Living and Dying in Brick City

by Sampson Davis

  “Why? Why are you protecting a man who hurts you?”

  For the first time, Debra looked me squarely in the eyes, and I saw a toughness in her that I had not seen before: “Because Terry loves me, Doctor, that’s why.”

  Terry was her husband of many years—her high school sweetheart, the man with whom she had shared half her young life. He had driven her to the hospital and now sat in the waiting room, probably looking like the perfect, patient husband. I imagined him there, fidgeting anxiously, feeling sorry for himself, wondering why his wife had made him lose his temper and do such a terrible thing to her.

  Debra squeezed her eyes shut, sighed deeply, and her story flowed as freely as her tears. “He didn’t mean to do it,” she began, admitting the beating that had sent her flying across the room and into the corner of her dresser.

  What a coward, I thought, feeling anger at him rising inside me. But I tried to keep a straight face and professional distance as Debra talked about their life together. He was a good provider, she said, but even with both their incomes, they struggled to make ends meet. Like any couple, they had disagreements, she continued, and at times things got out of hand. But it was usually her fault, she added. She always seemed to push the wrong buttons in him.

  “I know he has a temper, and he warns me,” she said. “But I just keep pushing.” Next time, she would keep her mouth shut, and everything would be fine.

  As I examined Debra’s wounds, I thought: I know this couple. I’d seen their kind of “love” my entire life, the kind that can swing violently from passion to pain with one wrong word. And even after all my years of medical training, I still had no more answers than I’d had as a boy, watching in fear as my mother and father cursed and clawed at each other.

  I’m sure there must have been a time when Moms thought Pop hit her because she’d pushed him too far or talked too much. They would exchange blows one minute and talk sweetly to each other the next—or so said my older sister Fellease, who along with my other sister, Roselene, and two older brothers witnessed the worst of our parents’ battles. By the time my younger brother, Carlton, and I came along, any sweetness that had existed between our parents had turned bitter.

  The only glimpse of love that I remember happened when I was about eleven. My parents were taking a photo together. My mother’s brother and sister were visiting from Cleveland over Labor Day weekend, and as my aunt Doretha snapped a photo, my uncle TJ and his wife stood to the side, and I saw my father take my mother’s hand and pull her close. It was the first time I’d ever even seen them hold hands. I held every detail of that moment in my mind: Moms in her red shorts and cream-colored blouse and Pop in a Miami Beach–like floral print shirt and blue trousers. There for a split second I saw what looked like a happy couple.

  Truth was, they had carved out two separate lives under the same roof by then and most times dropped even the pretense of cordiality. They slept in different rooms on opposite ends of our small two-bedroom house—Pop in the master bedroom on the second floor and Moms on a twin bed in the basement. Carlton and I shared a sofa bed next to her.

  Most days, my parents went about their business with just the required exchanges between them—a word or two here and there about a needed repair around the house, money, groceries, or the children. But the potential for a blowup always made me tense whenever their paths crossed. I could see Moms seething and sucking her teeth the moment he entered the room.

  “Ma, stop that,” I’d say, annoyed that she seemed about to provoke him into a fight.

  Pop just walked around, mostly silent and withdrawn. One wrong word hurled in the other’s direction at the wrong time, though, and the sparks began to fly.

  “You crazy, bitch,” Pop would shout.

  “Well, you ain’t shit,” Moms would yell back.

  I’d stand there speechless, praying that Moms would just be quiet or that Pop would walk away. At times, I felt like a pawn in their chess game, pushed this way or that in their effort to one-up the other, like the times when I’d run to my dad’s side as a kid and plead with him to let me help work on the car or mow the lawn. I’d tug on his pants leg until he gave in. But the moment he let me join him, Moms quickly appeared and yelled for me. I was too little, or I was going to get hurt, she’d say, ordering me back inside. She made it clear that she didn’t trust my father to keep me safe, but it seemed clear to me that she also didn’t want me getting too close to him, lest he gain some kind of advantage in their war. As a child, I wanted to be just like my father and felt robbed of those stolen moments to learn manly things from him. Other times, I’d stand silently and hang my head as Pop berated my mother in my presence, trying to sway me to his point of view.

