Yesterday's Eyes

by Catherine Flowers

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Ida has never been close to her mother, Mavis, but she is a little too close to Mavis' s husband, the less-than-godly preacher of First Presbyterian Church. When Ida gives birth to a baby boy, she claims the preacher is the baby' s father.
After Ida is convicted of negligent homicide and goes to prison, Mavis finds herself faced with the task of raising Ida' s six-year-old daughter, Tia. Mavis barely knows her grandchild, and must find a way to form a bond while she' s still struggling with her husband' s betrayal.
Tia has already spent time with an abusive foster parent, and now must learn to survive with her emotionally distant grandmother.
Catherine Flowers brings readers the powerful story of three generations of women who must come to terms with the past and learn how to forgive one another if there is any hope of healing.

Release date: December 1, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

1988

Ida needed to escape. Not for the moment, but forever. Her six-year-old daughter, Tia, sat at the kitchen table looking at her silently as Ida brought the bottle of vodka up to her lips. She took a long swallow and felt the hot sting of the fiery liquid as it rushed down her throat. Her shoulders slumped over.

“I can’t take it no more!” she cried out. “I can’t take none of this no more!”

She stiffened her back suddenly. “You,” she said, pointing a rigid finger at Tia, “ain’t nothing.”

She turned and pointed the same finger toward an old bassinet sitting in front of the kitchen window. “Your brother, Him, ain’t nothing either. You know that, don’t you? Y’all just like me. You ain’t got nothing, ain’t never gone have nothing . . .”

She stopped abruptly and stood up, steadying herself with the back of the kitchen chair. “I gotta get out of here. All of this,” she spread her arms wide to embrace the sparsely furnished four-room upper flat, “all of this,” the anger in her voice gaining momentum, “is about to drive me crazy!”

Tia followed her mother as she staggered to the bedroom. She tried to ignore the familiar growling pang in her stomach as she watched her mother stand in front of the bedroom mirror and apply a thick layer of blue powder to her tiny slanted eyes. Next, she drew a straight red line with what looked like a crayon down each of her cheeks, and then gently rubbed it into her skin until only a lighter version of the redness remained. It made Tia think of caramel with a cherry on top, and her stomach growled again as she swallowed her own spit. Using the same crayon, her mother began to color in her lips until Tia could no longer see the natural tan color of them.

Finally, she squeezed her small frame into an even smaller black dress with sequins that sparkled and glittered every time she moved. Tia picked up her mother’s wig and began twirling it, thinking how it reminded her of a Halloween mask with its long brown strands of hair that, no matter how vigorously her mother brushed, would never stay in place.

“Here,” Tia said, handing it to her mother.

Ida snatched it from her, and without turning away from the mirror said, “Now go to bed.”

Tia walked into the living room, which was adjacent to her mother’s bedroom. A tan chair with brown and gold flowers on it sat in the center of the floor, and there was a matching sofa pushed against the wall that served as her bed.

“I’m hungry,” Tia said, plopping down onto the chair. “I didn’t eat dinner.” No sooner had the words left her mouth did she realize her mistake. She had only meant to think those words; to actually say them, she knew, would make her mother mad.

“Then go in the kitchen and fix a hot dog. You see I’m busy.”

“Ain’t no hot dogs.”

“What you mean ain’t no hot dogs? It was two in there this morning. What happened to them?”

Tia was silent.

“What happened to them?” her mother repeated as she walked unsteadily from the bedroom to the kitchen. She swung open the refrigerator door and found a half-liter bottle of cola and a handful of grapes inside. Turning her head swiftly to the left, she looked down into the wastebasket and saw the empty package that had once contained the last two hot dogs. “Tia, get in here!”

Tia slowly pushed herself up from the chair and went into the kitchen. Her arms and legs felt like a stretched rubber band that, after being plucked, continued to wiggle for a while.

“You ate the hot dogs, didn’t you?” Ida grabbed her arm and stared at her with eyes that were like an inferno. “Didn’t I tell you not to go eating up all the food? Didn’t I?” Her grip was tightening around Tia’s thin, right arm, and saliva was beginning to form at the corners of her mouth.

Tia inhaled the smell of alcohol on her mother’s breath, and it made her nauseated as she nodded her head up and down.

“Get in the living room and sit down.”

Slowly, with small steps, she followed her mother’s orders. Every muscle in her six-year-old body twitched in response to the increased danger signals being sent from one nerve ending to another.

