Excerpt from Problems in Living
I ring the doorbell, holding the
phone in my right hand down by my thigh. The door opens almost immediately.
“Hey, BB.” Curtis is dressed only in jeans. His chest is covered with scratches and he’s smiling that weak, punk ass smile. A cigarette burns in his left hand.
“Move.” I push past him and stop in the middle of the small living room just beyond the foyer. There is shit everywhere. Pictures have been ripped off the walls. The pillows from the sofa and loveseat, toys from the boy’s room, and books from the bookcase Daddy built for them cover the floor. Curtis comes up behind me. I turn to face him. I’m not sure if the nausea I suddenly feel is from the smoke or his smile.
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“She won’t come out of the bedroom. I guess you told her to stay in there. She won’t talk to me either.” Curtis walks to the couch, sits, crosses his legs at the knee, and takes a long pull from his cigarette. He stares, waiting. His way reminds me so much of Mama. It’s as if there’s a physical link outside of their shared butterscotch complexions and small frames. Like she continues
to feed him through an invisible umbilical cord and he is still mostly her. Blood. Tissue. Immunity. He throbs with what she is. I smell her where I stand.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Curtis?” He takes another pull, impervious to my anger. He won’t raise his voice. They don’t do that.
“I told you what happened. If you choose to believe her over your own brother, I can’t do nothing about that.”
No, he didn’t. Nothing in my definition suggests I would give him the benefit of the doubt just because Mama and Daddy say we’re related.
“You think ‘cause you’re my brother I should believe you over Sandra? You’re not the one who’s been getting your ass beat almost every day for the last three years, are you? No, I don’t think so. Forgive me if I don’t give in to the bullshit.”
He smirks, pulls up his shoulders from a slouch and waves an open palm over his crimson chest. His knuckles are bruised red running into purple. I notice how short and thick his fingers are, how his hand is half the size of an average man’s.
“You see I got scratches all over me and you haven’t even asked if I’m okay. This is evidence that she hurts me, too. For all you know I’ve been defending myself all these years. Shit, I should call the police on her ass.”
He puts his legs up on the glass table, disturbing magazines spread all over. Some fall to the floor. He’s pleased with his knowledge that the police would arrest her, too, because they’re both injured. Curtis has been arrested enough for battery to know the law. He just hasn’t managed to hit her without leaving a bruise, scratch, blood or gotten her to hurt him severe enough so that only Sandra would get cuffed. Because she does fight— she just won’t leave. I start to say something, but realize I’m wasting my time. His insanity is the same as Mama’s: impenetrable. I need to see Sandra and the baby.
I walk to the back of the three-bedroom house down the long hallway. I watch my feet to keep from tripping over debris from the tornado that came through earlier. The master suite is all the way in the back of the house.
I knock on the door. “Sandra, it’s me.” After a few minutes she opens the door. I have practiced not responding to my sister-in-law’s injuries because I believe it makes things worse for her. I know she’s already ashamed and embarrassed for me to see her busted up. It gets harder to hide my shock every time. It’s hard now but this is not as bad as it’s been. Her bottom lip is swollen at least three times its normal size. Her top lip is swollen, too, but just a little. I imagine she was chewing on the top lip when he struck her. She does that when she gets nervous.
“Sit on the bed and let me look at it.” I come into the room, close and lock the door. She’s done more decorating since I was here last month for their barbecue. There are butterflies in various colors and sizes on the new border outlining the room. The bedspread is gray, and the black and gray quilt she started on last spring is complete and folded at the bottom of the bed. Sandra sits on the quilt holding her baby who is reaching for her mother’s face. The seven-month-old coos and babbles. Her mother looks down at the soft, smiling baby still dressed in red, lightweight, one-piece pajamas. The baby’s curly hair is red also and only a few shades darker than her skin.
“Hey, Hope. How is Auntie’s baby?” I gently take her from her mother. “Come on, sweetie. You’re such a good girl.” The baby coos and smiles. She touches my face when I kiss her. I walk over to her playpen and sit her down in it. I wait to see if she’ll fall over, but she is solid. She’s doing everything fast. I turn on the mobile and she immediately reaches for the plastic animals.
Sandra has always appeared frail to me. The first time I met her, which was after she’d married my brother, I knew I would have to take care of her. They got married at the courthouse. Nobody in the family knew he was seeing only one woman.
“Let me see.” I sit next to her on the bed. “Does it hurt bad?”
“It stings, but it’s not that bad.” Her face is in my hand, but she doesn’t look at me when she speaks. She never does. But when someone is talking to her, she maintains eye contact. I think she’s exceptionally attentive to people in this way. I just wish she could do herself the same.
“I need to clean it up and put some ice on it.” There is shame in her eyes. If she could do anything but call me, she would and has in the past. But I always seem to be the one. No one in the family handles Curtis like I do. Sandra doesn’t have anyone else.
“Okay,” she says as she looks over in the direction of the headboard.
I get up and walk to the door. I can hear movement on the other side. “Are you coming with me today?” Sandra is looking dead at me when I glance over my shoulder. Her eyes are pleading for me not to judge. The fear is so heavy and expansive I feel coated in it. God, I need to save her.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided. But you should probably take the baby.” She diverts her eyes.
I sigh and try to come up with something to say that will convince her to come with me. I know from history that I just don’t have the words. I defer to what I know she will allow me to do for her.
“I’ll get the boys after school and keep all of them so you can rest. You’re not going to work tonight, are you?”
I turn back to face the door so she won’t be compelled to look away. “I already called in.” I think she still does.
“Good. Lock this behind me.”
