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COURAGE

At a steady lick I am racing toward the police station. I feel anxious; I need to concentrate. The focus will be on my feet; one step at a time I need to reach my target. Shakily I notice the tap shoe in my right hand. I must have picked up the first thing I saw as I was dashing out of the house in fear. With heart beats throbbing in my throat, it will be my weapon against any opposing forces. Familiar buildings stand tall in the distance. I don’t know the exact location but I am hoping it will be in the center of town, near the City Hall. The destination is near; I only have a few more blocks. I am 11 years old, not even a teenager. What am I going to say? What will they do? Help!

Just a few years earlier when I was nine, I faced the first tragedy of my young life; I remember the day well. As I stood crouching behind the hall closet, the door ajar, I felt profound sorrow watching my mother embrace her good friend. She was sobbing profusely. I heard her say, “Morris is dead.” At that moment the pain I experienced was for her. It was as though my feelings about my father dying didn’t matter. That is when I began pushing down personal suffering, denying any terror I had about losing a parent. I saved all my grief for my mother, a young woman of 35.

I thought, “How is she going to make it? Daddy’s hospital bills are in the thousands, he has been sick for five years.” I longed to comfort her. It was odd, when family members began coming around, they didn’t offer to hug my brother or me, and they too saw only her unhappiness, not ours, her children. It appeared we didn’t count.

For the next week we stayed at the homes of school friends and were not allowed to go to our father’s funeral. It felt like we were in the ‘Twilight Zone.’ The parents of acquaintances were quite good to us and were generous buying us gifts. But, it was strange to be shipped out of our house and to never be able to talk about our dad. Everyone in our family acted like it didn’t happen. It took years for me to realize that I had a father at all. It seemed as though he disappeared.

My mother was a beautiful woman, actually a ‘knock-out’ by many men’s standards. She had bleached platinum blond hair, long legs and was unusually buxom. She was told many times that she resembled Jane Mansfield, the successful movie star. For these reasons she had many suitors after my father’s death. Her favorite date was ‘Cee’ a man who was tall, handsome, and alcoholic. He was financially able to ‘wine and dine” her every night after work. For many months we were shuffled between the homes of friends and my dear aunt and uncle to accommodate their evening schedule. We weren’t aware at the time that her new boyfriend didn’t want the competition with her children and that he wasn’t at all interested in meeting us. Although we had heard a great deal about him, it wasn’t until Easter weekend that we were introduced at a family dinner.

My mother and Aunt Letha were busy in the kitchen preparing the special holiday meal. If we could depend on anything, it was certainly my mother’s cooking. She had garnished the ham with pineapple circles pinned with cloves. Small bowls of lentil soup were chosen to be served before the entrée. A sweet aroma filled the apartment. All of us were anxious to devour the garlic mashed potatoes; she never had any lumps or dry spots. Yummy. Of course there would be a home-made cake; today a German Chocolate topped with small marzipan carrots. My contribution was to decorate the dining room by strategically placing Easter eggs on the mahogany table along with sugar chickens and chocolate bunnies from our baskets. There would be scrumptious food beautifully displayed. It appeared to be the perfect day to meet Mom’s new beau. We were all eager to impress him.

I brought out the celery and cream cheese hors d’oeuvres sprinkled with paprika. When I placed the appetizers on the coffee table my brother and uncle scooped up several for themselves. I offered Cee the plate and he declined saying, “I would rather not spoil my appetite but I will have another drink.” I went back to the kitchen and my mother gladly made him a highball. As I walked to the living room she commented to Cee that I was a good artist. My aunt chimed in and told me to show him my latest drawings. I felt strangely uncomfortable talking with Cee and the idea of using my art as filler was a good idea. I didn’t have to travel far to get the drawings. When I came around the corner I noticed him watching me with a peculiar gaze. It gave me the ‘willies.’

My Uncle Wally said, “Anyone for Gin Rummy?” My brother gathered the deck of cards and the two of them quickly became engrossed in playing. I used a small desk to spread out my art notebook. Cee sat down while I remained standing turning the pages one by one. To my consternation I felt his hand on the back of my right thigh. I moved away thinking I was imagining the touch. Conversation was minimal between us for I had a difficult time understanding his mumbling. I thought to myself, “I wish you would speak clearly.” Did he say, “You are beautiful just like your mother?”

I count my pencil drawings, out of sight of my uncle and brother, and return the sketchbook to the hall closet. I want to get back to the safety of the kitchen. It happens quickly! I am being pushed inside the large, dark, walk-in space. I feel Cee’s breath spray my face. With one fell swoop his hands are in my panties! Yee Gods! I am petrified! I am being suffocated with the weight of his body! I want to scream but the sound is trapped in my throat! I have to tell my mother! Let me out of here! The door flies open.

Breathlessly I hurried to the kitchen and was about to shout, “Your boyfriend fondled me!” when I found my mother and aunt laughing. Surprisingly I said, “I am going for a walk.” I couldn’t hurt her. It was the first time in years I had seen Mother smile. They both looked at me curiously but I bolted out the back door, down the porch steps, before they had a chance to speak.

It is a quiet day in the precinct. I walk straight to the officer sitting at his desk and say, I need help!

What can I do for you young lady?

My mother’s boyfriend touched me in private places.

Does your mother know?

No. I was afraid to tell her.

Would you like me to tell her for you?

Yes, could you do that?

Let me drive you home and I’ll see what I can do.

The officer walked me to the front door and rang the bell. My brother answered and was speechless. I don’t even know if he and my uncle knew I was gone. “Is your mother home?” asked the officer.

“Wait just a minute, I’ll get her.”

With the family and Cee in the living room; I grew cold with dread. The policeman said, “I would like to speak with Kay’s mother.” They left to have privacy in the kitchen. I couldn’t look at anyone and my stomach was killing me. I went to the bedroom and curled up on the bed with a heating pad.

The remainder of the Easter weekend was a blur. Just like my father’s funeral, the incident wasn’t mentioned but fortunately Cee never tried anything again. We rarely spoke for the next ten years.

I’ve always been introspective and analytical. I try and see the ‘lesson’ learned in any experience, positive or negative. When I reached ‘my bottom’ in the early 80’s I was able to remember myself as that young girl, one who was brave enough to stand up to what she believed was wrong. It took that same courage to face the truth about my codependency. I believe it is this way for all of us; to have the guts to say ‘No’ to what is Wrong and ‘Yes’ to what is Right. It isn’t easy and not always clear for Denial is powerful. But ultimately, whatever our addictions, it comes down to each of us, individually, to have the strength to stop the cycle and get well. I know, because I did it.