Friends and Lovers (5 page)

Mrs. Stockwell said,
“Well?”

And she was so abrupt. But it saved us from an awkward moment. The one where Faith usually gave a Miss Black America smile and said, “Congratulations.” I wish I could count the number of times Faith has said “Congratulations” and the women of whatever race, creed, or color broke into tears, screams, or simply plastered sardonic smiles over their trembling lips. I guess part of our job was to pretend that life stirring in a belly was always a good thing. It should be. Wish it always was. But I’ve witnessed so few smiles of joy. I’ve heard sisters cry
“But I don’t know who the father is,”
or clutch their crosses, start pacing and chanting
“Oh God oh God oh God.”
One sister fainted like the judge had slammed down the gavel and announced she was sentenced to death by lethal injection.

All that to say I didn’t know what Mrs. Stockwell was going to do. I didn’t know how her daughter was going to react. A teenager with child. Ericka’s thirteen, so that meant she would be a teenager with pimples when her baby started preschool.

Faith said, “Maybe I should tell Ericka myself. Ericka?”

The girl stopped twirling her thumbs long enough to raise her face high enough for eyes to meet eyes. Her pony-tails moved back and forth like they were measuring time. Then they stopped swaying, like her time was up. So many eyes were on her. Adult eyes. She looked so alone. I wondered what the world looked like to her right now. With nobody in her corner.

Faith said, “It came back positive again, Ericka.”

“You sure?” Her voice was squeaky, still undeveloped, contradicting her overdeveloped body.

“Yes. I was sure the first time. You’re about four months.”

Mrs. Stockwell’s hand gripped around her purse tight enough to make the leather creak. Her chest rose, slowly went back to normal, but her face never changed. She was calm about it. Pretty calm compared to what I have seen.

We were living in that moment. Decision time.

Then Ericka’s eyes stayed with me. Lived on my face. Her eyes with mine. Maybe because both of us shared the same complexion, same light-brown hair color. I had an oval face and pouty lips. My hair was always pulled back from my face and ponytailed at work. What had shocked me about her being preg was she didn’t look like the type. Didn’t fit the mold or the build of the ghetto child gone wild.

Mrs. Stockwell snapped, “Ericka. My child. Ericka, the fruit of me. How?”

Ericka shrugged. A slow unsure shrug. Shuddered and shrugged a second time.

Faith said, “Would you like to discuss your options?”

Faith said that so businesslike. Too methodical with no compassion.

Mrs. Stockwell said, “May I have a dear moment with my sweet little child so we may decide? We had decided this morning, but there seems to be a change of heart on Ericka’s behalf.”

Faith walked out. I followed and headed toward another examining room, to another patient in waiting. Once in the hallway, we gave each other
looks
, those subtle girlfriend expressions exchanged in silence that told us we’d be gossiping about this one over Chinese food at noontime. By next week a new incident would have happened and this one would be unimportant.

Faith said, “Debra? What are you thinking that’s got you looking so serious?”

I broke the awkward moment when I said, “Damn
shame when a thirteen-year-old is having sex more often than you are.”

Faith said, “Speak for yourself.”

“I was.”

That made me try to remember the last time I’d experienced the scent of a man’s body next to mine, had hardness inside me, heard a man ring out my name in a tune of ecstasy, me feeling so good I wanted to cry and moan moan moan. I know I could capture a penis in a heartbeat. They’re everywhere. And you don’t have to really know the owner to borrow it for a few. All I’d have to do was wink and they’d offer. But that’s not what I’m about.

I was between lovers, wasn’t dating much, so that meant nothing was getting between me. So I didn’t have to deal with emotional pain and guilt, or pleasure and satisfaction. I didn’t know if that was a curse or a blessing. Not that it mattered; it was just that whether or not you were in a relationship, had a steady supplier or maintenance man or whatever, the midnight urges kept on coming. No pun intended. Sometimes they came all day long. Instead of lying on my back with an old lover, I tried to get on my knees and pray the wanting away, but that didn’t work. So over the last seventeen months, I had been getting extremely horny and having dreams about faceless men in unknown places doing some pretty kinky things to my aching body.

slap SLAP slap

The noise brought my wandering mind back to the here and now.

slap SLAP slap thud

That flesh-meeting-flesh sound was loud. Was getting louder.

slap SLAP slap

Muffled yells. Whimpers carried down the hall.

