by T. D. Jakes
Miz Ida kept talking to her as she walked toward the phone. She looked at her as though she cared. As though she was concerned. “What is your name, child?”
“Michelle.”
“Michelle? Such a pretty name for such a pretty little girl.”
“Pretty? You think I’m pretty? My mama doesn’t think so. She tells me all the time, ‘You so ugly. You look just like your no-good daddy.’”
Miz Ida reached out her hand and touched Michelle’s face. “See, when your mother looks at you, she looks at the sin that made you and not the beauty that came out of it.”
Michelle shook her head and moved her face away from Miz Ida’s hand. She quickly changed the subject. “Do you have any children?”
Miz Ida held the receiver in her hand and smiled. “All my children are older than your mother.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping you had kids my age so that I would have someone to play with.”
Miz Ida beamed at Michelle and slapped one old knee. “Child, I’ll play with you.”
“Really?”
Something about Miz Ida stopped looking like an old woman and began to look like a little girl. “I play jacks, I play Uno, and I play Scrabble.”
“Well, what about video games?”
Miz Ida frowned, then lifted her thick eyeglasses. “Now what you say? Who do— Child, you speaking in tongues.”
“Speaking in what?”
The old woman shook her head and smiled. “Never mind.”
“Well, maybe I could show you how to play it sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
“Great.”
Just then Michelle’s mother yelled from the back bedroom. Momma sounded tired and irritated. She was fussing as she came up the hallway. “Who is that in my house?” Michelle’s heart pounded when she saw the anger on her mother’s face. She didn’t want to hear the yelling. “Michelle, what are you doing letting somebody up in my house this time of night? Have you lost your last mind?”
Miz Ida spoke right up. “No harm done, Miss Cassie.” Michelle was surprised that Miz Ida knew her mother’s name. Miz Ida spoke to her mother with respect, but she was firm. “I think you need to change your tone of voice talking to your child.” She wasn’t afraid. Michelle wasn’t sure how to feel—no one had ever defended her.
Momma’s voice softened, though she kept frowning at Michelle. “Nothing personal, Miz Ida.” She nodded in the old woman’s direction. “But she does this all the time. I’m just trying to teach her a lesson.”
Miz Ida stood her ground. “Some lessons have too high of a price for a child to pay.”
Michelle smiled at the memory. Miz Ida had become her friend that day long ago. She was still her friend; more than a friend, she was a mother to her. Miz Ida’s voice still had the ability to settle and protect her. She was more of a mother to Michelle than her own mother had ever been.
“So, Michelle, have you talked to your mother?” Miz Ida was obviously still reading minds.
“It’s been a while since the last time I’ve seen or heard from her—Momma—I mean, Cassie.” Michelle began to hit the stapler she was using with the flat of her hand. It seemed like she was having a harder time than normal getting the staples to go through the four page groupings. She cleared her throat. “Miz Ida, you know how I feel. I don’t hate my mother. I love her, but I can’t forget what happened to me. I tried . . . I even thought I had. But the memories keep coming back.” Michelle lowered her voice. “What she let happen to me . . . that man putting his hands all over me . . . I can’t forget that.”
“You mean can’t, or won’t?”
“Miz Ida, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I really don’t want to talk about this, okay?” She hadn’t called for this. If she wanted a headache, she could have kept talking to Todd. “Please, not now. You know what I’ve been through. How it messed up my whole life.”
Michelle’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Because of my mother and her loser, dopefiend boyfriend I went to jail when I finally stood up for myself. And she let it happen when she knew what he was doing to me. He was raping me, Miz Ida. Over and over again. She saw the bloody sheets! She was my momma and I was a child, Miz Ida! She knew what he was doing and she didn’t do anything about it. She chose him over me. Over her own daughter! I was a child—I couldn’t make any choices. The two of them were making choices for me.”
