Chapter 10
Naomi saw the familiar car sitting by the curb, but because of her apprehension at what she was about to do, she passed it off as inconsequential.
"Sure looks like Line's car," she murmured to herself as she walked up to the path that led to the porch of the rundown tenement. "Wonder what he's doing here? Oh, well, probably just stopped in to see how Ma is. Same as I'm doing. Nothing to be concerned about."
But deep down inside, she knew she was lying to herself. She was apprehensive of seeing her mother again. For she recalled what had happened the day she had left. The angry tirade, the accusations, and name-calling. And though, in a sense, she could understand her mother's anger at what she had done, she couldn't understand why the older woman wouldn't see her point of view. After all, there was so little for her here.
Now, several months later, this was the first time she had made any effort to contact her mother. She didn't know what she was going to say or do, but because of her loneliness and desperation over what was happening, she had to turn to the only person she felt she could turn to, her mother.
And in a sense, she was also going to try to soothe her own conscience.
"Hi! Anybody home?" Naomi called through the open front door.
And though nobody answered, she could hear the sounds of movements in the parlor. So she called again.
"Anybody home?"
She stepped around the broken toys and rubbish in the hallway to cross into her mother's apartment. The sound of neighbor children yelling and the familiar smell of frying grits and pork reminded her of childhood's daily meals. She hadn't had such fare since she'd moved across town to Randy's. Maybe it was something she wanted to get away from, though her mouth momentarily watered at the pungent sweet scent so close she could almost see the big black frying pan filled with what Line affectionately called "soul food."
She shrugged off the thought and pushed into the apartment, though there had been no answer. The familiar ugliness of the surroundings made her cringe. The greasy smell of the kitchen penetrated the walls and permeated the rooms, together with the stench of fly-ridden, forgotten garbage left in the alleys outside the open windows. The plaster was chipped and the boards behind peeped through here and there. There was still not enough money for the necessary paint job to hide the scars of age, use, and the abuse of many people's children.
Comparing it to Randy's beautiful and luxurious apartment uptown only made it seem worse than it really was, and she walked as if afraid some of the dirt and grime would rub off on the new white cotton suit that she had just purchased. She moved cautiously down the hall, her nose wrinkled in displeasure at the stale aroma of too many people living too many years too close together. The tenement had been old when they moved into it as a little girl.
There had always been talk of how they would move into a nicer neighborhood, and yet, it had never happened. Then, when her father had died, even the talk had stopped. It was then that she knew that the only way she could ever get out of the environment was by her own efforts.
Which was exactly what she had done.
And now, as she stood in front of the closed French doors to the parlor, she wondered why her mother couldn't understand that.
Slowly she raised her hand to knock, all thoughts erased as the fear of facing her mother again took hold of her.
"Mom?" she called in a soft whisper. "You in there?"
This time there was a response.
Cold. Lifeless. In a low tone. But Naomi shook it off and pretended it was something else. Something warm and pleasant.
"Yes, I'm in here, Naomi. Come in."
Wondering why her mother hadn't answered her knock at the front door, but happy that at least she had recognized her voice, Naomi walked into the living room.
Line Potter was there, his face eager and expectant at the sight of her. He hurried forward from the sofa to greet her.
"Naomi!" he exclaimed excitedly. "It's so good to see you again! I've been so worried about you. Where you been? What you been doing?"
"Yes, Naomi," she heard the voice from the rocking chair by the window call. "Where have you been and what you been doing?"
Naomi looked over Line's shoulder into her mother's set and stern face. With a cry, she ran to her and bent to kiss the old woman.
And her mother turned her cheek.
Panic welled up within Naomi at the rebuff.
"Aren't you glad to ... to see me, Ma?" she stammered.
The woman shrugged with obvious indifference. "That all depends."
"I'm glad to see you, Naomi," she heard Line say and, in an effort to escape the penetrating gaze of her mother, she turned to look at him.
"I've been awfully worried about you."
"That's why he's here," her mother interrupted. "He thought maybe I could help him find you, convince you to go back to him."
Naomi looked from one to the other, wanting to fling herself at either of them because of her loneliness and her need. And yet, because of some unknown presence in the air, she was unable to.
"What do you want from me, Line?" she finally asked in a low and careful tone.
"I want you to come back to me," he whispered, and she could sense that he hoped the sound of his words hadn't carried to her mother.
"Why? Is it because you love me or ... or is it just because you want me?"
The question was designed to embarrass him, for Line's desire was written all over his face.
