Malcolm and Me

by Robin Farmer

  I hold my breath. I can tell whatever she’s about to say will make every cell in my body scream in pain.

  “Your father has another family. He’s been living a double life, which explains our money issues. I thought he was gambling all this time.” Her voice trails off. “Silly me.”

  “Daddy has a girlfriend who has kids? Why would he do that?” The room spins.

  “Let’s walk and talk,” Mom says. “I can’t take this pain.”

  I can’t either. What’s worse, an uncomfortable truth or lie?

  Outside, it’s a wind-whipped cool night with rain pelting us sideways. Sharing my Bubble umbrella, we start the six-block walk to the ER entrance.

  I have questions I’m afraid to ask. Plus it hurts to talk. I’m a giant pincushion pierced by a thousand fiery needles. Every answer is another.

  Mom hooks her left arm through my right one. At the corner, we pass under a streetlight, revealing her busted knuckles have doubled in size.

  She stops, gestures at my dangling shoestrings. “Tie ’em before you fall.”

  It’s hard to loop the wet strings when I’m in a fog of pain. I can only imagine what Mom feels.

  We resume walking in silence. Passing the red-and-white awning of the Hostetlers’ candy store, I recall the biggest clue.

  “That’s why you got so upset on Christmas when you found that little girl’s sweater in Mom-Mom’s closet. The one Daddy said belonged to . . .”

  Just like that, it all clicks. Poor Mom. A fresh wave of pain drowns me. Even my pores ache. Daddy’s betrayal burns more than alcohol on a pus-filled sore.

  “Roberta, the girlfriend is only part of it. Her daughter is your father’s.” She pauses as I whip around, bug-eyed as my soul suffocates. “She’s nearly two.”

  “Daddy has a baby—with someone else?”

  Mom tugs me along with her good hand. Since my world just collapsed, it makes sense that I stumble on uneven sidewalk. Mom keeps me from falling.

  “We can’t have both of us breaking bones and ending up in casts.” Her tone is protective and warm, like I’m still loved.

  Her kindness cracks the stone resting in the pit of my stomach.

  At the corner, we step over the rainwater swirling into the sewer. Right where Daddy drop-kicked our family.

  Hiccupping sobs hijack me just as the wind gusts snatch my umbrella away. I start to chase it, but Mom pulls me close and holds me in the downpour. It’s a tie for who cries and shivers more.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I know what I told you hurts real bad. The only way to get over it is to feel what you feel. Don’t pretend you don’t. But then you have to move on.”

  I have never wanted to protect and love my mother more than right now. Using my coat as a makeshift umbrella, we continue heading to the ER in silence. I want to pepper her with a million questions. But Mom’s words cut like unseen broken glass. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to feel. It hurts to think. I can only take so much more bad news before I punch a wall with all my might, too.

  CHAPTER 22

  Back home, I rub my finger against Mom’s scratchy cast propped up on stacked pillows against her headboard. She’s in the middle of me and Charles, who’s sound asleep. Wish I were.

  Mom takes prescribed painkillers for excruciating pain. Not sure what I can take to take the edge of all the broken pieces of me. The questions I need to ask, but don’t dare, add to my misery. More uncomfortable truth and bold-faced lies will smash the few fragments left of who I think I am.

  “Night, Mom.” I rise slowly to avoid jarring her cast. “Want me to wake him up?”

  “No, leave him here.”

  “Charles might hit your arm. He sleeps so wild.”

  “Leave him. I suspect I’ll be up.”

  In the doorway, I linger, working on getting my nerve up. “I want to ask you something, but I don’t want to make you mad.”

  “That’s a heck of an intro. Go ahead, I’m sure you have questions.”

  “Is Peaches, the lady I saw on the trolley, Daddy’s girlfriend?”

  Mom shakes her head. “She knows her. I think they’re friends.”

  “I knew she was trouble.” Just picturing the gum smacker makes my brain throb.

  “You’re a quick study.” Mom searches my eyes. “How do you feel about your Dad?”