“Michelle, baby, your mother made bad choices, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. That she didn’t love you back then. It’s no excuse, but sometimes there are no good choices for a single woman with a child.”
“Choices? My mother chose to look out for her own needs. She may be saved, and she may have made it up with Jesus. But it makes me sick to think of her sitting up in church somewhere like Sweet Polly Purebread when she knows good and well what she let that man . . . that dog . . . do to me. She let me sit and rot in jail to protect that scum’s reputation—to protect her reputation. What about me, Miz Ida? I’ve tried to let it go—I thought it was over—but, I can’t.”
Michelle could feel Miz Ida’s presence on the phone, but there was silence for a while. Then she spoke. “I know it’s hard, Michelle. You’ve still got little girl scars that you are carrying around. Little girl scars are hard to heal.”
“Well, I’m grown now and I’m doing just like my momma taught me. I’m looking out for Number One. I’m going for myself. I’ve got a right to be angry after all that was done to me. She didn’t talk to me when I needed someone to talk to, so I’m not talking to her now. I’m not going along with the little fake show like everything’s okay. I love you, Miz Ida, but . . .” She continued to pound the stapler even though the palm of her hand was now bright red.
“Michelle. Michelle. You’re right. You’ve been through more than any child should have to suffer. You had your childhood ripped away from you. I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I told you that I know just how you feel. But I know that every child needs to feel safe in her own home.
“No, your mother didn’t do what she should have. I’ll grant you that. And by the time she got around to doing something right, it was a little late in the day . . . a lot late in the day.”
Michelle could hear his voice. It was almost as though she were a child again. She was sitting in the office, but inside she was a child and Gary, her mother’s boyfriend, was so close his hot breath burned her ear. She could almost taste the smell of stale alcohol on his breath. She felt his hand in her hair and the other around her waist, forcing her closer. She could feel him pushing against her. Michelle could still feel the pain, then the dirty, confused feelings that followed. And she could hear him whispering, insisting that she better not tell . . .
Tears burned her eyes, and she shook her head. She reminded herself that Gary was gone . . . finally. It was worth the price she had had to pay. Never again. Never again. Neither one of them would ever get the chance to hurt her again.
“Miz Ida, when I see her, when I hear her voice, when I think of her, I think of him—and I can feel it all over again.” She forced herself to whisper and fought to keep anger from choking off her words. “His dirty hands on me. His funky breath. His . . . voice . . . What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Michelle, no child should ever be used the way you were used. That man raped you. It’s bad enough to rape a woman, but a child . . .” Miz Ida’s sigh was full of weariness. “When we’ve been through hard things, the worst part is facing up to the pain, finding the courage to walk back through the door where we were hurt and overcome the hurt that we find there. We just want to cover it up and pretend it never happened, but that’s not the answer. We want to walk around and fool people, make them think that we’re perfect and that we’ve never been hurt. It’s like we believe that being hurt and having feelings makes us weak. Michelle, baby, I know it’s hard. But you know nothing’s ever going to go right until you make some peace with who you are and where you come from.”
“Miz Ida, I know you mean well, and I don’t mean any disrespect, but that’s the past. When I look back, all I can see is hurt. All I can see is the same people, people who were supposed to love me, but who used me instead.”
“Michelle, no doubt about it. They were both wrong. Dead wrong. And you got every human right to be hurt and angry. And you got every right to take all the time you need. I’m not going to pressure you.”
There was that word, again—pressure. Of course, Miz Ida was pressuring her. Todd was pressuring her. Tonya was pressuring her. They were all pressuring her.
“I just want you to consider one thing. Don’t answer me now, just think on it. All right?”
Michelle nodded as though Miz Ida could see her over the phone.
“Michelle, do you want anger to be the end of your story? Is that where you want it to end?”
