The Redemption of Bobby Love

by Bobby Love

Then I heard Bruce call for George. George got up from the sofa in the living room and went running to Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom in the back. Then the two of them carried Mommy out to the living room and laid her gently on the sofa. She was barely moving and her skin looked gray to me. I couldn’t move, I was so scared. George told me to stay where I was and keep doing my homework.

  I could only nod my head and stare at Mommy and wonder why she wasn’t moving. Why she wasn’t smiling. Why she wasn’t telling me that everything was going to be okay.

  “We’re going to take Mommy to the hospital,” Bruce said, and then he and George picked Mommy up and carried her out the door. I knew the hospital where I was born was just across the street, so that’s where I figured they would carry her. My little brothers were still in their room and didn’t even know what was happening and I didn’t want to tell them. What must have been only ten minutes later, my godmother, who lived on the fourth floor, came up to sit with the boys and me while we waited for somebody to call with some news.

  I don’t know how much time passed, but I know I watched The Jetsons and The Flintstones without hearing anything about Mommy. Then Daddy came home. He was in his work clothes and he looked exhausted and sad. I flew into his arms and asked, “What happened to Mommy? Where is she? Is she okay?”

  My father picked me up and said, “Cheryl, Mommy is in the hospital because she didn’t feel good. But the doctors are going to take care of her. She’ll be better soon.”

  I trusted my father and told myself that Mommy would be okay. But the look on my father’s face wouldn’t let me truly believe it. My father quickly changed his clothes and said he was going back over to the hospital. My godmother assured him that she would stay and take care of us kids.

  The next morning I woke up in my bed and I talked to God. I said, “Dear God, please let Mommy get better soon.” Then I jumped up and walked out of my room to see if I could find a grown-up to tell me what was happening with my mother.

  I found my brother Bruce in the living room, looking out the window. He was just standing there, barely moving.

  “Bruce, are you all right?” I whispered. He didn’t answer, so I raised my voice. “Bruce? Bruce!”

  He finally turned around to face me. “Cheryl, Mommy passed away.”

  “What do you mean?” I cried. “What does ‘passed away’ mean?”

  “Mommy died. She had a stroke or something,” he said and started to cry. “They said her blood pressure was too high.”

  None of it made any sense to me. I never heard anything about Mommy’s blood pressure. And she was never sick. I ran to my parents’ bedroom, hoping to find my mother there. But she wasn’t. Neither was my father. I just threw myself on their bed and hugged my mother’s pillow close. I could still smell her Jergens lotion and the oil she used on her hair.

  * * *

  On the day of my mother’s funeral, the church was packed. All five of my mother’s sisters were there, as were her two brothers, Uncle Carlisle and Uncle T. Sis was there too, of course. Everyone from the church community showed up as well. Everybody loved my mother. As I sat there, squashed between my godmother and Sis, I remember thinking how popular my mother was. I waved at my godsister across the aisle and didn’t understand why she didn’t wave back. People all around me were sniffling and sobbing, but I just knew that Mommy wasn’t really gone. I told myself, “Mommy is going to get up. She’s just sleeping in that thing up there. She’s going to get up.” I had decided my mother was only sleeping. She’s going to get up. She’s going to get up was the one thought running through my head.

  It wasn’t until we went to the cemetery and I watched them lower my mother’s coffin into the ground that my mother’s death seemed real. I looked at my father and my brothers and sister and saw the grief distorting their faces and I finally understood. My mother was truly gone. That’s when I started to cry and couldn’t stop.

  The days following the funeral were filled with people in our house bringing food and making plans for us children. My sister wanted to drop out of school to take care of my little brothers and me but my father wouldn’t hear of it.

  “You’re going back to school and you’re going to graduate,” he told her. “That’s the one thing your mother wanted more than anything in this world,” he said, tearing up. “To see you with your college diploma.”

  But that meant my father was left to decide what to do with us. He worked all day. He couldn’t handle three little kids by himself. Scott was only three years old. He wasn’t even in kindergarten yet.

