Raven (9 page)

Late in the day, Jennifer emerged with that triumphant sneer on her face. I was dusting furniture after having vacuumed the living room. Uncle Reuben was taking a nap. William was in his room, and Aunt Clara had gone for groceries. Jennifer plopped on the sofa and put her feet up, shoes and all. I stopped and looked at her with disgust.
"I'm so tired," she said. "Lucky we didn't have school today."
"You got me in a lot of trouble," I said. "What stories did you spread around school about me? How could you tell so many filthy lies?"
"Your reputation preceded you," she said with a laugh. "I didn't have to spread any stories?'
"You're really pitiful, Jennifer. You could at least tell your father the truth?'
"Yeah, right. Then I'd be in trouble," she said, and laughed. "You can keep cleaning. I won't be in your way. Just don't make too loud a noise."
"You're disgusting," I said, my anger boiling. "And in more ways than one."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, making her eyes bigger. "You never drank too much, I suppose. In your house, it was probably a daily occurrence."
"For your information, it wasn't, at least for me." I stared at her a moment, debating whether or not I had the courage to say it. Finally, I did. "How could you let Brad do that to you? Don't you have any pride?"
She gazed at me, barely blinking "What are you talking about now, Raven? What sort of lie are you trying to use to get out of trouble?" she asked.
"You know what I'm talking about, and you know it's not a lie," I said firmly.
Her expression didn't change. Then she looked away for a second before turning back to shake her head. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, "and I'm warning you not to say anything that will make Daddy angry."
"He already got angry," I said. I put down the dust rag and undid my pants, lowering them and my panties. I turned to show her my welts.
"Ugh," she said, grimacing.
"He enjoyed doing it to me," I said, closing my pants. "He's a sadist, and he's perverted."
"Stop it!" She jumped off the sofa. "He's my father, and if he had to punish you, it was because you did something wrong. He's really kind, and he cares about me."
"You're just afraid of him. And you should be. If he knew how you really behaved, you'd get a far worse beating than I got," I said, drawing closer and staring into her face.
"Stop it!" she whispered. "He could hear you."
She stamped her foot on the floor. "What the hell's going on down there?" Uncle Reuben shouted from his bedroom.
Jennifer hesitated, staring at me with wide, scared eyes.
"Should I tell him?" I asked. "Should I tell him what really happened last night?"
She seemed to think, and then bet against me facing Uncle Reuben.
"Nothing, Daddy," she called back.
"Well, keep your voices down. I'm trying to get some rest. I didn't get much last night thanks to someone in this house," he added.
"Okay, Daddy. Raven's sorry," she said.
"You're sicker than he is," I said, shaking my head.
"You're just jealous because you don't have a father," she spit at me, her eyes narrow and hateful but also filling with tears. "You never had a father. You have a mother who is a tramp and a drug addict, and now you don't even have her," she said, gloating.
"No," I spit back at her, "but at least I still have some self-respect."
I threw down the dust rag and marched past her, practically knocking her out of my way.
"Who else would respect you?" she called after me. "You're worse than an orphan. You're nothing. You don't even have the right name! That's right, Daddy told me your mother was never even married, so don't go throwing stones. You're an illegitimate child!" she shouted.
I slammed the door closed behind me.
She was right, of course. Nothing she said wasn't true, but I'd rather be no one, I thought, than someone with a father like hers.
"Didn't I tell you two to shut up down there?" I heard Uncle Reuben scream.
"It's all right, Daddy. I'm taking a walk over to Paula's. If there's any more noise, it's not me making it," she shouted back. A moment later, I heard her leave the house, and it was all very quiet again.
I took a deep breath and went to the window. It was still gray and dismal outside. Jennifer had guessed correctly. I wouldn't tell Uncle Reuben. Why would he believe me? I'd keep her little secret. For now.
And then I saw someone on the corner standing under a sprawling maple tree. She wore a raincoat and a bandana over her hair just the way my mother often did.
"Mama?" I called, my eyes filling with tears.
The woman turned and disappeared down the next street.
I shot out of the room and rushed to the door. Then I ran down the walk and up the street to the corner, but by the time I got there, there was no one in sight. I stood there looking. Had I imagined it?
"Mama!" I screamed. My voice died in the wind, and no one appeared.
But what if it had been Mama? I thought. In my heart of hearts, I wished it had been, just so I knew she was thinking about me, just so I knew she did care a little, even if she hadn't come back for me.
Maybe, I thought, looking down the long, empty street with barely a car moving along it, maybe I wanted it so much that I simply imagined it.
