The Boots
My Mother Gave Me
Brooklyn James
The Boots My Mother Gave Me
by Brooklyn James
www.brooklyn-james.com
Copyright © 2010 by Brooklyn James
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Janet Kilgore
Cover design by Rebecca Bretz
Cover concept by Ginamarie Hinojosa
Cover photographs used with permission
Chevelle owned by Ed & Kim Bonham
Text design and layout by Terry Sherrell and Blake Mitchell
Published by Arena Books, Austin, Texas
Lyrics used in chapter 4: “Anywhere But Here,” chapter 8: “Moving On,” chapter 15: “Let Me,” chapter 18: “Touch You At All,” chapter 21: “Lucky One,” chapter 25: “It’s Not Always About You,” chapter 33: “Live and Let Love” © 2010 One Dumb Blonde Music & On Your Right Music. Lyrics used in chapter 29: “Jeremiah Johnson” © 2010 One Dumb Blonde Music. Lyrics used in chapter 17: “Can’t Get It Right” © 2005 One Dumb Blonde Music, On Your Right Music & Acrimony and Cheese Music. Lyrics used in chapter 34: “Nothing More Natural” © 2005 One Dumb Blonde Music & On Your Right Music. All rights reserved. Lyrics used with permission. Songs performed by Brooklyn James.
First Printing—August 2010
ISBN: 978-0-615-38913-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010912827
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to every woman, man, and child of abuse.
May you find your way and your light within.
In Loving Memory of Shar-Baby.
I know you would have been so proud.
My Angel misses you. We all do. See you in the moon, love.
Contents
Introduction: My Almond
Flatbed Ford
Charlene The Chevelle
Big Bad Wolf
Anywhere But Here*
Good With Groups
The Boots My Mother Gave Me
First Time For Everything
Moving On*
Hayseed Goes To Town
With Your Spurs On?
Gum On A Map
Buried Treasure
So Bad It Hurts
Norman Rockwell Painting
Let Me*
Independence Day
Can’t Get It Right*
Touch You At All*
She Talks To Angels
Claw Foot Tub
Lucky One*
Clean-Up Crew
Because I Said So
How You Finish
It’s Not Always About You*
Lick, Drink, Suck!
Chipping Away
Louisville Slugger
Jeremiah Johnson*
Peaches
Raindrops On Roses
Suicide’s Legacy
Live & Let Love*
Nothing More Natural*
Reflections
Acknowledgments
* Song accompanying chapter can be found on music soundtrack.
Introduction: My Almond
If love is so good, why does it hurt sometimes? I never liked being at the mercy of another, especially when most often that other was someone who was supposed to protect and love me unconditionally. Daughters covet their fathers, and when abused and manipulated, those feelings firmly plant seeds of destruction. The words from my father’s mouth penetrated my most internal thoughts and emotions, defining my self-worth. With one word, intonation, a look, my father could make me feel ten feet tall or lower than a slimy slug, dragging its disgusting body through the muck.
In my fifth grade science class, I discovered the amygdala. An almond-shaped group of nuclei, the amygdala resided in my brain as part of my limbic system, pivotal in monitoring my emotional sensors. The amygdala, my almond, as my ten-year old self referred to it, was my savior.
I pictured my soul as an actual part of my being, not unlike my heart, my kidney, or any other body part. Mr. Yumani, my fifth grade science teacher, so specific in his explanation, made it clear: I did not have a soul, not in my abdomen or my chest, even though it always seemed to ache there when I was offended, hurt, or otherwise affected. My soul, my feelings, my emotions actually resided in my brain.
Life-changing and empowering, Mr. Yumani’s lecture ranked as one of the most significant experiences in my ten years of life. The mind controlled all things; I was on my way to emotional and psychological freedom.
From that lecture on, whenever my father said something hurtful, I tried like hell to convince my almond it didn’t hurt, even though my gut disagreed. The tears stung as they inevitably welled in my eyes and fell down my face.
The first few times I failed but persistence was key. As with all things, practice made perfect. By the time school ended that year, my heart was a mite harder, my soul more distant, my mind a work in progress, flexing its muscle, the fiber tearing each time disappointment and hurt came my way, only to recoup, rebuild.
What I couldn’t control with my mind, I ran from, figuratively and literally. Growing up, I often berated my feet as too big, too long, and too skinny. Ironically the spitting image of my father’s, my feet, with their gangly, long-knuckled phalanges, became my personal freedom train. Like Forrest Gump, I just kept running and running and running. The disruptive thoughts that found harbor in the recesses of my mind, too intense to control, any unlucky feelings that made their way into my soul, were punished on the pavement. Vulnerability became my personal vendetta.
Running was my release. My feet never failed me. Always ready for an uplifting casual jog or a speedy run, maybe a punishing sprint, they took me far away. My mind and my body the perfect yin and yang, what I couldn’t control with my mind, I exhausted with my body.
Running held me until I got my driver’s license, a rite of passage for some, a spiritual awakening for me. Like an addict, I was hooked the first time I felt the wheel in my palm obeying my direction as it clung to the winding road. Where would it lead me?
