1989
W
hat is so unexpected about life is that we keep learning things about people we thought we knew.
Mike's illness was a terrible shock to the family. Without any doubt it brought out the best and the worst in all of us.
Mom's reaction was to be anxious and frightened. It was what I'd expect from anyone, except somehow it didn't quite ring true with her. It was almost as if she was playing the part of the brave, loving mother of the dying gay man. Which is exactly what she was. I suppose my mom's real dramas seemed feigned because her everyday, artificial dramas were always portrayed so realistically.
On her worst days she was as narcissistic as anyone might have predicted. Her beloved Michael, for whom she had worked and sacrificed all her life, had, she claimed, deliberately gotten himself sick with this terrible homosexual disease in order to embarrass her in front of her friends.
Fortunately, this very Mom-centered view was fleeting and shared only with me, her special confidant of the occasion. In front of the community, she was chin-raised, gloves-off, mother/protector. Anyone who
even hinted at intolerance or homophobia would be dealing with her directly. Not a pleasant prospect for the fainthearted. Mom made me go with her to face down the Methodist preacher. She went carrying a threat and a promise. The man didn't have a chance. But he hadn't needed one. Reverend Shue was all compassion and caring. Which saved him the fate of Darlene Gillam, a lifelong friend and a member of Mother's bridge club. She offered sympathy to Mom's face and then behind her back espoused the view that AIDS was a punishment from God for the disgusting sin of homosexuality. Darlene would never be dealt another card. And Mom didn't even want to associate with those who would associate with her.
Even more important than Mom's face to the world, was the face she showed to Mike. Sam and I went together to tell Mom and Dad. I was still so shaken myself, I could hardly speak. When the words came out of Sam's mouth, Mom looked at him for an instant and then slapped his face. But by that time we were all in the car and on the way to Mike's house. She was solidifying her composure. She was still strangely angry at Sam. But to Mike she was concerned, courageous and infinitely loving.
For the first months, it was all learning. We drove into Tulsa to attend AIDS information groups. We read everything we could get our hands on. Our conversation became one big alphabet soup, the problems had names like HPC, PCP, CMV, the treatments were AZT, ZDV, SMX, and the reports we learned about them came from CDC, FDA and NIH.
Mom decided that she would go with Mike to all his doctor visits. And that Sam would drive them. The fact that both Mom and Mike were perfectly capable of
driving to Tulsa or that most thirty-five-year-old men didn't need Mama to go with them to the doctor didn't keep Sam from making trip after trip with the two of them in Mom's big Lincoln.
I was mostly out of the loop on all this. I was in Tulsa every day, going to classes and holding down two jobs.
Fern Davis had held my final paycheck and had certainly not been willing to write me a letter of reference. But amazingly both Trixie and Clarissa gave me fabulous recommendations. I applied for, and was hired, to do part-time work in a Head Start program on the north side. It was the same sort of early morning/teacher assistant job that I'd done at Candy Cane. The supervisor, a huge black woman named Mildred Conner, eyed me critically.
“Now, tell me what exactly you're looking for here and why you're interested in working with black children.”
I answered honestly. “I need a job and I want to work with children. I applied here because you have an opening.”
Mildred laughed. “Okay, then, we'll give you a try.”
The job was fabulous. The teacher I worked with, Emma Stabler, was retired from the school system after twenty-seven years. When it came to kids, she'd seen it all and still wanted to be a part of their lives.
And who could argue with her. The children in our class were adorable. Once we got past the first few days, when I was known and referred to as “that white lady,” we all got along great.
It was Emma who urged me to get the second job. When she found out that I was attending classes at TJC she asked me what I was going to do next. The junior college couldn't offer me a bachelor's degree.
“Well, I guess I'd hoped I could finish out at Oklahoma State,” I told her. “Of course, I don't know how I'll manage that drive to Stillwater and hold a job, too. It's too bad that none of the state universities have programs in town.”
She nodded agreement.
“Have you thought about Tulsa University?” she asked me.
