Authors: Pynk
Sixty-Nine (23 page)
And then it was breakfast at nine a.m.
Darla Clark was finally replete.
Finally orgasmic.
Having finally lost control of being in control.
T
he sale of Rebe’s house would close within three weeks, and she’d take the cash and finalize the purchase of her new home
next month. She’d spent two months looking at houses and finally found the one. It was in Broward County, in Hollywood, Florida,
in a gated community called West Lake Village. She felt the four-bedroom, pale-yellow stucco, a mile from the ocean, close
to schools and shopping, was far enough away from her current place to help her shake off some of the bad memories of the
house she’d won in a divorce settlement, the same house she was raped in, nearly killed in, the house where her daughter stabbed
her own mom’s attacker.
The move would be just in time to get settled in before the birth of her second child, decades after the first.
A little after midnight, Rebe was home wearing an extra-large-tall T-shirt, cuddled up in charcoal satin sheets, still sleeping
in the guest room.
The electric fireplace glimmered an artistic, tie-dye-like glow on the pale blue walls.
It was a Friday night.
She was forty years old and nearly seven months pregnant.
She was manless.
Her baby would be fatherless.
She hadn’t yet wrapped her brain around that fact. There was no room for such thoughts yet.
She was suddenly jerked from her mental ramblings by the ringing of her home phone. Looking at the clock, seeing that time
had slipped into the next day, she wondered who it could be as she reached over, saw the caller ID, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello.” She sounded like she’d been fast asleep, but she wasn’t. Her tone was tainted more with a self-warning about the
caller than that of being tired.
“Sorry to wake you.”
“I’m still up.” Her heart insisted she should have an attitude. Her head was too crowded and too exhausted to comply.
“Good.” The voice was familiar and deep, slow and reserved. “How are you?”
“Fine, Randall. How are you?” Her words were insincere.
“Good.” His word was elongated. He paused. His inhale-exhale could be heard. “Listen, I’ve wanted to have a talk with you
for a while now. Is this a good time?”
“Yes. What?” She said both as fast as one word.
“Rebe, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. For cheating. For lying. For leaving without taking the time to talk about giving
us another try. For getting someone pregnant before you had a chance to even file divorce papers. For hurting Trinity. And
for the fact of what happened to you with the guy who broke in. It’s bothered me for a while. I want you to know I’m glad
you survived.”
“Really?” Rebe wondered why his speech was so slow. She sensed a slur. Knowing him as she did, she was willing to bet he’d
been drinking. It brought back memories. Memories of how the only time he’d talk was when eighty-proof something chased away
the fear of communication.
“Yes. You’ve been through enough with your mom as it is. Really, I’m sorry that happened. I should’ve told you this before
now, but when I heard, all I felt was anger over what he did to my ex-wife. I’m sorry Trinity had to see what she saw, and
that she has to live with the fact that she stabbed someone. And in our house. It’s bothered me. All of it. I just didn’t
know how to say it. Until now.” His breathing was heavy.
Him saying
our
house had her on guard. She said what she thought would be best. “I got the card you two sent.” Rebe behaved but couldn’t
say his wife’s name. “Trinity told me you guys sent your thoughts and prayers. All that.”
“Well, we did. But this is from me. I want us to find a way to be okay with all this, good and bad. I want Trinity to see
us getting along. I want Chyna to see that. I want her to know you. And, I want your new child to see it, too. By the way,
congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Rebe shook her head a bit to make sure her ears weren’t failing.
He sighed. “Well, I guess that’s what I wanted to say.”
She shifted the phone to her other ear. “My goodness.” She just had to ask. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Life. Tired. Trying to find a way to say I’m sorry. To forgive. Hell, to live. Plus, I’m fuckin’ drunk.” He gave a laugh
along with his admission.
Rebe offered a laugh in return, not surprised one bit.
“I fucked up a lot, Rebe. The life I led in the NFL opened doors that weren’t always the best for me, but still I indulged.
Even after, it was just hard to stop pushing the envelope. But, I’m tired of hurting people. Bad decisions hurt people. And
hurt me.”
“I see. Well, I’m fine. But obviously, I’ve been pissed off for a long time. You both know that. Trinity knows that.”
“I know.”
She couldn’t
not
say it. She turned to her side and went there. “And by the way, Magnolia told me.”
“I figured she would.” He didn’t miss a beat
“But why didn’t you?”
“I never would’ve.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Believe it or not, I did it because I could. I didn’t do it to hurt you. Telling you would have been hurting you. I took
the small chance that she wouldn’t tell you. At the moment it happened, I went for it. But, I knew when I went to bed that
night, doing that only made things worse. Though that was my mentality. I wanted it all. I just can’t do that anymore. At
least I know I need to try and do better. And Rebe, Magnolia fought it. She left fast.”
“Whatever. That was messed up on both your parts.”
“It was. And to be honest, I was surprised you didn’t call me and go completely off.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m just sorry. Don’t know what else to say.”
“Wow. Those two words,
I’m sorry
. I think if it’s true that love means never having to say you’re sorry, then I guess I’ve never experienced love before,
because I’ve received and owed more
I’m sorrys
than anyone should ever have to.”