  Some days I’d hide out in the backyard in my own private spot: a pile of rocks on a dirt patch next to the garage. I’d sit there, out of everyone’s sight, and flip over the biggest stones and watch quietly as the community of worms that lived underneath scurried for cover. I’d lose myself in their quiet world. Mine seemed so tumultuous, and I always worried about what could happen—a fear branded into my soul by an unforgettable moment during the Christmas holidays when I was about six years old.

  My mother and sisters were in the kitchen, preparing our traditional holiday feast, and Carlton, Andre, and I played nearby. The smooth baritone of Nat King Cole—one of Pop’s favorites—rose from the stereo and floated throughout the house. Moms made her way to the living room, where Pop sat playing his beloved guitar to one of the Christmas classics.

  “Turn that noise down,” Moms ordered.

  Pop had been drinking and stood his ground: “No, I will not!”

  But my mother was never the type to back down, even when Pop tried to walk away. Whatever was on her mind came flying out of her mouth, like kindling thrown onto a heap of smoking hot debris. “Oh, yes, you will!”

  Their ensuing argument sounded like familiar background noise—until things took a sudden and unexpected turn. Pop dashed up the stairs to his bedroom, where most times he would have stayed. But the next thing I knew, he was standing on the third step of the living room staircase with a gun pointed at the person I loved most in the world. Before that moment, I never even knew he had a gun.

  “I’ll shoot you, woman,” he warned. “I will kill you!”

  Moms shouted back with her typical fearlessness: “Go ahead. Shoot me.”

  This can’t be happening … Please, God, don’t let him do it, I prayed, too shocked even to cry. Carlton immediately began wailing. My sisters jumped from their chairs and stood in the middle of the battle, as if they could stop a flying bullet with their outstretched arms. Then, suddenly, Andre leaped up and yelled at our parents: “Why don’t y’all stop!”

  Maybe seeing the hurt he was causing his children got to Pop that day. He would never have intentionally hurt us. Without a word, he lowered the gun, climbed the stairs, and returned to hibernation in his room.

  “Do the two of you have children?” I asked Debra during the examination.

  Yes, she responded, their son was ten, and their daughter was eight. Poor children, I thought. They were bound to have witnessed their parents’ battles, and there are few things more terrifying to a child. You feel helpless—and worse, somehow to blame. The guilt always comes, especially when the battles are about money. With a kid’s sense of reasoning, you find yourself thinking that maybe your parents wouldn’t fight so much if you weren’t around, if you didn’t need food, clothes, or a new pair of shoes. Every battle leaves a scar. Every fight alters a child’s sense of what’s normal. Down the road, some children who grew up with domestic violence rail against it, vowing—as I did—never to live like that. I even promised myself that I would never get married.

  Many studies show that children who witness domestic violence are more likely than other children to become abusers or victims of abuse themselves. In such cases, fighting is seen as a normal part of living and loving. Girls who saw a parent abused often choose boyfriends or
husbands who beat them; the women accept it because they expect it. Likewise, the boys frequently become batterers who see their version of manhood as the real way to keep a loudmouthed, strong-willed woman in check.

  I pleaded with Debra: Think of your children and the unhealthy environment they are living in. Get help for them, if not for yourself, I warned. But her eyes narrowed, fairly screaming that this was none of my business. I knew then that I’d stepped across a line. I’d violated that unspoken urban creed I’d learned back on Dayton Street: Whatever happens between a man and his woman is nobody else’s business.

  Not here, though, I thought. Not in my shop. Not anymore.

  “I’m bound by law to report to authorities if I suspect a crime has been committed,” I told Debra. I was still so green that I had no idea whether this was even true. I’d learn later that the law requires only that I report cases of homicide, weapons injuries, or suspected elder or child abuse, and that I had no real grounds to report Debra. But I was willing to bluff if it meant I could possibly save her life.