Just like everything good I wanted for myself, this was only to be a dream, an illusion, another hope tied to a bubble that would burst, leaving me as lost and as forgotten as ever.
I turned and went back to the hell I had to call home.

The guidance counselor at my old school, Mr. Martin, once told me it's harder to look at yourself than it is to look at others. Some of my teachers had been complaining to him about me, and when I had my meeting with him and he read off the list of cornplaints, I had an excuse for everything. I was so good at dodging that he finally sat back, looked at me, and laughed.

"You don't believe half of what you're telling me, Raven," he said, "and you realize that when you walk out of here, you will walk out of here knowing that I don't believe you, either. The truth is, you have been irresponsible, neglectful, wasteful, and to a large extent self-destructive. You want to know what I think?" he asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk.

He had rust-colored hair and eyes as green as emeralds. Tiny freckles spilled from his forehead, down his temples to the crests of his cheeks. He always had a friendly hello for anyone. I never saw him lose his temper, but he had a way of making a troubled student feel bad about himself or herself. He spoke softly, sincerely, and acted as if he was everyone's big brother, taking each disappointment personally and asking questions that forced you to be honest.

My heart seemed to cower in my chest as I waited for him to drop his bombshell. I had to look down. His eyes were too penetrating, his gaze too demanding.

"No," I finally said, "but I guess you're going to tell me anyway."
"Yes, I am, Raven. I think you're a very angry young woman, angry about your life, and you think you're going to hurt someone if you do poorly and behave poorly--However, the only one you're really hurting is you."
I turned to look past him, to look out the office window, because I could feel the tears welling under my lids. Few people were ever able to penetrate the wall I had built around my true feelings, and whenever anyone did, I always felt a little naked and as helpless as a child.
"Your mother doesn't respond to any of my calls or letters. She's never been available to meet with your teachers."
"I don't care if she comes here or not," I snapped.
"Yes, you do," he said softly. He sat back again. "Sometimes, actually most of the time, we can't do much about the hand we've been dealt. We've got to make the most of it and get into the game. It doesn't do any good whining about it, right? You know that"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Martin. I failed some tests, big deal. My teachers are always picking on me because I'm an easy target. Other kids talk and pass notes and forget their books and stuff and don't get into half as much trouble."
Mr. Martin smiled. "When I was on the college basketball team and I gave my coach excuses like that, he would start to raise and lower his legs as if he were walking through a swamp," Mr. Martin said. "You know what I mean?"
I felt my throat close up and just shifted my eyes down.
"All right, Raven. I won't keep you any longer. You think over the things we discussed, and just know I'm here for you if you need to talk," he said.
I got up quickly, practically fleeing from his eyes and his probing questions. After I left his office, I stopped in the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red from the strain of holding back the tears. Mr. Martin was right: it was harder to look at myself, especially after he had held up a mirror of reality and truth.
Thinking back to that, I realized how much harder, if not impossible, it was for Jennifer to look at herself in a mirror. Everyone in my uncle's home suffered from the same self-imposed blindness, especially Aunt Clara, who not only turned away and kept her eyes down but also pretended she didn't know anything was wrong.
I left Mr. Martin's office feeling even more sorry for myself and a little guilty. Many of the students who behaved poorly or performed poorly left Mr. Martin's office angry at him for making them look into that mirror. I should have expected the same sort of behavior from Jennifer. After all, I had threatened to expose her to Uncle Reuben.
The rest of the weekend went as usual. I kept to myself, did my chores and my homework. Aunt Clara was always inviting me to join them in the living room to watch television, but the few times I had, I felt Uncle Reuben's eyes burning into me. When I glanced at him, he immediately looked disgusted or angry. He made me feel like a pebble in everyone's shoes. I felt as if I had to thank him for letting me breathe the very air in his house, and I knew that he would never give me anything -willingly or with a full heart, not that I wanted anything from him. It hurt more that I had to depend on him for anything. This was truly what he called the burden of family relations, only it wasn't he who carried the weight of all that distress; it was me.
If I needed any reminders of the awkwardness between us, Jennifer was more than happy to provide them. She had ignored me most of the remainder of the weekend, but on Monday, as usual, she joined her friends at the bus stop, pretending I wasn't coming out of the same house with her. Our short-lived friendship to make it possible for her to attend the party was over. Ironically, because she had gotten herself sickly drunk and fooled around with Brad at Missy Taylor's, she was even more of a heroine to her friends. They were all waiting anxiously to hear the nitty-gritty details, as if throwing up your guts was a major accomplishment.
