“Unfortunately, not very much, Mrs. Jacob.”
“Call me, ‘Miriam.’ I hope today won’t be the last time you’re with us. I’ve got pamphlets for you to take home, but the quick and dirty is that domestic violence affects women, men, and children.”
“Men live here?”
“No, our facility houses women and children only. If a man comes here, we refer him to another shelter in our network. As far as women are concerned, we’ve housed women from trailer parks, mansions, black, white, Latino, rich, poor; you name it, we’ve seen it. Most people assume abuse is only physical, but it takes many forms.”
“How so?”
“Well, a woman can be fiscally abused. A man can hold the purse strings and dole out money how and when he feels like it. We’ve had clients come with just the clothes on their backs and lacking essentials like sanitary napkins and toiletries.”
Miriam’s words stung Victoria. She struggled to manage her three-thousand-dollar-a-month allowance, but that was what it was, her mad money. Winston was always generous in supplying their needs and many of their wants. How could a woman be so weak as to not stash away any money while she was married? Of course, it could be those maverick working women who had to contribute to the household funds like Aruba. She thought how lucky she was to have landed a life of comfort and luxury. If only Winston didn’t pull stunts like the computer lab, they’d have even more.
Victoria tuned Miriam out as she fixed her eyes on striking wall murals. The vulnerability and innocence of the art captivated her. She was positive children had painted the designs. She recalled childhood paintings created with her aunt as they drank sparkling grape juice and nestled beneath the orange trees in their California backyard.
“Over here is our kitchen,” said Miriam. “A lot of women share specific duties outlined on the schedule posted on the wall. We serve three meals a day. Will you be joining us for lunch?”
“I’ve eaten already, thank you.”
Victoria pictured burgers, fries, and all manner of fattening calories in the kitchen. She refused to fall off the wagon and gain weight.
Miriam continued the tour, pointing out the computer lab, the play area, staff offices, and the TV area. As they exited the TV room, Victoria glimpsed a heavyset woman limping toward a leather chair. She scratched a Barack Obama bandana on her head; the rhinestoned words YES WE CAN moved with the motion of her fingertips. A little girl, whom Victoria imagined to be eight or nine, followed the woman, touching the hem of her tattered housecoat. The woman eased in the chair, holding her stomach and wincing while she sought a comfortable spot. The girl pulled a footstool close to the woman.
“Alice, just prop my leg up a little.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Alice placed her mother’s left leg on the footstool. She pulled a small jar of shea butter from the pocket of her faded-out, denim jumpsuit. She removed a slipper from the woman’s wrinkled, worn foot and massaged it carefully, taking care to rub around the visible burns.
“Ouch, not so hard, baby.”
“I’m doing it soft, Momma.”
The mother removed dark shades, revealing a swollen shiner and a jagged, fresh scar that ran between her eyes and nose. Exasperated, she allowed Alice to soothe the pain that seemed second nature to her. As Alice rubbed her mother’s foot, she stared longingly at Victoria in the doorway.
“Ma’am, you smell good and you’re so pretty,” Alice’s raspy voice called to Victoria.
“Not half as pretty as you are,” said Victoria.
Alice’s face reddened. She returned to massaging her mother’s feet and wondered what it would be like to live with Victoria.
Miriam redirected Victoria’s attention to the tour. Victoria kept stride with Miriam as they entered a small room marked Donation Center.
“What happened to Alice’s mother?” Victoria whispered.
“They came about a week ago. Sylvia, that’s Alice’s mother’s name, drove here from Cincinnati, Ohio. After ten years of marriage, being burned with hot water, curling irons, and enduring countless beatings, she walked out. Sylvia said Alice’s classmates taunted her about the beatings, the black eyes. Bullies pushed Alice in her back and said her mother was dressing up for Halloween before the season started with all that black makeup on her face. She said that was enough for her to flee.”
Victoria took in Miriam’s words, unable to give a response.
“Sylvia is a tough cookie. She’ll make it.”
“I hope so.”