  “No, Dr. Davis! If you call the cops, Terry will get in trouble,” she replied.

  He was on probation, she said, and she needed him at home to help raise their children.

  “Besides,” she added, “I hit him sometimes, too.”

  Debra didn’t see herself as a victim, because she fought back. And as many desperate women do, she had decided she couldn’t make it without her man’s financial support. Most domestic violence victims—upward of 95 percent—are women, and the vast majority of them never leave their abusers. Just 30 percent ever even seek help for their injuries in an emergency room.

  This was my chance to do something. I couldn’t just stitch up Debra’s face and send her back to the man whose fists had landed her in my care in the first place.

  I sat on the doctor stool in room A4, working quietly. Suddenly, I was a tough, curly-haired ten-year-old boy again, back on Dayton Street one sweltering summer day in 1983. My boys and I had just finished a game of Twenty-one in street basketball and had walked over to the hot dog truck that was a permanent fixture in the neighborhood. We called it “the hot dog truck,” but it was actually a van, stocked with everything from hot dogs and chips to penny candies, sodas, and juices. You could buy something there with any coin you pulled from your pocket. Maybe I would get lucky enough to find a quarter to buy some juice. As I stood there, dressed in my blue basketball shorts, white T-shirt, and PRO-Keds sneakers, I dug into my pockets. My eyes fell on a thermometer attached to a utility pole a few inches away. It registered 102 degrees. No wonder I’d felt so beaten down after pulling off the basketball victory—scoring the twenty-one points before anyone else. My mouth felt parched, and as I finally found the quarter and pulled it out of my pocket, I felt like I had won the lottery.

  “Gimme a grape,” I said, asking the vendor for my favorite.

  I stuck my sweaty face inside the van, hoping to feel a bit of the frost rising from the freezer as the man opened it to hand me my prize. Suddenly, a loud commotion from the high-rise public housing projects across Ludlow Street caught my attention. People were gathering around Building 6. There were screams, the instant wail of sirens, and flashes of red, blue, and orange lights from police cars that screeched to a halt in a gigantic dirt patch that was once a grassy play area just past the projects. Police cars blocked off my street. A uniformed officer ran past me with his gun drawn, heading in the direction of the commotion. More officers followed, racing to the scene in their bulletproof vests. Some had rifles. In my neighborhood, I was accustomed to sirens and flashing lights at all hours, but this much police action meant something tragic had occurred. My first thought was to wonder whether someone I knew had died. Still holding my juice, I sprinted with my boys to the scene.

  As we arrived, an officer was using the familiar yellow tape to block off the building. He instructed the crowd to back up. Since my friends and I were small, we managed to snake our way to the front. Neighbors seemed to come from all directions, until there were probably a hundred sweaty bodies gathered behind the tape. We all just stood there, waiting, and watching the police officers’ every move, like spectators at a game. Before long, a black station wagon pulled up and slowly made its way directly in front of Building 6. An obese middle-aged white man in a frumpy suit hopped out and wobbled to the building’s entrance. A half hour or so later, the man reappeared, with a group of police officers pushing a stretcher carrying a black body bag. A collective gasp rose from the crowd at the sight of it. I felt a familiar knot in the pit of my stomach. Somebody had died for sure, and more likely than not, it was someone we knew. The officers lifted the stretcher and rolled it into the back of the station wagon. The crowd speculated loudly about what might have happened. Had a drug deal gone bad? Had a rival gang member stepped onto the wrong turf? But the puzzle pieces fell quickly into place when police officers brought out their handcuffed assailant.

  “Oh my God, Brenda!” a woman in the crowd shrieked.

  Another collective gasp went up.

  Even us younger ones could figure this out. The person in the body bag must have been Brenda’s husband, Dave. Everybody either knew the couple or knew about them. They were quite a pair—ideal during the week, always together, laughing and talking with neighbors outside in the common areas, grocery shopping, strolling along the sidewalks. But they drank on weekends, and their sixth-floor apartment became their battleground. In the summer, the yelling, screaming, and sounds of breaking glass would travel down through their open windows, to the walkways and playgrounds below. Brenda and Dave are at it again, someone would say, as if that was a normal part of life and love. Sometimes, the couple would go after each other outdoors, in full view of anyone who happened to be watching. They’d curse each other out, throw punches, and occasionally even pull out a knife.