Four steps and she was out of the kitchen. She counted with dismay the next four steps that would place her directly in front of her mother who stood watching her with both hands on her hips. Now, just five more steps and there sat the sofa, waiting for her, beckoning her to safety. She squeezed her hands into tiny fists. She could do this. She could make it to the sofa. But halfway into that first step she felt the sting of her mother’s hand on the back of her head. The blow sent her stumbling two or three steps along her course, but she maintained her balance and quickly scurried to the sofa.

“You get on my nerves!” her mother yelled.

Now, shaking uncontrollably, Tia kept her head down and tried hard to focus on the top of her dirty white canvas shoes. If she raised her big toe high enough, she could almost poke it through the hole that had formed on the top of the left shoe. But with each blinking of her eyelids, the hole became secondary to the spreading circle of moisture just below them.

“Didn’t I tell you not to eat those hot dogs?” Ida stood bellowing from the kitchen. “Didn’t I?”

Still looking down at her shoes, Tia began nodding her head, crying silently.

“Then why,” Ida was crying now, “why didn’t you listen to me?”

Tia kept her head down and did not answer.

Suddenly Ida was angry again. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Tia raised her eyes just in time to see the half-empty two-liter bottle of cola fly directly toward her. As she dodged the bottle, she heard it smash into the wall behind her and felt its cool liquid dance across her hair and face like rain. Only it wasn’t rain. It was soda, soda that she could have been swallowing instead of feeling it running down the side of her face.

“Lie down on the couch and go to sleep, and you better not move. I’ll be back,” Ida said, slamming the door behind her.

Slowly, Tia bent down to pick up the empty cola bottle from the floor. She could feel the lukewarm liquid trickling down the back of her ear. She ran her hand over the top of her head and felt the moisture intermingling with the coarseness of her hair, the sticky substance clinging to her ebony, bonelike fingers. Warm droplets took turns landing on the back of her neck after the liquid had reached the end of her two ponytails.

A cockroach had already begun making its way toward the puddle on the floor, having sensed sweetness nearby. She watched it for a while as it enjoyed its newfound treat before she finally gave it one good stomp with her foot. It lay almost void of life, semi-paralyzed from the weight of the heavy pressure. Even if it had wanted to crawl away, make its way back to safety, it could not for its insides were crushed, its tiny legs weakened by the unexpected blow.

She looked around the small upper flat. It was dull and colorless with a slightly putrid odor reeking throughout its four rooms. The square kitchen was barely big enough for a stove and refrigerator to fit into, and its walls were gray and dirty. It was in this room that the odor was strongest, and the screen-less window, propped open with an empty soda bottle, did little to diminish the smell. Directly below the window was the bassinet that her brother slept in, had always slept in since her mother had brought him home from the hospital two months ago.

The bedroom had an adjoining bathroom that, like the rest of the apartment, was dull and lifeless. The walls were a dingy off-white color and had cracks in the corners of the ceiling just above the bathtub and toilet where the paint had already begun to peel. Each time Tia went in to the bathroom, she would automatically look up to see if there were any paint chips about to fall onto her head, and the worn-out toilet seat always moved, shifting to the left or right whenever she sat on it, causing her to fear that she would one day fall into it. Baths were always a torturous occasion ever since she’d seen the rat.

“It’s not a rat,” she remembered her mother saying. “It’s a mouse.”

Mouse or rat, all she knew was that it had poked its little head out of a hole in the baseboard of the cabinet beneath the sink. She had been playing in the tub when, from the corner of her eye, she’d detected a sudden movement. She’d turned just in time to see the rodent’s head rapidly turning from side to side, its tiny, beady eyes moving back and forth frantically.

“Momma!” Tia had cried out.

“What?” Ida responded.

“A rat!”

“Where?” Her mother had stood calmly in the doorway with both hands on her hips.

“There.” Tia remembered pointing toward the baseboard that had no longer shown any signs of a rodent having been there.

“Here?” she recalled her mother saying as she handed her a towel. “Just get out. You done, ain’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” she lied.

The green bar of soap with tiny white streaks running through it had not even made contact with her washcloth, much less her body. But she had to get out of that tub, out of that room, and from that point on, Tia McElroy held the world record for being able to take the fastest bath in the world.

Sitting on the sofa now, Tia tried to figure out why her mother had been crying one minute and was so angry the next. Had it been the rat she’d seen months ago? Was it her and her brother now? And what about that thing called nothing? Was that it? She would have liked to have comforted her mother, to have given her a hug and a kiss, and told her everything would be all right, but she knew her mother did not like hugs and kisses, and anyway, she had her own nothingness to deal with. It kept occupying her stomach, serving as a constant reminder that she was hungry, and their refrigerator, like her stomach, was empty.

