Born at Dawn, page 8
“Don’t turn your back on me,” he would scream if she tried to ignore him.
If she said, “This isn’t the appropriate time to discuss this,” he would cut her down like a tree at a sawmill.
“You only have two children in this household. You better mind them and not me,” Marvin would bark at her.
The boys sat seething and breathing in these toxic fumes. Their fights, like carbon monoxide, were odorless, colorless, and seemingly tasteless but poison nonetheless. The chronic exposure to their fights led to the same symptoms: depression, confusion, headaches, and poisoning of the heart. Cynthia’s greatest fear was the boys would eventually grow to disrespect her and any other women with whom they had a relationship.
The disjuncture between Marvin and Keith disturbed Cynthia. Rarely did they speak to each other except during the typical male communal moments like a bad call during a football game. The longing to close the gulf was apparent in Keith’s actions. All of his favorite teams—the Jets and the Knicks—were the same as Mar-vin’s, regardless of their records and various setbacks. Cynthia blamed herself for getting between the two of them. A man should be able to talk to his son, but Keith often opted out of conversing with his father by sticking to one-word answers rather than launching into the monologues about his day he shared with his mother.
Cynthia cracked the window open and inhaled the afternoon air. Her missing status made her a prisoner of 116th Street. It also allowed her to relinquish her responsibility to her home and focus on her. Cynthia was able to get her best thinking done when she was cooking or cleaning.
After she called Keith she spent the two hours straightening up Mildred’s apartment and thought it was time for a break. Marvin, however, did not agree as he used Mildred’s answering machine to bust up her break time. Cynthia was in the middle of lounging on her mother’s white Italian leather sofa with her feet resting on the glass coffee table when the phone rang.
Marvin’s voice sounded like gravel as he pleaded for her to return home over the answering machine while the boys fought in the background for the remote control. Keith was saying something about homework and James was crying for The Simpsons. Marvin’s sorry almost sounded sincere.
“Mildred, if Cynthia is there, please play this for her. I’m sorry for everything. We need you. I’m lost without you. I don’t even know what to make them for dinner.”
Just as she leaned toward the end table where her mother’s telephone sat, contemplating picking it up, the answering machine cut him off. He called back citing more domestic duties that only Cynthia could take care of.
“Keith has soccer practice on Friday. I have no idea where his uniform is and James has a science project due on Friday that he hasn’t started yet, and I don’t have any more clean overalls.” Before the machine had a chance to cut him off again, he cried out, “Mildred, if she’s there, please, please tell her we need her.”
Cynthia stood and headed to her mother’s bedroom. She felt like diving into her mother’s bed and hiding behind the mosquito nets. She took a seat in a wicker chair with the rounded back near her mother’s oak dresser. She marveled at Mildred’s exquisite taste and sense of design. Tonight Cynthia needed a place to hide, and she knew she would not be found in the jungle.
Years—three to be exact—had passed since she’d last sought the comfort of this room. She hid in the folds of her mother’s comforter and drowned all her sorrows in Mildred’s chocolate stash.
She rummaged through her mother’s lingerie drawers in search of some chocolate to nibble on. Although the décor had changed one thing had not; Mildred still used her lingerie drawer to stash her snacks. Cynthia ripped open a bag of peanut M&Ms with her teeth.
Marvin had left those same messages on Mildred’s answering machine when Cynthia had fled their happy home after catching Marvin with another woman when he was supposed to be working.
The irony of that day had never struck her until now. She was supposed to be at home working also, but a patient who had no insurance came into Dr. Chang’s office to discuss his bill. Since Cynthia was the head biller, she had to come in to meet with him and create some sort of payment arrangement. When she finally took a break, she stepped out the office to catch her breath and grab a bite to eat. Strolling eastward across East Eighty-sixth to Gray’s Papaya, she spotted Marvin on the corner of East Eighty-sixth Street and Lexington Avenue. There he stood holding hands with an extremely shapely, tall woman. He had moved a stray strand of her jet-black hair that disrupted her linear blunt-cut bangs. She leaned in, kissed him on the neck with one hand resting on his chest, and he cradled her.
