Shifting Through Neutral

by Bridgett M. Davis

  I told him that was too bad and made him buy Trojan condoms. But we never got around to using them. I had this secret fear that whatever blocked the conception would block my menstrual flow too. Soon enough we got caught. I missed a period and was as terrified about its being gone forever as about the possible pregnancy.

  I knew with an absolute conviction that I would not have the baby. Reasons tumbled out from all sides: Not wanting it, being too young, not even liking Derek, not being able to ever tell my father such news. Angie, whose mother’s birth control pills had malfunctioned when we were in junior high, said childbirth was horrible. Finally, a baby would take me away from Daddy. And Daddy came first.

  It was a frigid day in December, the streets slushy and covered with dirty snow pushed to the curb by cars with good traction. I wore one of my favorite pieces: a crocheted poncho from my Kimmie collection. I huddled beneath that poncho in the waiting room with Derek. He had pawned his clarinet and electric typewriter to help raise money for the procedure. Despite all my resolve, I was nervous. Derek put his arm around my shoulder to quell my shaking. We didn’t argue once that whole day. Luckily, after the injection I felt nothing. I was barely twelve weeks along when the fetus was sucked out of me. I thought of it as the women counselors taught me to, as a dot atop a straight pin.

  About two months after the abortion, Derek attacked me. I was stunned. I didn’t know he had the guts. He yanked my hair in full view of everyone who cared to watch up there at the Top of the Tech, as we called the school’s ninth-floor cafeteria. Yanked it so hard, he nearly dragged me across the room. I had made him do it, he said, because I was getting smart with him in front of his boys. And so, in addition to being a sorry lover, it turned out Derek was another weak man who hit women. He wasn’t a mean guy; in fact he was a whiny crybaby, to tell the truth. But he had strength. He could punch his fist through a wall and lift the school’s hall lockers from their sockets.

  He thought all the self-inflictions of pain and destruction to property showed the extent of his frustrated love for me. I thought it showed how pathetic he was—to be incapable of articulating his needs, to have to resort to Neanderthal force just to make an unoriginal point.

  The attacks continued. But I never feared Derek. All of his antics were like sucker punches: he pushed me down at a party, threw hot coffee at the chest of my white angora sweater, stamped my stocking feet on a dance floor with his shined shoes, sat on top of me in the driver’s seat of his car, trapping me inside. And every time it was the same thing: you made me do it.

  I believed him. Women, as my mother had demonstrated, were stronger than men. And besides, Daddy had often told me I was special, so maybe I was the kind of girl who could drive a man crazy. That’s why it never occurred to me to think of myself as an abused girlfriend. I felt like the one in control—responsible for Derek’s attacks maybe, but never deserving of them. It was Derek’s character flaw, not mine.

  Truthfully, the other reason I endured his attacks was because it gave me a sick pride to know that no matter what he did to endear me to him, no matter how many passionate outbursts, how many lockers ripped from their sockets, I kept my heart impervious.

  Still, Derek really did become a pain in the ass.

  Once, we parked his squat green Sunbird on a side street along the exclusive enclave of Sherwood Forest, supposedly to talk about “the relationship.” But fed up with the stress, the burden of him, the secrecy about us, the unwanted pregnancy, I lost it. Right there, along those privately patrolled, tree-lined streets, I beat the shit out of Derek, punching him in the chest and the arm and on top of his hard head—hitting him until I grew tired. And it felt good to know what a boxer feels—that wonderful rush of adrenaline, the release of all your frustrations through beautifully physical, aggressive means. Throughout, Derek let me hit him. He covered his face, but he didn’t swing back or yell or try to stop me. In fact, we were both silent except for the sound of my fists against his flesh, his grunts, and my moans. It is the one good thing I can say about him—that he sat there and took it like a man.

  And he got me flowing.

  I was number 632 in a graduating class of 928. Due to these massive numbers, the Cass Tech High grads of 1980 didn’t get to walk across the stage. Rather, each of our names was called, and we stood at our seats. When the principal said my name, I felt I could hear Daddy’s applause out there amid the throng of proud families sitting in the audience at Cobo Hall. I could see him in my head, if not in actuality, dressed in his cool black suit and crisp white shirt, hair parted on the side, gray fedora in his lap. Pride swirled beneath my gown.