Her mind drifted back to earlier in the month when she had accompanied her mother to the grocery store. She had wiggled with anticipation, thinking of all the food she would see, knowing that they would be bringing some of it home with them. Her mother had pushed the shopping cart full of plastic bags—eight to be exact—through the exit doors looking for a driver to take them home. It was always the same toothless, gray-haired, old man who would ask, “Need a ride?” and her mother would nod her head.

They would get into the back of his old station wagon, the torn vinyl seat cover sticking to Tia’s small thighs as she would reposition herself to get a better view of the scenery passing before her.

In any given city, there is a street named after Martin Luther King, Jr. In Tia’s city, Martin Luther King Drive ran approximately six blocks south before turning into Old World Third Street in downtown Milwaukee, and two miles north before turning into Green Bay Avenue. It was located in the center of southeastern Wisconsin in the heart of a city that was looked upon as “the ghetto” by those who lived on the outskirts.

In the ’60s and ’70s, it had been booming with business that boasted a variety of shops where one could buy quality clothing or furniture. Reasonably priced haircuts or relaxers were advertised at the local barbershop or beauty salon. And bargains on quality meats were a constant at the Good Deal butcher shop. There had even been a full-scale grocery store where drivers like the one Tia and her mother always rode with sat around waiting to take families and their groceries home. When the economy dropped, most of the booming businesses were systematically replaced by window-less, burnt-out, and dilapidated buildings. However, the one business to remain a constant throughout the years was Oscar’s jewelry store. Perhaps, having gained a familiarity to this type of clientele, he knew that no matter how broke some folks got, they would still find a way to satisfy their desire for gold necklaces and rings. And so he stayed, catering to—and exploiting—the poor.

Since the renaming of Third Street to Martin Luther King Drive several years ago, there had been a campaign to bring life and vitality back to the small community. The first effort had been in the form of a brand-new pharmacy that had been erected across the street, diagonally from the jewelry store. Next, was a community health clinic for those who had no health insurance or were underinsured. At the same time, restaurants, low-income apartments, and other businesses began to plant themselves in various areas of the neighborhood. And what had once turned into a ghost town was slowly trying to resurrect itself. But there was still a long way to go.

Turning right or left on Martin Luther King Drive would lead to many run-down single- and two-family homes. Some of the homes hinted of an effort by their occupants to keep the property up, while others blatantly displayed a lack of concern that was evident by dirt in places where grass should have been, and abandoned, underinsured vehicles parked in unkempt backyards. There were also many boarded up houses with “For Sale” signs on the lawn, posing as eyesores to the city. And there were plans in the making to refurbish many of these properties.

Long before they arrived home from the grocery store, Tia would begin the begging ritual, having carefully planned which food items she would ask for first.

“Mama, can I have some cookies when we get home?”

Ida had pressed her lips together and waited a few seconds before answering. “We’ll see.”

“No, I changed my mind. Umm, can I have some cookies and potato chips?” she asked, then quickly revised her plan. “No, I want some cookies first. Then I want some potato chips and a hot dog, okay?” She had known that she was running the risk of being slapped for talking so much, but the thought of relieving the hunger pains in her stomach outweighed the pain of a slap across her face.

“Hush your mouth, girl,” her mother had said. “We ain’t even home yet, and you begging already. This food’s got to last us all month because when it’s gone it’s gone, and I don’t want to hear nothing about you being hungry.”

Another wave of hunger pangs brought Tia back to the present. She went into the kitchen to check on Him, who, through it all, had not cried out. A warm breeze drifted in from the window, causing the putrid odor to intensify momentarily. She looked up at the sky and knew that when her mother came home all the mini marshmallows now covering it would be gone, replaced by darkness and maybe a few stars.

She pulled the blanket back from Him’s face and was again reminded of the odor that permeated the small apartment. She stood still as he stared up at her with eyelids that did not blink. She pulled the blanket all the way down to his feet. He was a small baby with a stomach that seemed to take up most of his body. His tiny feet had patches of purple covering them, and she wondered why he never cried. Even she knew that babies were supposed to cry sometimes. Her mother had said it was because he was such a good baby. But even so, didn’t good babies cry too? She rubbed his arm, and the texture made her think of a plastic baby doll. But he wasn’t a doll. He was her baby brother. She touched his other arm and wondered why he was so cold in the middle of July.