I sat in front with Clarence, but it was hard to ignore the raucous laughter coming from Jennifer and her clan in the rear. It wasn't until I was halfway through my morning that I began to understand why there were so many other students smiling at me, hiding their giggles, and wagging their heads. Just before lunch, some of them called out to me as they walked past Terri and me in the hallway.
"Heard you had a helluva weekend, Raven." "Surprised you can walk."
"Who's next on your list?"
"Is it true what they say about girls with Latin blood?"
No one waited for a response. They just kept walking, their bursts of laughter trailing after them. The questions were tossed at me like cups of red paint meant to stain and ruin.
"What are they talking about?" Terri asked.
"I have no idea," I said. Afterward, when we sat in the cafeteria, I told her what had happened at Missy Taylor's party.
"So you rejected Mr. Wonderful," Terri said. "He's not going to let anyone know that."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
I saw Jimmy and Brad had joined Jennifer and her friends at a table, and they were all talking quickly and laughing. Once in a while, they turned to look at me. Someone made another remark, and they all roared.
They sounded like a television laugh track. I felt the heat rise in my neck and into my face.
"I don't know what's going on," I said, "but it's coming to an end."
"What are you going to do?" Tern asked as I rose from my seat.
"Watch," I told her, and started to march across the cafeteria. I heard the laughter and chatter die down and saw that heads were turning my way. Everyone at Jimmy's table stopped talking and looked up.
"I hear that you're making up stories about me, Jimmy," I said, glaring down at him.
He shrugged. "Hey, in some cases, you don't have to make anything up," he said.
Jennifer grunted, and her friends smiled.
"In your case, I imagine it's ninety-five percent invented," [said. "After spending only a few minutes with you alone, I can understand why you're always looking for a new girl."
Smiles faded. I heard someone suck in air. Jimmy turned; his face was turning bright red. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You're a lot better at basketball than you are at making love," I said. "I guess you waste all your talents on the court. If you don't stop making up nasty stories about me, I'll tell everyone why I left the bedroom so quickly."
For a moment, Jimmy was unable to respond. Everyone at the table turned from me to him, their eyes widening with new awareness. I knew there was no better way to make a boy like Jimmy afraid than to attack his manliness and his souped-up reputation.
"Huh?" was all he could utter.
I started to turn away when Jennifer piped up. "Stop trying to cover up, Raven. You're the one who's always fouling out," she shouted. "That's why you're here, living as a servant in my house." Her friends laughed.
I froze for a moment, feeling my spine turn to cold steel. Then I turned slowly and stepped back toward the table.
"Me? Cover up? Please, Daddy," I whimpered. "I didn't mean to throw up all over the place. Raven made me do it."
"Shut up!" she screamed.
"I'm a good girl. Daddy's little good girl," I mimicked.
Everyone held their breath. Jennifer turned so red I thought she might just burst into flames. Instead, she reached down, seized a half-eaten bowl of tomato soup, and threw it at me. The hot soup splattered my clothes and face, and the bowl crashed to the floor, shattering.
Mr. Wizenberg, the cafeteria monitor, came running over. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "Who did this?"
Everyone at the table stared at him. He turned to me. "Who threw that at you?"
"No one," I said. "It flew up on its own." I wouldn't be a tattletale, not even to get Jennifer in trouble. Frustrated, Mr. Wizenberg sent the whole table and me to Mr. Moore's office. Unable to get anyone to rat, Mr. Moore put us all in detention and sent letters home to each and every student's family. Naturally, they all blamed me.
Before our letters arrived, Jennifer went crying to Uncle Reuben, claiming I had started it all. This time, Aunt Clara interceded before he could unbuckle his belt.
"Don't, Reuben," she said. "It can't be entirely her fault, and you've punished her enough already."
Uncle Reuben was angrier about Aunt Clara's interference than anything, but he didn't say a word. He pointed his finger at me and shook his hand without speaking. To me, that was more frightening. He looked monstrous, capable of murder. I retreated as soon as I could and let him vent his rage to Aunt Clara.
"She is obviously the one who needs discipline, Clara. We can't keep her here if we don't try to control her bad ways. Look at all the trouble she's caused in the short time she's been with us. Don't ever interfere again, understand? Understand?" he threatened.
"Yes, Reuben, yes. I'll have a talk with her."
"Talking doesn't help that kind. She's too spoiled, too far gone. I'm her only hope," he declared.
If he was my only hope, I was long gone.
When the letter arrived, he pinned mine on the inside of my bedroom door.
"Don't you dare take this off here, understand?" he declared. "I want you to see this each and every time you walk out of this room."
"Are you pinning Jennifer's to her door, too?" I asked.
