Crave (28 page)
Authors: Laurie Jean Cannady
Momma said, “Never tell a man what you've been through with other men. You do that, and he'll already know what you'll put up with.” She said this as she lectured on the importance of maintaining my virginity even though she knew it had already been taken. She didn't, however, know I'd given it away, so I listened as if her truth were my truth. According to Momma, at fifteen I was stepping into womanhood, which meant I could have a boyfriend who visited my house, held my hand, and took me on real dates. Sanford became that boyfriend.
My relationship with Sanford began with sour apple Jolly Ranchers. He was in my homeroom class and showed up one day with a large bag of Hershey chocolates, gum, caramels, jawbreakers, and lollipops. I, like all of the other tenth graders in homeroom, dug my hand deep into the bottom of the bag, but I came up with a handful of candies I didn't particularly like. Sanford must have noticed my disappointment as I picked through my pile.
“You don't like those, Laurie?” he asked. “What's your favorite?”
The next day, he came to class with a bag of sour apple Jolly Ranchers and handed the whole bag to me with a large smile across his face.
“These are for you,” he said. “I thought you'd like the caramels I brought because they're the same color as your eyes. Pretty caramel eyes.”
I took the bag and noticed how wide his smile grew and the way he stood tall, hands folded in front of him, as if waiting for his reward. I offered a “thanks” and made my way to my seat.
Sanford brought me candy every day after that. Some days he brought bags of caramel and reminded me they looked like my eyes. Most days he brought Jolly Ranchers that he set aside just for me. On occasion, he'd bring a large bag of mixed candies,
Jolly Ranchers and caramels, and pour handfuls of them in my hand before we went to first period. I imagined Sanford preparing the bags of candy for me in the way Momma had prepared the shrimp and fries for Mr. Bryan. It felt good to be that loved, to be considered, to be fed.
At first, I wasn't aware Sanford was interested in me. I'd barely noticed him and his tall frame because he quietly sat in the corner of the room with most of the other boys in class. The only time I heard him speak was about his idol, Michael Jordan, and those conversations focused on Jordan's dunking ability and all the points he scored. Sanford was a Jordan fanatic. Whenever a new pair of Jordan's came out, he was the first to have them. Most of his shirts sported a large image of Jordan, either with his tongue out or sweating, and it wasn't unusual to see Sanford walking into class with his hands above his head and his tongue sticking out, imitating Jordan's signature move.
Once he surfaced from behind the Jordan stats and basketball references, I realized I was attracted to Sanford. His body was unlike the bodies of most boys in my classes. He had the body of a man, with swollen biceps and triceps, and pecs that bulged from under his shirt. I later learned he was almost three years older than most of the students in our homeroom, but because of some discrepancies in his schedule, or the need to retake a course, he had been placed in homeroom with me.
Sanford's eyes followed me wherever I went in class and they told a story of how he'd give the type of love Momma had worked to receive from the men in her life. I hoped he could appreciate me in the way Mr. Bryan had not appreciated Momma.
It took Sanford all semester to ask if he could take me to Tower Mall, so we could see John Singleton's
Boyz 'n the Hood
and have dinner. It was a night of firsts for me; my first real date, my first time at a movie theater, and the first night I would have dinner on the town. Sanford was feeding me in ways I'd never imagined. He even agreed to Mary tagging along because Momma wouldn't let me go by myself.
We sat through the movie in silence. I held the popcorn and candy as he and Mary ate from my lap. I flinched when the heat of his arm got close to mine, not knowing what I was afraid of. I'd already had sex with Barry, but sitting next to Sanford was doing something to me, something I couldn't name in that dark, crowded movie theater. When the Tony! Toni! Toné! song, “Just Me and You” began to play, I knew I could be the sweetness in Sanford's life just as he had been in mine.
By the time we left the theater, the restaurant had closed. Sanford profusely apologized and made up for it by taking Mary and me to the corner store across the street from my house, where he bought hoagies and chips for us. For a moment, I felt guilty. I hoped Sanford wouldn't want me to eat the food with him because I wanted to share it with my brothers. When Mary and I left the house, we knew that there would be no dinner to rush back to. It was the end of the month and all reserves had been depleted. Sanford must have felt my apprehension because he walked Mary and me to the house and gave me a hug goodbye. I looked into his eyes and saw refuge in them. I knew then I wasn't in love, but if he kept treating me with such care, love would surely come.
