“You can’t stop being what you are, Dianne.”
But Aunt Gloria didn’t have to tell Dianne that. Dianne lived with who she was, all day every day. She was the little girl whose story unraveled in the Dentonville papers for weeks: “Parents Say Little Girl Was Dead When They Woke Up”; “Autopsy Reveals Child Died from Acute Meningitis”; “Investigation Results: Parents Charged for Leaving Children Home Alone”; “Charges Reduced to Child Endangerment— Nurse’s License Expired, Testimony Inadmissible”; “Child Left with Sister’s Corpse Will Be Taken In by Family Members.” That was the public side of the case. The private headlines, however, read much differently in Dianne’s mind: Child Could Have Saved Sister If She’d Gotten Help Sooner; Girls’ Mother Left and Never Looked Back.
“So,” Aunt Gloria pressed, snapping Dianne back to the present, “are you coming?
Now a different set of headlines danced through Dianne’s Aunt Provides Loving Home for Abandoned Child; Cousins Become Like Sisters to Girl Left with Corpse; Aunt Asks Child (Now Grown up) to Come to Wedding as Token of Gratitude.
Something within them both knew that after more than twenty years, it was time to stop running from the truth.
Chapter 1
Joyce Ann cursed the sunlight as it streamed through the slats in the blinds. Once again, God had ignored her prayer. He had kept her alive through the night. She pulled a pillow over her head and trapped the air in her lungs for a moment, wondering how long it would take to suffocate. Sometimes she felt like killing herself; other times she did not.
It wasn’t all her fault. Some of it was, but not all of it. Pondering blame ushered thoughts of her sister, Gloria, and the money order—or rather, the absence of the money order. Joyce Ann tossed the pillow to the floor and sat up slowly. Her brain needed time to catch up with her body.
She jumped, startled by movement on the mattress. She tried to replay the night before, but it was either too early or too late in the morning for her to think. Her mind had pressed “rewind” without pushing “stop” first.
Whoever the man next to her was, he sure slept soundly. Probably Greg, but it didn’t matter. Men were like interchangeable paper dolls.
Joyce Ann scooted her behind to the edge of the mattress, then heaved herself up to a standing position. Maybe, if Gloria sent that money order, Joyce Ann could afford a decent box spring. That would be a couple of hundred dollars.
Then the thought occurred to Joyce Ann: Do you know how much vodka you could buy with a couple of hundred dollars? No, she wasn’t going to spend good money on a box spring. The room could have used a lot of things: a rug, sheets for the mattress, a lamp, clothes to decorate the closet. So far she’d done nothing more to add life to this dank, stuffy room than to bring in a bed on which to sleep (or repay debts), a table for divvying up drugs, and a trash can for straightening up when she had a mind to.
Joyce Ann shuffled across the stained carpet, grabbed her mailbox key, and walked barefoot past two buildings to the apartment complex’s mail cage. It was early. The air was still light and promising, as if anything could happen today. Birds whistling, dew bathing the grass, and four little girls in a huddle, slapping hands and clapping to the tune of “Rockin’ Robin” while they waited for the school bus. For as much mess as she had in her life, Joyce Ann did still appreciate the morning in all its blazing, annoying glory.
She pulled her sweatshirt tighter around her torso and shivered as a breeze cut through the thinning fleece. Her hair flopped down against her cheeks with every step, reminding her of better days, when her hair was her best asset. Everyone always said she had “good” hair. With split ends, matted clumps, and graying roots, her hair was anything but good now. It was chaos, but that was fitting. A metaphor for her entire life.
Joyce Ann approached the red mail cage cautiously. She didn’t want to walk up on something she shouldn’t see or couldn’t get out of. All manner of evil went on in that cage: drug deals, sex (consensual and nonconsensual), robbery. When she saw that the coast was clear, she unlocked the gate and made sure it clicked behind her. The concrete floor was littered with junk mail and newspaper. Quickly she put her key into the box, turned the lock, and pulled her mail from the slot. After getting a glimpse of the envelope from Gloria, Joyce Ann happily skipped back to her apartment, making plans for the money her sister sent monthly.