Gentle. He was gentle with her. He held her like a bird with a broken wing.
When she got home, instead of preparing an afternoon snack, she’d packed bags for herself, Keith, and James and left a sticky note on the door:
Marvin, I saw you on the corner today. Don’t worry, you can keep her. I’m taking the boys so the two of you can have plenty of room to roll around.
Cynthia met the boys on the sidewalk like she normally did and took them to her mother’s house.
Every day after work Marvin came to her mother’s house begging for her return, for a week. He even slept in the doorway of Mildred’s apartment.
How did we wind up here? How did I wind up here? Cynthia found herself staring at a shattered version of herself in the mirror over Mildred’s bureau. Cynthia bit the right corner of her mouth. She could taste the words of encouragement she’d been fed. Today they felt like a belch. The sweetness was long gone.
Jesus, I just don’t want to fight anymore.
Chapter 13
The rich scent of garlic greeted Mildred as she stood outside her door. The table was set, and Cynthia was hovering over a pot of pesto sauce, licking the spoon, a change from the dark corner of the couch she’d been planted in for the past three days.
“Don’t you put that spoon back in the pot,” Mildred scolded.
Cynthia shot her mother a glance coupled with a side smile. The muscles in her face had finally given up their protest. Mildred walked into the kitchen, keys in hand, and scanned the area. Her counter was decorated with basil leaves and black pepper, and the sink was full of dishes.
“What is all of this?” she asked.
“Dinner. You’ve taken care of me all week. You helped me to see this should be our last night together. We’re having broiled tilapia, linguine in pesto sauce, and French-cut string beans sautéed in a garlic almond butter sauce.”
Relief swelled in her at the thought that Cynthia had heeded her advice and was headed back home to her family.
“Girl, you don’t know anything about cooking,” she joked, leaning against her daughter’s shoulder. They both laughed. Why on earth a black woman would want to cook Italian food was beyond Mildred, but every time Cynthia got in front of stove she was transformed into a world-class chef mixed with a dash of sunshine.
“Go change your clothes, Ma. The food is pretty much done. Prepare yourself for a feast.”
Behind the closed door of her bedroom, Mildred rummaged through her purse in search of the detective’s card. She’d decided against calling him the other day since Cynthia still seemed to be in a funk. Her head seemed to be on straight now.
“Come on, Ma, it’s getting cold,” Cynthia shouted from beyond the door.
Steadying her cell phone in one hand and the card in the other, Mildred replied, “Give me a minute.” She punched in the number and was relieved when the phone was answered on the second ring. “Detective Laurel, please.”
“This is Detective Laurel.”
“Good evening, Detective Laurel. This is Ms. Hathaway, Cynthia Barclay’s mother.”
“Good evening, ma’am. I’m so glad you called. My partner was ready to knock on your door this evening. Is Cynthia still at your house?”
“Yes, but she just announced that she is ready to go. She’ll probably be gone as early as tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you so much for your help, Ms. Hathaway. I wish all of our missing persons cases ended like this.”
Mildred waved her hand in the air as if the detective stood right in front of her. “No problem, Detective. I also want to thank you. Have a good night.”
“There’s just one more thing that I need from you, Ms. Hathaway.”
“Anything. Do you need me to come down to the station and fill out some kind of report or something?”
“No, ma’am. Don’t worry about that. We take care of all the paperwork. Ma’am, I want you to hold onto my card. You expressed Mr. Barclay has some violent tendencies. I want you to keep my card in case he doesn’t welcome her home so easily or any problems arise between them later on. Please, please don’t hesitate to give me or my partner a call.”
Cynthia rapped softly on the door. “Your food is getting cold.”
