It was all his fault. He knew it. His dad would know it, too, if he ever woke up to his parched lungs and blistered, raw neck. Rodney touched the imprint of hemp with gentle fingers and his hand filled with blood and pus and fear and horror and castigation.
Mea Culpa, he thought. Mea Maxima Culpa—and I can almost see him in my mind as he struck his chest over and over and over.
*
As usual, no one spoke at the dinner table but Mama and Daddy.
After Daddy led us in the Catholic blessing and began to pass the bowls of food around the table, he told Mama about the Klan burning the Thibault’s home. He said the house was in bad shape—that they’d have to tear it down and rebuild.
“The worse of it is Ray. He’s in the hospital,” Daddy said. “They almost killed him. He has rope burns around his neck and he was beaten half to death. He looks terrible.”
“You went to see him in the colored ward at the hospital?”
“Yes, and his wife told me the only reason he’s still alive is because Rodney, his seventeen-year-old boy, stood on tiptoes so Ray could stand on the boy’s hands. That’s what kept him from hanging and choking to death.”
I gasped on a mouthful of rice and grabbed my milk, greedily. I began to cough and choke.
Mama started to rant and rave about how the Klan would come back and burn another cross in our yard, and that Daddy didn’t need to be associating with those people. Daddy ignored the chastisement and continued to explain how Ray Thibault’s eyes were swollen shut and he had some broken bones and was on some sort of machine to help him get oxygen in his lungs.
“Why did they pick him?” Mama asked.
“Someone told me his boy touched a white girl at the Cow Palace one night.”
My fork stopped in mid-air and shook so hard the rice fell back into my plate. I put it down with a “clink.”
“I’ll bet that white girl’s daddy set up that lynching. You would do it, too, if it was Susie,” Mama said. I held my hands in my lap so no one could see them tremble. I felt like my heart would burst open. I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sure if one of Ray’s boys touched a white girl, it was innocent, or there was a reason.” I stared at the food in my plate. Everything seemed to run together and become psychedelic. I felt dizzy, sick at my stomach.
“You always take up for those people.” Mama sounded angry, frustrated.
My ears seemed to fill with something foamy, like dishwater that gurgled around in my head. My chest felt like I had swallowed concrete. I tried to get the rice and beans already in my mouth to slide down, but I coughed and gasped and felt the oxygen leave my body. Will reached over and slapped my back a few times and Mama yelled at me to drink some milk. In the end, Daddy sent me to my room because I caused a disturbance. It was the first time I was grateful to be sent from the table.
My heart hurt. The pain was so acute I thought my chest would crack open. I actually wished it would. Maybe if it burst, the pressure I felt inside would ease. I started to cry and couldn’t stop. I cried for Rodney and for his family, and for all the colored people in the world who were oppressed, intimidated and hated because of the color of their skin. I cried for people who were not allowed to dream, to become, to achieve or to love freely. And I cried for all the people who were unloved or who could not love and be loved because of their race.
I felt like I could handle anything. I’d already survived so much I was numb to it. But Rodney! He was so protected and loved. I tried to understand what it must be like to be Marianne or Rodney. To be colored in this whitewashed world. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t feel what they felt, but I wanted to be in their families, anyway. When I said that to Marianne, she got angry and told me I didn’t know what I was saying, that no one wanted to be colored. No One!
Maybe not—but no one wanted to be me, either—at least no one would want to be me if they knew.
