Keesha's House (2 page)

If I had my own key like their son,

I coulda got in last night when I finally got a ride

from Carmen. It was midnight, and the house

was dark. Carmen thought I'd gone inside. I tried to run

and catch her, but she didn't see me standin' out

there in the dark street—no house, no food, no ride.

I didn't run off. I shivered in the backyard, waitin' for the sun.

SOME LITTLE THING     
CARMEN

I'll be sixteen in seven months,

and I know how to drive.

When Dontay had to find his own ride home,

Grandmama was asleep. I know where she keeps

her keys. I borrowed them and drove as careful as I could

out to that house he's stayin' at. By the time I left

him off, it was after curfew. I turned left

on Main Street, thinkin' 'bout the time we all got stopped last month

in that same place, thinkin' I could

go a different way. Shoulda done that, but I thought I'd drive

that short way, take my chances. Tried to keep

an eye out, but I got stopped before I made it home.

That is, to Grandmama's house—what I call home

since Mama and her boyfriend left

for Cincinnati. I keep

thinkin' she'll be back, but it's five months

now, and I've about stopped hopin' she'll drive

up any minute. I guess it could

happen—prob'ly won't, but could.

Anyhow, for now, Grandmama's house is home.

Or was until she woke up to flashin' lights and saw the cops drive

up. They gave her back her keys, told her I was DUI. Left

me handcuffed in their car tryin' not to cry. I'll prob'ly get two months

this time. Don't know why I keep

on gettin' in this kind of trouble. I keep

tryin' to do right—thought I could

help out with this month's

rent. Now it looks like I won't be home

or makin' any kind of money for a while. I'll miss what's left

of school, or at least too much to make up. This could drive

you crazy: Just try to do some little thing like drive

a friend that needs a ride, and you keep

findin' yourself locked up, nothin' left

to do but sit around thinkin' how you could

be out with friends—or home.

You think about that stuff for months,

and when those months are finally over, everything you left

behind is different. You feel like jumpin' in the nearest car and drivin'

outta town, keepin' goin' till you find someplace that feels like home.

THAT ONE WORD     
HARRIS

I got invited to the winter dance.

Think how that's supposed to be: Mom, Dad,

there's someone I'd like you to meet,

someone special in my life, someone

who loves me as much as I love him.

Freeze frame on that one word: Did you say

him
? I used to try to think of how I'd say

it, how I'd let them know there'd be no dancing

at my wedding, no grandkids. Finally I just told them about him

and watched my world explode. What it meant to Dad

was that he didn't know me. I turned into someone

he's hated all his life. He wouldn't meet

my friend.
Why would I want to meet

the person who ruined your life?
I couldn't say,

No, Dad, I ruined his.
They couldn't imagine just someone

I loved who loved me. Now Mom and Dad and I can't dance

around the subject like we used to. Dad

said if I didn't have enough respect for him

to
act normal
, how could I expect him

to keep supporting me? I couldn't meet

his eyes when he said that. I was ashamed of Dad

and myself at the same time. I didn't say

much, but after that, the winter dance

seemed like a childish game. Overnight, I became someone

different—older, tougher, on my own. Someone—

me—with no parents to support him.

I was scared enough to ask a girl to the dance,

thinking I could bring her home to meet

my parents. Maybe they'd let me come back. I'd say,

It was just something I went through—really, Dad,

it isn't true. But she said no. Anyway, Dad

would never have believed me. I can't pretend to be someone

I'm not. No matter what Mom might say

(and she's not saying much), to him

I might as well be dead. There's just no way to meet

halfway on this. I didn't go to the dance.

What made me think I could have danced with him

in public? Now I can't even say his name out loud. Dad

scared me into breaking up. I don't even want to meet someone.

MY CHOICE     
KATIE

I sleep in my sleeping bag in a room

with a lock in the basement of the place

on Jackson Street. And I feel safe.

If Keesha wants to talk to me, she knocks

first, and if I want to let her in, I do.

If I don't, I don't. It's my choice.

There's not too much I really have a choice

about. Mom would say I chose to leave my room

at home, but that's not something anyone would do

without a real good reason. There's no place

for me there since she got married. Like, one time, I knocked

her husband's trophy off his gun safe,

and he twisted my arm—hard. I never feel safe

when he's around. I finally asked my mom to make a choice:

him or me. She went,
Oh, Katie, he'll be fine.
Then she knocked

on our wood table. I blew up. I stormed out of the room

and started thinking hard. In the first place,

I know he won't
be fine.
I didn't tell her what he tries to do

to me when she works late. In a way, I want to, but even if I do,

she won't believe me. She thinks we're safe

in that so-called nice neighborhood.
Finally, Katie, a place

of our own.
And since she took a vow, she thinks she has no choice

but to see her marriage through. No room

for me, no vow to protect
me
if he comes knocking

on my door late at night. He knocks

and then walks in when I don't answer. Or even when I do

answer:
Stay out! This is my room

and you can't come in!
I could never be safe

there, with him in the house. So, sure, I made a choice.

