Shifting Through Neutral

by Bridgett M. Davis

  Shifting Through Neutral

  BRIDGETT M. DAVIS

  To the memory of my father,

  John T. Davis,

  who gave me the gift of unconditional love

  Contents

  Part One

  Idling

  Taking Off

  Accelerating

  Passing

  Part Two

  Merging

  Shifting Through

  Reading Group Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Idling

  Driving in Michigan should be a safe and pleasant experience. Be courteous, drive defensively, and prevent tragedy.

  MICHIGAN SECRETARY OF STATE,

  WHAT EVERY DRIVER MUST KNOW

  After he returned to me, I slept every night atop Daddy’s broad back. He was a soft, wide man, and miraculously he remained still throughout our slumber—never rolled over, never pushed me off. How that sleeping arrangement came to be I do not know, but it felt as natural to me as play. As easy as I’d learned the alphabet I learned to identify the reassuring aromas of maleness that sleeping with a man offered: unshaved face, snoring breath, end-of-the-day genitalia.

  Even as a little girl, I knew my father needed me. He was a sick man in near-constant pain from migraines and unable to work. He needed me to fetch his medicine, to make cool compresses for his aching head, to massage his temples with my small hands. And he needed me to help fill his days. He left the house only when it was necessary to go to doctor’s appointments, to buy food, to cash his pension check. Otherwise, he stayed close to home, not bothering to strike up friendly conversations with the neighbors. My father felt out of sync with these men, who walked out of their front doors each morning dressed in starched shirts and skinny ties, to civil jobs in government offices, their kinky hair kept low. He preferred to wear his hair in defiant waves like Cab Calloway, lie across his sofa bed dressed in elegant silky underwear, and watch daytime TV—his ears perked for the sound of us schoolchildren walking home along Birchcrest Road, our high, pebbly voices drifting into his open window. Other days, he read hard-luck paperbacks by the light of a naked bulb stuck in an old, shade-less lamp as a transistor radio tossed the blues into the room. He might sometimes drive his sleek gray Cutlass Supreme Oldsmobile to Mr. Alfred’s auto body shop, where he’d shoot the breeze. But by the time I skipped up the walkway, book bag slung across my shoulder, face flush from conquering a new cursive letter or the secret to multiplying by nine, he was standing on the porch waiting to greet me. Together we wound through our evening of dinner, cards, TV, close sleep.

  This is how Daddy remained alive for me all those years—by settling into a life of simple actions, slow movements, perpetual rest. Speed brought throbbing headaches, and so he paced himself. When doing nothing still made his head hurt, he mitigated the pain with loose aspirin and later, sleep-inducing injections of Demerol—eking out as many extra years as he could to embed himself, like a fossil, into my psyche. As a result, I formed myself out of the five o’clock shadow of his maleness.

  He hadn’t always been sick. The migraines didn’t appear until he was thirty-two. Before then, his hypertension was symptom-free, allowing him to spend his young manhood like many migrated southern black men—gratefully working overtime at factory jobs, eating neck bones and greens slow-cooked by wide-hipped women, playing hard every Friday night after payday.

  But I only knew Daddy one way, apart from a few old photographs and scattered stories about his past—as a doting father worn down by pain. It’s the image I savor, the one I prefer. If he’d been a virile, healthy man when I entered his life, who is to say whether he would’ve stayed at home, giving so much of that life to me?

  Daddy knew he was living on borrowed time. In four short years he went from experiencing monthly to weekly migraines—the kind that lurked behind a low-grade headache, encroaching toward a blunt, excruciating throb that pulsed through his entire body for hours, leaving him nearly weeping and weak with exhaustion—to daily ones. He was only thirty-six when granted disability from General Motors’ assembly lines—the youngest man in the auto company’s history to do so. It must have seemed a financially prudent gesture on his employer’s part, given that the company doctor diagnosed his condition as “extreme.” It was surely a blow to his ego, finding himself stripped of a livelihood, facing mortality, still so young.