Chapter Ten
Breathe
1967
THE NIGHT I ALMOST died is like a permanent stamp on my soul. It was midnight when a brightness like searchlights suddenly blazed from the ceiling, waking me out of a deep sleep. I thought a train clamored through my room, surrounding my bed and causing Sissy to jump up yelling, as deep-throated screams bellowed in my first waking. I heard an owl hoot incessantly and the whirl of a helicopter batter against the ceiling as the burly figure of my dad appeared waving a lasso over his head, running as if chasing a herd of cattle. A shooting star whizzed by and I stood on the edge of a deep jungle with lions and bears and huge snakes creating a cacophony of jungle music with their hisses and barks and grunts.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes just as a tractor with a crane on top grabbed me and hoisted me into the sky where I dangled over the tops of trees, under which were predators waiting to eat me alive. The crane released me and I flew from my bed like a ragdoll, my face hitting a sharp object on my way to the ground where I smelled mushrooms and mud mixed with feces and blood so fresh the animals of the jungle gathered around, sniffing and prodding.
“Get up and look at me!” Through the window a silent moon sent rays of light through the camellia bush and a glow surrounded me and created an aura that seemed to temporarily protect me from the predators.
“I said, Get Up!” I heard the voice that sounded like a chorus of male screeches coming through a tube that flared out, so that the sound was loud and piercing when it reached my ears.
“I work so hard to provide for this family and this is the thanks I get?” The words were like bullets from a machine gun, shooting all around me, some landing, some whizzing by my ears. The screams were in rhythm with the hard soles of dress shoes that felt like a sledge hammer boring into my ribs.
“You’ve ruined me now. And with a Negro. How dare you. In public.”
I rolled onto my stomach and a heavy object, like a concrete block, slammed down on my back and a dragon spewed hot breath from my mouth shooting warm red liquid across the blue expanse like a blazing flame on the ocean’s surface. I swam in the salty waters and grabbed for the big fuzzy fist to save me when a huge wave knocked me over onto my back and I thought I might drown in the briny waters, turning redder by the moment.
A furry rope wrapped around my neck and lifted me up over the liquid and something sharp, like the blade of a surfboard’s rudder, sliced across my cheek. Waves, salty and thick and rolling like barrels down a hill almost knocked me over again and I fought with the loch ness monster to keep from drowning.
I heard a deep throated croon yell fragmented words about God and fornication and disobedience and burning in hell and I waited for the flames to engulf me, but they couldn’t reach below the ocean’s surface as I sank to the sandy bottom and gasped for air.
Suddenly I floated above the ocean and watched my own body morph into a sea urchin, rounded and purple with pearls studding the outside in rows, that began to roll rapidly until it was scooped up by a huge shark. In the belly of the fish I heard Rodney humming the tune that replayed in my spirit over and over, “Don’t worry baby, everything will turn out all right.”
The spotlight went out, the helicopter flew off, the train roared on to some destination and the incessant hoot of the owl ceased. The only thing left was the smell of wisteria and camellias, the taste of honeysuckle on the tip of my tongue, as the tune hummed by Rodney sank deeper and deeper into my fading spirit. I basked in the moonshine that filtered through the flowers and opened my lips to taste its sweet, dewey drops, but they burned like fire on my tongue and my eyes smarted with millions of grains of sand.
The smell of dead birds and rotting eggs rose from Hades and filled my senses as visions of angels with tails flew above me.
*
The first time I tried to open my eyes, they felt glued shut. I knew I wasn’t in my own room because I could smell the antiseptic air and I heard a far-off beeping. I tried to move, but pain shot through me like buckshot. I fell back into deep darkness.
“Oh, God!” I thought I screamed but no sound came out, only grunts. “It hurts.”
“Shhh, Sweetheart,” he said. His voice was gentle and concerned, as if he had nothing to do with my situation. “Just rest. Daddy’s here.” That’s what I was afraid of. I didn’t want him near me. I didn’t want Mama there, either. I wanted Tootsie, Catfish. I wanted Marianne. I wanted Rodney!
I tried to sleep. It hurt too much to be awake. There was a scorching pain in my side and my right leg felt like it had nails driven into it. I couldn’t move my mouth or open my eyes, and my nose was packed with something thick, so I could barely breath. It was days before I realized I had a tube in my nose to pump oxygen and nutrients into my body. And my head! It felt like there were men inside it with hammers and chisels trying to gouge their way out.