  “I hate him.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because hate weighs you down.”

  We stare at each other. Why didn’t I know Mom’s a saint and Dad’s the devil?

  “He betrayed us,” I say. “I know how Malcolm felt when he learned the truth about Elijah Muhammad. The man he adored and loved. The man with the secret families.”

  “The people you love the most can hurt you the most because they are closer to your heart,” Mom says, shifting into a more comfortable position. “That doesn’t erase all the good memories or mean you won’t create new ones. You are too young to get used to the idea of hating anyone, let alone your father.”

  Hating him makes my stepped-on heart less achy. I wish I could tell Mom that.

  Mom continues, “Malcolm also said a person’s positives outweigh the negatives. And if I recall correctly, he even used examples from the Bible.”

  I groan at the Bible reference.

  “Now, I want you to promise me something. No more trouble in school. Just stop.”

  “I promise, Mom.” I speak with my whole existence.

  Her watchful eyes size me up. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I lie, moving back toward the door. I pause in the doorway. “Can I get you anything, Mommy? Ice cream or ginger ale?”

  She does a double take and her eyes moisten. We both know why. When was the last time I called her Mommy?

  “I’m fine. Go to bed.”

  In my room I can’t sleep, and it’s just as well. My hair has shriveled into a dried out mess a quarter of its normal size. Combing it as gently as I can, I torture myself with questions.

  What kind of role model is my father for Charles? Is the other woman prettier than Mom? Did hanging out with Uncle Duke, who’s always saying, “I’m single as a penny and fine as a dime,” cause my father to stray? When did he decide we were old playthings and he needed new ones?

  All the stored up so-called hatred for Mom automatically shifted to my father, the lying liar who duped us big time. Daddy two-face. Only the venom for him is infinite and the real deal.

  In bed, I toss and turn. I swim in a pool of hatred so deep I can’t touch the bottom.

  Jumping up, I rip my played-out Michael Jackson poster off the wall. Tearing it into pieces, I imagine I’m tearing up Daddy’s clothes. Mom was right to throw his clothes into the street. I’m sick to my stomach that I picked them up. If I could, I’d time travel and undo every last one of my mistakes.

  Yanking open my diary. I write:

  I’m not a writer. I’m not my father’s only daughter. And guess what? Daddy, no Dad, as he will be called henceforth, doesn’t want us anymore. He has a new family, and the first thing he did was replace me. Correction; the first thing he did was replace Mom, who I’ve been blaming everything on! I made Mom break her hand trying not to punch my lights out, which I deserved. I’m a terrible role model for Charles.

  I lay my head down to think of what more to say. I nod off. An hour later, I wake with a start, drooling on my pages. After changing into my nightgown, I climb back in bed and discover I’m wide awake.

  I open my Right On! magazine and read the contest rules for the first National Black Awareness Essay Contest. In 800 words or less, contestants must write about an influential Black person who inspired them. That’s easy. But I want to tie Malcolm in with the fight I had with Sister over Thomas Jefferson. There’s something true about the third president that explains everything else about America, and that is his hypocrisy. Maybe that’s the start of my essay. I grab my copybook and start writing a draft. Forty-five minutes pass in a snap. I drop
the essay and reach for my diary. I’ve so much more to say. Sometimes paper listens best. I write:

  I’m nothing. An insignificant blob of protoplasm. Maybe lower than that. If I die, will anyone care besides Mom, who I don’t deserve? My dreams of winning the contest dried up like a raisin in the sun. Maybe I will shrivel and die from anger and leave a note blaming everything on Sister, who will not be able to attend my funeral because she will be stuck in confession for years. Dad is not allowed to come and that’s all I have to say about that. Man, I hate myself. I guess this is what happens when you choose the devil instead of God.

  The last sentence scares me because it’s been true for a while now. And look where it’s led.

  Today is a good day—unlike last week, when I cried so much that I was hollowed out.