“You’re strong. You’re a survivor. And I want you to know I’m glad you took this call. Thank you.” He sounded extra drained.
“Good-bye, Randall.”
“Good-bye, Rebe. If you need anything, I’m here.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Oh, and by the way, good luck with the new house. I got a notice about the sale, verifying the quitclaim.”
“I know.”
“Good luck. Maybe we can stay in touch. Call me on my cell.”
“Bye.” And Rebe hung up.
She turned to her back and rubbed her forehead with one hand, having never expected that conversation, and placed the other
hand on her belly. Randall’s voice was still in her head. “Did he just say he’s sorry?” she asked out loud. “My God.”
She looked over at the two photos of Trinity beside her bed. One from when Trinity was a toddler. Barely two years old. Trinity
was in her white and pink Easter dress with a real, live bunny rabbit on her lap, looking half thrilled and half scared to
death. The other was a recent photo of Trinity that was taken while she was in Las Vegas. She stood in front of a roman statue
at Caesars Palace with a drink in her hand, looking happy, and carefree.
Carefree was all that Rebe wanted for her offspring. Not bringing a baby into her confused life was her goal. She wanted that
feeling for both her adult child, and her expected baby. A life different from the one she’d lived thus far. She wanted her
children to have a life free from pain, free from anger, and free from tragedy. If she could. Or at least, she wondered if
Trinity, unlike her, could be normal? And could her new baby be happy with a mother like her?
Rebe could have sworn she felt a kick. And then another. She said, “If that was a yes, I’m smiling. If that was a no…well,
I’ll just believe that two kicks means yes.”
She felt the new life inside of her in the form of a tiny fetus, and in the form of her own newness, awaiting her own new
life, ready to no longer be a product of her childhood, but a shining example for her children of what life can be like, especially
when given a second chance.
She fell asleep. Mother and daughter. Alive.
INT.—OFFICE OF VICTIMS’ SERVICES—PINECREST, FLORIDA—LATE MORNING
The next day
It was a new counselor. One who Rebe was meeting for the first time. The neuropsychologist she had before transferred during
the couple of months Rebe stopped going, but Rebe felt it was time to again try to get her mind right.
Trinity had been attending her sessions, but for the moment was out of town in New York trying to get a modeling agent. She’d
dropped out of school and Rebe didn’t push it. Rebe was learning to let go and cut the cord. She gave in to the fact that
Trinity was a grown woman, and had been through more than enough to earn her independence stripes.
The counselor was a bleached blonde, conservative, middle-aged woman, plain Jane type in a tight top and knee-length skirt,
oddly bordering on pinup-girl curvy. With her legs crossed, she sat in her small, sparsely furnished office in a tweed desk
chair facing Rebe.
Rebe sat on the tan sectional, with her hands cupped in her lap, wearing a purple top that showed the full shape of her expectant
belly, a pair of gray drawstring cotton pants, and gym shoes. She’d taken out her braids and her dark brown hair was flat
ironed past her shoulders. No makeup, no expression, just words.
Ten minutes into the allotted hour, Rebe looked at the woman at times, and at times out the window toward the tropical, butterfly-like
palm trees, spanning into the beauty of the heavens above.
“Dr. Love, my mom’s in jail. She’ll spend the rest of her life in prison. I’m ashamed and I totally reject the blood ties
that bind me to her. Violet Palo. I don’t like to say her name, but, Violet Palo is a child killer. Violet Palo is a mother,
a woman, and she’s convicted of child murder, and attempted child murder. She’ll spend the rest of her life in prison. Double
life. My mother. Violet. Is a convicted killer.”
Pain was spelled out on her dark face. “I really, truly don’t want her in my soul. I pray every night that she’s not. I’ve
been determined to break the like-mother, like-daughter curse. I keep telling myself I’m not the seed of a monster. But I
am. My mother is just like her mother. My grandmother, named Opal, committed suicide after beating her own children for simply
forgetting to brush their teeth. Her own mother threw boiling water on her husband while he was sleeping, because he was snoring.”
Rebe waited a minute.
Dr. Love let her wait.
“My story was in the headlines back in 1982, you know? Not sure if you heard of it.” Rebe’s big, dark eyes lifted Dr. Love’s
way and flashed a question mark.
“No,” Dr. Love said, showing focus and patience, shaking her head.
“Ocala, Florida, where I grew up, was on the map. The headlines read that when the prosecuting attorney asked me who hit me
on the back of the head with a hammer, I said, ‘My mom.’ Sad.
“Some of it I remember, some of it I don’t. All I know is my brother Maestro had gotten in trouble the night before and got
a beating before he went to bed, as usual. That happened every night. He was fifteen and six foot three, and still got whippings.
Every night.
“By then my father had left my mother and was out there, chasing women, usually the younger women, fed up with my mother’s
temper tantrums and her ‘ugly ways’ as he called it. In his absence, my brother found males to bond with. In the streets.”
Her eyes sort of lit up.