Ida stepped onto the porch and looked at the house directly across the street. She recognized the shadow staring down at her from the upstairs window. The woman stood still with both hands placed on her wide hips and made no attempt to hide herself from Ida’s view.

“Hey, Trip,” Ida yelled to the shadow, while waving her hands wildly above her head. “I see you!”

The woman maintained her posture and did not return the greeting. As Ida began walking slowly down the street, she thought about the silhouette in the window. That shadow, her mother Mavis—also known as Trip—had always been the source of her misery. She blamed her for everything that was wrong in her life. Even now, as she left Tia and Him alone, she blamed the shadow because if she had been any kind of a mother at all, maybe they’d still be speaking to each other, and she could have asked her to watch them for her. After all, she was their grandmother. She shouldn’t even have to ask. But there had always been a distance between them that Ida had never understood.

Growing up with her, she recalled her mother always getting upset over one thing or another. “Don’t sit there. Put that back. Hang that up. Clean that up. Why are you wearing that?” Always a constant flow of commands or corrections for the things she did wrong.

It had started out in her mind—calling her mother Trip. Ida would silently wonder why her mother was always tripping about things. Eventually, the silent wonder found strength through her increasing rebellious nature, and she began to ask the question out loud. And when she did not receive what she felt was an acceptable answer to her question, she would let her dissatisfaction be known by calling her mother a trip. Even though her mother never showed it, Ida knew being called Trip irritated her, and so she did it that much more with glee.

“Trip, Trip, Trip,” Ida repeated as if she was singing a song. Suddenly, her tone changed, and she yelled angrily over her shoulder, “Say hi to your preacher man for me!”

The shadow forcefully pulled the curtains together and disappeared from the window.

Ida continued down the street, an occasional stagger—the effect from the half pint of vodka she’d consumed earlier—interrupting her gait. She had moved to the area when she was sixteen years old—four years after her mother had married Henry. That had been eight years ago when the mention of Forgery Boulevard on the northwest side of the city meant that financially, a family was doing all right in life. Most of the houses she passed were still owner occupied, including her mother’s. But there were several rental properties as well, and the one that she rented across the street also belonged to her mother and her mother’s husband, Henry. The people in the neighborhood were a mixture of ethnic backgrounds, and everyone kept to themselves most of the time with an occasional quick greeting in passing.

When they had first moved to the neighborhood, Ida had felt a sense of pride. Their house had been categorized as a standard bungalow with an upstairs attic partially remodeled to include two of three bedrooms. The roof was comprised of rustic-orange, brown, and maroon-colored tiles with beige vinyl siding, and there was a tan awning with vertical brown stripes hanging in the front of the house above a single-pane picture window. She was happy to be living in a real house, something nice. But her joy soon turned to resentment when she discovered that it did her no good to have a nice house with furniture that she could not sit on because it was reserved for guests that they seldom had.

Through the years, homes had been sold, and the new owners were not as predisposed to keeping up their property to the same degree as the previous owners had done. Other homes were rented out under a government program known as rent assistance, and slowly the neighborhood began to deteriorate. To this day, Ida was waiting for an answer from her mother about when the peeling paint on her own bathroom walls would be removed and repainted.

As she neared the bus stop, she thought about Henry. How was he able to deal with a woman like her mother? But then, he was just a man, wasn’t he? And he was different from her unknown biological father only in that he had stuck around and married her mother. But that’s where the difference ended.

She could tell her mother a few things about her preacher man if she wanted to. And maybe she would one day. Now that she was twenty-four years old, maybe she would tell her mother about all the things Henry had been doing to her, and she to him, for the past three years. And how each time, she made him pay before he received those little pleasures that he said he could not, and would never receive at home. So, she reasoned, he really wasn’t dealing with Mavis. He was conducting business with Ida. Every Monday night.

She would watch him from her living-room window as he left his house, got in his car, and drove off. Minutes later, he would be knocking on her back door. It was always the same. She would open the door and hold out her hand. He would place fifty dollars into it, and they would walk up the stairs without speaking.

She thought about how badly she could use that money now. She was well aware of the empty refrigerator in her kitchen. And she didn’t need Tia reminding her that there was nothing to eat. She still had one-and-a-half weeks to go before her food stamps would come or before she would receive another check from the county. What was she supposed to do until then?

The rent she had to pay took away half the amount of the check she received every month, and her mother refused to lower it. She was eligible for energy assistance every year, and that helped to keep the electricity and heat on in the small apartment, but there still was not enough money to live on. The food stamps were only good for food items; she could not buy things like toothpaste, toilet . . .