  Just days before, when Daddy had been laid out on his back from a massive migraine, and nothing seemed to be working, I feared he might miss my graduation. Aunt Essie had prepared me. “No matter what, he’ll be with you in spirit,” she said, which only depressed me further. But the night before, I caught Daddy digging out his one skinny, golden yellow tie. “You’re going to be able to make it?” I asked.

  “I’m gonna be there if they have to wheel me in on a stretcher,” he said.

  This convinced me that all things were possible, and I decided to be brave, to rally, like Daddy. So after the ceremony I met up with Derek as planned in the corridor outside the auditorium. Our tassels swung from our caps as we faced each other. “Listen,” I said, feeling better than I ever had about the future. “This is it. It’s over.”

  “What?” His eyes darted around, like those of a compulsive overeater seeking out a donut to stuff in his mouth. I knew he was going to try to bully away my decision. Push me hard or clamp down on my arm, not let go. “You’re breaking up with me?”

  “Yes.” I turned away. “And don’t try to come after me,” I said over my shoulder.

  Sure enough, he lunged, gripped my arm, dug his nails into my flesh. “You’re just trying to ruin my graduation day, aren’t you?” he said between clenched teeth.

  And then, because I had timed this exchange, I said, “My father and aunt are coming.”

  There, making their way together down the corridor was Daddy, fedora in hand, and Aunt Essie, waddling beside him. Derek loosened his grip and stood there with me, watching them. As they approached us, I hugged each in turn before introducing Derek to them. “He’s a classmate,” I said. I thought Daddy’s eyes flashed recognition, but he just nodded.

  “You must be a very proud young man,” said Aunt Essie.

  “Yes, ma’am,” answered Derek, in that voice he usually reserved for after-church fellowship.

  “Well, see you around,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t, knowing I would. Daddy, Aunt Essie, and I headed toward the parking lot and a Chinese food dinner, leaving Derek to stare at our backs. Just like that, I was free.

  That night, we sat together around the dining room table. Aunt Essie sipped her Lipton tea, Daddy his Pepsi-Cola, and me Red Zinger. Our first and only family meeting.

  Aunt Essie touched my arm. “What’s next, Darlin’?”

  “I’m starting my new test-driving job tomorrow,” I said. “I can’t wait!”

  “And after that?” said Daddy.

  I shrugged. “We’ll see how things work out at the Proving Ground.”

  “Don’t want you getting trapped in something that don’t take full advantage of your mind,” he said.

  “It’s a really good job!” I reminded him.

  “College is better.”

  “I’m going to go to college,” I promised. “At some point.”

  I had this dream of going to the University of New Mexico. I wanted to see the Pueblo Indians and the purple sunsets and the vast, flat land just as Kimmie had described them. But I couldn’t go. No way was I leaving Daddy behind.

  “Just don’t wait too long,” said Aunt Essie. “Life’s got its own timetable.”

  “I might take some courses part-time at the Center for Creative Studies,” I offered. “They have a whole program in auto design.” I had been imagining the kind of car I
would design, one as comforting as a cocoon and whose exterior would change in color like the mood ring Kimmie used to wear.

  That was the first time I ever spoke my dream out loud. Aunt Essie just nodded, and Daddy smiled. “You gonna be one of those firsts your whole life, Brown Eyes. The first female to do things in a man’s world.”

  “Maybe,” I said. And then I changed the subject, brushing the burden of the future off my lap. “What about you, Aunt Essie? Are you going back home?”

  It had been her plan, when she arrived eight years before, to stay until I finished high school. Then she would return to Tennessee, to her big house with the wraparound porch and friendly neighbors.

  “In due time,” she said. “Might even convince your daddy to join me.”

  “Who? You not talking about me, I know.”

  “Well, how many daddies Rae Rae got?”

