After the Flag Has Been Folded (24 page)

I was crying by the time I walked into the house. Only Linda was there. “What's the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

“Well then, why are you crying?” she pressed.

“Wes and I had a fight.”

Linda rolled her eyes, let out a big sigh, and returned to the math book propped open in her lap. She didn't like Wes, and she especially didn't like me hanging out with him. Linda was going to church more than me now. Patsy had taken Linda under her wing shortly after I started bringing Linda to church with me. Just being in my sister's presence made me feel guilty. I was too ashamed of myself to be much of a sister to Linda, but nothing, not even guilt, deterred me from a path of self-destruction.

Sometime later that week, while I was still a virgin, I prayed another prayer. “I'm going to get pregnant,” I said.

It wasn't a prayer as much as it was a statement of my intentions. My reasoning was convoluted. I figured if I got pregnant, Wes would marry me, and then I would finally have two people who would love me unconditionally—Wes and my baby. Our own little family.

I didn't think about the fact that Wes was only a junior in high school and likely a poor candidate for fatherhood, given his taste for marijuana and beer. I refused to dwell on the fact that he wasn't a Christian and that we had absolutely nothing in common, other than our fatherless childhoods. I tried unsuccessfully to ignore the mounting guilt I felt about my own sorry choices. The guiltier I felt, the angrier I got; the angrier I got, the more determined I was to do things my way. And God, being who He is, let me.

My girlfriend Beth had no idea how heated up things were between Wes and me. But she was always willing to hang with me, to go with me whenever and wherever I went. I picked Beth up at Hardaway High School almost every afternoon in the Dodge we called Old Blue. Sometimes we would hang out at her house, but that afternoon I wanted to go out to Crystal Valley and see if we could find Wes and his buddy Tom. Tom was a scrawny, dark-headed kid. Beth tagged him as “Bag of Bones.” She didn't feel any attraction to him, but he felt plenty for her. Beth was generously endowed with a figure as voluptuous as any of those Grecian goddesses depicted on that shower curtain hanging in our bathroom.

I headed east on Manchester Expressway, avoiding the afternoon bus traffic on Macon Road. We were well past the grassy knoll where Kadie, a monstrous-sized cow sculpture, kept watch over Kinnett Dairies and the acreage where the Peachtree Mall would later be constructed, when Beth spotted Wes's Volkswagen Beetle headed west. Tom was with him.

“Hey! There they go!” Beth shouted as the boys whizzed on by us in the opposite direction.

“Hold on!” I yelled back, and applied my foot to the brakes. Then, making sure no one was behind me in either lane, I gave the steering wheel a sharp turn to the left. The car left the expressway at way too fast a speed and jolted to a hard stop. Beth and I were tossed forward, then backward. “You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, laughing.

Old Blue was resting on her nose. I'd run her aground in the grassy median. Beth and I got out of the car to inspect the damage. We were both laughing, more from nervousness than anything funny. The car had so many dents in it already, it was hard to tell if this would leave a noticeable abrasion or not. Traffic whipped by us on both sides.

I got into the car and tried to back it out. But the front wheels had dug into the ground, and the rear wheels weren't touching Mother Earth.

“What are we going to do?” Beth asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “Let's trying pushing it.”

I put the car in neutral. Beth took one corner and I took the other. We might as well have tried moving Kadie the Kinnett cow, whose hooves were encased in cement. Old Blue didn't budge.

A car pulled off the expressway. “Y'all girls all right?” a silver-haired woman wearing bauble jewelry called out to us.

“Yes, ma'am!” Beth called back. “We're fine. Thanks, anyway.”

“Well, if you're sure,” she said, without getting out of her car. “I'm going to call the police for you.” She rolled her window up and drove off.

“The police!” Beth said, panicked.

Every cop in town knew Beth's mama, Rufe McCombs, the Legal Aid attorney. We both knew that if her mama found out about this little escapade, she'd skin us alive.

Another car pulled over. A muscular man wearing a short-sleeve shirt and dress pants approached us. “Y'all okay?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I swerved to miss a dog that ran out in front of me,” I lied.

“A dog?” He looked at me suspiciously.

“Yes, sir,” Beth interjected.

“Where's the dog?” the fellow asked.

“Done run off, sir,” I replied. “It wasn't hurt though.”

Beth could barely contain her giggles.

Another car pulled off the roadway. In those days, people thought nothing of stopping to help stranded motorists.

A fellow even bigger and buffer than the first one approached us. The two men conferred as Beth and I tried to figure out how we were going to get out of this mess. The men decided they would push Old Blue out for us. In less than ten minutes, they had backed her up and righted her nose. Old Blue didn't appear to be any worse for the wear.

“Oh, thank y'all so much,” I gushed, glad for the help.