I about-faced without a word and sprinted back toward the examination room we had just left. Faith dropped what she was holding and did the same.

When we shoved the door open, Mrs. Stockwell was wide-eyed, breathing like she was in labor, foaming at
the mouth, body stiff, arms straight up in the air, holding a King James version of the Bible like it was a hatchet. She was about to guillotine her whimpering child with the Word.

Ericka was on her back sprawled out on the floor, kicking her feet, one arm shielding her face, trying to get away.

Faith’s big frame bumped me out of the way, made me stumble into the doorjamb. She grabbed Mrs. Stockwell. Threw her own body in the way. As I stumbled, I used my body to shield Ericka. Faith must have caught Mrs. Stockwell’s arm on its way down because the Bible flew across the room and hit me in my eye, struck me at a blunt angle, right below my left eyebrow. I was more shocked than hurt.

I pulled Ericka to the side. She held onto me tight. She touched me where I was struck by the Bible and asked, “Are you all right, Miss Mitchell?”

“What?”

She looked at my face and said, “Your eye okay? If you put some ice on, it won’t swell too much. Nobody’ll notice.”

I was shocked by her words. By her knowledge.

Mrs. Stockwell was in the far corner by then, over by the blood pressure cuff. Bottom lip thrust out three feet, cheeks puffed out like a blowfish. She was straightening her hair, redoing makeup. Bible tucked under her arm. All the while she was calling her daughter
tramp whore Jezebel slut bitch
and quoting Bible verses about
fornication
in between vulgarity.

Faith snapped,
“Mrs. Stockwell.”

Before Faith could say another word, a man the color of a ripe banana was in the doorway. He was a little taller than Ericka, but very wide—not fat, just wide. Receding wavy hair, with a full beard. He had on dark pants and his blue tie was loosened. Like he was overworked and up to his neck in strife.

Faith said, “Mr. Stockwell, we have a situation.”

He hesitated, then said, “She is pregnant, then?”

Mrs. Stockwell snapped, “Without a doubt.”

I interjected, “Mrs. Stockwell assaulted Ericka.”

He said, “And?”

Mrs. Stockwell waved her Bible and rambled, “And
if
I choose to discipline
my
child, I can do what I damn well want. Ericka is
my
child, came from me—”

Mr. Stockwell said, “Betty. Shut up.”

The tiny woman folded her arms across her chest. Huffed. Ericka was still behind me, her big body using my little frame as a shield. A hiding place. I felt her breasts against my back when I stepped back into her. I was scared myself, but more angry than scared. Much more angry than scared.

I said, “Mrs. Stockwell, I understand how you feel—”

She said, “Are you married,
Miss
Mitchell?”

“No, but—”

“Do you have children,
Miss
Mitchell?”

“I don’t have—”

“Then how in the
hell
do you know how I feel? My
child
just got her first period six months ago; already she’s pregnant.
Four
months. Do you understand the position that leaves
me
in?”

Faith said, “Mrs. Stockwell.”

“I’m the one who will have to buy Pampers, bottles, baby clothes, have to deal with shitty diapers, baby crying all the time. All of that will be on me.”

“Mrs. Stockwell.”
That was Faith in a tone I’d never heard.

It quieted.

Then Faith said a few things. Professional things. Things that calmed the room. She reminded Mrs. Stockwell who she was, who we were, told her what behavior was appropriate, what would be tolerated from this moment on, and said she would call Social Services and the police if needed. Then everyone fell back into their roles the best they could. I did the best I could.

Mr. Stockwell took out his keys, jingled them, rubbed his face, turned around, left without a good-bye. No words for his daughter. He abandoned Ericka to her stern-faced mother.

I remembered something I had heard my mother say once: “Men don’t cry, they deny.”

Then Mrs. Stockwell cursed and left.

Silence. Except for the hum of the air conditioner and the building’s radio system playing jazz from 94.7. Sounds I hadn’t noticed at first because I was used to hearing them. Toni Braxton sang a sweet song of sadness while Kenny G played his sax. That made me think of the jazz concert coming up at the Hollywood Bowl. Don’t know why I thought about that now. I needed to escape madness and find tranquility. Had to find a safe thought in a moment yet to be.