  I was the one who over the years convinced myself his hypertension was a health quirk, an inconvenience to be put up with like a sinus condition or a heart murmur. One day as he drove us home from the doctor’s office, when I was no longer a child, I asked Daddy, “Just how high is your blood pressure?” We were cruising along Livernois Avenue, past the neon signs of gas stations and the waving flags of car dealerships that added primary color to Detroit’s main streets.

  “I can’t say, exactly,” he answered.

  “Why doesn’t Dr. Corey ever take your pressure anymore?” I wanted to know, remembering a time when his doctor used to roll out the pressure monitor with the big name. The sphygmomanometer. We called it the spiggy. He’d wrap the cuff around Daddy’s arm, pump air through the tube, frown as he studied the dial closely.

  Daddy shrugged. “He can’t. Numbers on the spiggy don’t go high enough.” And then he chuckled. “How’s that for the puniness of modern medicine?”

  I laughed too, believing he could beat it.

  My parents, Vy and JD, met at a raucous card party when Mama was twenty-four and the single mother of a five-year-old girl named Kimmie. She told him she was divorced. He didn’t care one way or the other, liking how she played bid whist—bidding high even when she knew she couldn’t win. He took her again and again to roaming cabarets, where they slow-danced to Sam Cooke tunes—doing the social, as they called it—while he sang into her ear of what a wonderful world it would be, causing tiny goose bumps to erupt down her neck. She was his kind of woman, high-class and good-looking. A woman who could transport him far away from a shameful childhood, a place where he once found a strange man lying across the doorway, satiated inside of his drunken mother. Vy could help him wipe away that haggard image from his mind: the sight of his ma’s flabby thighs, that bastard’s dusty black ass. She could brush a coat of respect onto his up-from-the-South, hardscrabble Motor City life. At least that’s what he envisioned, eyeing her in the amber light of the Twenty Grand Club, where she perched knowingly on a bar stool, puffing on a filter tip, her long legs crossed just so.

  In my father, Mama saw a respite. She too was running from a ragged past: a teenage mother who left her as a baby on the steps of an orphanage and a father who six years later appeared, convincing his girlfriend-of-the-moment to go retrieve his daughter. That girlfriend raised Mama as her own child, even after my grandfather had moved on to other women. Years passed before Mama learned about her birth mother—a flighty gal with mental lapses who had three other wild children living on the east side of town in a bulging frame house. Children who, as they grew, embarrassed Mama in school, yelling her business out across the playground. “Hey, I know who you are! You my sister. We gave you away ’cause you too ugly!” They called her Trash Can Baby.

  Mama’s adopted mother didn’t exactly love her in the affectionate, lots-of-hugs sort of way, but she did teach her three key things in life: how to make money taking in other people’s money, the importance of a king-sized bed, and a love of pretty men. Her own father had been pretty. This she learned when they all lived together briefly, so briefly it was cruel, like witnessing a caterpillar as it undulates into a butterfly, then seeing it squish
ed under a sadistic shoe, wings wasted. What she remembered most about her illusive father was that he was always coming and going, coming and going. He wore a fedora. And he sang to himself constantly. In a beautiful voice that made his young daughter long for him even before he disappeared—a haunting and mournful voice of high, sad notes that quivered in a room after he walked out of it. When he left them, he left completely, leaving no trace of himself behind. Not even a dent in the tube of toothpaste.

  Mama matured under the not-so-watchful eye of her adoptive mother, soon found a man as pretty as her father, and had his baby. But the man already had a wife. It took Mama a few more years to find her own husband. Daddy, it turned out, was handsome if not pretty, had a good-paying job at the General Motors plant, and didn’t mind a ready-made family. JD was a witty guy with sweet ways and smooth moves. Plus he could sing. How could she not fall in love? I only heard my father sing twice: Once, on the day when my big sister, Kimmie, left for good, he sang to me in a lilting falsetto that burnished my pain. And then again, much later, near the end. At his funeral, I couldn’t bear the thought of a sentimental rendition of “Amazing Grace” or “Up Yonder.” I chose that famous country tune by Ray Charles, Daddy’s favorite singer, the one he named me after. When Ray cried out from the little boom box in the back of the funeral parlor room, “I can’t stop lovvvving youuuuu, no matter how much I tryyyyy,” his plaintive wail, the pleading for what cannot be and the resolve to accept it, to “live my life in dreams of days gone by,” it made even Daddy’s doctor weep.