“Yes, sirs,” Beth said. “Thank you so much. We sure appreciate it. Some lady had stopped and said she was going to call the pigs for us, but we could've been here hours waiting.”

The first of the fellows turned and stared at us. “No problem,” he said. “I'm a pig. This just happens to be my day off.”

In the 1970s,
pig
was the degrading slang term used for cops. Beth was mortified that she'd just called this police officer a pig to his face. Her jaw dropped, and her brown eyes grew dark with anxiety. If he'd known that she was Rufe McCombs's daughter talking so disrespectfully to him, it would have been all over the downtown precinct by midnight.

Beth and I drove back to my house. Wes and Tom had been there, Linda said. They'd waited around for us about fifteen minutes, then left. I took Beth home. I knew Wes would likely be back later.

He was.

And nearly every night thereafter, right up until the moment I had to see a doctor about a pregnancy exam. After that, Wes wasn't around much.

I didn't get pregnant on November 12, my seventeenth birthday, even though Wes and I did the big nasty for the first time ever. It happened after a couple of more intimate encounters.

All the telltale signs were there. Puking, puking, and more puking. My morning sickness extended through most of my waking hours.
Mama would get home from her graveyard shift sometime after I left for school, and a few mornings I was so sick, I couldn't get out the door before she got home. She never quizzed me about why I was throwing up. But after a few weeks of constant nausea, I left school early, went home, and woke up my slumbering mama.

She reached for her glasses as I sat on the edge of her bed. “What's wrong?” she asked.

“I've been sick a lot lately,” I said.

“What kind of sick?” Mama asked.

“I've been throwing up a lot.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“I don't know, ma'am,” I said. “But I might be.”

I knew Mama wouldn't yell at me. She never had been one to raise her voice much. It was her quiet disapproval that I dreaded more than anything. Frank had given her grief for years. Now here I was, the daughter she once called her guardian angel, sullied by the sperm of a boy she barely knew.

Mama tapped a cigarette from a pack and lit it. With her elbows resting on her knees, she took a long drag.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” I said. Tears of sorrow tumbled down my cheeks. I was overcome by the shame of a child who has disappointed a parent.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“I don't know,” I answered.

“You need to see a doctor,” she said. “I'll get you an appointment.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied.

She did not reach out to embrace me. While I really wanted her to hug me at that moment, I appreciated that Mama didn't offer me trite reassurances, such as “Don't worry, everything will turn out okay.” She knew better than that. And so did I.

M
AMA MADE THE DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENT, BUT SHE DIDN'T GO WITH ME.
I
WENT ALONE, BUT
W
ES
found out where I was and showed up while I was waiting in the reception room.

“What are you doin' here?” I asked.

“I wanted to see how the test goes,” he said.

“Go home,” I said. “Leave me alone.”

“Nah, you don't need to be alone,” he replied, giving me one of those slow grins.

I don't remember much about the exam, other than that the soft-spoken doctor confirmed that yes, I was pregnant.

Wes and I drove out to Flat Rock Park in his car and talked. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I dunno,” I said.

“Well, you can't keep the baby,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“How are you going to take care of it?” he asked. This was Wes's subtle way of telling me not to count on him for any help. “Maybe you ought to have an abortion,” he said.

“What?” I asked, stunned by his suggestion.

We rode around the park in silence for a long time afterward. We passed the picnic area where I had first learned of the locusts and the
coming holocaust predicted in the Book of Revelation. A couple of those Grace Baptist Bible-study sessions had been held here at Flat Rock. Those studies had frightened me so badly I couldn't sleep for months afterward. Back then I was too afraid of God to ever defy Him. Now look at me.

We passed the swimming hole where our Rose Hill Baptist youth group had often gathered on hot summer days. We had bruised our thighs and elbows slipping over those slimy black rocks, and gone home sunburnt and dog tired but with laughter still ringing in our ears. What were my friends going to think of me now? I didn't think I would ever be able to look Pastor Smitty and Betty in the eyes again. Or Patsy Ward. Maybe, I thought, I will just never, ever go back to church.

Wes lit a cigarette.

I told him I didn't want him coming around the house anymore. That I didn't want to see him at all. I didn't cry or yell. I just said it matter-of-factly. He didn't argue with me. He just took me home and dropped me off.

Lynn Wilkes was the first friend I told. She was home from college for the weekend. I drove out to her house and found her in her bedroom, books propped open, reading, as usual. Lynn graduated from Columbus High with highest honors. I knew she'd probably do the same at Berry College.

Lynn was pre-engaged to Jimmy Burke by that time—the 1970s version of getting pinned. The promise ring Jimmy gave her meant they would eventually marry when they had both finished school and gotten their careers on track. Lynn was majoring in home economics, and Jimmy was attending Columbus College and thinking of heading to seminary one day.