I sighed and shook my head. “I can't pay private-school tuition. Even with grants, I'd never be able to come up with the money.”
“You know if you work full-time at TU,” she said, “you can go to college there for free.”
I hadn't known that. So I checked it out. Sure enough, once you've been on staff for two years, your tuition rate goes down. And after five years, you can attend for free.
It would have been great if I could have worked there doing child care but, of course, there was no such job available. Since I got off work at two-thirty, I was able to take a second-shift custodial job. Not only was I getting a plan together to finish my education, I was bringing home two paychecks, which was really helping our bottom line. The downside was that I was leaving the house at five in the morning and getting home just a little before midnight.
Sam was doing a great job at home, so on the weekends I was able to split my time between my children and Mike.
While I tried to be there for my brother, sometimes it felt as if Lauren needed me more. She was in those terrible 'tween years where every day is a new crisis. As soon as a hint of a breast appeared, she assumed she
was fat and decided she would live on sugar-free bubblegum.
Thank God the child didn't have the self-discipline to be anorexic. I got her hooked up with Cherry Dale. We couldn't really afford to keep a membership, but the rest of the town was in the same boat. Cherry Dale was having trouble just keeping the lights on. So she let Lauren work out for half price in the hope that she would bring her girlfriends to join.
Her girlfriends did, of course. They all did what everybody else did. Which was another major issue. About twice a week there was some blowup, usually involving screaming conversations, rude phone hang-ups and lots of tears.
These dramas were my dinner entertainment every evening when I called her from the break room to see how the day had gone.
Nate had nothing much to say to me. He was spending less time with Floyd Braydon. That was the good news. Now, however, his life was taken up with video games. He was down at the arcade constantly and it was all he talked about. I heard him explain to Sam in minute detail the differences in Sega Genesis and Nintendo.
When he showed up one day with his own Game Boy I was surprised. It was a Saturday morning. Cartoons were still on,
Slimer
was being ignored as Nate sat in the chair, totally intent on the plastic box in his hands.
“Is that a Game Boy? Where'd you get it?” I asked him.
At first he just ignored me and kept on playing.
“Nate! Whose Game Boy is that?” I asked louder, getting his attention.
He glanced up at me.
“It's mine,” he answered simply.
“Where'd you get it?”
He raised his chin to glare at me in challenge. “Paw-Paw gave it to me,” he said.
I was surprised at his defensiveness. I didn't like Floyd, but I tried hard not to show it in front of Nate. And I certainly wouldn't have taken away a gift. Especially one like thisâone that I knew Nate wanted so badly and was so unlikely to get from us.
I didn't think anything more about it until the next Tuesday when I got a call at work from the school principal.
“I'm sorry to bother you at work, Mrs. Braydon,” she said. “Your husband wasn't at home.”
“He had to take my brother to the doctor,” I said. “Is something wrong? Are Nate and Lauren all right?”
“Yes, your children are fine,” she said. “Do you know Stuart Llewellyn?”
“Yes, of course,” I answered. Stuart was a little fat kid who had been in Nate's class since kindergarten.
“I have Stuart and his parents here in my office, Mrs. Braydon,” the principal continued. “And Stuart is saying that Nate took away his Game Boy last week and refuses to give it back. I've talked to Nate and he insists that the Game Boy that he has is his own. Is that true?”
I wanted to immediately affirm that it was, but something in the memory of the defiant look Nate had given me kept me from defending him. “I don't know,” I admitted. “He told me that his grandfather gave it to him.”
“Would you mind if I call Doc Maynard and confirm that?” she asked.
“No, not my father,” I explained. “Nate said Floyd Braydon gave it to him.”
“Oh, well, may I call Mr. Braydon?”
“Better let me do it,” I suggested. “I'll call you back.”
Nobody answered at Cherry Dale's home phone, so I called Pepxercise.
“Do you know anything about a Game Boy that Floyd gave to Nate last week?” I asked Cherry Dale.
“Last week? Nate didn't see Floyd last week,” she said.
