Street Love, Page 3

  The FATHERS

  AVERY BATTLE

  When I was Damien’s age I was hard

  Not that the boy should be as rough as me

  But I wish we could talk a little more

  He could tell me of his dreams and what part

  I might play in them, if I have a part

  What with his mother hovering over

  Him like a protective vulture. Too harsh—

  She means him well, I know she means me well

  But still, I sometimes wish he would find time

  To talk a little more. That would be good.

  ARTHUR WILLIAMS

  I heard that Leslie got herself busted

  For selling drugs—some heavyweight

  Action somewhere upstate. Well, she was

  Always sly and fly, chasing that big paper

  Hey, that big paper brings some big time

  You don’t want the time—don’t do the crime

  That’s the way the story goes

  You got to check out where you strolling

  You can’t tell people how to live their lives.

  Junice? Was that her girl’s name?

  How old is she? Ten? Eleven? She probably

  Hanging with Leslie’s mama.

  Now that was a woman who could

  Drink some gin. I tell you,

  She could drink some gin.

  JUNICE and MELISSA

  I have to open my sister’s mouth

  And fill it with thoughts as hard

  As stones so she can practice her lines

  She needs to speak clearly

  As she lies.

  “Melissa,” I will say

  “Miss Ruby will run the house

  She’ll make fried chicken and okra

  Hamburger and broccoli

  And when her mental hat flies

  Off down some weird and wondrous

  Street she will not chase it

  Will not ramble as she talks

  Or twist fragments of the past

  Into a hopeless stew of

  Neverwasness. Miss Ruby will

  Be our Strength and Center around which

  We will build Family

  Are you listening, Melissa?

  Will you tell them how sure we are

  Of our grandmother? Can you understand

  That we sell the Shadow to support

  The Substance of Miss Ruby?

  And dear Melissa, you have to say it all with

  Happiness in your voice. You must smile

  Sweetly. It is always Miss Ruby

  With a tilt of the head, and Mama

  With love in your voice and—”

  She left!

  —Call her Mama!

  She left, that’s all to say

  —One day we’ll be with her again.

  She left!

  One day

  If we hold on

  Hold ourselves together

  We’ll find some way to bring her home Again

  Never

  She walked away

  To live in her own world

  Junice, I hate her! She left us!

  She did!

  I know

  Baby, I know

  We have the same ragged

  Steel tearing at our guts, ripping Our lives

  I know

  Oh look

  Into my eyes

  There’s fear, but there’s fight, too

  We can be more than we should be

  We two

  Just you and me

  Melissa and Junice

  Two strong Black women against all

  That’s wrong

  Junice

  I’m filled with scared

  My stomach aches with sad

  I believe in you, my Junice

  I’ll try

  RACHEL DAVIS, DEPARTMENT of FAMILY SERVICES

  I have a job to do, a thing, a chore

  To look into, investigate, to know

  What is happening, what’s the score

  What makes this family tick, what makes them go

  And if there is a danger, then it must be seen

  Put aside, taken care of, duly filed

  With each detail revealed, all secrets seen

  With the clear aim that what is intended

  Is not some vague desire, no “if I could”

  No debate, pointless and open-ended,

  But that clear truth we call “the greater good.”

  There is no room for maybes when babies

  Are involved and they are so young, these two

  To be brought into family court

  The younger girl crying, the older glares

  But I only write the Final Report

  I am not the cause of their despair

  What they don’t understand

  Is that the precise list of regulations

  Properly numbered and indented

  Is family. They still long for blood and

  Flesh although blood and flesh has failed

  Them. The mother, Leslie, is my age.

  The report says that she has a tattoo on

  The side of her neck that says “Kitty.”

  I could never imagine myself with a

  Tattoo, or selling drugs, or having

  Children without a father at least listed

  As Divorced.

  At sentencing she pleaded that her

  Children needed her, would be desperate

  Without her. The judge asked her

  Where were her children when she was

  Out selling drugs? She had no answer.

  Now she has given her family to the

  State.

  The girl is sixteen, and much like the mother

  Her hair uncombed, her face looking older

  Than it should, her eyes darting back and

  Forth as she talks. She is a thinker,

  But what does she think? Her mother

  Is the kind who doesn’t think, who pushes

  Her way through a crowd of days

  As if she were in a hurry to get somewhere

  And yet turns at every obstacle to start in

  A new direction.

  My report will be straightforward, to the point.