  “Hell, Essie, you know better than anybody, when I left down South, I left it for good.”

  “The South has changed, JD. You haven’t set foot in the place for thirty years, so you have no idea.”

  “Couldn’t change enough for my taste.” He took a big gulp from his Pepsi bottle.

  “How old were you when you left home, Daddy?” I asked.

  “Not old enough to be on his own,” chimed in Aunt Essie.

  “I was sixteen,” said Daddy.

  “And my mama grieved something awful about her only surviving boy taking off like that.”

  “Had to get out of there. Everywhere I went, folks pointing, whispering. ‘You know them boys that drifter from Mississippi killed in the rock quarry? That there is the brother.’ Who wants to live up under that?”

  “I managed to.”

  “Well, Essie you got a strong constitution for that sorta thing.”

  “Wasn’t that. Somebody had to look after Ma.”

  “And somebody had to go forward, make a way in the world.”

  “I made a nice life down home,” said Aunt Essie. “Right nice.”

  Daddy leaned back in his chair. “And I can say the same. I created something here. I’m proud of my little girl, proud of this house. Proud of my marriage too, even if it didn’t last. Hell, I wasn’t even supposed to make it, and here I am staring fifty in the face. Proud of that too.”

  I should have said, “I’m proud of you too, Daddy,” but I didn’t. I was thinking about my new job the next day, thinking about my escape from Derek, thinking about the fact that Mama hadn’t called to say congratulations.

  Later that night, while walking through the dining room to the kitchen—I’d become a nightwalker just like Mama—I heard Daddy singing to himself in the den. A rarity. “I was borrrrrn by the river, in a little tent and just like the river I’ve been running evvvver since,” he sang, tearing up that Sam Cooke song with ferocity and tenderness. I stood by the den door out of sight and listened, my heart sinking a little more with each verse. “It’s been a long, long time coming,” he sang, “But I know a change is gonna come. Ohhhh yes it will.”

  Because I worked all night test-driving and slept all day, after a few weeks on my new job, I became restless and anxious come three o’clock in the afternoon. After a game of gin rummy with Daddy and helping Aunt Essie with dinner, I was bored by dusk. There’s something about driving for hours each day that made sitting still once I was off the road close to impossible. I paced around the house. Aunt Essie hated pacing. She gave me the idea that transformed my summer.

  “Why don’t you do something physical?” she said. “Get you some exercise.”

  She was right. I had run track in high school for two years and after graduation had abruptly stopped. After dinner, I put on my track shoes and took off for the track at nearby Mumford High School. It was deserted, which I loved. For one solid week, I ran five miles every night. And every one of those nights, jogging past the tennis courts alongside the track, I saw him out there. Hitting tennis balls across the net, practicing his serve. Dressed in white shorts and shirt, muscles of his long legs and taut thighs glistening in the night lights.

  On the seventh night, I walked by the courts slowly, and as he saw me approaching, he walked over to the linked fence and waited.

  “You’re good,” he said.

  “So are you,” I answered.

  We stood at that fence talking about tennis and cars, life in high school, and with each passing minute I knew this guy, Kevin, was going to become my lover; he stirred in me the same feeling I’d felt during my days of obsession over first Jesse Thompson and then Antonio Snapp. Desire.

  We made a date to meet at the courts the following night, and that became my life every day before heading to the Proving Ground—enjoying his lean arms around me as I learned how to throw my weight behind me on a serve, grip the racket with a two-handed backhand, volley defensively at the net.

  On my off days, we went to backyard parties on streets in parts of town I’d never explored, to Canada for Chinese food, to tennis matches in the suburbs. And we went for long rides in Kevin’s black Firebird, which was rigged with a CB radio and powerful antenna. He often broadcast to his CB buddies in not-so-distant places: “You got Dragon Fly over here. Come in. Come in…. Yeah, Roger good buddy…. smokies up ahead, watch out…. Catch you when I catch you. Ten-four.” He gave me a handle, anointing me “Lady Sunshine.”

  And before long, we made love.