Lynn and I had never discussed sex, under any situation. She knew nothing about the kind of home I had grown up in, and she certainly knew nothing of my sexual exploits. She barely knew who Wesley was. But I went to Lynn for one reason only—she was the most spiritual
woman I knew; besides, she loved me unconditionally. I knew that even if Lynn was disappointed in me, she would never say so. I could trust her to be a friend to me, no matter what.

We were sitting on the twin bed in her tidy room when I just blurted it out. “I'm pregnant, Lynn.”

I'm sure it was the last thing she ever expected me to say. But she responded as if I had just told her that a rainstorm was headed our way. She studied me for a moment and then, very calmly, said, “I don't even know what to say.”

“Me neither,” I replied.

I told the whole story. About how alone I had been feeling without Frank or Charlie Wells around. How it seemed nothing I ever did turned out right. How I prayed and asked God to just get out of my life and leave me alone. And how easily God had complied with that rebellious prayer.

We both mulled over my situation. Lynn encouraged me to go to Pastor Smitty and ask for his help. I promised her I would. She told me she wished she could offer me better advice. I told her not to worry; I just needed someone to listen to me. I couldn't bring myself to tell Patsy what a mess I'd gotten myself into. I don't think I ever did tell her. But I did make that appointment with Pastor Smitty as I had promised Lynn I would.

Meanwhile, Mama had come home one afternoon and announced two things—first, she thought I should have an abortion; second, she wanted me to go on birth control pills immediately afterward.

Abortions were uncommon in 1974, particularly in Georgia. I didn't even know exactly what an abortion was, or how it was performed. I just knew you went to sleep pregnant and woke up unpregnant.

I told Mama that under no circumstances would I have an abortion. Furthermore, I didn't need any birth control pills because I'd given Wes the boot. I didn't intend to see him anymore, ever.

Mama scoffed at me. “Yeah, right,” she said, turning on her heels and walking out of the room.

Linda and I never ever discussed my pregnancy. She was ashamed of me, and I knew it. What more was there to talk about? She spent more time with Patsy and at church. I spent more time alone.

Once when Wes did show up at the house, I hid in the den closet. Linda told him I wasn't there. He didn't believe her, so he came into the house and said he'd wait for me to show up. I spent nearly forty-five minutes in that closet waiting for him to leave. Linda didn't have any idea how to get rid of him, but she kept telling him every ten minutes that I was with a friend and wouldn't be home for a very long time. Eventually he left, and she rescued me from the darkness.

It was while I was stuffed in between the coats and old baseball bats that I determined Mama was probably right, I should have an abortion. Wes wasn't fit to be a parent, and I couldn't raise a child without a daddy around. That was too hard. Besides, I was too embarrassed to go through the rest of my senior year pregnant. All of a sudden I had a burning desire to go to college—something I'd never even really thought about before.

Problem was, by the time I'd decided this was likely the best course of action to take, Mama had changed her mind.

Seems she and Frank had been discussing the situation during their weekly phone calls. Frank urged Mama not to give me permission to have an abortion. It's murder, he declared. He told Mama she should raise the baby, or I should give it up for adoption.

Frank had been in Oregon less than a month when he met up with some fellows from Multnomah School of the Bible. They invited him to church on Easter Sunday of 1973, and he went. Soon, he was going to Bible study as well. Frank's battle with drugs was far from over, but finally he was turning to God for help. And he was trying to become a person who would make Mama and Daddy proud. But I was too caught up in my own rebellion to be thankful for the changes that were taking place in Frank's life. I was furious with my brother when I found out he was opposed to the abortion.

“There is no way I am going to let you raise a baby of mine!”
I screamed at Mama when she told me she didn't think I ought to have an abortion after all.

“You're just too ashamed to go through your senior year pregnant,” Mama said.

“Maybe so!” I replied. “But you were never around when I was growing up, why would I give you a baby to raise?”

“It's wrong!” Mama said, reiterating that she didn't want me to have an abortion.

“Says who?” I implored. “My brother? Is that who is telling you all this? Mr. Sanctimonious himself? He goes to Oregon and finds Jesus and now he thinks he has a right to tell me how to run my life?”

“I could refuse to sign the paperwork, you know,” Mama said. She turned and walked out of the room. Mama hated arguing of any sort.

Frank called me on a Sunday afternoon. It was the first time we'd spoken in months. His voice was gentle but firm. “Karen, don't do this,” he urged. “I've been studying up on this in my Bible group. Abortion is murder. Have the baby, give it up for adoption. Let Mama raise it, but don't do this, please.”

I was touched by his concern but angered by his interference. “Isn't it funny that you are now giving me advice when for so many years you did nothing but cause grief for all of us around here?” I asked. My words were intended to burn him. It worked.