  Should the state intervene, wrap its arms

  Around the girl and the sister? The sister

  Is almost ten, and shy. I almost caught myself

  Reaching out to her. Almost felt myself being

  Stirred by her youth, the eyes that looked

  Through me as if they could see

  The cool marrow of my being.

  Once she smiled for no clear

  Reason and I felt that she had seen

  The little girl in me that once was as

  Pretty and hopeful as she is now.

  And when she smiled I smiled back

  But then…but then I knew I must

  Move on and find that

  Greater good.

  The Final Report will depend on the

  Grandmother. Can she care for these

  Children? There is already a file on

  Her, it is thick with yellowed papers

  And the accumulation of forty years

  Of dampness. Her Report, 1076-A,

  Individual Court Record lists her

  As Stokes, Ruby, aka Ambers, Ruby—

  Black, two felony convictions.

  Assaults, one with a knife, one with a

  Bat against a man.

  What kind of life

  Is defined by felonies, by street

  Fights? What can she give these

  Girls? What can she contribute

  To the greater good?

  JUNICE in the EARLY MORNING

  Miss Ruby has probably always been

  Bigger than she needed to be

  Square shouldered, skin dark and dry

  As the black field dirt she came from

  Wide hipped, wide lipped

  Dried ha
rd in the bitter Georgia sun

  Somewhere along the hardscrabble road

  Somewhere between the Left Alone

  Blues and the One Room

  Bathroom down the hall

  The almost saved daughter

  Of Sunrise Baptist Tabernacle

  Hardened. One day the music

  Was loud enough and the

  Rhythm strong enough to

  Push her too far into the Night

  To ever turn back.

  She is my flesh and blood,

  Big boned as I am big boned

  Uncomfortable in

  Her skin.

  Now she lives in shadow and memory

  Her mind a cluttered shelf

  In a narrow hallway closet

  Her life is a tattered volume of fading

  Photos, brown edged and crumbling

  Some hopelessly stuck together

  In her quiet times, between the pain

  Of her newfound wilderness and the

  Rage of not knowing who she is

  She sorts the pictures, putting faces

  With times, times with places

  Sometimes, away from the girls who

  People her life, she cries in the darkness

  Thin shoulders, no longer straining

  Against the twisted bra straps

  Hunch forward. Dark hands twist

  Her half-empty cup

  Nervously as she waits for the silence

  To stop its threats

  For the talking to start the day.

  “Morning, Miss Ruby.”

  “Go on, child.”

  “How you feeling today?”

  “You know, there ain’t no need complaining.”

  “You want some eggs?”

  “They were all right.”

  “You didn’t have any eggs yet, Miss Ruby. I’ll make

  you some.”

  “You’re so sweet, Kitty.”

  “Junice, Miss Ruby. I’m Junice.”

  DAMIEN and ROXANNE

  “Roxanne, where you headed?” Damien asks.

  “To the Computer Lab to see

  If any He-males are sending

  E-mails my way. Where are you going?”

  “To the office to check out the yearbook

  Pictures.”

  “Well, aren’t you the busy one,” Roxanne says,

  “And by the way—Colson asked me to

  The Charity Jam—something about

  Homeless Asians, or Hurricanes—is there

  A war in Angola? Or is that a prison?

  Anyway, you’ve been so busy

  Too busy for dances, I’m sure. Mother was

  Surprised because she took it

  For granted that you and I would be—

  Well, you know how mothers are,

  Taking things for granted and Cynthia

  Said she saw you talking to that girl

  Hummis, or Loomis, something like

  That and don’t they have such

  Interesting names and did I hear her

  Mother was a drug dealer—Oh, I guess that’s

  What you do when you get hot

  Or is it ghe-tto. If you’re not too busy

  You should take her to

  The Charity Jam. I’m sure she’d fit

  Right in. Don’t you think so?”

  The PHONE CALL

  Hello, Junice?

  No, Damien Battle, Kevin’s friend

  We spoke just the other day, remember

  In the principal’s office. Yeah. Yeah.

  Wondering if you were busy Friday

  There’s this dance at a club downtown, not hip

  But good for a laugh, something new to do

  Could you? Could we? I don’t know. Are you free?

  It could be fun. Something to do. You and me.

  Damien, it’s good to hear from you

  Friday, no, I can’t.

  I have to babysit. You called so late

  Perhaps some other time. It sounds all right.

  But I thought you and Roxanne were tight

  She seems more your type. Nothing personal.