“He was good at basketball, having played in the neighborhood when he could get out of the house, which was rare. He wasn’t
allowed to play sports in school. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere after we got home from school. A lot of rules. I liked
to dance, so I’d just dance in my room, to silence. No music allowed in the house either. Another rule.
“By then, my mother had actually found a way to start preaching at a nearby church. It was the epitome of a holy, sacrilegious,
hypocritical, Bible-toting, false prophet, Christian claiming mess. She was the last person who should have been preaching
the word of God. If anyone needed to be literally born again, rebirthed, it was her. Violet Palo.
“I do remember some of that night when the devil took my joy. And I know it went something like:
“Rebe come here.” Her loud, raspy voice always sounded like she had phlegm stuck somewhere between her tonsils and her esophagus,
like she was about to choke. I wish. She wasn’t a smoker. Not even a drinker. Not on drugs. Just naturally evil. The sound
of her words stung from the living room and seeped past my bedroom door, which I was never allowed to close, and right into
my ears. My lobes sweat upon hearing and feeling the sound.
It was about six-thirty and it wasn’t dark yet outside, but the house was dark. Blackout curtains throughout, you’d need a
light on to see anything, any time of day. I ran straight from the tiny room I shared with Maestro. He wasn’t home yet. I
knew that woman, called my mom, would be in a bad mood just because of that.
“Yes, Ma’am.” I stood before her, my feet on the tattered throw rug. My toes flexed. My knobby knees shook. Skinny as a rail,
I wore yellow shorts and a pinafore blouse. I’d just finished cornrowing my own hair. She never did my hair. Never called
her mom, you know. Never did.
“Barefoot, she was reading the Bible, with only the light of the floor lamp behind her, reclining all the way back in her
beat-up black leather chair, and though the Bible was opened to a certain page, her bloodshot eyes were zeroed in on me. The
closer I got I smelled the usual calamine lotion on her scaly, itchy forearms and elbows. I still don’t know what caused it.
It was nauseating.
“So. How was your day?” Her gray hair seemed grayer, hanging loose but stiff and broken off, barely touching her shoulders.
My puberty-ridden stomach turned. “Good,” I told her almost sounding like I was asking instead of answering.
“Really?” She always had a look about her that made me feel like she had the ability to see my every move, every second of
every day, even when I was shitting, like she knew the color and smell, but asked about it anyway.
“Yes.”
“You do anything after school?”
“No.” My armpits were dripping already.
“You do anything after school?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“You do anything after school?” This time her look changed.
I knew better. “Yes.”
Silence. Frown.
I spoke on. “I went to my friend Alicia’s house.”
Silence. Deeper frown.
“That’s it,” I said, sounding like a mouse.
“Alicia’s mother called.” She closed the Bible, placed it on the end table, and adjusted the handle on the side of her recliner
to sit straight up. Her scent was even stronger.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Caught you hiding in the closet. With Alicia’s older brother.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that part?”
“Ma’am?” Oh God, I felt like, what more does she know.
Silence.
“Because it was nothing. Alicia wasn’t supposed to have company and I didn’t want her to get in trouble.” I felt like Pinocchio.
My nose grew like a weed.
“Naked, Rebe? You and her brother were in the closet naked?”
I felt a little pee leak from between my legs. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Go to your room.” She reached to the other side of the chair.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Get naked.”
Physically, I did what my mental begged to reject. I moved slowly, and then looked back to see her, two steps behind me, her
hands behind her back, the impatient, wild look in her eyes. One eye was bigger, angrier than the other. I sped up.
“Lay down.”
My room had only the light from a low-wattage lamp, aglow on my bed like a mini-spotlight. I lay on my back on my twin bed,
plaid covers, and she hopped on top of me in her leggings and baggy brown smock, and right away, slapped my left cheek and
then my right, left, right, left, right, over and over while I kicked my feet and blocked my face with my hands.
“Move your hands.”
She socked my hands and arms, and punched me in the head.
“You’re a tramp. You’re twelve and you’re a tramp already. Mark my word, you’re gonna end up pregnant.”
“No. I’m not.” I screamed bloody murder.
“Shut up. You’re a whore. Did you have sex with him?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did. Turn over.”
“No. Please.” I closed my eyes and started swinging.
She jerked back and yelled, “Did you just hit me? Turn the hell over.”
I heard the neighbor’s German shepherd, named Queenie, barking and whining like he’d heard an ear-piercing siren.
She shouted, “You’re a damn ho!”
I opened my eyes as she stood and held my breath, turning over, and then as soon as my belly and face touched the bumpy mattress,
I heard, “Mom. No.” And in an instant, it was like someone shot me in the back of the head. I tried not to scream but my voice
failed. I tried to talk but my words slurred in my head. I went black.
When I awoke, I was in the hospital. My brother was dead. And my mother was in jail for first-degree murder, and attempted murder. Funny thing was, even though my mother said my brother hit me over the head and that she was
the one who saved me after managing to fight him off, hitting him on his forehead in self-defense…that night, it was her,
Violet Palo, who called 911. The ambulance was there in five minutes. That call saved my life. Otherwise, I would have been
dead.
I was in the hospital on the day of my own brother’s funeral. I testified against Violet Palo six months later.