  Headed to class, I fret about Mom still having trouble sleeping weeks after breaking her hand instead of my teeth.

  I’ve pinky-promised her I’ll be an angel in school until I graduate. Won’t be hard. I have no more fight left. I’ve been gobsmacked to the moon and back. What’s helped me the most is Mom not making me talk to my father until I’m ready.

  I shuffle into religion class. At my desk, I fold up into myself like a broken umbrella.

  It’s Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent. Sister says whoever wants to go to confession can leave class twenty minutes early before getting their ashes.

  The idea of going to church crosses my mind. God forgives the wickedest people, right? Prostitutes, thieves, murderers. I haven’t had sex and I certainly haven’t killed anyone, although I’ve wounded Mom in so many ways, I’ve probably come close.

  But Jesus forgave the heathens who nailed him to a cross. So why not me? Maybe if he forgives me, I can forgive myself.

  In class, I can barely concentrate these days. Out the corner of my eye I see Sister Elizabeth studying me. For what?

  I want to stand on my desk and shout that I’m done trying to prove my intelligence—trying to prove my worth—trying to prove I belong. If I had a white flag, I would wave it.

  You won. I give up. I surrender.

  As students line up to walk to church, I decide to go to confession. My diary is one thing. Talking to God’s direct representative is another. Besides, it’s been months.

  Sister dismisses us in groups of five. I am the last to amble over to the line of students less interested in confession and more down with early dismissal. They’ve gotten used to my indifference to their friendly chatter lately. My classmates know to cut me slack. We’re immature at times but we recognize when someone is wounded.

  Inside church, I dip my fingers into the holy water and bless myself. The last time I was here, I was livid about the marble angels and life-size statues of the white saints I pass on the way to the confessionals. Not today. My problem is with religion, not God. I choose the confessional with the shortest line, only three students ahead of me.

  I’ve done a copious amount of sinning. Can I remember it all?

  “Oh no, Roberta is going to take so long I’ll miss my shows.”

  I turn as Geoffrey slaps his forehead in mock horror. He is such a moronic overachiever, but he actually makes me laugh. “You’re so silly,” I tell him. “I can’t believe I am saying this, but I will miss seeing you next year.”

  “I heard you’re going to public school. Good luck with that. They use razors to play tic-tac-toe on kids’ faces. Hate to see that happen to you.”

  “Stop believing the rumors,” I say. “Besides, with all the lumps and bumps you come to school with, you’d fit right in.”

  Geoffrey laughs and shrugs.

  “Go ahead, we’re waiting for our friends,” says a seventh-grader in front of me. She and her friends step aside.

  “Hurry up, Roberta,” Geoffrey says. “I got a date with my TV.”

  Inside the confessional, I kneel and squint through the screened partition. It looks like Father James with his puffy white hair. I think he sees my hair because he does a double take.

  “Bless me Father for I have sinned. I haven’t been to confession in almost . . . three months. I have been horrible to my mother and brother. I made my mom bust her hand. I’m mad at my father. I got into trouble at school. There are a whole bunch of sins in all of this! That’s why I think God is punishing me.”

  “Have you been Catholic all your life?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then you know that God is forgiving. When you look into your heart and see the sorrow you have caused, it’s only then that God’s grace can heal you. Say three Hail Marys. You have your penance. Go my child and sin no more.”

  I recall the same penance when I confessed to stealing some penny candy a year ago.

  “Thank you, Father.” Making the sign of the cross, I rise off my knees and turn back.

  I’m tempted to ask if I can go to heaven if I have reason to never honor my father again. But Father yawns, waiting for whoever is next.

  I pull the curtain back and step out of the darkened confessional for what will be the last time. I’m done with church confessions. From now on I’ll talk to God directly. I’m not so sure about religion, but I’m down with God.

  “How do my ashes look?” I ask Bonnie, pulling my Afro back from my forehead as we round the corner and head home.

  “Black and smeary,” she says, chuckling. “Like everybody else’s.”