“I’m coming. Thank you, Detective. I’ve got to go. Good night,” she replied without even acknowledging his concern. She placed the phone and the business card on top of her bureau.
Donning a soft blue floral house dress, Mildred stood in front of the mirror and considered her daughter’s plight. Sympathy ate at her heart. She understood the difficulty of maintaining a relationship, maintaining your sanity with a man who was completely unstable, and raising children. The relationship Mildred shared with Kirk, Cynthia’s father, was beleaguered by some of the same demons that plagued Cynthia and Marvin’s: alcohol and rage tempered with unbridled lust. Last she heard Kirk had made it big in the UK. For Kirk, big was a gig that lasted more than a week and offered him a plethora of women for him to choose from.
Praise be to God He delivered me.
The rich aroma of Cynthia’s garlic butter sauce called her back to reality. With her eyes lifted to the ceiling, Mildred whispered, “Even to a thousand generations, please, Lord, guard the fruit of my womb,” before walking out the room.
Mildred took her place at the table. Mildred and Cynthia sat across from each other, their eyes casting reflections of each woman’s pain.
“I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, but I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” Mildred said between forkfuls of linguine. Cynthia’s gourmet meal was a sure sign all was well.
“I’m not really feeling better, but after talking to you this morning I know what I have to do now,” Cynthia said firmly.
“Praise the Lord!” Mildred exclaimed. “God is good, isn’t He? He can turn any gray sky blue.”
“Why don’t you tell me some more of your stories from the Blue Note or sing one of your songs from your unreleased album,” Cynthia said, chuckling.
A guttural laugh escaped from Mildred. “You serious, girl?”
Cynthia nodded.
Mildred stood, using her knuckles to push off the glass dinette table, tapping her foot on the floor. “‘He don’t love me no more. He don’t love me no more, so I’m headed for the door before I don’t love me no more,’” she sang in a throaty alto unaware of her prophetic lyrics.
Chapter 14
The ten o’clock nightly news had just begun, and Mildred was already snoring on the couch. Cynthia watched her for a moment then kissed her lightly on the forehead and placed her left arm on her chest. She pulled her pink hood over her head, creeping across the threshold of Mildred’s apartment and out the door. Tiny droplets of rain kissed her shoulders on her way to the subway.
Cynthia jumped on the A train headed downtown to the Port Authority. Clutching her duffel bag, she gazed at an ad inviting New Yorkers on a one-day getaway and transposed herself into it. A grin surfaced as she imagined herself a head chef at a gourmet restaurant exhausted from bending over pots tasting sauces, yelling over the hustle and bustle of her busy kitchen, far from the angry shouts and stinging slaps of Marvin.
When she reached the Port Authority she had no real destination in mind. All she wanted was to get on the first bus leaving with an available seat. The slick hair of the girl behind the counter sent the dull light bouncing off her head. The combination of her gum cracking and the clacking of her acrylic nails on her keyboard put Cynthia into a daze.
“Cash or credit? Mizz, you paying cash or credit?”
Cynthia dug into her pocket and pulled out crumpled bills. She straightened them out on the countertop before handing them to the girl behind the counter. She snatched her ticket and ran through the beige and orange terminal to catch the eleven o’clock bus to Richmond, Virginia.
There was a small line at the gate: a young girl clutching a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, an old man and woman standing arm and arm, and a middle-aged man. None of them seemed to notice Cynthia as she eased into the line. She stood behind the lady with the baby.
Father, please forgive me. I’m not waiting for anyone to tell me how to live my life. Her legs shook. Please take care of my babies. I don’t know what I’m doing, Lord, but I need to get out of this. I have to get away from here. Just make a way for me and watch over my boys for me until I can come back for them.
Tears rolled down her cheeks in unison with her silent prayer. The guilt of leaving behind her sons was heavy on her shoulders. The confusion in her spirit and her inability to provide for them at this very moment outweighed her guilt and urged to get on that bus. Marvin wasn’t in the running for father of the year; however, right now he could offer the boys some stability and provide for them.