During one of my fairly lucid periods, I heard Dr. David’s voice at the foot of my bed. He talked in short, staccato sentences. I could only pick up scattered words: “Broken ribs, broken leg, nose, concussion, internal injuries ...doesn’t look good ... “
A nurse came in and pulled the sleeve up on my hospital gown. I felt a needle, but didn’t wince. The room and voices faded and I drifted off into a drug-induced slumber.
The next time I tried to open my eyes, I felt someone hovering over me. A thumb or finger made a cross on my forehead with something oily that smelled like garlic and Latin words came from the clouds.
The first time I was able to open one of my eyes I saw Mama in a rocking chair at the end of the room, rubbing her swollen belly. Dr. David spoke in low tones. I heard him tell Mama she should call Daddy to bring my brothers and sister to see me.
“Anne, I know she didn’t fall. What happened? You need to tell me. There will be an investigation if she doesn’t make it. This could be serious.” I couldn’t hear Mama’s answer, only a few words: “Girls ... school ... problems ... don’t know ... found her.”
The next time I was semi-conscious I heard James, Will and Robby talking softly. Daddy held Sissy who was now five, over the bed. She tried to get in with me and was crying, “Susie,” but he held her back.
I retreated into the comfort and solitude of darkness and when I awoke the next time they were all still there, but they were very quiet, which was unusual for my three brothers and little sister. I could see them through a slit in my right eye. I moaned. Daddy rushed to the side of my bed and took my hand.
“Are you awake?”
“Hmmmm. Thirsty.”
“I’ll get you some water.” He brought a straw to my lips and I sipped, little sips, at first, then I gulped. “Take it easy, Baby. No need to drown yourself. Just take small sips.”
“Where’s Mama?”
“She’s right here.” Mama came to the other side of the bed and put her hand on my shoulder.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“No, I hurt everywhere.”
“No M’am, Susanna Christine.” Suddenly I hated them both. I was determined to get well, and get away. I knew that if he became angry with me again, he would kill me. I wouldn’t let him win. I’d survive.
That was when I made the turnaround.
My few minutes of consciousness at a time turned to an hour a day and, then two as I fought hard as to survive. One day one of my teachers arrived with books and assignments. She stayed to show me what to do to catch up. I tried to listen but my brain was foggy, however I was determined to learn, to keep up with school so I could graduate in May and leave.
I had to survive—that’s what drove me to do things that, looking back, now seem superhuman.
I didn’t ask how many days went by. I slept, took sips of liquids, listened to people talk or read or ask questions and tried to make words. At some point I began to read and write on my own, which took every ounce of courage I could muster.
I was afraid to go home, even though Daddy and Mama were acting like I was a precious child they wanted to protect. I knew the volcano could erupt again, anytime. I tried to fake pain and other symptoms when Dr. David came to see me each morning so he wouldn’t discharge me, but, eventually he caught on.
“Susie, I know you don’t want to go home, but you can’t stay here forever.” I started to cry. Big, fat tears that ran down the sides of my cheeks onto my pillow. Dr. David’s big, hairy thumb wiped some of the drops from my face and, when he spoke, he reminded me of Catfish.
“I can arrange for you to stay with someone else, your aunt in Houston, your grandmother in Baton Rouge. You can stay with me and Erma if you like.” I couldn’t stop crying. “Tell me what happened, honey.” He was so gentle and kind and I wanted to tell him, I wanted my parents in jail, I wanted to punish everyone for everything, but I knew, in my heart, it was all my fault.
What made me think I could love a colored boy and not poison everyone’s life?
“Accident,” I whispered.
“If that’s the truth, I have to send you home. I’ll give you another day or so to think about it.” He patted me on the shoulder and left. The next morning he sat on the edge of my bed.
“You can tell me anything and it won’t shock me.”
“Can you keep a secret?” I whispered it, afraid to confide in him, in anyone.