She stopped stapling and lifted her hand to cover her eyes. “I have to go, Miz Ida.” She laid the receiver in the cradle as though it were as fragile as she was feeling. She reached into her desk drawer for a tissue and quickly wiped away the tears. Swiveling in her chair, she turned her back to the office and reached for her purse. Looking in her compact mirror, she powdered her face to cover the tracks the tears had made in her foundation. She reapplied her lipstick.
Do you want anger to be the end of your story?
That was Miz Ida’s question. But the question that nagged Michelle every waking moment, even in her dreams, was “How?” How was it that her mother chose a man who yelled at her, cursed at her, beat on her, over her own daughter?
Michelle put her things away, then turned back to face the pit. Wasn’t blood supposed to be thicker than water? Didn’t people say that no one loved you like your own momma? Well, if that was true—she laughed a short, hard laugh—a laugh that was more like a cackle. There was no way anyone was ever going to be able to convince her to trust love.
No, if you didn’t want tears, you couldn’t trust love.
Chapter Four
The day seemed like it was never going to end. Michelle looked around the office and things were just like she thought they would be. Tonya’s eyes were boring a hole in her. Forget Tonya. If she signed up her whole life to be on the Jesus plan and to work this stupid job, then goody for her. But Miss Telephone Police shouldn’t try to get other people to sign up for the same stupid long distance service.
Bringgg! Bringgg!
Michelle looked at the caller I.D. and kidded herself, for an instant, that she was not going to answer. Before the third ring could end she answered, though she tried not to sound excited. It was him.
“Hey, baby.”
It was Trench. Arthur Trench, but no one called him Arthur.
“How’s my girl?” Even over the phone, he had a way of wrapping himself around her like dark, sweet, strong molasses.
“Your girl?” He was an M-A-N, but she was a W-O-M-A-N, and she was time enough for him. “You must have confused me with whoever you’ve been with for the past three days.”
“Meow!” Trench laughed as though what she said was rolling off of him like water off of a duck’s back. “Oh, baby. You know I got work to do.” He said it as though that should be adequate explanation for why she hadn’t seen or heard from him, for why he felt he could come in and out of her life and her apartment like a revolving door. He sighed into the phone like he was wrapping his arms around her and nibbling on her ear. “A man’s got to handle his business.” Trench knew his business, all right, and he knew how to play the game. “Besides, baby, you know it’s not like that between us. You my girl. Nobody makes Trench feel like you do.” His laugh was low and gravelly. Then he spoke, again, even more softly. “But you said it yourself, right? No papers, no pressure. We just take each other to the moon.” He breathed into her ear. “You know Trench takes his baby to the moon, right?”
Michelle slid forward in her seat and put one hand over her face to shield her eyes, as though Trench were standing in front of her and she didn’t want him to see how she was feeling, to see the effect he was having on her. He was good. He was like some kind of funky drug. A small taste, the smell, even the memory of him made you forget why you had ever sworn off, why you had ever said that you were never going to do it again.
“Whatever, Trench.” It was the best she could do. This sister was going to have to regroup.
“Come on, baby. Don’t be that way.” He sounded so earnest; he was such a good liar. “Trench got a little something for you. Something I know you’re going to like. Don’t you want it, baby?” He almost purred into the phone.
Michelle could feel herself giving in. She could feel herself getting ready to be played. And there was no way she was going out like that—no matter what bells Trench was trying to ring. “Look, Arthur.” That ought to bite him. He hated being called Arthur. “I am not some hoochie that you can dial up when the mood hits you. I know the words Holiday Inn are not stamped on my forehead or on my back.”
Trench whistled. “Wow! It sounds like I called just in time, like you need a little trip to the wild side.”
She was on a roll and she was not going to let Trench sidetrack her. “And I sure ain’t your momma. You can’t keep coming to me when you need a place to sleep, or when you’ve got no place else to go.” Trench was quiet, so she might as well sink the knife to the hilt and twist it. “And you’re right. We both know the deal. And my deal is that I’m a married woman. So, you’re right—you and I are casual. Way too casual for you to think I’m open twenty-four hours, or that you can come in and out like I’m a swinging door.”