Every once in a while Gloria would send a little less money, with a note explaining that she had an unexpected expense and that she’d double up the next month. She’d add, “I’ll make some calls and see about getting you some sewing work on the meanwhile.”
Joyce Ann would smile inside, glad know she wasn’t the only one struggling. Glad to know Gloria wasn’t really getting ahead. “Got a college degree can’t even afford to send money regular,” Joyce Ann would laugh to herself. “Now, who’s the stupid one? Who’s the useless one?”
Satisfied that Gloria wasn’t too much better off than she, Joyce Ann would wait patiently, take a quick sewing job, and imagine that Gloria had taken a part-time job to catch up.
The only other time Gloria didn’t send money was when she paid for Joyce Ann’s care in one rehab or another. Joyce had been in more step programs than a toddler learning to walk. Two steps forward, three steps back, then flat on her behind. But she humored Gloria every now and then for the chance to stay in the nicer rehabs. It might have cost Gloria an arm and a leg, but so far as Joyce Ann was concerned, Gloria owed her every penny of it.
Greg met her at the doorway. “I’m out.”
All the more money for Joyce Ann. After paying the all-inclusive rent and buying a few groceries, she could do what she wanted with the rest. Better yet, she might look through the paper and see if there was another all-bills-paid, first-month-free complex she could move to and skip out on her current lease. That would free up even more money. But to she’d need to work for at least a few weeks to show income.
Joyce Ann tore through the envelope and found the money order. It was wrapped in a piece of paper, as usual. And, though Joyce Ann hated to admit it, she was happy to see that her sister had written a note:
Joyce Ann,
This may be the last money order I’ll be able to send you for a while. I’m getting married next month, and my husband and I will be joining our accounts. I’ll send you money when I can. In the meanwhile, I’ll see if I can get you some work.
Gloria
In disbelief, Joyce Ann read the note again. “What you mean, you’ll send money when you can? Get me some work?” Joyce Ann screamed. “Who does she think she is? She doesn’t deserve to be happy, Miss Goody Two-shoes teacher!” The bare walls screamed back at her.
Suddenly, Joyce Ann wasn’t so grateful anymore. How dare Gloria leave her out to dry? Again?!
Furious, Joyce Ann stuffed everything she owned into the wooden chest with wheels on the end. Gloria May Rucker-Jordan might have tried to dance around Dentonville like she was the belle of the ball, but she would never be rid of the bricks sewn into the hem of her gown. Joyce Ann would see to that.
Chapter 2
White lines stitched the road beneath the bus window, lulling Dianne into a hypnotic trance. Each line drew her closer to the mosaic of her past—sharp, painful shards jutting into softer memories that she cherished. Were it not for the bad, the good might have sustained her.
Driving would have been preferable, but she needed a new set of tires to make this trek. She might even have had the money for the tires if she hadn’t spent so much of it buying men. Credit cards are no good once they’re maxed.
She’d dressed conservatively for the occasion, wearing a pair of black slacks and a red V-neck with enough length and bulk to fold under at the waist, concealing the block of fat collecting at her midsection. Her feet were smooth and polished, with the nails painted a deep crimson that matched her blouse. A pair of black, strappy sandals added a few inches to her height and (she hoped) subtracted a few pounds from her plump frame. Big, brown, bouncy curls met with her
shoulders to form a perfect frame around this face she’d put through all kinds of torture in preparation for this weekend. Exfoliating, tweezing, waxing, plucking.
Her final touches included diamond teardrop earrings and the latest designer fragrance, guaranteed to keep her smelling like a lady of elegance until well after five in the afternoon. Everything to give a normal appearance or better, even if she wasn’t feeling it.
Thank goodness for two-for-one bus fare. She had brought a man along to serve as a distractor—something to do if the memories threatened to press the sky down onto her head, as they often did when she sat still too long and left her mind to its own devices. Like now.
“Did you remember to turn off the iron?” she asked him, knowing that she had already double- and triple-checked to make sure the cord was unplugged.
