She kissed me on top of my head and wrapped me in another soft warm hug. We walked back to the living room where Martha sat on the sofa in the same spot we’d left her. She jumped to her feet as we entered the room.
“You okay, baby?” Martha asked, trying to sound upbeat. I couldn’t even look at her.
The two women held me up, one on either side of me, as they piled me into Martha’s beat-up ’67 blue Mustang. The pain was excruciating when I tried to sit upright, so the two of them laid me across the back seat and Vera placed a blanket over me.
I didn’t think I’d make the car ride back home. And it would have been okay with me if I didn’t. I silently prayed for God to let me die. No one would care. Black girls go missing every single day and I could be one of them. Another young face full of promise that melts away with time and memory. No one would miss me and all the pain and heartache that crawled through me would vanish, too.
I didn’t die. But something inside me did. I didn’t speak for an entire week. It was like all the pain and nausea from that night washed over me, sealing my lips as well as my emotions. I tucked away that entire experience in my carpetbag of secrets. What Vera called “grave secrets.” The kind I’d never share with another soul on Earth. What I didn’t know was just how heavy my carpetbag of secrets would become.
I’ve heard some women say having a baby changes you. Not having one can change you, too.
Part 3
The Fight
Chillicothe, Georgia, July 1979
I almost never hung out with the kids from school. Mostly because I was always too afraid they’d ask me something personal like why my mother drank all the time or why she married Willie Jay or what it was like to live with someone so mean.
But a group of girls from my grade were getting together one Saturday afternoon. One of them lived down the street from Willie Jay’s house and she insisted I come over. They were going to “jam” and listen to records. I decided to go only because it was so hot outside, and I knew she had air conditioning in her house. I had planned to stay for an hour, then make up an excuse and leave. But somehow, while I was there, I was actually having a good time. We giggled and danced, and nobody asked me about Willie Jay or Martha. Nobody made me feel bad for not wearing Gloria Vanderbilt jeans or the latest Reeboks. Before I knew it, I’d spent nearly the entire afternoon there. When I realized it, I raced back to Willie Jay’s house to make sure Martha and Sam were okay.
Willie Jay’s car was nowhere in sight and I was glad. I stepped inside the hot, empty house and called out for Sam. No answer. Maybe he was out playing with some of the neighborhood kids. I went to the kitchen to make myself a jelly sandwich and noticed Martha sitting on the back-porch steps, rocking back and forth and staring off. I watched her from the back door for a moment. Maybe she had been drinking again and her demons were back.
“Martha?” She didn’t answer me.
I slipped out the screen door and back into the brutal heat. As I walked up beside her, I saw tears rolling down her face and the ugly remnant of Willie Jay’s anger, a purple-red knot on the side of her forehead. Willie Jay had beaten her again.
“Martha?” She still didn’t respond. What was there to say?
I sat down on the porch step beside her. Her body rocked, tears quietly streaking her cheeks.
I gently touched her shoulder. “You okay? Where’s Sam?”
It was like she was in some sort of shock or something. She shook her leg and cradled herself, her stare focused on the faded red shed across the yard. I followed her line of sight and that’s when I heard the soft faint cries. My heart kicked inside my chest. It only took me seconds to realize what was going on.
I jumped off the back porch and ran straight to the shed. I pulled the rusty latch open. Sam tumbled out, crying and drenched in sweat. His face was bright red and his hands were raw and scraped. I lifted his small soaked body and gathered him to his feet. I couldn’t tell where his tears ended and the sweat began. He cried in my arms as we crossed the backyard. I looked at Martha, still on the back stoop, crying and rocking. By the time we reached her on the back porch, I was so angry I wanted to slap her.
“He told me Sam stole something and needed disciplining,” Martha blurted out through tears. “He told me as long as he was making noise in there, he was fine.”
“What’s wrong with you?! It’s the middle of July! Come on, Sam, let’s get you inside and get some cold water.”
“He told me he would be fine in there,” Martha whimpered. And still, she didn’t move from the porch.