  I kept quiet and listened while the grown folks were trying to decide what to do.

  “We’ll take the kids, George,” one of my aunts said in hushed tones in the living room, while I listened from the hallway.

  “I’ll take Cheryl,” my mother’s sister Aunt Jane said.

  “And we’ll take the little boys,” my Aunt Alma offered.

  “You can’t handle these kids by yourself, George,” someone else said. I couldn’t make out who.

  “No,” my father said loudly. I could tell he was mad. “One of the last things Gert said to me in the hospital was ‘Do not split my children up!’ She told me if she didn’t make it, I had to promise her that I would keep the children with me. And I made that promise.” And then I heard my father start to cry. I was used to hearing that sound now and it hurt my heart.

  My aunts were quiet for a moment and let my father collect himself.

  “George, we’re only trying to help and do what’s best for those kids. And for you.”

  I realized I was holding my breath in the hallway as I waited to hear what my father would say. I loved all of my aunts, but I didn’t want to leave my daddy or my brothers.

  My father’s voice was clear and firm when he opened his mouth to speak again. “I appreciate the offer, but the kids will stay here with me. I promised Gert, and I’m not going to let her down.”

  “But how will you manage, George?” Aunt Jane asked.

  “I don’t know,” Daddy said. “I’ll figure something out.”

  * * *

  Daddy did the best that he could after Mommy died. And I did the best that I could not to make his life any harder than it had suddenly become, being a single working father of three little children. My godmother and godsisters helped out, as did the women from the church. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted my mommy.

  When she was alive, at the end of the school day I’d find my mother waiting outside the gates of PS 224, ready to walk me home. But now I was forced to wait for whomever my father could persuade to come and get me. They were usually late. It was never the same person, and sometimes I’d be left there waiting so long I’d think I’d been forgotten. I tried to keep my hurt and sorrow inside because I knew Daddy was trying his hardest. And I didn’t want him to send us away because we were too much to handle.

  One day later that spring, my father called me to him. He was sitting in the living room watching the evening news.

  “Why are you walking funny, Cheryl?” he asked me, frowning.

  I hobbled over to him but was afraid to tell him the truth. My sneakers were too small but I didn’t want to cause my father any extra trouble.

  “Cheryl,” my father said again. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  My father always said I had to tell the truth, so I told him.

  “Your shoes was hurting, and you didn’t feel like you could tell me?” He looked at me with such sorrow in his eyes that I felt like I should comfort him. But he grabbed me up and held me close. Then my father shook his head and forced me to look him in the eye. “Cheryl Lynn Williams, you are never a burden to me. I am your father and my job is to take care of you.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” I said, and sure enough, the very next day Daddy came home with a new pair of sneakers for me. They weren’t the latest style like Mommy would have bought for me, but they were the right size and didn’t pinch my toes. That was good enough.

  As soon as Si
s finished college in May, she came back to Brooklyn to help take care of us. It was wonderful to have Sis home again, and I thought she’d make things feel like Mommy did, but Sis wasn’t Mommy.

  I knew my sister was trying her best and I tried my best not to complain, but it was almost like the more she tried, the more glaringly obvious it was that Mommy was gone. I kept my observations to myself, but in my head I’d be watching my sister and thinking, Oh, brother, this is not what Mommy would do. Every little thing Sis did wrong made me miss Mommy more. One day Sis laid my clothes out for me to wear to school.

  “I don’t wear this sweater with this outfit. This doesn’t go together,” I told my sister, crossing my arms across my chest. She had put together an outfit that Mommy would never make me wear.

  “Listen, you better wear this sweater,” Sis said, getting angry.

  “I don’t want to wear that sweater,” I said, tears springing to my eyes, thinking that Sis was getting it all wrong. And I just lay down on my bed and cried. Sis thought I was being stubborn about that stupid sweater, but I just missed my mother so much. I missed her big kisses and hugs. I missed her laughing at my jokes and silly performances. I missed her playfulness and that sensation when she made me feel like I was the most important thing in the world to her. But Sis wasn’t doing any of that.