  And I’m glad you called and everything

  But right now I’m a bit unglued

  I love to dance, but not right now

  I’m not really in the mood

  Roxanne and I are friends, there’s nothing more

  Our folks go back, you know how that thing goes

  But, hey, you want to stop at the coffee shop

  I’m thinking of taking over the world, and I can

  Use some advice.

  Why am I holding my breath?

  She’s said “yes,” why am I nervous?

  DAMIEN, JUNICE, and MELISSA in GRACE’S COFFEE SHOP

  How are things with you, He asked

  You don’t know? She responded

  I’ve heard, He said

  What? She asked.

  That you are bruised, that there are tender spots in

  Your life

  There are no tender spots, She said, No bruises,

  She protested

  (She put two teaspoons of sugar

  Into her coffee, slowly stirring

  Only the top)

  The coffee used to be 50 cents here

  Now it is a dollar, He said.

  It’s cleaner now, She said

  The coffee is better

  There used to be flies, She said

  The flies liked the old coffee

  He said

  Her face flashed with smiling

  (She looked away and then back at him

  Delighted with his joke

  He wanted to delight her again.)

  Things change, She said

  Her face darkening with her mood

  Bruises happen.

  Sometimes, He said, it’s hard to know

  How to handle things

  (Melissa was quiet, but she was thinking

  That sometimes words

  Danced instead of talked

  They bowed and touched

  And moved away

  Making spaces in the air

  Between them

  It was hard to know what

  Damien and Junice were talking about

  Unless you could read the shape

  Of the air between

  Them. Melissa looked, and guessed

  That they liked each other.)

  When will I see you again? He asked, reaching for

  The bill.

  When would you like? She replied

  Looking toward the far counter

  Friday? He asked.

  Okay, She said, with a shrug of one

  Shoulder.

  I’ll give you my address, she said.

  You can come by. I’m

  Babysitting you-know-who.

  Fine, He said.

  (Melissa smiled)

  But my crib is just a crib, Junice said No

  Home & Garden stuff, just “do get by”

  But if you still want to come,

  Then ring the bell

  (What am I doing? He’ll take one quick look

  And wish he was anywhere else but here

  I’m already ashamed of what I think

  He will think of me, of the life I lead)

  I’ll see you Friday

  DAMIEN standing on the PLATFORM, waiting for the UPTOWN 2

  What sweet surprise have I found in her

  That makes me high with gladness?

  That makes me want to babble to my lost saints

  And count the ways to celebrate her wonder?

  I see Melissa softly touch her arm

  And I long to speak the language of that touch

  The hum and thrum of crosstown traffic sings to her

  And I long to scat and jazz that ode of joy

  Her smile lifts and lightens me, and I want to fly

  My newfound wings slanting to a sky

  Ablaze with shimmering brillia
nce

  As I am ablaze and silly and rapt

  Why does her look startle me?

  I have seen eyes sparkling in a sideways glance

  Why do her lips, pouting in a gentle curve

  Make my brain reel and my heart dance?

  With Junice I am not merely Damien

  But something new, a me invented

  Each atom of my being alive with feelings

  And oh what sweet sensations

  The crowded station rattles and shakes

  But I am alone on the mountaintop

  Naming the creatures of the earth

  And this sweet creature, this Junice, I will call Love

  JUNICE washing DISHES

  He might not show at all, but if he does

  I will take his jacket, and ask him to sit

  Where will he sit? On the sofa, of course

  He’ll look right at me, too polite to stare

  At the peeling walls or the faded rug

  He’ll ask how I’ve been and I’ll say “Quite well,

  Thank you.” Then I will have to sit, but where?

  Next to him on the sofa seems too bold

  But the window seat is too far away

  As if I’m afraid to be close to him

  Or being too respectful. That’s not good, either.

  Miss Ruby hardly touched her food

  And she doesn’t eat at all if I

  Put out the good plates. It’s as

  If her mind is back to some party

  From a hundred years ago.

  If Damien brings food I’ll have to sit near him

  Melissa will be watching television

  And Miss Ruby will be asleep.

  I hope she doesn’t snore

  I’ll make small talk, something about school

  Look at me, telling myself I don’t care

  What he thinks yet planning every move

  He’ll sit there and I’ll sit here with nothing

  Between us except our good intentions.

  And he had best bring his good intentions

  If this boy thinks I’m easy, some chump chick—

  I’ll start my good-byes at the end of hello

  Maybe I’ll just meet him at the door

  And tell him I’ve changed my mind

  And asking him here was just