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Copyright 2004 Melissa Brown Levine
“Hey, BB.” Curtis is dressed only in jeans. His chest is covered with scratches and he’s smiling that weak, punk ass smile. A cigarette burns in his left hand.
“Move.” I push past him and stop in the middle of the small living room just beyond the foyer. There is shit everywhere. Pictures have been ripped off the walls. The pillows from the sofa and loveseat, toys from the boy’s room, and books from the bookcase Daddy built for them cover the floor. Curtis comes up behind me. I turn to face him. I’m not sure if the nausea I suddenly feel is from the smoke or his smile.
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Amazon
Barnes and Noble
“She won’t come out of the bedroom. I guess you told her to stay in there. She won’t talk to me either.” Curtis walks to the couch, sits, crosses his legs at the knee, and takes a long pull from his cigarette. He stares, waiting. His way reminds me so much of Mama. It’s as if there’s a physical link outside of their shared butterscotch complexions and small frames. Like she continues
to feed him through an invisible umbilical cord and he is still mostly her. Blood. Tissue. Immunity. He throbs with what she is. I smell her where I stand.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Curtis?” He takes another pull, impervious to my anger. He won’t raise his voice. They don’t do that.
“I told you what happened. If you choose to believe her over your own brother, I can’t do nothing about that.”
No, he didn’t. Nothing in my definition suggests I would give him the benefit of the doubt just because Mama and Daddy say we’re related.
“You think ‘cause you’re my brother I should believe you over Sandra? You’re not the one who’s been getting your ass beat almost every day for the last three years, are you? No, I don’t think so. Forgive me if I don’t give in to the bullshit.”
He smirks, pulls up his shoulders from a slouch and waves an open palm over his crimson chest. His knuckles are bruised red running into purple. I notice how short and thick his fingers are, how his hand is half the size of an average man’s.
“You see I got scratches all over me and you haven’t even asked if I’m okay. This is evidence that she hurts me, too. For all you know I’ve been defending myself all these years. Shit, I should call the police on her ass.”
He puts his legs up on the glass table, disturbing magazines spread all over. Some fall to the floor. He’s pleased with his knowledge that the police would arrest her, too, because they’re both injured. Curtis has been arrested enough for battery to know the law. He just hasn’t managed to hit her without leaving a bruise, scratch, blood or gotten her to hurt him severe enough so that only Sandra would get cuffed. Because she does fight— she just won’t leave. I start to say something, but realize I’m wasting my time. His insanity is the same as Mama’s: impenetrable. I need to see Sandra and the baby.
I walk to the back of the three-bedroom house down the long hallway. I watch my feet to keep from tripping over debris from the tornado that came through earlier. The master suite is all the way in the back of the house.
I knock on the door. “Sandra, it’s me.” After a few minutes she opens the door. I have practiced not responding to my sister-in-law’s injuries because I believe it makes things worse for her. I know she’s already ashamed and embarrassed for me to see her busted up. It gets harder to hide my shock every time. It’s hard now but this is not as bad as it’s been. Her bottom lip is swollen at least three times its normal size. Her top lip is swollen, too, but just a little. I imagine she was chewing on the top lip when he struck her. She does that when she gets nervous.
“Sit on the bed and let me look at it.” I come into the room, close and lock the door. She’s done more decorating since I was here last month for their barbecue. There are butterflies in various colors and sizes on the new border outlining the room. The bedspread is gray, and the black and gray quilt she started on last spring is complete and folded at the bottom of the bed. Sandra sits on the quilt holding her baby who is reaching for her mother’s face. The seven-month-old coos and babbles. Her mother looks down at the soft, smiling baby still dressed in red, lightweight, one-piece pajamas. The baby’s curly hair is red also and only a few shades darker than her skin.
“Hey, Hope. How is Auntie’s baby?” I gently take her from her mother. “Come on, sweetie. You’re such a good girl.” The baby coos and smiles. She touches my face when I kiss her. I walk over to her playpen and sit her down in it. I wait to see if she’ll fall over, but she is solid. She’s doing everything fast. I turn on the mobile and she immediately reaches for the plastic animals.
Sandra has always appeared frail to me. The first time I met her, which was after she’d married my brother, I knew I would have to take care of her. They got married at the courthouse. Nobody in the family knew he was seeing only one woman.
“Let me see.” I sit next to her on the bed. “Does it hurt bad?”
“It stings, but it’s not that bad.” Her face is in my hand, but she doesn’t look at me when she speaks. She never does. But when someone is talking to her, she maintains eye contact. I think she’s exceptionally attentive to people in this way. I just wish she could do herself the same.
“I need to clean it up and put some ice on it.” There is shame in her eyes. If she could do anything but call me, she would and has in the past. But I always seem to be the one. No one in the family handles Curtis like I do. Sandra doesn’t have anyone else.
“Okay,” she says as she looks over in the direction of the headboard.
I get up and walk to the door. I can hear movement on the other side. “Are you coming with me today?” Sandra is looking dead at me when I glance over my shoulder. Her eyes are pleading for me not to judge. The fear is so heavy and expansive I feel coated in it. God, I need to save her.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided. But you should probably take the baby.” She diverts her eyes.
I sigh and try to come up with something to say that will convince her to come with me. I know from history that I just don’t have the words. I defer to what I know she will allow me to do for her.
“I’ll get the boys after school and keep all of them so you can rest. You’re not going to work tonight, are you?”
I turn back to face the door so she won’t be compelled to look away. “I already called in.” I think she still does.
“Good. Lock this behind me.”
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Copyright 2004 Melissa Brown Levine