  “Why are you so upset about a silly sweater?” Sis asked me. “I just thought you should wear it because it’s still cool in the mornings. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

  I couldn’t stop my tears, but I sat up and collected myself.

  “It’s just that . . . ,” I started. “Nothing is right. Nothing feels right since Mommy died.”

  Sis sat down next to me on the bed. Now she had tears in her eyes too. She hugged me tight.

  “You’re going to be okay, Cheryl. It’s all going to be okay,” she said.

  Sis knew all I wanted was my mother back, but she also knew she couldn’t give that to me. I could see she was doing her best, though, trying to be strong and put on a brave face so she could keep things in order around the house. At the time, I didn’t think about Sis needing comfort, but she was hurting too. Mommy was her best friend. They wrote letters to each other every week while Sis was away at college. Mommy’s absence in our family was felt by us all.

  * * *

  One year after my mother died, Daddy figured out a better way to deal with us kids.

  I was ten years old and I was sitting outside playing with my dolls by myself. My father came outside and found me. He told me he had something important to tell me.

  “Cheryl, Estelle and I are getting married,” he said.

  Estelle went to our church, and lately Daddy had been taking us to her house over at the Red Hook projects for Sunday dinners. She was a good cook and I liked looking at all of her pictures of her own children, who were all grown up. But I had no idea she was about to marry my father.

  “Okay, Daddy,” I said with a shrug without looking up at him. I didn’t know what else to say. I continued playing with my dolls as I tried to figure out how I felt about this big announcement.

  “I already told Scott and Don,” my father said, “and they’re happy they’re going to get a new mom. What about you, Cheryl?”

  That got my attention. I looked up at my father and said slowly, “I guess it sounds good.” It was almost a question.

  “Will you call her Mom or Estelle?” my father wanted to know. “The boys already decided they are going to call her Mommy.”

  I scrunched up my face as I tried to figure out how to answer my father’s question. Why would I call this new lady “Mom”? I wondered. But just as quickly, I felt a flicker of hope. I hadn’t been able to call anyone Mommy in a year. I didn’t just miss my mother. I missed having a mother. Daddy had picked Estelle to be his new wife, and so maybe things would be like before when Mommy was alive. As this idea formed in my head, I started to feel excited about Estelle and encouraged, too.

  “I’ll call her Mommy,” I said, warming to the idea by the minute. That made Daddy smile and he bent down to hug me. I think we were both ready for some joy back in our lives.

  Unfortunately, Estelle wasn’t the person to bring the joy. She wasn’t mean, but she wasn’t playful. She was totally different from my mother. Where my mother would invite all of us kids to come watch our favorite TV shows together all snuggled up on my parents’ bed, Estelle put a lock on the bedroom door and told all of us kids we were forbidden to enter the room. She brought her own furniture and decorations into our apartment and told us that we were never to touch any of her things. I had never met a grown-up like that before. And I just knew my father was going to realize he made a mistake and send her packing. But he never did. I think he was just so grateful that there was a woman around to handle the household that he was willing to overlook Estelle’s particular disposition. He even ignored the whispers from the people at church who said it was shameful that Daddy barely waited a year after Mommy passed to take a new wife.

  I couldn’t fault him, though. I wasn’t a big fan of Estelle’s, but I understood Daddy needed the help. Sis had found a job in Atlanta and moved down there once Estelle officially became part of the family. Before she left, Sis told me to give Estelle a chance. And it was true. Estelle wasn’t all bad. She made us good meals and baked us cakes for our birthdays. She would take me to nice stores like Macy’s and Gimbels to buy me clothes for school and special occasions. And even though she had a job as a nurse’s aide and worked during the day, Estelle was around for me and my brothers after school and in the evenings.