Flatbed Ford
My father kicked me out the fall of my senior year of high school. It happened on a Tuesday night in October 1996. On the basketball team at school, I returned from an away game that ran into double overtime, pushing it to get home by ten o’clock. Jeremiah Johnson, or Miah as I often called him, my neighbor and best friend since we were four years old, rode with me.
We won our game. I still rode that high while Jeremiah, in priceless form, made me laugh until my stomach hurt. Riding along in the old rusted-out, brown, flatbed Ford farm truck, we must have looked like the Clampetts, but we couldn’t have cared less.
He was handsome, his seventeen-year-old frame long and lean, chiseled from the testosterone running through his body and the rigorous football training at which his young fully-charged physique excelled. Captain of the football team at Lambo High, Jeremiah epitomized every little boy’s hero, every schoolgirl’s dream.
I had convinced myself liking boys constituted a waste of time. What if they grew up to be men like my father? I heard all the horror stories about young girls who fell in love with boys, only to find themselves pregnant or married, stuck in this town for the rest of their lives.
No gu
y would get near me with a ten-foot pole, not even Jeremiah Johnson. Not that he wanted to anyway. He dated the pretty girls, girly-girls. Sure, I had a vagina, but I was one of the boys, really. My neighborhood swarmed with them. If you wanted to play, you did what the boys did. We played ball all the time. We built secret forts in the backwoods of our desolate wilderness, covering them with wild green ferns as a disguise, only to return the next day to find a steaming cow patty sitting right in the center of our illustrious fort. We played Cowboys and Indians and Matchbox cars, no dolls or tea parties for me.
I believe I actually thought of myself as a boy for a while. Hell, maybe even Jeremiah thought so, my long, lanky frame nearly free of curves. People define flat-chested girls as late bloomers. Well, someone forgot to plant my seeds altogether until the summer before my junior year.
Without warning, the puberty train ran me over. Finally! I thought, until I was left trying to figure out what to do with my new, bouncy attachments. A real MacGyver with the duct tape, I used it to hold the girls down on the basketball court. Feeling self-conscious and awkward about my ever-changing physical features, I feared Jeremiah might notice and our friendship, as I knew it, would end. Fortunately he didn’t bat an eye, which left me feeling relieved yet somehow disappointed.
As we drove, the dashboard lights reflected off his intoxicating smile. I watched him intently, burning the image into my mind for future recollection. This would be my last year with the person I shared most of my firsts with—my first friend, my first bike ride, my first loose tooth. (We tried the old string on the doorknob trick and much to our excitement, it worked.) He even gave me my first kiss.
Jeremiah wanted to learn to drive a stick-shift, so we piled in the old brown Ford and took it out on a desolate dirt road, which ran everywhere around our hometown of Georgia, Pennsylvania, a speck on the map. We drove and laughed for hours on that back road. I figured he turned my insides into a milkshake, what with all the surging and bucking of the truck, as he tried to find his rhythm between the clutch and the gearshift. After what seemed an eternity, he made it in one straight path through all the gears, his transitions so smooth a cup of water on the dashboard would have remained upright and full.
He whooped and hollered in triumph, I whooped and hollered louder. He slammed on the brakes and turned to me. I thought he was going to hug me, as we had a million times before in teenage exuberance. He looked at me, his chest heaving up and down. His smile faded before my eyes and he simply stared at me, as if making his own personal snapshot.
I stopped laughing, my smile slowly retracting as I fumbled with my hair, pulling it over the side of my face as I always did when nervous. I hoped he would tell a joke and we would burst out laughing, quenching the unnerving silence. Much to my trepidation, he said nothing.
He leaned into me, tucking my hair behind my ear, exposing my undoubtedly blushing face. As if pulled by some electrical force, I leaned into him. He lingered so close, his breath warm, moist, and rapid, only inches away from my mouth. He smelled like clean linen, fresh off the line. His hand rested on my neck as he traced my bottom lip with his thumb. My heart knocked on that little spot in the back of my throat as it pumped ferociously. Oh, my gosh, he’s going to kiss me. What do I do?
My mind racing, I closed my eyes as his lips softly found mine. Something biological triumphed over my worrisome mind, and I found myself returning his kiss. His mouth tender, his taste was sweet. Warmth flooded my body. I felt on fire from head to toe. No wonder people kissed all the time in the movies. God, it felt good! Hearing myself moan faintly, I quickly returned to my body, my mind now awkwardly conscious. I pulled away.
Jeremiah, caught in the moment, his eyes closed, slowly revealed his captivating dark browns. I looked away, touching the back of my hand to my lips to seal in his taste, while wondering if I had done it right.
Recognizing my discomfort, he quickly returned to the steering wheel. The only sound on the way home was the ambient rumbling of the tires on the road beneath us. For the first time, we had nothing to say.
Our silence was short-lived, thank God. The next day, we picked up where we left off as if the kiss never happened.
Nearing the house, coming from the basketball game, I felt my stomach begin to turn, my muscles growing tense. They always did that when I approached home, because I never knew what I would walk into. I hid it well, though, the master of facades at this point. If you smile and laugh, people think you’re happy. If you act calm and collected, people think you have it together.