Ericka looked at me. “What should I do, Miss Mitchell?”

I said a flustered “What?”

“I wanna know, what do you think I should do?”

I made myself sound professional, put a lifetime of distance between us, and said, “What do you want to do?”

Then her teenage eyes went to Faith.

Faith’s face became less professional; her expressions raced through about a million subtle emotions and many thoughts. And I knew one of them was definitely about calling Social Services.

Her final expression said: another lose-lose situation.

I asked, “Ericka, did your mother strike you?”

“I fell by myself.” She said that before I finished asking.

“Looks like you fell by yourself five or six times.”

Mrs. Stockwell appeared in the door.

“Ericka,” Mrs. Stockwell said. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

Faith nodded at me. I stepped to the side. Moved slowly, eased away and gave her back to her mother. As she moved toward that world, Ericka seemed void, looked as if she owned no essence. Mrs. Stockwell was smiling like it was Sunday morning in heaven. Smiling so hard it disturbed me.

Ericka went to her mother. Mrs. Stockwell took her child’s hand, ran her other hand across Ericka’s mane, smoothed it out.

Faith said, “Ericka, you need to get checked for STDs,
blood tests, et cetera. Should I advise and prescribe prenatal vitamins and iron pills?”

“That will not be necessary,” Mrs. Stockwell said. She adjusted her daughter’s clothing, but addressed Faith, “Has RU 486 been legalized?”

Faith said, “No, Mrs. Stockwell, mifepristone hasn’t been approved. And if the FDA had approved it, RU 486 could only be used in the first seven weeks to discharge the embryo.”

There was silence again. Ericka’s eyes held water. Confusion and fear. She was thirteen, but right now she looked all of nine. I couldn’t imagine her with sex in her life. I couldn’t imagine life growing inside her. But it was true. I had to burn away my own clouds of disbelief.

Mrs. Stockwell said, “Do you have outside connections for RU 486? I am willing to pay. Cash.”

There was silence again. Very hard, very rigid silence.

I said, “I don’t know if you were paying attention, Mrs. Stockwell, but Ericka is already in her second trimester.”

Ericka chewed her bottom lip; her eyes were puffing up. More water. Dripping. She had no idea what we were talking about.

Faith said, “I recommend that your daughter receive counseling before going any further.”

Mrs. Stockwell said, “Good day. I will contact your office in the next day or so for recommendations for late termination. You can at least do that for me, can’t you?”

With clenched teeth Faith nodded.

Mye said, “Damn shame when a married woman leaves you for her husband.”

“Makes me wonder what this world’s coming to.”

“Next we’ll have peace in the Middle East.”

I was at work, with my office door closed, feet up on
my glass-top desk, on the phone, talking to my sister in Atlanta. My office in Culver City faces east, toward Pepperdine University and a cemetery nobody ever noticed. I could almost see the condo I was leasing by the mall, had a view of endless palm trees, gray skyline, bumper-to-bumper traffic heading north into the Sepulveda Pass and south toward LAX. I promised myself that was the last time I’d speak Lisa’s name. Outside of professional dealings—which we won’t have much of, because I’ve already called to switch my portfolio over to another financial planner. Right now she had no integrity in my eyes. Wasn’t worth another noun or a verb.

I said, “How’s the dynamic duo?”

“Driving me crazy. I wish I’d had twin girls. Boys are ridiculous. Biting each other, pulling hair, flushing toys down the toilet. As soon as one calms down, the other one starts. And if I try to close my eyes for a moment, one of them screams for no reason. I know they’re doing it on purpose too. Can’t you hear them tearing up the house in the background?”

“Yep. You need to IV them to some Ritalin.”

“Arsenic would be better.”

“True that.”

“To top it off, they saw Leonard on some stupid comedy show, and now in between playing they’re running around the house telling his jokes—their four-year-old versions anyway. They were laughing and you know they don’t bit mo’ understand what Leonard is talking about. ‘Mommy, Mommy, buy us a joke book so we can tell Uncle Leonard a joke when he call us.’ Last thing I need to hear is a joke.”

I said, “Twin.”

“What?”