  I was ripe for falling in love. Having finally gotten away from a heavy, tiresome relationship, I was newly graduated with a fun job. Possibilities abounded. It was summer. And for the first time in my life, I felt sexy. Kevin’s way of rubbing my skin, of nibbling my ear, of kissing my wrists, his incredible passion overtook me. Feverish and lustful all the time, we clung to each other, having sex wherever we could: the backseat of his car at the drive-in, the park near the Proving Grounds, an empty bedroom during a friend’s party, a telephone booth at a rest stop off I-94. And once in a motel room on Six Mile Road, where we paid by the hour.

  Now I better understood what Kimmie must have felt for Nolan, why she seemed to give herself over to him so completely. It was the sheer force of arousal. My own desire had been driven by fantasy alone until Kevin showed me that a tongue on my nipple could be so unbearably good, that orgasms could just erupt, that a penis could feel good going in, moving within, coming out.

  For my seventeenth birthday, Daddy bought me a giant road map of the United States, the kind that folds out and spreads wide across a lap. We sat together at the dining room table and trailed our fingers over crooked red lines and heavy dotted ones.

  “When I left home, I took this road right here,” he said, pointing along the path from Tennessee to Michigan. “I was jumping on and off railroad tracks, hiding in cargo trains and whatnot. Young and wild and not thinking about danger. Stopped first in Inkster ’cause the train stopped there. Must’ve stayed there a month or so. Finally took a bus on into Detroit. Got me a job right off too.”

  Seemed like everyone that mattered to me had traveled the highways, taken journeys from here to there, been changed by it somehow. Mama, Kimmie, and Daddy each had hit the road in their late teens. I felt it a rite of passage that I be next. And I wanted Daddy with me. That’s when I asked him to drive to New Mexico and back with me.

  He didn’t commit right away, just talked about how the little piece of a car he now had would never make it. I thought about when Oldie was shiny and almost new and we would glide along Woodward Avenue in it, listening to Ray Charles’s Greatest Hits eight-track tape.

  While Daddy and I both loved to listen to music while we cruised along a street or zoomed along a highway, it was not Aunt Essie’s thing. She thought there should be silence when you were in the car, so as to concentrate on the road—or, as she loved to say, “Body can’t hear itself think with all that noise.”

  She didn’t bother to listen to music at all, in fact. If you wanted to see her go off, let a Billie Holiday or Dinah Washington tune pop up on Daddy’s transistor radio. “Lord
, spare me from those wailing women with their tragic lives,” she’d say. “Why in God’s name would you wallow in your own stupidity is beyond me. And why somebody wanna sit around and listen to you do it, that’s a bigger mystery.”

  Her one exception to the no-music rule was her Mahalia Jackson records. I will never forget the command and frightful beauty of that gospel singer’s powerful voice, the way her moans and full-out sound gave me chills as she filled our house with songs of praise those Saturday afternoons of my childhood. It seemed to me her heartfelt singing wasn’t so different from that of blues women. It was all raw emotion and passion over men, one of whom just happened to be Jesus. But I could never point that out to Aunt Essie.

  The summer evaporated. It was a whirlwind of test-driving, sex, card games with Daddy, tennis, more test-driving, more sex, more card games, more tennis, much more sex. I loved not hiding Kevin, not feeling ashamed of him. The only strain came from Daddy’s jealousy. It was subtle, but it was there. I felt it in his silences and slightest nods when I’d stick my head in, say I was going out with Kevin, would be back later. Aunt Essie told me this was normal, but I was saddened by it. And then one day, Daddy gave me the gift of approval: “Seems to be a nice fellow, Brown Eyes,” he said. “And sure as hell smitten with you. The way it should be.”

  When Daddy drove up into our driveway in his new car, it was a stunning sight. Just like that, using his meager savings as a down payment, and paying high finance charges, he’d bought a Cutlass Supreme off the showroom floor—not even waiting for sticker prices to settle down. And this Olds was a beautiful deep blue with matching navy interior, stereo speakers, and cruise control. The most radical step I would ever see my father take—buying a late-model car the color of sapphires. At full price.