I've always been fascinated with the way children make things fit. I've watched in awe a child wrestling a left shoe on a right foot. She loosens strings, pulls in toes, rounds her foot, attempting to make it smaller. When that doesn't work, she entreats the shoe to be larger, to open wider, until fabric or foot gives way and there is the sliding in. After the struggle is done, she can walk, but never straight and never in comfort. But she can walk. That is how I fit into Sanford.
Sanford ran on the track team. Despite never having had an interest in the sport, I became the team's manager. He played football. I became a majorette and a permanent fixture at the games. He spent hours street-balling on the court and I cheered as he'd dunk and stick his tongue out Jordan-style.
We spent most evenings together, and on weekends, I'd concoct lies so I could spend nights with him too. Most nights I'd tell Momma I was staying with my friend Veeta or my cousin Lisa, and I'd be sure to call to let her know I was okay before she called to check on me.
My deception only began with getting to Sanford's house. Once there, I'd sneak into his grandparents' home by climbing the side of the house to the roof and sliding into his bedroom window. On cold or wet nights, I'd hide in his sisters' room until his grandparents went to bed. Then, I'd rush up the stairs as he shielded my body with his body.
On some desperate nights, when I wanted to feed him in the way he fed me, we wouldn't wait to get into the house. On the cold asphalt of his grandparent's driveway, I endured rocks pressed into my backside, dirt in my hair, grit scratching the backs of my legs. Hidden by the car and the side of the house, I gave myself to him in the way I'd learned women give themselves to men. As his hips rose and fell, the weight of his body purged the hungry Laurie. I gazed at the stars, felt the cold concrete beneath and the warm skin on top. I chose the skin, the warmth. Then, I understood Momma and that which pulled her nightly to Mr. Bryan. The cold, the dirt, the rocks would sustain, but the warmth, the skin, that was the salve that numbed.
In Sanford, I'd found an escape from Lincoln Park's shootings, Momma's absence, and perpetual hunger. He also found an escape in me. He and his two brothers and two sisters stayed with his grandparents while their mother lived in New York. I didn't know much about her, other than Sanford's proclamations she had beautiful, flowing hair, a svelte body, and the tenderest of smiles. I never pried beyond his initial description because I sensed a hesitation, a suppression of something when he spoke of her. I wanted to know why he was in Virginia and not with his mother, so I told him about Momma and her hotel room, about Pee Wee, Mr. Todd, and my absent father. I recounted to him every pain I'd
experienced, with hopes he could recount his pain to me. Still, his narrative remained.
Despite his mother's absence, it appeared Sanford had a good life. His grandparents provided for him in a way Momma could not for me. They had a beautiful home, with a living room filled with plush furniture and expensive looking trinkets, and a large den, where Sanford and I spent most of our time during the day. They also had a kitchen, similar to the Wall Street one that always smelled as if something had just come out of the oven. Their refrigerator was big and filled with the food I lacked in my own home.
At times, I felt guilty about eating Sanford's food, especially if it was the end of the month when I knew my brothers and sister were hungry, but I ate anyway, like Momma, filled with remorse, filled with the saltiness of hoagie sandwiches Sanford purchased for me.
Access to food wasn't the only benefit that came with Sanford's home. His house had air conditioning that welcomed me like a cold rag against my sweaty face. The cold in his home was in stark contrast to the cold we inhaled as we sat at the closed door of Momma's bedroom, hoping some of the air-conditioned breeze would slip through the door cracks.
Sanford and I perfected a routine that ensured we'd spend as much time together as possible. When he began to work as a dishwasher at Portsmouth Waterfront, I'd walk him to work. I didn't mind that the walk was three miles both ways. We'd pick up a couple of sandwiches and share a soda on the way.
Sanford, a natural comedian, made everyone laugh by impersonating characters from Keenan Ivory Wayan's
In Living Color
. He could morph from Wanda's “I'm ret to go” to Fire Marshall Bill's “Lemme show you something” in one class period. His favorite actress was Bernadette Peters from
The Jerk
and I felt a tinge of envy as he pined over her pouty voice and facial expressions while we watched the movie. Because of my history of having a bad attitude, my classmates believed I'd lucked out by snagging such a kind-hearted boyfriend. I, too, considered myself lucky.