“Yeah,” James grunted, annoyed with Dianne’s interruption. He had been admiring the woman attached to the pretty brown leg that protruded into the aisle two rows ahead. His eyes had traveled her whole body as she boarded the bus, and the journey had been a pleasant one from one end to the other. He was sure that he’d interpreted the woman’s glance correctly and she, too, was interested. Now James hoped he could slip her his phone number when the opportunity presented itself.
Dianne reached into her oversized drawstring purse and pulled out one of the Essence magazines she’d planted for such a time as this. It bloomed right there on her lap, with advertisements splashing across the pages. Red lipstick. Golden hair color. Lavender nail polish. A purposeful, entertaining bouquet to keep her mind off the menacing black milestones that lay ahead.
Her thoughts pacified, Dianne took a cleansing breath and let her gaze return to the window. That’s when she read the sign that seemed to flash solely for her: “Dentonville 22.” Twenty-two miles from the people who had given her the best definition of love yet.
Twenty-two miles from misery, too.
The last stretch had changed dramatically. Planned communities and home improvement stores packed on top of her old mental picture of Dentonville, making the town seem even more warped than before. When there was just dry earth to remember, the past fit the scenery. But now, with beautiful homes and shopping centers settling into the soil, Dentonville seemed to her a mansion built on top of a cemetery.
As the bus pulled into old downtown, she grasped what she could of the good. The candy store with the big sucker for a door handle. Tolbert’s. The barbershop with its red-and- white-striped pole. But the pole wasn’t moving anymore. It had just stopped one day, Dianne imagined. And everyone in the shop must have come out to stare at it, as though time stood still. Refused to budge because there had been a malfunction. Maybe the owner had even called to see about getting it repaired, but he couldn’t because the parts didn’t exist.
Dianne decided then that the barbershop wasn’t good or bad. Rather, it was reality.
“Oh, I think I left something in my seat,” James announced after they stepped off the bus, just as he’d planned.
“I didn’t see anything,” Dianne assured him as they walked toward baggage claim.
“I... I think I’d better double-check,” he insisted. He set off toward the bus, hoping that the woman with pretty legs would still be seated. He found her where he’d passed her, in the second row. The view from above her was just as inviting: a crucifix barely visible in the cranny between a set of breasts that defied gravity.
James tore his eyes from her beckoning chest long enough to introduce himself. “Hello. My name is James.”
She licked her lips in a slow, purposeful circle, re-creating the lost shine of her cheap lip gloss. “Call me Mika.”
“I’d like to call you tomorrow,” James said, sneaking a peek outside the window because (he smiled inside) a true player knows how to keep his eyes on two women at one time.
“Well, I don’t mind. But what will your girl have to say about that?” She blinked seductively and cocked her chin to one side.
James clicked his inner cheek between his back teeth and dismissed the question with another one. “Do you see any rings on these fingers?” He waved his hands before the girl like a magician before saying “abracadabra.”
They exchanged numbers, and James slithered back to Dianne as she waited near the baggage claim station.
“Did you find what you left?” The tone in Dianne’s voice scraped James up one side and down the other. She knew his game, he gathered, but he had already told Dianne in no uncertain terms that this relationship was completely open.
Dianne had no problem with that. In fact, she had a sincere appreciation for the fact James didn’t hound her about a commitment, as some of the men in her little red book had been known to do.
Yet this blatant flirting in her presence was downright disrespectful, and she planned to cross his name off the standby list as soon as they returned from this trip.
Then again, James was good for a couple of reasons: he wasn’t married, and he was usually available because he didn’t keep a steady job. James’s companionship might have cost her financially, but it was worth every penny if it meant she didn’t have to be alone.
Dianne grabbed two of their three bags from the conveyor belt. James grabbed the lightest bag, and they walked toward the exit doors. The smell of fresh-baked bread climbed up through her nostrils and straight down to the pit of her empty stomach, drawing attention to the fact that she hadn’t eaten since the night before, when she was out shopping.