"Don't you worry about Jennifer. You worry about yourself. That's enough," he snapped.
I couldn't keep the emotion from my face, and I saw him tilt his head as he looked at me, his own eyes focusing like tiny microscopes to look into my thoughts.
"You might have Clara fooled with that sweet act you put on," he said in a hard, coarse whisper, "but I know your mother. I knew your father. I know from where you come. You can't fool me."
"If my mother was so bad, why aren't you? You're her brother. You came from the same parents. You grew up together, didn't you? You're not perfect," I said. "You've done some bad things." The moment I said that, I knew I had gone too far, but I had no idea just how far.
He stepped farther into the room.
"What did she tell you?" he asked. "Did she make up some lie about me? Spit it out. Spit out the garbage. Go on," he ordered.
I shook my head. "There's nothing to tell," I said, my heart pounding. He seemed to expand, inflate, rise higher, and grow wider.
"I never did anything to her," he said. "If lever hear you say anything, I swear I'll tear out your tongue."
I stared at him, and then I looked down quickly. He hovered there like a giant cat. I could almost feel my bones crumbling under his pounce.
"She was disgusting, parading around naked and saying whatever she wanted, trying to get me to give in to her evil ways. Well, I showed her. It was good when she ran off, only she didn't run far enough," he declared.
I could almost feel his hot breath on the top of my head, but I didn't move, didn't twitch a muscle. I tried to stop breathing, to close my eyes and pretend I was somewhere else. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned and marched out. It felt as if a cold draft had followed him and left me in a vacuum of horribly dark silence. I was afraid to think, even to imagine what sort of things he meant.
Suddenly, I felt I had to get fresh air. I threw on a sweater and went out. All the houses on the street and the next were well spaced apart. There were only about six or seven on each avenue. At the moment, there was no one on the street and apparently no one outside his or her home. I folded my arms under my breasts and walked with my head down, not really paying attention to where I was going. I was so deep in thought that I never realized I had crossed the street.
"Hey," I heard, and looked up at Clarence Dunsen. "Wh. . . where are you . . you going?"
He had a garbage bag in his hand and had just lifted the lid of the can when he saw me.
I stopped and looked around, surprised at how far I had traveled.
"I'm just taking a walk," I said.
He put the garbage in the can and closed it. Then he simply stood there looking at me.
"Is this where you live?" I asked, nodding at the modest ranch-style home. It had gray siding with charcoal shutters, a large lawn with some hedges around the walk, and a red maple tree in front. The garage door was open, and a station wagon and a pickup truck were visible. I saw a bike hanging on the wall as well and what looked like some tools, wrenches and pliers, clipped to another wall.
"Yeah," he said. "I live in the bas . . . bas . . basement."
"The basement?" I smiled "What do you mean?"
"That's where I . . . slee . . . sleep and stuff," he replied. He smiled. "I have my own door."
I shook my head, still confused.
"Com . . . come on. shhh show you," he urged with a gesture. He took a few steps toward the side of the house and waited. I thought a moment, looked around the empty street, and then followed him to steps that led down to a basement door. He pointed. "There," he said.
"You live down there?"
"A-huh. Wanna sssssss . see?"
No one had ever told me about this, not even Jennifer, but then again, no one really took any interest in Clarence except to make fun of his stuttering. I nodded again and followed him down the steps. He opened the door to a small bedroom that contained a desk and chair, a dresser, a cabinet that served as a closet, and a small table on top of which sat a television set. The floor was covered in a dark brown linoleum with a small gray oval rug at the foot of the bed. Under the bed were a few pairs of shoes and some sneakers. There were two electric heaters along the sides of the room.
His clothing was tossed about, shirts over the chair, a pair of pants dangling over the door of the closet, and some T-shirts folded and left on top of the television set. I saw magazines on the floor, some books, and a few boxes of puzzles.
"Why do you have to live down here?" I asked him. The room had no windows and was lit by a ceiling fixture and one standing lamp beside the desk.
"My mom's new hus . . husband fixed it for. for me so the baby could have my old rooo . room," he said.
The dull gray cement walls had chips and cracks in them. It smelled dank and musty. The floor rafters were clearly visible above us, and there were cobwebs in them. This was more like a dungeon than a bedroom, I thought. Why would his mother want him down here? I could hear footsteps above us, the sound of chair legs scratching the floor, and then a baby's wail.
"That's Donna Marie," he said.
I nodded and continued to look around the dingy room. "Where is your bathroom?"
"Upsta . . stairs. You got to go?"
"No," I said, smiling. "I just wondered. You do puzzles?" I asked, nodding at the boxes on the floor.