Usually, I would drop Jeremiah off down the road, at his house, before returning to my own, as I rarely had anyone over. My father didn’t like having people around. It compromised his secret, our secret.
As I came upon the house, I could see Kat, my younger sister, crossing the road to the barn. My father’s town truck was gone and Mom’s car sat in the driveway. It was too late to be milking by normal standards. I had seen this scenario many times before. Dad went out to the bar and didn’t come back in time for chores, so Mom ended up doing them when she got home from waiting tables at the local restaurant. I didn’t want Kat and her to do chores by themselves, so I pulled into the gravel by the barn to tell them I’d be right back after running Jeremiah home. After all, Dad was gone, so I thought. What a stupid thing to do.
Kat, in all her fourteen years had grown into a beautiful child, unlike me. The perfect mix of tomboy and one-hundred-percent girl, she slipped in and out of the roles as easily as dice on a craps table. Kat was that girl every girl wanted to be, and every boy wanted to be with.
As I pulled off the road, she came to the driver’s side of the truck. Seeing Jeremiah in the passenger seat, she quickly put on a smile. I could read the nervous energy all over her. That’s what we had become, a bunch of ions, our charge continuously reforming to suit our father’s energy.
“Hey, Jeremiah. How was the game?” Kat asked.
“Your sister did it again, Kit-Kat. They smoked ‘em. You should have seen her out there. The only thing I heard all night long was swoosh. Nothing but net,” he said. “You guys still milking? You need some help?”
“No. No thanks. We’re just finishing up.” Kat tapped on the truck. “See you in a minute, Harley.” That was my cue.
“So you think you’re too good for chores, huh? Basketball comes before chores now?” I heard my dad’s gruff, deep voice from the front porch. Why didn’t I just take Jeremiah home and then come back? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Kat looked at me, scared and nervous. I don’t think my father saw Jeremiah inside the truck in the dark. I was the only one he expected home. He usually held his tongue in front of people, reserving his Jekyll and Hyde routine for Mom, Kat, and me.
“Take the truck home. I’ll pick it up tomorrow,” I said to Jeremiah, grabbing my gym bag and hopping out.
“Harley, what’s going on?” I stood outside the truck, rolling up the driver’s side window, attempting to shield him from anything further my father might say.
“I’m past curfew,” I lied. “Please, Miah, go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I shut him inside. Dad sat on the porch step, pulling on his boots, a lit cigarette hanging out his mouth and a bottle of beer sitting beside him.
“I’m surrounded by a bunch of goddamn idiots. A bunch of worthless goddamn women,” he said between puffs on his cigarette.
“Kat, go to the barn.” She did as I told her. Jeremiah still sat in the passenger seat, completely perplexed. I saw it all over his face. “Go!” I tapped on the driver’s side window, before walking in my father’s direction.
As I neared the steps he stood up, pointing his finger in my face, the way he had done so many times. “You just bought yourself your last basketball game.” I said nothing, looking straight ahead, my expression unchanging as I stood before him, much like a soldier in training faces a drill sergeant. My father expected my undivided attention while he told me how worthless I was.
“Do you know how good you got it
? I was a good basketball player but I couldn’t play. Nobody cared enough to let me play. Did you win?” he asked with a cocky smile.
“Yeah,” I said. The truck still sat in the driveway. I wanted to get the verbal “niceties” over with, get back to the barn to help with chores, and chase Jeremiah off. Why didn’t he just go?
He took a puff off his cigarette. “It’s nice to know you’re not a loser at everything.” I cringed as I heard my mother’s fast footsteps in the driveway, followed by the opening of the truck door.
“Flo!” Jeremiah called as he stepped out of the truck, walked to Mom, and gave her a hug. One of her three jobs, she drove the bus for the activities program at school. All the athletes loved her.
My mother’s name was Marilyn, but they affectionately called her “Flo” because she also waited tables at a restaurant beside the school. Flo of Mel’s Diner fame seemed only fitting. They tried to get her to smack her gum and say, “kiss my grits,” but she just smiled and gave them a look that begged, As if. My mother was too refined and shy for such horseplay.
“Jeremiah,” she said with surprise, returning his hug. “You better get home. Isn’t it awful close to curfew?”
“Do I stink or something?” He smiled, smelling his undershirt. “Everybody keeps telling me to go home.”
“Who’s that?” my father demanded.
“The neighbor boy. Mr. Johnson’s son, Jeremiah. He rode to the game with me. He’s one of the kids on the activity bus she drives,” I quickly explained, annoyed by his ridiculous implication. My father was the green-eyed monster of jealousy incarnate. He couldn’t stand anyone showing Mom the slightest bit of affection.
“Marilyn, those cows aren’t gonna milk themselves. Get your ass back in the barn. I’m coming over, anyway. I can’t depend on anyone around here to get a goddamn thing done.” He guzzled the last of his beer and threw the bottle against a tree in the front yard. With the awkward movement he threw himself off balance, falling backward onto the front porch step. I grabbed his arm and guided him down. Be a shame if he hit his head or something. I didn’t dare turn around to see the look on Jeremiah’s face. What must he be thinking?
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