"Yes," he answered truthfully. "And I want to marry you."
Naomi closed her eyes. She hadn't wanted him to say that, and yet she knew it was the truth. Unfortunately, she also knew that she was going to have to hurt him, and she didn't want to do that.
"I ... I can't marry you, Line."
"Why not?" he demanded.
"Because of what it would be like. I can't live like this anymore."
With a wave of her hand, she indicated the cheapness and dirtiness of the apartment.
"And that's what it would be like married to you. This is how we'd live."
"No," he protested. "It won't be like this. I'll make it different."
She went on, knowing that each word, each sound was causing him to suffer.
"How will you change it, Line? On what? On what you make? You know you can't."
Her hands ran down the clean, well-designed skirt of her dress and she turned to face him.
"Can you afford to buy me clothes like this? Pay my bills? Give me the things I want?"
"But I love you," he said hopelessly, as if that would answer everything, solve all their problems. "That isn't enough, Line."
From the pained expression on his face, she knew that she had hurt him deeply. And though she didn't want to, Naomi felt she had no choice. And in an effort to put an end to it once and for all, she continued on. Her words were like continuous spear-thrusts into his already suffering carcass.
"No, Line, your loving me isn't enough. A lot of men love me, or can love me. And they can afford to love me. You can't. That's unfortunate, but true."
He stood silent now, unable to respond and unable to hide his feelings. And though she wanted to do something. Say something. To balm the hurt and pain from him, Naomi forced herself to stand stiff and straight in front of him. Apparently unmoved and untouched.
"I think you'd better go now, Line," her mother quietly interrupted. "Can't you see that you're not going to change her mind? Can't you see that she doesn't want you any more?"
Though the words sounded harsh and cruel, Naomi realized that the only reason the older woman was saying them was to save him from more hurt. And even though Line walked from the room with slow and defeated footsteps, she could sense the mood of disapproval in the person who sat stiff and still in the chair behind her.
It wasn't until she heard the quiet closing of the front door that Naomi finally turned to face her mother.
"Well, Ma, how've you been?"
"Hhhmmmppphhh!" was the disinterested reply. "You didn't come here to ask me about my health, Naomi. So now tell me why you did come here."
Naomi looked at the older woman and, with a smile, she shook her head.
"Can't fool you, can I, Ma?"
"You never could before, so I don't think you can now."
Then as Naomi tried to gather her courage to say the words, a heavy silence spread between the mother and daughter. A silence that was finally broken by the impatient tongue of the older woman.
"Out with it, Naomi. Tell me the truth."
She told her mother. At least she told a part of it.
"I came to give you some money, Ma. Figured things might not be going too well for you now that I wasn't home to help out, so I want to make things a little easier."
Her mother watched her open the purse and take out a wallet. She showed no surprise at the amount of money in the billfold and there was absolutely no response when Naomi handed her the two one-hundred-dollar bills. Holding them limply in her fingers, she studied her daughter without even looking at the money.
Naomi felt as if she were being undressed by the way her mother's eyes were examining the expensive clothes, the fashionable hair-do, the costly accessories. And when she finally spoke, it was in a low, soft tone.
"Where did you get this money, Naomi?" she asked quietly, holding up the two bills.
"Working, Ma. I got them working for them," Naomi answered quickly.
"What kind of work?" her mother insisted.
"What difference does it make, Ma?"
The first pangs of panic welled up in her, showed in her cry.
"What difference does it make?" she repeated. "I got it by working for it. That's where I got it! And you need the money, so what difference can it make?"
"Don't lie to me, Naomi."
"I'm not lying."
"Then tell me what your work is," the tone was deadly.
It was important that she accept the money. Why did Naomi have to plead with her? "What kind of work?"
"C ... can't tell you," the girl whispered, sagging with defeat.
The woman was almost triumphant. She let the money flutter to the floor while they both watched. Like dried leaves, the hundred-dollar bills floated to the carpet. When the woman looked up, there was a contemptuous sneer on her face.
"If you won't tell me what kind of work you're doing, then I'll tell you. I'll tell you how you got this money!"
"No, Ma! No!"
She was screaming and her hands clenched over her ears to shut out the sound. Her mother ignored her.
"You got it from that white man you're living with. That man who's paying you for your body. Naomi, you're nothing but a prostitute. A whore!"
"Oh, Ma, Ma! Don't say that! Don't call me that!"
"Why not? It's the truth, isn't it?"