“Hey, you have a job to do,” said Miriam, trying to soften the atmosphere. “This is Charlotte’s pet project. She said you’re fabulous at organization. As you can see, we get countless donations from the community. So many in fact, they’re strewn about and need to be straightened out. Think you can handle it?”
“I most certainly can.”
“I’ll leave you here to get started. Charlotte usually devotes two hours, three days each week. Do what you can and don’t feel compelled to do it all at once. It will take time to get all these items together.”
“I’ll at least knock out the toiletries and some of the small electronics.”
Victoria placed her purse in a cubbyhole in the room. Grateful for the stepladders in the room, she surveyed the stacks of lotions, soaps, shampoos, and plastic bags spread throughout the room. Always equipped with an electronic labeler, Victoria removed it from her purse. She made sure she’d label the items, so they’d be easy to identify. She’d even take the time to separate them by brands. The room was like a corner in her closet, she so was certain she’d do a great job. Twenty minutes into organizing, a familiar voice called from behind her.
“Excuse me, Miss, what type of shampoo do you have? I asked last week about—”
Victoria spun around, certain her ears were playing tricks. Both women stared at each other, one in surprise, the other in horror.
“Joy, did Charlotte recruit you as well? She’s working us overtime, isn’t she?”
Joy backed against the wall. Victoria Faulk was the last person she expected or wanted to see at Dorcas. In fact, no one from the neighborhood knew she’d checked out of desperate housewife land. Here stood her former acquaintance, flawless as ever and probably enjoying the highlife without a clue of what she’d endured with Walter.
“Victoria, I didn’t know you volunteered here.”
“So, does Miriam have you doing kitchen duty? It’s my first day here, but I really like her a lot.”
“Victoria, I live here.”
“Joy, you’re so silly. Really, when did Charlotte call you? She caught me just as I was going to Winston’s office this morning. I tell you, I really planned to shop at Restoration Hardware—”
“Victoria, this is my temporary home. Walter and I are getting a divorce and I had no place else to go.”
Today was too much for Victoria. She’d only planned to spend a little time at the facility, go visit Winston, and go back home. Now Joy sprang this surprise on her. The more she thought about matters, it had been a while since she’d seen Joy at outings, at play dates, or in restaurants in the neighborhood. The inner circle assumed Walter’s plastic surgery practice kept her busy, since she did a lot of work from home. Victoria blurted the first thing that came to mind.
“But you guys were perfect. I can’t imagine what might have happened.”
Joy held her breath, stared at Victoria. She hated the word perfect and abhorred it more when people used it to describe blemished, normal people. How could anyone have ever thought her marriage was perfect when he was always away? If having a husband who made her account for every dime was perfection, she fit the bill. Joy thought of the other elements that made her perfect marriage: No children because Walter felt a child would ruin their time alone—although he was never around. Add to that his mother’s feeling she wasn’t good enough to carry on the bloodline. Having sex with condoms he purchased because he was paranoid she’d poke holes in them. Making her stand on a
Weight Watchers scale every two days to ensure she didn’t gain weight, then charging her fifty dollars for every pound she gained. Joy thought of those perfect vacations where Walter brought his laptop and made her go to the beach, dinner, and shopping alone because his patients were more important. Let’s not forget that perfect waterfront home that she had to clean from top to bottom with no help. How sad when others on the outside looking in are totally clueless about the way you really live.
“Let’s sit down over here a minute,” said Joy.
Victoria trailed Joy to chairs scattered about in the room. They straightened them up, took a seat.
“No disrespect to you, Victoria, but I can’t imagine how you ever thought life with Walter was perfect. Sure, we all enjoyed a good life in our set, but did you ever take the time to delve deeper into what was going on with me?”
“I guess I didn’t. I just thought—”
“Doesn’t everyone? Everyone always thinks they know the particulars about everyone else’s relationships.” Joy paused. “Do you remember when the six of us traveled to Cancun and dined at La Habichuela after the snorkeling junket?”