  “I hope I don’t forget and wipe them off.” I’m disappointed I’m not feeling holier.

  “I’m giving up candy for Lent,” she says, handing me a full bag of penny candy.

  “How do you know I’m not giving up candy?”

  “Are you?”

  “This is my last year at Catholic school, so I’m going out with a bang. I’m going to do lent justice.”

  “You really aren’t going to East Catholic?”

  “Not if I get accepted to Girls Academy. Besides, I know money is tight.”

  “How’s your dad? You never talk about him anymore.”

  “I have to tell you something. Promise you won’t utter a word. I mean it, Bon.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.” Bonnie’s eyes grow big. She’s so eager for the juice I am about to spill her freckles appear brighter. Can I trust her?

  “My dad has done something really, really bad.”

  Bonnie leans in, practically drooling.

  “He has a girlfriend.”

  “What is wrong with him? As pretty as your mom is?”

  “That’s not all of it. I think he lives with her.”

  “Roberta, that’s crazy. For how long?”

  “Couple months. And—”

  Bonnie’s lips twitch in anticipation. She can’t help herself. But I can.

  “I’m asking God to help me forgive him ’cause I don’t know how.”

  Bonnie pats my arm. “That stinks so bad. Sorry, Roberta. My Uncle Lonnie has two families, but everyone knows,” she says, shrugging. “Even my Aunt Laurie.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone. It’s really embarrassing.”

  “Hey, what are best friends for?”

  “That’s another reason why I think East Catholic is out next year. Mom is definitely divorcing him.”

  “Girl, I know you feel bad. I am going to pray your father comes to his senses and that doesn’t happen,” Bonnie says. “Let’s change the subject. So, what are you giving up for Lent?”

  Is it a sin to say stop hating your Dad? Yes, if your best friend is a motormouth.

  “Writing in my diary.” But then I shake my head. “That’s impossible. I tell my diary everything.”

  Bonnie’s head jerks back. “You can tell me instead.”

  I loop my arm through hers as we cross the intersection. I love Bonnie, but I’d rather walk through a war barefoot before telling her I have a half-sister.

  At home, I tell Mom about the priest asking me if I’m a lifelong Catholic. She raises her eyebrow since I said I wasn’t going anymore.

  “Many of t
he new Black kids enrolling at HSB aren’t. Wait, he asked you this during confession? How did he know you were Black?”

  “You can see through the confessional partition if you try hard enough.” I draw a peace sign on her cast. “Why would non-Catholics want to come to HSB, anyway?”

  “You may not believe it, but parents want a safe environment for their children. You read the paper about how some public schools are ringed with police cars. All the racial fights. Girls walking around pregnant. Gangs. Students disrespecting teachers.”

  “You mean kids who punch teachers and get suspended like me?”

  “Your situation was unique. I’m talking about kids who don’t want to learn and don’t want anyone else to. Yeah, it’s a sacrifice to send you to HSB, and aside from your horrible encounters with Sister Elizabeth, I still feel like we did the right thing. You learn universal values in a disciplined environment. Public schools have to accept everyone. Catholic schools don’t.”

  Mom studies with approving eyes my purple peace sign on her cast.

  “Wait, let me add the finishing touch,” I say. Below the symbol, I write “love, peace, and soul” in graffiti style.

  “I’ll get Charles to draw me a Soul Train to go with it,” Mom says, laughing.

  Joining in, I realize this about Mom: she’s even prettier when she smiles.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Hard to have a conversation when you only say yes and no.” Dad’s voice dips between disappointment and impatience.

  If was up to me, I’d go another three weeks without talking or seeing him. Hypocrite.

  I sit across from him, staring out the windshield of his trolley into the darkness.

  We are parked at the depot, the last stop of his route. His destination sign reads “out of service” until his break ends in fifteen minutes. Then he’ll do another loop that stretches from this suburb through Southwest Philly ending downtown at 11th and Market Streets, the closest stop to City Hall. Topped by a statue of William Penn, it looks like a palace, although a dingy one.