“Are you sure of that?”
“I'm sure all right,” she said. “The son of a bitch has been up in Tahlequah shacked up with some whore he met in a honky-tonk in Sand Springs.”
Her anger and candor were momentarily stunning. I didn't know quite what to say.
“Iâ¦oh, Cherry Dale, I'm so sorry,” I sputtered out. “I didn't realize the two of you were broken up.”
She laughed but there wasn't any humor in it. “I
wish
we were broken up. He'll never let a meal ticket like me go. The only way out I'll have is the same one Sam's mother got.”
It was a shocking thing to say. A scary scenario to imagine. But Cherry Dale's problems were not mine. My main concern was for my son. If Nate hadn't gotten the toy from Floyd, then he'd stolen it from Stuart.
I left a message with the receptionist at Mike's appointment and Sam called me back.
“I had no choice but to tell the principal that it might be true,” I explained to him.
“It was the right thing to do,” he agreed.
“She's suspended Nate for three days,” I told him. “She has to release him to a family member, so I asked
my father to go pick him up. He says he'll keep Nate with him at the drugstore until you get back to town.”
“Okay, Corrie,” Sam said. “Don't worry about it. I'll be home in a couple of hours and I'll get things straightened out.”
“I should be there, Sam,” I admitted guiltily. “I should be at home for my kids.”
“Don't get crazy on me,” Sam replied. “You're working two jobs and keeping food on the table for them. Your kids are lucky to have you. Just leave this to me.”
So I did. I finished my day at Head Start and then called home before I clocked in at the college. Lauren answered but told me she couldn't talk. Sam and Nate were in the office and she was trying to listen through the door.
By the time I walked into the house that night, all was quiet. Sam was sitting up in bed reading, a hobby he'd acquired lately and was frequently engaged in when I got home at night.
“What happened?” I asked immediately.
He set his book aside and rose to his feet to give me a welcome hug.
“Hey, baby,” he said. “I'm glad you're home at last.” He held me tight for a moment and then kissed me on the top of the head. “Go get your clothes off and take a shower,” he said. “There's no news so bad that it can't wait fifteen minutes.”
I followed his order. When I returned to the bed, slightly damp and wearing my bathrobe, Sam had a tray with two glasses of wine and some cheese and crackers. Occasionally we'd have wine with a fancy dinner, but never at home.
“What's this about?”
“It's not a celebration, just a snack,” he said.
“Tell me what happened, I can't wait any longer.”
“Nate stole the Game Boy,” Sam said simply.
“Oh, my God,” I moaned. I had held out hope that it wouldn't be true. “Why would he do that?” I asked.
“Because he didn't have one.”
“What?”
“That was his excuse.” Sam raised his hand in the three-fingered Boy Scout's honor.
“Was he sorry?”
“Not much,” he said. “Nate told me that Stuart was a âtotally lame dweeb.' That he was lousy at video games. His reaction times are âpathetic.' And therefore, he doesn't âdeserve' to have the Game Boy.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, just about everything,” Sam admitted. “I used the entire stern-father playbook, plus the smarmy scene from every old
Father Knows Best
episode that I could remember. What it all came down to is that he's grounded from TV for a week and from the arcade for a month, and that he has to write a letter of apology to Stuart, which I will be checking over for appropriate sincerity and spelling.”
“Wow.”
“I wanted to threaten grammar,” Sam said, “but my own is so iffy, I didn't want to promise what I couldn't deliver.”
“Okay. How did he take it?”
“He was furious,” Sam said. “He screamed. He threw things. He said more curse words than I even knew existed when I was his age. And he told me it was my fault, not his.”
“Your fault?”
“Yep,” Sam nodded. “He said that if I'd get a decent job, I'd be able to pay for things that a kid needs.”
“He said that?”
Sam actually laughed. “That's not all,” he told me. “He said I was pussy-whipped, a chump and a loser.”
“Why would he say something like that? It's so disrespectful. Did you spank him?”