  By the time they married, Mama was four months pregnant. Daddy was thrilled, so ready to grab on to something he could call his own. Mama too wanted “a real family”—to drown out gossipy whispers from neighborhood busybodies who called her a “woman on the side” with a bastard child. But my parents’ first baby was born premature and stillborn, the fetus falling amid gushing blood in the toilet as Mama had a miscarriage. Horrified, she screamed for Daddy to come quick. He scooped the tiny life out of the water, cut the umbilical cord, felt for a pulse, found none. They dug a grave for him in the backyard, beneath the apple tree. That misfortune was like a pothole on a dark road. An old clunker could charge right through it, but a new car, its axle untested, never rides the same again. Mama changed her mind about Daddy adopting Kimmie—as though his paternity could no longer be counted on—and out of hurt feelings he withdrew from his stepdaughter. Daddy wanted his own child, but Mama thought it would be tempting fate to try again. They slid. She into mood swings inherited from that flighty gal of a mother, and he into deep doubts over what he could really offer her. Their fragile, new marriage imploded. She stayed depressed, and he stopped singing. By their first anniversary, Mama had found someone else via phonograph records whose voice gave her chills, and both of them had sought other lovers. She returning to Kimmie’s father in interstate roadside trysts, and he falling for the sweet young clerk at the Social Security benefits office.

  In the midst of that mutual dalliance, I got born. As the early weeks of my life passed, Daddy noticed my eyes were just like Kimmie’s, the color of a muted, blue-gray sky. He assumed I wasn’t his, kept his distance. His headaches had begun but were no more than monthly ordeals that laid him out for a few hours at a time. He felt good, good enough to have other interests across town. He must have savored his situation at first—a high-class wife in one place, a sweet-loving girlfriend in another. But years passed, and in that time both the headaches and the thoughts of leaving us encroached. Finally, on a searing July morning when I was four he pushed his Olds from the curb, pushed it all the way to the corner so as not to create the sound effects of departure—the jingling keys, the running motor, the slamming car door—got in, and drove off. Now I’d done the same thing thirteen years later, only I gunned the engine of my new car because there was no one to sneak away from. I just pulled out of the driveway of our family home on Birchcrest, Daddy’s obituary tucked into a Samsonite bag beside the appointment card for my abortion, and headed west.

  After Daddy took his last breath, I closed the door of his private room, entered the lavatory, and gathered soap, a washcloth, and warm water in a plastic basin. Returning to his bedside, I gingerly removed his hospital gown. There, his flesh lay before me. Carefully, methodically, I bathed each part of him, beginning with his left arm, retracing the scars on it, following this road map to his past as the soap glided across his fevered skin. When I was a child, long after he had returned to me, Daddy showed me his scars. On one of our many nights together, after we’d eaten his special “zoup” (creamed potatoes, lots of butter, and milk) with fried liver swimming in onions and gravy, Daddy pointed to each scar one by one and told the story behind it. This one he got while hoboing his way north on the Tennessee Valley railroads, that one from a freak accident on the assembly line, and this one, the one over his knuckles, came when he beat a man silly for saying the wrong thing to Vy.

  “You love Mama?” I asked.

  He paused. “Like a sister.”

  This answer seemed fine to me, as I had a sister and couldn’t imagine any love better than that. “Tell me about this one,” I said as I ran my finger over the rubbery smooth scar on Daddy’s left thumb.

  He belched softly from his Pepsi-Cola. “When you’re older, I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m a big girl now,” I reminded him. “In school, Miss Felton says I’m advanced for my age. I’m in Group Three; that’s for the best readers.”

  He looked at me, head cocked to one side, one eye open. “You sure you old enough to handle things I tell you?”

  “Daddy,” I said, trying to sound exasperated. “I’m gonna be seven years old on my birthday!”

