Dancing on the Edge of the Roof

by Sheila Williams

  Praise for Sheila Williams

  Dancing on the Edge of the Roof

  “Sheila Williams's debut delivers with her run away heroine. All Aboard!”

  –Romantic Times

  “Dancing on the Edge of the Roof kept my heart and mind dancing through the pages. Sheila Williams, with her talent for detailed storytelling, expertly takes the reader on a poignant and humorous quest for self.”

  –LORI BRYANT-WOOLRIDGE, author of Hitts & Mrs.

  The Shade of My Own Tree

  “Once you've read a Sheila Williams novel, you'll be a fan.”

  –Kentucky Monthly

  “An enlightening novel about surviving a life of domestic abuse. … Williams carries this off in an elegantly sparse style that's laced, incredibly enough, with humor.”

  –Cincinnati Enquirer

  “Poignant, humorous, and thought-provoking.”

  –The Cincinnati Herald

  “Weaving social commentary into the normalcy of everyday life, Williams interchanges humor and heartache in even the most mundane of activities.”

  –The Louisville Cardinal

  “Williams weaves another great story about a woman seeking self-discovery.”

  –Booklist

  On the Right Side of a Dream

  “Williams has written an entertaining sequel to Dancing on the Edge of the Roof.”

  —Booklist

  Dancing on the Edge of the Roof is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2002 by Sheila Williams

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  ONE WORLD is a registered trademark and the One World colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-51921-4

  www.oneworldbooks.net

  v3.0_r3

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books By This Author

  “Wild women don't get no blues.”

  IDA COX, Raisin' Cain Review

  “It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person,

  ‘Always do what you are afraid to do.’ ”

  RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  “Friends describe me as someone who likes to dance along the edge of the roof. I try to encourage young women to be willing to take risks. …”

  WILMA MANKILLER, Mankiller

  My life has been one long, muddy road after another. Potholes and puddles, a little sunshine here and there, mostly rain, though. Never anything remarkable. Nothing to write home about. But I want to change all that. I want to start over: change myself and my life. Now I don't want disasters and plagues. And I know the gods won't let me have a smooth road with sunshine every day either. I want to be fair about this.

  But once, just once, I'd like some drama in my life, an adventure, with a dash of romance thrown in. I want a life worth writing about. I want to dance on the edge of the roof. Only up there can you hear the thunder and see the rainbows.

  Juanita Louis

  Chapter One

  When I was forty-two years old, I decided to run away from home. Just pack up and go.

  Wouldn't take dishes or nothin', no “household goods,” stuff like that. Just my own stuff. What I could get into two suitcases.

  Wasn't runnin' away exactly, just movin' on. I wanted to see things I'd never seen before, go places different from here.

  I had been here too long.

  Wasn't nothin' happenin' here. Not a damn thing.

  Sometimes, you hear people say they want to find themselves. Well, I didn't need to do that. I knew where I was. That was the problem.

  When I was a kid, I watched the Popeye cartoons on Saturday mornin' before my momma waked up. Swee' Pea, the baby, he was my favorite. He would feel like he wasn't bein' treated right, so he would tie up all his things in a bandanna (like the ones my son Rashawn wears on his head now) and put it on a pole and crawl away, him in his pjs. And he'd see monsters and China and the ocean— the exciting things he'd never seen before.

  It was like a big adventure.

  That's what I wanted. A big adventure, all my own.

  Now, you know there was a lot workin' against me. I'm not what you call educated or nothin' like that. I ain't never been nowhere, don't have much of a life as it is. Got a COTA bus life—I go where the bus go: to work, to the carry-out, then home.

  And I'm not the kinda woman that you would think could have adventures. I'm not brave or smart. Not pretty or important. I ain't nobody you ever heard of. Ha! I'll never be anybody you heard of!

  And to most folks, I ain't much. But that's OK. I was smart enough to know that I couldn't stay here. Couldn't keep living the same old piece of life, doing the same old thing. Somebody said “life is not a dress rehearsal.” I know what that means.

  You don't get a second chance.

  I think it's time to leave. Juanita's great adventure.

  Even if I don't get very far, it will still be farther than I've been.

  If Swee' Pea can have an adventure, then so can I.

  Now, I didn't come to this way of thinking overnight. It took a long time.

  “Momma?”

  Bertie's voice took me out of my daydream.

  “Momma!”

  “Momma in there?” I heard my daughter yell back to her brother.

  “Bertie, she in there,” Rashawn yelled back. “She just writin' in that notebook again, that's all. You know how she gets.”

  “Momma, you in there, or what?”

  Bertie's pounding was starting to get on my nerves.

  “Whatchu want, Bertie? And quit banging on my door! You gonna tear it down?”

  “Sorry, Momma,” Bertie said. But she didn't sound like she was sorry. “Momma, can you keep Teishia for me? Me and Cheryl going to the Do Drop.”

  “Then you and Cheryl needs to take Teishia with you,” I said. “I want some peace and quiet tonight.”