The ticket agent opened the door, and the line began to move. The wind was stiff and bone chilling. She hesitated before stepping out the door to head to the bus, the wind in the terminal garage pushing her out. She chucked her bag under the bus and took a seat near the driver.
She closed her eyes as Midtown rolled past her. Sleep seized her, taking her to her sons. They stood in the middle of their bedroom floor clutching each other. Marvin stood in the living room screaming her name. She shook in her chair squeezing the armrest until her palms were sore.
The smell of grease, the crunch of fried chicken, and the piercing cry of a suckling baby asking for his mother’s milk woke her. Through one eye she watched as the bus turned the corner into the parking lot of the Main Street bus station. She stood and stretched, staring at the rising sun pushing back the navy blue blanket that veiled the Richmond sky and exposed its soft periwinkle sun.
She stumbled off the bus, her legs weak from sitting so long. The light breeze caused her to shiver and the hairs on her arms to stand up. She inhaled, the taste of dawn tickling her tongue. She looked over her shoulder at the baby smiling at her, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight. They exchanged smiles. She knew the feeling that his bright expression conveyed—her life awaited her. She scooped her bag from beneath the bus and bounced into the depot.
Every person she passed on the way to the information booth greeted her. She was still a bit too groggy to deliver anything more than a grimace. She acknowledged them with a simple hello and a nod. A young man with jade green eyes sat at the information desk drumming on the counter.
“Good morning, ma’am. What can I do for you?” the young man asked.
“I just arrived, and I’m looking for a place to stay,” Cynthia said humbly.
“Well, there’s a Holiday Inn just around the corner.”
“Actually, I was hoping for something a little smaller, a bit more intimate. Like a bed and breakfast.”
“A bed and breakfast? Those can be pretty pricey,” he said, looking Cynthia up and down. “I do know of a quiet boardinghouse that aspires to be a bed and breakfast. Would that work for you?”
Cynthia nodded at him, and squinted at his name tag. “That will do, Jared.”
“It’s a real nice place over there in Church Hill. You ought to take a cab there. Just tell him you want to go to Miss Ruthie’s place and he’ll know where to go. I don’t think she’s opened her doors just yet, but you’re welcome to try.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem, ma’am,” he said, winking at her. He handed her a tourist map of the city.
Cynthia took a seat on an orange plastic bench and studied the map of the city, searching for the residential and shopping areas. She needed to figure out what she was really doing there, buy some clothes, and find a more permanent place to rest her head before the money on her prepaid card ran out. Her prepaid MasterCard was the one secret she’d kept from Marvin. Cynthia didn’t know that much about finances; neither did Marvin. After having Con Edison turn their lights off one too many times Cynthia started loading money on to a prepaid card. Her own diligence shocked her when within four years of opening the card she’d managed to put away $6,000.
Returning her attention to the map she laughed out loud when she realized why Jared had winked at her; in the course of their short exchange he’d circled his home on the map and wrote his phone number.
It was 6:45 in the morning and the day awaited her. Cynthia rose, ambled to the bathroom and washed her face. She slapped herself for not purchasing a toothbrush or toothpaste at a rest stop. Her stomach roared. She placed her hand over her belly, attempting to silence it. She rushed out of the bus station and hailed a cab that was idling on the corner. Her stomach shouted at her again, and she jumped in, slamming the door.
“Miss Ruthie’s please. The guy in the depot said you’d know where to go.”
“I sure do, ma’am,” the cabdriver said, tipping the brim of a ratty old burgundy and white snapback cap. He rolled down the windows.
The early morning breeze whispered, “Hello,” welcoming her to Richmond.
Cynthia sucked in the air, the scent of the crisp, fresh-cut grass and the morning dew filling her nostrils. “So this is what freedom smells like,” she said, yawning.