  He chuckled, put me on his lap. “Wow! Seven, huh? You getting up there, almost ready to leave home.” I giggled as he held me close. “Well, you may not totally understand this now, but I suppose it’s something you should know…” He told me about my big brother who died because he was born too soon. “And this here scar come from the shovel I used to bury his little body,” he said.

  I was fascinated by the idea of a baby being born too soon. How did that happen? Was the baby in too much of a hurry? Suddenly, I missed my brother. “What was his name?” I asked.

  “Joseph,” Daddy whispered. “After me.”

  Now sitting next to his lifeless body, I massaged that thumb scar with my own thumb and thought about my life of phantom siblings, about the power of absence—how intensely someone who is not physically there, but can be conjured, informs your life. I bathed Daddy’s pendulous breasts as they hung above his huge, wide belly with its cavernous button that I so loved. I then soaped along his skin-darkened thighs, flesh sagging, and moved on to the strong knees and shapely legs, retracing my path to his limp, shriveled penis. “Men who suffer from hypertension often suffer from impotence,” said a book I once read on the disease, back when I was still self-deceiving and vowed to “do something” about his condition. Back when I arrogantly tried to make him give up pork and those thrice-weekly Demerol injections. Back when I railed against Dr. Corey for keeping Daddy supplied like some pusher man out of a crude Blaxploitation movie.

  I confronted him once in his office. I was there because I was fifteen, still a virgin, my period mysteriously gone. “It happens sometimes,” Dr. Corey said. “You start out being irregular, skip a few months, then as you get a little older, things settle into a pattern. Don’t worry.” He patted my hand, smiled that gentle, crinkly-eyed smile. He was still the most handsome man I knew, with his crisp white doctor’s coat and his silken brown skin. A Black Is Beautiful Marcus Welby, M.D. When I was five and he’d given me my vaccination shot, he kept apologizing because Daddy insisted I get it in my hip (“No sense messing up a girl’s arm with that ugly scar”) and afterward I couldn’t walk. Dr. Corey had handed me multicolored lollipops as Daddy carried me out of his office.

  “How’s your father?” he asked.

  “High all the time,” I said, hopping down from
the examining table, where he had just pushed a cold metal instrument up my vagina. “Like an addict.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, he’s on some pretty strong pain medication.”

  “And who’s responsible for that?” I asked.

  He folded his arms across his body. “Your father lives every day in pain, Rae. You know that. Without medication, he couldn’t function.”

  I didn’t really believe that. I believed the headaches would stop as soon as Daddy stopped doing whatever caused them.

  “But he can’t keep taking that stuff forever,” I said from my high horse. “You could help him find the willpower to—”

  “Willpower?” Dr. Corey looked perplexed. Then he shook his index finger at my face. “He’s a medical miracle, young lady, and you need to recognize just how lucky you are to still have him around.” He calmly turned his back to me. “You can get dressed now,” he said over his shoulder, closing the door behind him with force. As I left his office I lifted a pad of blank prescriptions from the sign-in desk when Ilene, his office manager, wasn’t looking. Just for spite. And just in case.

  After that, I stopped going to Dr. Corey. He had pricked my denial, and I preferred to believe he was yet another crack doctor with a ghetto office preying on the poor and uninformed, making a living off of comeback dollars. I wasn’t ready to face anything as complicated as the truth.

  Later, when I began having unprotected sex, I never even considered going to Dr. Corey for a pregnancy test. I went straight to the Women’s Health Clinic in the suburbs, where teen girls of every hue could come and go flagrantly without parental knowledge, be given soft-pedal counseling and complete privacy. I went there the first time I got caught, and I would go there again, this time. I knew the routine: Sit in the little stainless steel examining room, dressed in a royal blue paper gown, matching blue paper house shoes, and a blue plastic shower cap, then wait for my name to be called. After the injection, wait for everything to go dark until a nurse looms over me in the recovery room, shaking me back into consciousness from a place where I am laughing at Daddy’s wit: “Rae? Rae Dodson?” says the nurse. “Can you hear me? I need for you to wake up now.”