“Yes. I remember you left early because the food didn’t agree with you.”
“No, the way Walter kicked me in my stomach didn’t agree with me. When we got back to the beach, he accused me of looking at some other man while we were in the water. It was all I could do to down that glass of wine at the restaurant. I was down for the count and returned to the house we rented.”
“Come to think of it, I didn’t see you much after dinner. I blamed it on the food and weather conditions. Why didn’t you ever say anything? I would have listened to you.”
“I made the mistake of confiding in Linda once. Actually, she just happened to stop by after Walter and I had a terrible fight. By the time she read me the riot act about how lucky I was and how a woman has to put up with a little discomfort to enjoy the high life, I didn’t share anything with anyone else after that time. And Victoria, your world is Alva, Winston, and Nicolette. I doubt you would have believed me. I like your friend, Aruba. I wanted to tell her because of the things you shared with me about her husband, but I never got a chance to tell her.”
“Aruba? You would have shared that with Aruba before talking to me?”
Joy pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “Victoria, you’re not exactly warm and fuzzy when it comes to other women. Other ladies seem like a pastime instead of a passion for you. I figured you didn’t have a lot of girlfriends growing up.”
Victoria recalled conversations shared with Joy. She constantly nitpicked about Winston never being around, his practice, his hesitance to buy her bigger, better toys. She understood why Joy didn’t want to open up and share anything. Those complaints must have paled in comparison to having an abusive husband. She felt awful for not being there, for not doing more for Joy.
“No, I didn’t have a lot of girlfriends because . . . well, that’s water under the bridge now. What can I do to help you? What do you plan to do?”
“Well, Walter made me sign a postnuptial agreement, so I can’t get any money. I managed to squirrel away about fifteen thousand dollars over the five years we’ve been married. I’m moving back to St. Louis with my grandmother until I can figure things out. I plan to fight him tooth and nail, but I doubt I’ll get anything. Funny, huh. I’ve been married to a plastic surgeon all this time and he never bothered to fix up his wife.”
Joy pulled up her shirt sleeve, exposing various scratches and cuts. “I guess Charlotte must have missed last week also because I didn’t see her. I would have been mortified. I know the rest of the circle would have known about my being here.”
“Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone, Joy.”
“Well, I’ve got lunch duty. We have the best salads and fruits. A lot of the farmers from surrounding areas give us wonderful foods. If you keep volunteering, I’ll fix you a great meal before I spring out of this joint,” said Joy.
Victoria examined Joy exiting the room. Even battered, she wasn’t broken. She exuded confidence that Victoria hadn’t seen in the five years their husbands mingled at parties and on trips. Why don’t I pay more attention to people?
Victoria returned to organizing. She took her time making sure everything was in its place, but the conversation with Joy left her spent. When she placed the hair dryers, nail-decorating kits, and foot spas on the top shelf near makeup compacts, she was amazed at what she felt. Tears streamed down her face. She hadn’t seen any in a long time.
[15]
Old Before My Time
“Onnie, what did you tell me about square roots?”
“You already know what I’m going to say, right?” Aunjanue snapped at Sims.
“I know. Try to figure it out first, then ask you if I can’t get it,” said Sims. He returned to his math problems, Aunjanue to her conversation.
“Where was I, Tarsh? Oh, Mr. Carvin said he loved the drawings. I’m saving my money for watercolors and an easel. My Grandma Bert and Grandpa J.B. told me if I saved half the money they’d help me get the supplies I need.”
“Onnie, you’re supposed to comb my hair. I want two ponytails,” whined S’n’c’r’ty.
“Don’t you see I’m on the phone?” Aunjanue spied the clock. “Tarsh, I gotta go. My momma’s coming home soon and I have to cook dinner.” She hung up the phone and called her brothers and sister into the kitchen.
“You know Momma will be here in about an hour and we don’t want her fussing tonight, right?”
“Yes, Onnie,” they sang in unison.
“Are your chores done?”
“Yes, Onnie.”
