. Trimmed beard flecked with gray. A wide smile that did not reach his light-brown eyes. He was standing about six inches closer than I would have preferred.

“He’s amazing.” I put my hand out, trying not to glance around to see whether Jason was still in the vicinity. “I’m Ellison Emory. Jason’s roommate.”

Grant Davis’s handshake was too firm. I tried not to wince.

“Jason says good things about you.” His eyes searched mine, as if Jason’s word could not be trusted.

I met his gaze. As the moments ticked by, I felt a bit of nostalgia for my own hapless, non-threatening father.

“Thank you for having me in your home. I really appreciate the invitation.”

Grant Davis raised an eyebrow. “Were you invited?”

I couldn’t stop my eyes from flicking around the foyer. Where was Jason?

“Well—”

Grant Davis broke into a hearty laugh. I didn’t trust the laugh. “I’m just kidding, son. Any friend of Jason’s is always welcome here.” He led me through the foyer by the arm. I worried I would have a bruise later.

“Let me give you the grand tour.”

* * *

Jason’s mother had immaculate hands. They were hands with manicured nails that were painted by little Korean ladies at least twice a week, hands that had never been soaked in harsh dishwater. Hands that shook just a bit when she dragged a tumbler full of vodka to her mouth. She smiled at me over her glass as she took a gulp. I sat across from her and I could smell the stench of hours of drinking on her breath. It was a little after seven-thirty on Christmas Eve.

“I’d like to say Jason has told me all about you.” She glanced over at her son. I did, too. Jason wouldn’t meet our eyes, instead cutting his thick steak as if every slice was a matter of life and death.

“But, of course, my son doesn’t talk to me.” She smiled at me.

“We talk all the time. You’re just too drunk to remember,” Jason said drily. Mrs. Davis took a long look at her glass. She wasn’t ruffled by her son’s comment. “Oh? Well, I hope I enjoy these talks we have.”

Jason shook his head, and his mother let out a low chuckle. I began treating my own steak as if I was performing a triple bypass.

We sat at a long mahogany rectangle. It was far too large for the three of us. We were being served our dinner by actual waiters, and the food had been prepared by a chef who was permanently on the Davis payroll. Jason’s mother did not cook.

Coach Davis wasn’t there. He was at the arena, preparing for the Christmas Day game against the Knicks. It was one of Jason’s complaints about his father: He was always either playing or planning to play basketball on holidays.

Mrs. Davis rotated her glass in a circle, making the two cubes of ice clink against the sides. I wished my family was a neat little package that could be easily presented to strangers, like scented candles or a bottle of wine. Then again, at least my mother had never been as disconnected as Mrs. Davis. My mother spent a lot of time at work and she wasn’t perfect (at least, not my idea of the perfect mother), but when we together, she was engaged and interested in me and Maren. Every year, we went on a trip together for Christmas, and we always laughed, even when life didn’t seem very funny.

Even the blowout arguments between me and Mom were better than what Jason had with his mother, which was more like guerilla warfare, with Jason and his mother as snipers hiding behind sarcasm and alcohol. Jason’s father wasn’t here, but that was less surprising to me. I was used to fathers who disappeared when you needed them most.

Catching this glimpse of Jason’s home life actually made me feel bad for him. On the surface, he seemed to have everything—good looks, expensive clothes, popularity, self-confidence. But if all those things were important, he wouldn’t have needed me to come home with him as a buffer between him and his parents. When I met Jason, I thought he had everything figured out, but seeing his family made me realize that maybe he was as lonely as me.

I cleared my throat. “Well, Mrs. Davis, I’m from Chicago. Or I was. Now my family lives in Durham.”

She raised an eyebrow and looked over at Jason, who had turned his attention to the fingerling potatoes laced with butter and chives. She looked back at me. Her sad eyes were the color of grass. I waited for her to ask me why I wasn’t spending the holidays with my own family.

“I grew up in Chicago, too. My brother still lives there, as do my parents. I never go back.” She winked at me, then she gulped the remainder of her drink. As if by magic, a waiter appeared with a fresh drink. “And please, call me Lila. If we’re going to spend Christmas together, we should at least be on a first-name basis.”

“Okay, Lila.”

She nodded and took another long drink. Jason watched her, looking like he might just cry. I looked away from both of them. We spent the rest of the meal in silence.