  “Aw, Momma! I ain't been out in two days!” she whined. I hate it when Bertie whines.

  “I won't be gone long, I promise,” she lied. “Besides, Teishia'll be good. She go right to sleep.”

  I sighed. That was the right word. Sigh … I closed my notebook and went to put it away.

  “Bertie, the last time you said that, that baby kept me up till two. And you and Cheryl didn't come home till mornin'.” I opened the bedroom door. My daughter was standing there, dressed and ready to go. Teishia was sitting in the middle of the floor, playing with a Bic lighter. I ran over to her and snatched it away.

  �
��Bertie, you a fool or what? You got t' watch that child every minute! She mighta set herself—and us—on fire! And put these up!” I clicked the lighter. The flame jumped up an inch.

  Bertie rolled her eyes like she thought I was stupid.

  “Girl, you roll those eyes like that again, you be pickin' them up off the floor!”

  “Momma, she only a baby. She can't work it.”

  “And you a fool.” I stashed the lighter in my robe pocket.

  “You gonna keep her or not?” Bertie's hand was on her hip, and she was getting a definite attitude. I woulda got one with her but I had just come off a ten-hour shift at the hospital. I was tired. All I wanted was for this baby to go to sleep so I could relax. I could always jump an attitude with Bertie some other time.

  “She better go to sleep,” I told Bertie. Teishia stuck one fat finger in her mouth.

  Bertie lit out that door so fast, it made your head spin.

  She left an empty Doritos bag, four Coke cans, and a full ashtray behind her. Not to mention a stack of magazines and the TV blasting. I clicked off the TV and started to pick up some of the mess. Found one of Teishia's dirty diapers under the pillow on my couch. That really made me mad. I'm gettin' sick and tired of pickin' up after that girl.

  The sound of a sonic boom came from Rashawn's room.

  “Turn that stuff down!” I shouted. I heard voices. It sounded like someone said “Shhh … y'all. It's my momma.”

  I banged on the door. Somebody turned down the volume—but not enough.

  “Rashawn, you got somebody in there with you?”

  More voices …

  Teishia grunted. I looked over at her. She had a funny look on her face. The smell made my nose itch.

  Shit …

  “Rashawn!” I knocked again, this time with my fist. I tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

  “Rashawn, who's in there?”

  Teishia grunted. I looked over my shoulder. Oh, Lord, it was gonna be a big one.

  “Just Tiny and Pete, Momma.”

  Well, that's just great, I said to myself a few minutes later as I wiped Teishia's stinky behind. Pete was OK, but Tiny? “Tiny” was almost seven feet tall, and had four babies by three girls that I knew of. He was a crackhead most of the time. And a thief. He stole the little Walkman my momma gave me for Christmas. He took money outta Bertie's purse once and even took Rashawn's twenty-two, tho' Rashawn had no business keeping a twenty-two in my house in the first place. Tiny was always grinning and bobbing around, gettin' up in my face with “Good mornin', Miz Louis, good evenin', Miz Louis. You all right? You need somethin'? I'll set you up. Get you straight.” Negro was always tryin' to give me somethin'. Shoot. He didn't have nothin' I wanted. Well, ‘cept maybe for my Walkman he stole. Other than that, Tiny was a lyin', stealin’, dirty junkie, and I did not want him in my house.

  But tonight was not the night for that either.

  I let Tiny stay a little while. I told Rashawn to turn the music down again. He said “Shit.” Then he and Tiny and Pete left.

  I washed the baby up and put her to sleep in the fold-up playpen. Took me a bath with Calgon and laughed. What does that commercial say? “Calgon … take me away.”

  I sat on the couch and smoked a cigarette. Watched the baby sleep. Heard sirens screaming down Main Street. Lots of noise outside. It sounded like Mardee was havin' another party across the hall. I blindly watched the figures dancing across the TV screen. Ducked down when I thought I heard a gunshot. I drank a Coke and listened to Mardee's party and to the cars going by.

  Then I took out my notebook. It's pretty, covered with fabric. A “paisley” print, the saleslady had told me.

  I had the pen in my hand—a real ballpoint. It cost me good money at the flea market. It wasn't cheap or nothin'. I took a deep breath, got ready.

  My hand didn't move.

  What was I gonna say?

  You're supposed to have a juicy story to tell on pages like this—a hot love affair like the ones they talk about on the TV, or a long trip to a far-off place.

  I looked at the empty page. Then I looked at my good ink pen. I closed the notebook.

  You don't write about a COTA bus life in a paisley-fabric-covered notebook.

  And you can't write the story of a ninety-nine-cent life with a three-dollar-fifty-cent Parker pen.

  A ninety-nine-cent life goes something like this:

  At home they call me “Momma.” At work, I am “Nita” or “Hey, you!” But my name is Juanita Louis. And I like to be called “Juanita.”