  “Y’all need to take that indoors,” one of the adults might yell, out of respect for us children, watching in amusement.

  Sometimes police would get an anonymous call, and we’d see Dave led away in handcuffs. He would disappear for a week or two, but they always made their way back to each other. Privately, Brenda’s friends—including my sister Fellease—urged her to leave him. But even when Brenda got enough nerve to do so, she didn’t stay away. Dave showered her with gifts, money, flowers, and notes telling her he couldn’t live without her.

  Just one year earlier, it had been Brenda brought out on a gurney by emergency medical personnel after they’d had a horrendous fight. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw her bloody, swollen face with large, open wounds, which made her look like she’d been mauled by a pit bull. It appeared as though Dave had bitten or clawed chunks out of her face. Brenda was hospitalized for weeks. When she got out, she confided in Fellease that Dave had called her daily from jail, crying and pleading for her forgiveness. He didn’t know what came over him when he drank, he said. He would stop drinking and never hit her again. He promised. She was beautiful, he told her, and the two of them were made for each other.

  Brenda held out longer than anyone expected, but she eventually refused to testify against Dave, and the charges were dropped. Dave was released, and as usual, the couple reconciled. All of us who were her neighbors and friends thought Brenda was crazy for returning to him, and I’m sure Fellease told her so. But it didn’t matter to Brenda what anyone else thought of Dave. He had persuaded her that no one would love her more than he did. And as her once-attractive face began to show her battle scars, she actually believed that no one but Dave could ever love her. When she went back to him that time, though, she quietly bought a gun—just in case she needed to protect herself, she told Fellease. For a while, Dave held true to his word. He quit drinking. To everyone’s surprise, nearly a year passed without any public fights between the couple, and there was no yelling or screaming from their sixth-floor window. Even my sister was beginning to believe that Dave was indeed a changed man.

  But on that stifling summer day as
my boys and I played a game of Twenty-one, Brenda and Dave were at it again, a few of the neighbors later told me. They heard Dave cursing, and Brenda screaming for him to stop. There were loud bumps against the walls. Things seemed to settle down for a bit, the neighbors said, but a half hour later, two loud pops rang out. They sounded like firecrackers. Then came the police, the crowd, and the body bag.

  “Dr. Davis,” Debra said, interrupting my thoughts and breaking the long silence between us in room A4, “if you’re done, then I’m ready to go.”

  Her husband was waiting, she said, and they needed to get home to their children.

  Debra’s face had required twenty-five stitches. Long suture procedures were part of the grunt work for first-year residents. I had never done that many stitches on one patient before, so my neat work gave me a momentary sense of pride. But I wasn’t finished just yet.

  “Debra,” I said, looking her straight in her eyes, “I’ve seen people die in relationships like this. Your husband needs help, and so do you.”

  “Dr. Davis, I know Terry has his problems, but—”

  “Next time,” I said, interrupting her, “he may kill you.”

  But like a woman resigned to her fate, Debra answered solemnly: “I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  I could tell those were her final words. Nothing I’d said had reached her. She was planning to leave the hospital with her attacker, and I could do nothing about it. Then, for some inexplicable reason, I just gave up. Maybe nothing I said or did would have made a difference that day. But maybe with more experience, I would have had the confidence to ignore her pleas, to call the domestic violence hotline, to report the incident to the police. It was a thought that would haunt me for years. In that moment, though, when a split-second decision was required, I couldn’t think of anything more persuasive to say.

  “Okay, Debra,” I responded, and then recited by rote the standard spiel for care of her wounds. “You need a wound check in forty-eight hours, and the sutures need to come out in five to seven days. If the wounds become red or start to leak pus, or if you develop a fever, come back right away. You’ll have scars from your injuries.”