One day, Sanford came to my locker while I was discussing a homework assignment with a male classmate. He wore his usual smile when he asked to speak with me and as we arranged to meet later that night. I'd done my duty of sneaking into his bedroom by climbing on top of the roof and sliding into the window. After a brief session, we lay under the covers and talked. Our discussion turned to my conversation with my classmate. Sanford had questions he hadn't asked before: “What were y'all talking about?”
“Nothing, just work,” I replied.
“Why was he all up in your face, leaning against your locker, grinning and shit?”
Now, I had earned the label of bad attitude that followed me around school for a reason and I believed the funny, soft Sanford I adored needed to know he couldn't talk to me “any ol' kinda way.” That was my intent when I spoke, to inform him of this, as I spewed, “You can't tell me what to do. You're not my momma.”
As Sanford drew his face closer to mine, white, foamy spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. Those brown eyes I'd gazed into when he told me my eyes were so beautiful he wanted to keep them in a jar after I died grew accusatory, menacing. I didn't want to see that Sanford anymore, so I wrapped myself in the covers and turned my head toward the wall. Then came the poking and pushing, punctuations between my “Stop,” “It's over,” and “I'm going home.”
This poker and puncher was not my Sanford. I needed to meet face to face with this new man, so I turned, readying my mouth for a heated retort. My face met a flying fist that landed under my right eye. I recoiled, covered my eye with both hands, and folded into the fetal position. He straddled me and wrapped his hands around my hands as he attempted to pry them from my face. Through his voice, broken with tears, I heard, “Why did you turn your head? I didn't mean to hit you. Oh, God. Let me see. I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me.”
The next morning, I stood in the mirror examining my face, gently pressing the grape-sized lump under my eye. I made sure to
stay on my left side as I slept in Sanford's arms, as his kisses and later, the sex, erased the pulsing of pain radiating up and down my cheek. If I hadn't turned at that precise moment, he wouldn't have struck my face. That meant he hadn't intended to hit me at all. After all of the tears dried, he explained how much I'd hurt him when he saw me talking to that other guy. He claimed he knew the guy wanted me and for a second, he'd thought I wanted him too. For that, he felt immense guilt, but he needed me and couldn't live without me. I decided his anger had been a barometer for his love. The more he loved, the angrier he had gotten, which was quite comforting. It meant he loved me more than I'd imagined.
In the midst of our kisses, I apologized, even though I knew it wasn't my fault. I hadn't deserved to be hit, but one punch couldn't erase all of the walks from Prentis to Lincoln Park, listening to the trees clamoring in the wind. It couldn't erase the movies, the laughs we had while watching Steve Martin dance in
The Jerk
, and it couldn't replace our Sundays, when we watched football together, me rooting for the Broncos and him rooting for the Raiders. If neither of our teams won, it didn't matter because we were winners together. I needed that winning, so I stayed and vowed next time, I wouldn't speak so quickly and so loudly. Next time, I'd be sure to keep my head turned away, in hopes he'd miss me all together.
That next weekend Sanford took me to Tower Mall and purchased jeans, off the rack, not from Salvation Army, shirts that fit just right because they hadn't been stretched by another body, and my first new sneakers, a baby-blue pair of hightop Filas. I sat with those shoes on my bed, sniffing the soles, lacing and relacing them until they had the right tightness. I went to school the next day, not feeling like a walking hand-me-down, but brand new. My man had bought me those clothes and those shoes and I wore them as a tribute to him, making sure to be at my locker, alone, when he came by, and at his house, as soon as I got from school.
But resurface, it did. One punch became many punches. One grape-sized lump became two black eyes. I manufactured lie after
lie to explain my bruises to Momma. I'd been elbowed in the eye as I wrestled Veeta. I'd hit myself in the face while trying to catch my baton. Bites on arms, wrists, and legs were obscured by long-sleeve shirts and pants, even in the summer. And the hair, well, the hair had always been an issue, but in Sanford's hands, it became the rein he pulled when he wanted me to obey, and it was the pressure he maintained, taut, yanking, cueing me to move left and right, to wake and sleep, to come and go.