Trench laughed out loud. “Married?” He laughed again. “This is Michelle, right? Married?”
Michelle’s face stung and she sat straight up in her seat.
“Look, baby, tell that married stuff to somebody else.”
Michelle could imagine the smirk on his face as he talked. She had seen it before when his voice had this kind of mean edge.
“Married . . . Todd must have called you today with his dull self. But don’t play yourself, sugar. I know how you like your bread buttered, where, and how often.” It sounded as though he was sneering into the phone. “Married? Were you married last Saturday?” He paused. “Bump all this. You know what? I’m not going through all this. I don’t have to explain to you where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing. And I sure don’t have to play any little schoolyard games with you. I tell you what, baby girl.” It sounded like Trench was licking his lips. “I’ll talk back at you when you’re grown enough to talk with your head on straight. When you’re ready to talk like a woman.”
Click. The phone went dead. Michelle’s cheeks burned. She felt uncovered and naked. She hung up the phone and then looked around the office—it felt like each person was staring at her, as though all of them had heard how he spoke to her. Of course they didn’t know. But, reality didn’t matter; it was how she felt.
Ashamed.
Trench could read right through her. He could get past all the makeup, past the suit, the hair, and punch her right in the gut. That was part of the thing with Trench. Why that was attractive to her, Michelle wasn’t sure, but something about it felt genuine and familiar. For all of the turmoil he took her through, she knew Trench was real.
Michelle smoothed her hair, then reached into her purse for a mirror and lipstick. She touched up her lips, then restored the items to her purse and adjusted her jacket.
There was something exciting about the way Trench could embarrass her and make her feel like a young girl, like a child. Michelle turned to her computer screen and watched the minutes clicking by on the digital clock on the tool bar at the bottom of her computer screen.
Maybe he would call back. Maybe he wouldn’t. But what was sure was that she was not going to spend the rest of her forty-five minutes at work worrying about him. She leafed through some papers next to her hand. She sighed. Might as well do some work for the man.
Chapter Five
She walked w
ith her shoes in her hand. Good thing no one was in the hall; Michelle was prepared to beat the snot out of the first person who said something to her about walking barefoot. It was hot outside, she was sweating, her dogs were barking—and it was too far to walk even the twenty feet from the elevator to her apartment door with her shoes on and her dogs hurting.
What she needed more than anything was a shower. She needed to wash it all away—nine boring hours at a job that took more out of her than it gave Tonya, Mrs. Judson, Todd, Trench, and even Miz Ida. Michelle imagined herself walking straight to her bedroom, peeling out of her clothes, and padding directly to the shower. The hot water always soothed her. She would just stand under the water until she felt clean again. Mary J. was right: what Michelle needed in her life was no more drama.
The minute she opened the front door, she knew he was inside. She continued to her bedroom, to her bathroom and shower, anyway. When she had finished, she wrapped her thick, green, terry-cloth robe around herself and tied the belt.
What was on his mind? He didn’t pay rent here. She didn’t ask him to; it was less complicated—fewer questions and much less attitude—that way. He had way too much nerve as it was. Way too much nerve.
He was lying on his back on the couch. His mouth was open and his chest moved up and down. There was no slobber. That was one thing she liked about him—no slobber.
Something about the position of his body reminded her of a rag doll. One of his knees was bent, his bare foot flat on floor. The other leg pointed east, the foot hanging over the back of the sofa—the brocade sofa she had worked hard to pay for. She had spent a lot of weeks sitting on boxes before she was able to get it out of layaway. Michelle put down the house slippers she held in her hand, moved closer, and sat on the coffee table across from him.
Trench might be lying like a rag doll, but he didn’t smell like one. Rag dolls didn’t smoke reefer. Rag dolls didn’t have tight, defined muscles. Trench did, though, because with no job he had lots of time to work out.