“Grant, you come in the kitchen and wash the lettuce for the salad. Sims, you take out the trash. S’n’c’r’ty, you get the pasta sauce and spaghetti out of the pantry.”
They complied, happy to take orders from their oldest sister. Aunjanue was their rock, and next to their grandmother, their only example of stability. As happy as they were to take orders, Aunjanue was happier to give them. She vowed motherhood wasn’t in her future. At twelve, she felt twenty-five. She loved her brothers and sister, but she’d grown tired of paying for Tawatha’s choices. While other girls her age played basketball, soccer, or shopped, she was home helping with homework, hairdos, and cleanup. Aunjanue knelt, pulling a silver stockpot from the bottom cabinet. She filled it with water and eyed her siblings with a mix of love and resentment. She placed the pot on a burner and turned up the temperature. She found the cast iron skillet Roberta had bought them recently. She slit open a three-pound packet of ground beef, dumped it in the pan, and turned the heat to medium, so the meat would brown perfectly.
“S’n’c’r’ty, when the water boils, what are you supposed to do?”
“Break the spaghetti and put it in the pan.”
“Grant, get the salad bowl down. Chop up the grape tomatoes like I showed you last week. Do we have any more bacon bits?”
“I think so. I’ll check the fridge.”
Aunjanue looked around for Sims. Since moving into the new house, she often spotted Sims staring at or talking to Rochelle Hudson two doors down. Aunjanue told him that girls didn’t like guys who seemed too anxious or willing to please. But every day, she saw him with his hands in his pockets, leaning on the oak tree in the Hudsons’ front yard, and laughing at Rochelle’s tired jokes. She didn’t care what he was doing tonight. She had to make sure dinner was done and on the table before Tawatha made it home. She’d been a tornado the last month or so and Aunjanue wanted to protect the clan from their mother.
Aunjanue gave her work the once-over, making sure everything was in its place. Grandma Bert had come over when they first moved in with cleaning rags, twelve bottles of Terminator deodorizer, and The Cleaning Bible by Kim and Aggie, a book by the zany Brits they watched on BBC. As the four of them watched How Clean is Your House? with Grandma Bert and Grandpa J.B., Aunjanue shook her head in disgust because she knew they were
candidates for the show. After they moved into the new place, Grandma Bert sat the four of them down, told them how important it was not to go back to the way they lived at the old apartment. Aunjanue asked her grandmother to help her with a schedule, so everyone could have a chore. This neighborhood was different. Everything was open; people stopped by unannounced from time to time just to say hello or drop off something nice.
The most popular girl in Aunjanue’s class, Tarsha Mosley, lived across the street. Aunjanue would be embarrassed if Tarsh knew how she used to live. She quickly adopted rituals in the new house Grandma Bert firmly required them to follow while visiting her home: Don’t put it down, put it away; wipe up stains the moment you spill something; the floor is no place for your clothes, hang them in the closet. The list seemed endless but necessary since Tawatha never taught them much of anything. Then again, the lessons she taught them were ones Aunjanue vowed to forget. She vowed to never have children because children were expensive little souls that required time, attention, money, and a stable male presence. She felt the sting of playground taunts at the old apartment complex when someone would say, “Y’all must have different daddies ’cause your brothers and sister don’t look nothing like you.” Or, “We don’t see no men around you all ’til the nighttime.” She vowed to get a degree, a house, a car, and a dog named Superman. There was no need to complicate matters with the broken promises that wafted between the walls at night when Tawatha moaned or screamed as the knocking headboard kept them awake or prompted S’n’c’r’ty’s bedwetting because she thought the men were hurting Tawatha. She vowed to make her own money and not ask men for help. Johnathon Boyce, the last man they got to know, made Tawatha beg for money for the kids’ lunches, shoes, and clothes. No way would she ever ask a man for anything. Grandma Bert showed her how to budget, balance a checkbook, and anticipate problems as they arose. She hadn’t mastered all the particulars her grandmother spoke of, but she knew with time, trial and error, she’d get better at it.
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