* * *

Later, Jason and I slouched on leather sofas in his basement, which was more like a luxury apartment than any basement I’d ever seen. We watched Chris Rock perform stand-up on the wide-screen TV. Jason poured beer into chilled glasses.

“So, how are you enjoying life at Grant and Lila’s house?” Jason tried to smirk, but it came off more like a pout.

I shrugged. “Everyone’s family is fucked up, right? I’d rather be with yours than with mine, believe me.” What I didn’t say is that I’d take a drunken mother over a dead mother any day.

Jason looked at me. “Tonight was nothing. Things are even worse when my dad is here. He tries to be some kind of paternal figure. Big Daddy. But he’s like a bad actor playing an even worse role.”

I sipped and nodded. “My father is the opposite. I’m not even sure he’s aware that he is supposed to be someone’s father. I mean, we hadn’t seen him in years before we moved to Durham. He never even called.”

This was the most I’d told anyone about my father. Jason held up his glass.

“I propose a toast. To families that suck. Merry Christmas.”

We touched our glasses together and drank. I heard a car start somewhere outside, then loud voices.

I looked at Jason. “Who’s that?”

“My mom goes to midnight mass every year.”

This made me smile. “She doesn’t drive, I hope?”

Jason laughed. “She pays a waiter extra to drive her there and back. Last year she passed out in a pew and they called my dad to come get her. She didn’t wake up until ten o’clock on Christmas night.”

I held up my glass. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

* * *

We went back to Duke on New Year’s Day.

“You don’t mind going back early, do you? There’s someone I want to see,” Jason asked me the morning we left.

I shrugged. “I’m easy. Who are you meeting?”

He smiled. It was the first genuine smile I’d seen since we got to Baltimore.

“Remember that girl, from Chris’s party? The little cute one?”

My neck stiffened, but I managed to nod. Not Angela. She’s mine.

“I have been asking her out all semester but she’s been turning me down. She was with some guy from back home. But they broke up, and she finally gave me a yes. We’re going to a movie Friday night.”

When did all this happen? Jason knew that Angela and I were friends, but I’d made it sound casual and incidental. I couldn’t risk letting anyone know how important Angela was to me. Vulnerability was not my strong suit. Still, it felt as if Jason had treaded on my territory. In my mind, Angela was mine.

But I hadn’t asked her out. She was too perfect. She might say no. Jason had no such concerns.

It occurred to me that I had not been the only one deliberately not talking about Angela. Jason hadn’t ever mentioned that he was calling her. My stomach tightened.

“That’s great. She seemed really…nice.”

Jason jumped up and grabbed his keys. “Everybody has been trying to get with her. But I’m in there. You know?”

I knew. I picked up my bag and followed Jason out the door.

I knew.

* * *

Calvin on his half-brother:

I have a half-brother named Chris. He was born the year we moved to Durham. I never knew who his father was—Momma wouldn’t say. I couldn’t even venture a guess, because I was working long hours at the local department store trying to save up enough money to move away and go to college. As far as I knew, all Momma did was go to work and church, so it was hard to imagine when she had the time or opportunity to get pregnant.

She never really talked to me about being pregnant. I just noticed that she was gaining weight, then her belly started to get larger and larger until it was obvious what was going on. Then one day she announced that I would have to take her to the hospital when it was time, so I should give her the phone number to the department store in case I was at work when the baby came.

And so my brother Chris was born. He was dark where I was light, with hazel eyes and a dimpled smile. I was eighteen years old, and the last thing I wanted in my life was a baby. I had always been my mother’s focus, so it was hard to adjust to the idea that she now had another son. A son that she doted on, spoiling him with presents and constantly carrying him in her arms.

I am ashamed to admit I hated him. He was just a baby. But he changed everything in our family, and he grew into an insufferable brat. When I moved to Chicago, I missed Momma. But she had Chris now, and I always thought she had a little less love for me after he was born.

Years later, when Chris almost destroyed my little girl, I wanted to kill him. I might have done so if it wasn’t for Momma. I never told her about how Chris molested Maren. She was old and I was afraid it might kill her. All my life, she sacrificed for me. I wanted Chris to rot in jail for what he did to Maren. But staying quiet was the sacrifice I made for Momma.

—From Save Me: A Memoir by Calvin Emory