  I live in the projects. They call it low-income housing now. But when I came along (“back in the day” as my kids would say) they called ‘em projects. My parents worked hard to move us kids outta there, Daddy worked three jobs and Momma worked two. I remember when we finally moved outta there and into a small two-story frame house off Cleveland Avenue. Mom and Dad were so proud. Nowadays they try to make the projects look like someplace you wanna be, glamorize gunshots and crackheads. Now, it's called the’ hood.

  I got a two-bedroom, but it ain't enough. Bertie and Teishia (I call her “T”) live with me. Teishia's thirteen months old, cute but a handful. Bertie is twenty. She dropped outta high school her junior year and ain't been back. Ain't workin' now either. Collects welfare and has a fine old life watchin' “All My Children” and drinkin' beer and wine coolers.

  She usta work checkout at the Big Bear at Town & Country. That girl was always good with numbers—added up the small orders in her head, didn't need to look at the register to make change. Don't know why she quit. Now she tend bar sometime at the Do Drop, says she restin' and wants to be a full-time mother. Funny how that works out—I watch T full-time, Bertie is the mother. I work, she rests.

  She's been gettin' fat here lately. And KC been droppin' by again. I sure hope she ain't pregnant again.

  I take one bedroom; my sons, Rashawn and Randy, share the other one. Well, Rashawn does anyway. Randy's away for aggravated assault or something like that. The way the judge told it, he'll be an old man when he come out. He's only twenty-five now.

  I send him money for cigarettes and things. Shoot, they gotta buy clothes and bedding and things in there just like they was furnishing an apartment or somethin'. Randy, he's living on snacks now. I guess the food is bad.

  Randy says, “Momma, ain't nothin' happenin' in jail, nothin'. All I do is eat, sleep, and try to stay alive.”

  And talk on the telephone. Randy call here collect so much they turned the phone off ‘cause the bill was so high. I tell him not to call me but once every other week, unless he's dyin’. Those collect call charges add up.

  Randy doesn't like prison much. I tried to tell him that he wouldn't, but that boy's got a hard head. I hope he'll learn his lesson, but I don't know. Randy was always one to take the shortcuts. 'Course, it'll be a long time before he gets out. By then, Rashawn will be there, too.

  Of all my kids, Rashawn at least finished high school. He's got money but no job. He's got clothes, a car, but no job. And people usta knock on my door real late at night. Sometimes wake up the baby. “Zombies” Rashawn calls them. I know what he does and I'm scared. I told him, ”The police could come here and take us all away.”

  I say to Rashawn, ”Do your business somewhere else. I don't want that stuff in my house.”

  He smiles that smile. Dimples, white teeth, like a crocodile grin—a lyin' smile. He says: “OK, Momma, OK. You wanta hold some?”

  He shows me a wad of green the size of a cantaloupe.

  I say no, now get out.

  Rashawn laughs.

  He still lives here. But I think he moved his business to an empty double over on Monroe. Once in a while, though, one of those zombies forgets. Come knockin' on my door late at night.

  Scare me half to death. I don't open the door. I see them through the peephole: all skinny, gray, and Halloween lookin'. Eyes goin
g every which way, they don't focus on what they're supposed to. They are far away— wherever that pipe is, I guess.

  They say, “Rashawn there?”

  I lie. I tell them, “Rashawn don't live here no more.” I want him to get out for real. He says, “Aw, Mom … you trippin'.” I think if he don't stop this dealin', I'll be trippin' over his dead behind.

  So I'm the only one in the house with a nine to five. I keep three adults in wine and cigarettes, Bertie's Guess? jeans, and these hundred-dollar work boots Randy needs in the “hotel.”

  I work the second shift at Saint Paul's—they call it Fair-View Medical Center now, but it'll always be Saint Paul's to me. I'm a nurse's aide, which means I clean up the shit and the puke, and do all the other things the nurses too good to do nowadays.

  I work from 2:30 to 10:30, but my day starts long before that. I get up at 6:30 to feed T. Bertie, she sleeps till noon. I watch the baby for her till it's time for me to go to work. Seems to me most days, I don't get to see no daylight at all.

  I take the bus to work and sometimes I'm thinkin' so hard about things, the driver has to remind me to get off at my stop.

  “Hey! Don't you work at the hospital?”

  I tell him yes and get off the bus. He shakes his head. Guess he wonders what I'm thinking about that I miss my stop three times a week.

  Thinking about things.

  At work, it's “Do this!” and “Do that!” all day long. I say, “My name Juan-ita, not Nita.” Sometimes I want to smack one of those bitches. Especially the white ones who think I'm a field hand or somethin'. I want to tell them I got news. Slavery was over in 1860 or somethin'. We all free now!

  But they got lots of sick people, so I stay busy. The time goes fast and before I know anything, my shift is up.

  The hospital ain't giving me much. I get $8.50 a hour now. I been there four years. They give the uniforms, but I have to buy white sneakers. We get a discount in the cafeteria, but I don't like the food much so I bring my own.

  One thing they give me I appreciate: two fifteen-minute breaks and a lunch hour. For that, I am grateful. I think that by doing that, they gave me my life.