  Luckily, my godmother Katherine and her two daughters—​my godsisters—​did their very best to shower me with the affection I lost when Mommy died. So I didn’t have to depend on Estelle’s infrequent bursts of kindness. I loved Katherine so much and I knew she loved me. My parents had met her when they first moved into the Pink Houses. Our families grew close. Katherine’s daughters were five and eight years older than me, and they spoiled me. I loved to go down to their apartment on the fourth floor and play. After Mommy died, I spent even more time with them.

  Whatever I needed, Katherine stepped up to take care of it. If I needed my hair done, she’d take me to the beauty parlor. My father usually couldn’t make it to my dance performances or musical concerts because he had to work during the day. So did Estelle. But Katherine would come. She worked the night shift as a nurse, so she would come home, get her snack and a nap, and then she would come out to support me. I was in the glee club and African dance, and I played the clarinet in the school band, so there was always something going on. Katherine would always be there so I could look out into the audience and see her cheering me on.

  By the time I was twelve, we were in a new little rhythm as a family. Daddy finally let me walk to school by myself. Estelle brought a familiar and welcome routine back to our household. And things had returned to some sort of new normal. But I still missed Mommy a lot. I missed her sweetness and her joy. I missed seeing my father come home with a smile on his face looking for his “Gert” to squeeze and laugh with. He didn’t squeeze Estelle. They didn’t laugh together. We didn’t dance together in the apartment anymore. But I had my godmother and my godsisters to fill in those empty spaces for me. And I continued to love on my little brothers, like Mommy used to love on me. I wanted them to know they were special and appreciated. So while Estelle was the new engine of the family, keeping everything running, I took it upon myself to be the heart.

  Our family hummed along like that for a few years. Then I came home one day and Estelle was gone.

  chapter three

  Trouble

  * * *

  BOBBY

  When I was five years old, my sister Mildred taught me how to gamble. Let me clarify. She didn’t actually teach me, but I learned by watching her play cards with her friends in our living room. “Go back in your room, Buddy,” she’d say over her shoulder when I would come lurk by the table. But I didn’t lis
ten. I wanted to see what these big kids were doing instead of going to school like they were supposed to.

  By the time I was twelve, not only was I skipping classes to take part in the occasional game of cards with high school kids, but I was also skipping school on Fridays so I could work my new job at the golf course near our house.

  I was tall for my age. That meant I was able to pass for sixteen and pick up extra money as a golf caddy. Even though the golf club was for white golfers, all the caddies were Black, so it was easy for me to blend in. All I had to do was show up in the parking lot on Friday and Saturday mornings and ask the white men who came to play if they wanted to hire me for the day. If they said yes, I’d enter the golf club as part of their group and spend the day chasing after balls, handing the golfers their clubs, and otherwise making myself available and useful. On a good day I could make twice what I made mowing lawns.

  By the time I was thirteen years old, I’d been caddying for almost a year and had learned the intricacies of the game by keeping my eyes and ears open. Now I could tell the difference between an iron and a wedge and when was the best time to use what club for what shot. Sometimes these players would place a thousand-dollar bet on a game, and they’d tell me at the start that if I did a good job and helped them win, I’d leave with a generous tip in my pocket. I wanted those tips, so I learned the game inside and out, to the point where, when I found a discarded putter on the course—​sometimes these men would get so mad while playing, they’d break their clubs or throw them away—​rather than turn it in at the office, I took it home and used it to practice my swing in our front yard.

  With the money from the golf course, I had a steady source of income to hang out with my friends, and to start buying my own clothes. In fact, the first thing of value I bought was an alpaca sweater, just like the ones I noticed the golfers wearing on the course. Once I wore that sweater to school and saw the attention it brought me, I was hooked. I started paying more attention to fashion in magazines and on TV and I began to focus on creating my own look. If I didn’t have enough money to buy the clothes I wanted, then I’d put them on layaway and would work and save until I could bring the item home.