I left home and found my way to this place,

where I've been these past two weeks. And I found a place

to work, thirty hours a week. Today Mom knocked

on the door here. She wanted to talk. I told her,
You made your choice;

I made mine.
She wondered what she could do

to get me to come home. But when I said,
It's not safe

for me as long as he's there
, she left the room.

My choice is to be safe.

This room is dark and musty, but it's one place

I do know I can answer
no
when someone knocks.

PART II

WHITE WALLS

I HATE TO BE THE ONE     
STEPHIE

It's Friday night. When I left home this morning,

Mom said,
We need to talk.

She noticed that I couldn't eat my breakfast

and she looked at me long and hard—that mix

of sad and angry that I hate.

I can't face her. I'm not going home.

They probably think I've gone home

with Jason. I saw him this morning

before school, talking to a girl we both used to hate.

I walked away before he saw me. Let him talk

to her. My feelings about him are so mixed-

up right now. He used to be so sweet, eating breakfast

with his tousled hair and sleepy eyes. Breakfast

at their house is different than at home.

They're
peaceful
. If his brother mixes

a can of juice in a saucepan and leaves it out all morning,

nobody complains. And nobody expects you to talk

to them if you don't want to. Mom would hate

it. She likes everything in order. Dad too. They both hate

it if we haven't cleared away our breakfast

by eight o'clock, even on weekends. They talk

about how kids should have a home

where they know what to expect. Every morning

Mom gets up first, makes coffee, gets out a mix

of pancakes or bran muffins. Sometimes I watch her mix

it, like it's part of her job, like
I hate

this job, but someone has to do it.
This morning

she was saying,
If I get up and make you breakfast

I expect you to eat it.
I go,
Sure, Mom.
Then she goes,
I want you home

after school today. We need to talk.

I'm afraid of what she wants to talk

about. I don't want to mix

her words about this baby with my own. Home

to her and Dad means perfect, and I hate

to be the one to shatter that. Only—where will I eat breakfast

in the morning?

Oh, Mom … it isn't just the talk I hate.

It's how we have to mix it up with breakfast.

Can't we just relax at home some morning?

SURPRISED TO HEAR MYSELF     
JASON

Stephie's gone. I went over Friday night

after the game, and her brother seemed surprised.

He said,
We thought she was at your house.

She used to do that sometimes. If it got late,

we'd pull out the couch and make a bed

for her, and then we'd go to school

together in the morning. Friday she wasn't at school.

I didn't think much of it, but that night

I really wanted to talk.
Maybe she went to bed

early
, I said. Her brother looked surprised

again. He shook his head. I went home. Then late

that night, her dad showed up at my house,

frantic. Everyone at their house

was out searching for her. They'd called the school

principal at home and found out Stephie had been absent. And late

a lot these past few weeks. Her dad said,
Son, last night

she seemed worried. Do you know why?
I was surprised

he called me son. And I was half asleep—he got me out of bed.

He looked tired. Three a.m., he hadn't been to bed

at all, everything upside down at his house.

I told him Stephie hadn't talked to me all week. Surprised,

he wondered why.
Don't you see her every day at school?

I thought she'd been here every night!

She's been coming home late

a lot, but we just thought she was with you!
Later,

I thought about him sitting there on our couch-bed

in the middle of the night.

He looked like his whole house

had collapsed, like everything he'd learned in school

turned out false where he'd put true. I was surprised

to feel so sorry for him, even more surprised

to hear myself tell him the truth.
Her period's late
,

I said.
She's afraid the kids at school

will start to notice something.
After he'd gone, I lay in bed

thinking about them all at her house.

And where
was
Stephie in the middle of the night?

I got out of bed, drove around looking for her all night—

past the school, back and forth past her house,

surprised how much I want her back.
Is it too late?

QUESTIONS ABOUT JOE     
KEESHA

When Katie came, she kept asking questions

about Joe. Since he owns the house, she thought

he'd tell us what to do. She kept saying,
I can pay

rent. I can buy my own food. I'll work

for what I need.
There was one room upstairs with a bed

and a window, but she said she'd rather stay

in the basement room. We all stay

out of there unless she asks us in. No one asks questions

about why she keeps her door locked. The bed

in there is just a foam pad on the floor, but Katie said she thought

the room was heaven. We hardly see her, she's at work

so much. I think she's worried Joe might make her pay

some other way if she runs out of money. He says we can pay

him if we want to, but not much. Me, I want to stay

in school. I want good grades. So I just work

twelve hours a week, enough for food. I hate the questions

people ask though. Even my ex-boyfriend thought

the girls here must be going to bed

with Joe, or someone else. Not me—I won't go to bed

with anyone unless I want to. And I don't pay

for
nothin'
with
my
body! At first I thought

we should do something nice for Joe—he lets us stay

here and he doesn't ask too many questions.

So if he was tired when he got home from work

I used to cook or do some kind of work

like clean up the house. Once I made his bed

for him, like Mama used to do. That raised some questions

in his mind, I guess. He said,
Keesha, don't you pay

me no mind. Everyone deserves a place to stay.