“It won’t leave this room. Maybe it’s bad, even hopeless, but you can’t keep it inside.”
“It’s all my fault.” I couldn’t hold back the tears.
“What’s your fault?” I started sobbing.
“Everything. Mr. Thibault. Their home. My accident. Everything. It’s all my fault.”
“How call all those things be the fault of a fifteen-year-old-girl.”
“It just is. I’m a troublemaker.”
“Okay. Let’s say it’s your fault. Let’s take this thing apart.” He looked at me with a deep understanding, his dark eyes and overly large nose seemed to fit his gentle spirit. He smelled like a doctor—clorox, rubbing alcohol and mercurochrome—but he sounded like a priest. “How can Ray Thibault’s attack be your fault?”
“Well. Uhm. There’s this boy.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” He removed his hands from the side of my face, sat back and took my right hand between his two thick fists. “You are a little young for a boyfriend, but I can remember thinking I was in love when I was a teenager.”
“It’s not about being in love it’s about who I love.
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with a Jew?” He started to laugh at his own joke, then he saw my expression and stopped. “Oh, no, Susie, it’s not a ...”
“Yes.”
“Not Ray Thibault’s son?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What have the two of you done?”
“Nothing. Really. I met him a couple years ago, but other than brief conversations at his dad’s gas station, nothing. It’s just that ...”
“Just that, what?”
“The other night I went to the Cow Palace with Daddy and my brothers and I ran into Rodney in the lobby.”
“Okay, benign enough.”
“He touched me. Put his hands on my shoulders.”
“And someone saw?”
“Lots of people saw.” He slid off my bed and began to pace back and forth in the room. His head was down and he had his left hand on his forehead, moving his thumb and fingers close together, then spreading them apart as if he tried to bring his wrinkles to the center of his forehead, then smooth me out again. He stopped at the foot of my bed and looked at me.
“Is Rodney in trouble with the Klan, too?”
“I’m not sure. I’m worried sick.”
“Then I guess you need to see him, to talk to him.” I just stared at Dr. David and I knew he saw the pleading in my eyes.
*
“We’re wasting time, Susie,” Ro
dney said. He walked to the side of my hospital bed and sat near me, his butt touching my side—I could feel the warmth of him through the sheet and blanket. He stroked the cast on my left arm that was bent at the elbow, the tips of my fingers sticking out of the end. He took my right hand in his. I inhaled his crisp shower scent and aftershave and realized it was the first time I’d smelled his body clean and fresh. He must have showered after work, I thought. I missed the gasoline, sweat-filled pores that seeped his masculinity into my world but I savored something consistent about him—his mansuetude, a gentleness I couldn’t describe but could feel, almost as if it was velvet in my hands, my fingers rubbing the smooth softness.
With the back of his other hand, he gently stroked the length of the side of my face. He turned his hand over and cupped my face with his palm. I lifted my casted arm parallel with my shoulder and, with the tips of my fingers that stuck out of the plaster, I rubbed the back of his hand that lay on my cheek. I closed my eyes and started to cry.
He stroked my hair and tried to sooth me while tears ran down my face, unchecked, my chest heaving every now and then. I guess I felt the same way he had felt when he sobbed in his dad’s arms the night of the wrestling match—frustrated, angry at injustice, confused about feelings. My tears flowed from opened eyes, and nothing could hold them back.
“You think it’s all your fault, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. Finally I turned towards him.
“Tell me about your family,” I whispered. “Is everyone okay? You dad?”
“Dad will be okay, eventually.” He said it slowly, still staring at me. “It’s not your fault, Susie. No one blames you.” I turned away.
“I’m glad you’re okay, that your dad, your family ... I’ve been worried ...”
He left the bed and walked to the window, a few feet away. When he did, my fingertips fell against my cheek, where his hand had been and touched the warm spot he’d left like a stamp on my face. The blinds were shut but he stared through them as if he could see the moon cast its light on the paved parking lot outside the hospital room.
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