She had opened a quick credit account at Target and bought gifts for her family. A gift for Regina’s baby, whom she’d only seen in pictures. A set of his-and-hers towels for the newlyweds. Dianne didn’t witness too much of what happened on the stomping grounds firsthand. She’d received invitations to her cousin Yolanda’s graduation ceremonies for both her master’s and doctorate degrees, but only sent back gifts to stand in her place. She’d been invited to Regina’s wedding but had called with her usual excuses about work and being busy with school. Anything to avoid coming back to Dentonville She didn’t have any trouble talking to her family, but seeing them was another story. Dianne counted it a miracle that she still kept in touch with them, given that packing up, leaving, and never looking back seemed to run in her bloodline.
Her original plan had been to come in the night before the wedding and leave immediately after the ceremony, with as little fanfare as possible. However, the bus schedule wouldn’t accommodate her wishes. She’d have to stay a little longer. Maybe the extended trip would buy her another decade of distance.
Dianne preferred the distance of Darson, two hundred miles from the horrid memories. In Darson, Dianne could lay her eyes on fresh scenery. It was a fast, busy city that didn’t slow down long enough to let her mind roam. There was always a movie to catch, a restaurant to try, an attraction to see, a new man to do. Not to mention the extra hours she could put in at work. If she kept her schedule full enough, she might plunge into bed, too exhausted for thoughts or dreams. She’d done a good job of staying away from Dentonville.
But Dianne couldn’t sidestep Aunt Gloria. She loved her too much.
Chapter 3
Yolanda gave her house one last glance, arranging and rearranging the throw pillows on the couch that her sister had insisted she purchase. They seemed such nuisances, serving no practical function other than to saw on Yolanda’s nerves. For the second time now, she flipped up the bathroom light switch to make sure there was toilet paper on the roll. She smacked her lips and rushed in to realign the hand towels. Then she pivoted and pulled back the black shower curtain again, as though something might have had opportunity to grow in the tub since she scoured it an hour ago. She opened the closet door to make sure the towels were facing the right way: stripe on the right and facing her.
She reviewed the whole house—labels facing forward, drawers flush, comforters flat. Her sister, Regina, used to tease her, “Girl, it takes you half an hour to clean up after you clean up.”
Yolanda’s perso
nal appearance was the last thing to undergo scrutiny. Her tailored denim pantsuit was so heavily starched it could have been a statue. The red tank top was a perfect complement to the indigo of her suit, and she concluded the outfit with silver accessories and red mules. Not one for wearing much makeup, Yolanda had only to inspect her eyebrows and lip gloss this time around. She leaned in closer to the mirror and made sure that not so much as a millimeter had shot up through the undesirable follicles between her eyebrows. She had to keep her eye on that unibrow; it could get out of hand real quick.
Aside from the brow, Yolanda couldn’t alter what was left: light brown skin, almond- shaped eyes, nothing but naturally produced oils on her skin to keep that healthy glow.
Everything was perfect. Now she could leave.
Yolanda made a full circle back to the living room and reached into her purse to check her cell phone for the fourth time, making quadruple-sure that it was powered. She didn’t want to miss a call from Dianne en route to the bus station.
As Yolanda pulled the phone from its leather case, a business card fell out onto the floor, which was exactly where it naturally belonged. The card had been given to her by a man she had met at a gas station, of all places. He was a few inches taller than her, wearing black slacks and a neatly starched shirt in a shade of mauve that only a man who’s secure in himself can wear. He drove a white Camry, and Yolanda inspected it while he introduced himself. Older model, but not a spot or a wrinkle. Here was a man who knew how to “keep things up,” as her great Aunt Toe would say.
Yolanda liked his crisp style, which was the only reason she accepted his card in the first place. But when he turned to go back to his vehicle, Yolanda noticed that he’d missed a belt loop. A whole belt loop. How does a grown man walk out of the house without checking himself from every angle? Simple: he doesn’t pay attention to what cannot be seen. Socks probably had holes in ‘em. Underwear, too.
Divas of Damascus Road Page 2