“I know, I know,” he said. “But don't mess up your life just because I screwed up everything in mine.”

Frank tried to explain to me why abortions were wrong and why I ought to reconsider. He quoted numerous Scripture verses on the value of life. I heard him, but I didn't listen. He had long since lost the right to be my advisor. It had been years since I'd admired him or valued his opinions. It would be another decade before I would do so again.

I knew Mama could stop me from having an abortion by refusing to sign for it. But I also knew she wouldn't do that. She always
subscribed to the theory that once a person makes up her mind, there is little anyone can do to dissuade her. Mama hadn't really had a handle on parenting any of us for quite some time. Our relationship, in particular, had always been a tumultuous one. Our personalities frequently clashed. I was emotive and backtalked her all the time. Mama didn't much care for emotions. They complicated life. And she rarely, if ever, expressed her emotions in words.

She once pitched a can of beans at my head in a fit of anger. It was her way of telling me to shut up. I ducked and the can crashed clean through the wall behind me. That scared us both so bad neither of us said a word for a minute or two. Then we both burst out laughing. I think that was the closest I've come to being decapitated, thus far. As far as I know, those beans are still in the walls of that house on Fifty-second Street. Mama just plastered over the hole without ever retrieving the can.

I didn't really value Frank's or Mama's opinion one way or another about the pregnancy. Still, I did have enough sense to realize that I had to patch things up with God as quickly as possible. I was obviously a failure at handling things by myself. I grabbed my Bible after school one afternoon and drove over to Rose Hill Baptist for a meeting with Pastor Smitty.

His office was located on the second floor of the building, down the hall and around the corner from the primary and nursery classrooms. His door was open, but I knocked on it anyway. Smitty had a pen in hand and was studying a book.

“Karen, come in, come in,” he said. He rose from his chair and gave me a big grin. Smitty was a handsome man when he smiled, which he did almost all the time. A bomber pilot during World War II, he possessed that natural athletic look. His brown hair was graying but still as thick as it was when he was twenty. He had broad shoulders and a trim waist. Had he lived, I imagine my own father might look like Smitty, only Daddy would surely have had less hair. It was already beginning to recede when he was killed. “Have a seat,”
Smitty said, waving to the leather armchair facing his desk. Books filled the shelves behind him.

“Thank you, Pastor,” I said. My hands were sweating and my face was flushed. I gripped the Bible in my left hand and offered him my right one. Smitty shook it. I had never been in his office before, for any reason. It was more daunting to me than the principal's office. Smitty, after all, was a man of God.

Other than Charlie Wells, I'd never really talked to grown men about things of a personal nature. And that didn't count, because Charlie was more of a pal than an authority figure. But Smitty was definitely in a powerful position, appointed by Almighty God Himself. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears. “I'm glad you called,” he began.

“Well, I don't know, but I imagine you might have heard some rumors, sir,” I said.

“As pastor, I'm always hearing things, Karen,” he said reassuringly. “But I don't pay much attention to rumors. Why don't you tell me what's on your heart?”

That invitation was all I needed. For the next half hour I told Smitty everything. About my feelings of frustration, anger, and abandonment. I told him about my awful prayer, telling God where to get off. And then about how I'd barreled headstrong into this relationship with Wesley Skibbey, fully intent on getting pregnant so I could finally have the affection and love I sought. And about how, too late, I came to realize what poor choices I had made and, ohmygosh, what was I going to do now? I didn't think Mama capable of raising a baby. Besides, I knew what it was like to grow up without a father, and I didn't want any child of mine to grow up like that.

I told him about Frank's phone call and his admonishment to not have an abortion because it was murder in God's eyes. And about how angry it made me that my brother dared to make such a phone call after all his foolishness over the years.

I told Smitty all this in an urgent and intense manner, the way a
bystander tells a cop about the horrific wreck he's just witnessed. My confession was punctuated by sobs of shame. Smitty reached over his desk and handed me a box of tissues. He leaned back in his chair, his hands crossed in thoughtful reflection. I knew he was searching and praying for the right words to bring me both comfort and wisdom. I was praying for the same thing. He let me cry in silence for a while before speaking.

“Karen, it's a terrible situation for you to be in,” he said. His tone was soft. Smitty never spoke with a tone of condemnation. Even when he preached, he wasn't preachy. He was a teacher at heart, imparting life's lessons as best he knew them. “What does your mama think?”

“She was the first one to suggest I have an abortion, sir,” I replied. “But then, I think it was after she talked with Frank, she changed her mind. She's decided she wants to keep the baby and raise it herself. But I could never let her do that.”

“You could always adopt the baby out,” Smitty said.

“Yes, sir, I thought of that. But I've decided I really want to go to college. And I have five more months to go until graduation. I'd have to go away somewhere.”