Naomi began to sob. Deep, soul-wracking sobs that shook her body with their intensity. She fell hysterically to her knees and buried her face in her mother's lap, her arms clutching around the other's legs. Then she felt the body stiffen under her touch and with tears streaming down her brown cheeks she faced the angry tenseness of her mother's eyes.
"That's the truth, isn't it? You're nothing but a whore!"
Why couldn't she understand? Naomi wouldn't have come back if it hadn't been for the charity affair. Even Randy hadn't been able to erase and balm the hurt and scars of what those three men had done to her. Naomi needed her mother, the comfort and security of her understanding and love. Her loneliness and fright had brought her back to the world she detested. And it was only on return there that she realized she could never leave Randy's world. Never again could she find shreds of hope and life that had secured her through childhood. Even here there was no real acceptance, but it was the one part of life she needed most.
She had sought it in her mother. And now there was an empty void where love had been.
"Whore!"
"Ma. Please let me come home. Just for a few days."
"No! Not until you change. Change the way you're living!"
"I ... I can't."
"Why not?"
Didn't she see? Didn't she know the difference? What was there here for Naomi after living with Randy?
"Then get out! Take your dirty money and get out!"
She didn't understand. For some reason she couldn't. So Naomi pulled herself to her feet and with her eyes on her feet made the slow, trance-like walk out of the room, down the hall and out the door.
To need her mother so badly. To be spurned and sent away without love or sympathy. Without acceptance even as a daughter, the flesh and blood, the love-fruit of her own womb.
God! She felt so alone!
Outside, in the glaring sunlight, she felt the ache and loneliness like a pounding wave upon her skull, pushing her down. The sun hurt her eyes and she tried to avert her eyes from it.
"Naomi! Naomi!"
She turned, knowing the deep voice was Line's.
"Can I drive you somewhere?" he asked, his tones trying to conceal the almost pleading nature of his question.
Her fingers carefully checked her eyelids lest the welling tears were flowing unfelt. Somehow at this moment she didn't want to be alone.
"Okay, Line," she sighed, "Just to the nearest bus stop would be fine."
He opened the door for her and she slid into his car.
They rode through the streets of gray, battered buildings with their broken windows, worn paint, spilling rubbish, and missing steps. Children played in the streets, grubby, soiled with worn Salvation Army clothes and shoes from a church box of used clothing given by white folks who never saw the recipients. Never knew how their odds and ends fit the dark-skinned child of the slums, skinny and lost, fighting every moment of his life for some hope of a better life.
A group of teen-age boys, not more than fourteen or fifteen years old, stood on the street corner. Beyond the leather jackets, tight jeans, and flashing switch blades Naomi could see the hungry look in their faces. The faces feared by those outside their world, beyond their own turf. In their dark eyes was loneliness, suspicion, fear, all that a black child of the ghettoes was reared on because the gates to his prison were sealed by invisible hands of prejudice and hate.
Two young girls walked by to the obscene whistles and cat-calls of the boys. They hesitated.
Naomi's fists clenched as she looked back over her shoulder to see what they would do. What she had done at their age.
Fear in their eyes and loneliness that etched its scars in their faces and actions, the girls stood warily as the boys surrounded them. And Naomi saw a black hand go out to stroke one rounded buttock. Another to clasp a trembling breast.
Line turned a corner and she turned away, the scene still with her. Knowing all that preceded, all that would follow. Unless ... unless what, Naomi? Unless the white man changes and these kids have hope of something better? Don't kid yourself!
They approached the bus stop. And Line slowed the car.
"Please, Naomi," he whispered, his facial muscles tight with hurt and longing. "Don't leave me. Not just yet."
Naomi heaved a sigh. She ached with the scars of all that forbade her happiness and security.
"All right, Line," she returned, her vocal cords strained and taut.
His foot pressed the gas peddle and the car shot off down the road to the open highway racing towards the one place that had brought them solitude and comfort when they were going together.
The Blue Hills were lovely. Soft, gentle slopes shaded with pine and spruce. The pungent fragrance of evergreen and a soft breeze to carry them to a fantasy world of nature where no man could touch them with prejudice, hate, or fear.
They left the car in roadside parking area with picnic tables close by and walked through the woods, drinking in the fresh clean air and the scent of balsam. Pine needles crackled under their feet and pine cones danced off their shuffling toes.
Finally they found a quiet spot with a bed of moss to sink down onto, soft and resilient to the touch.
"Naomi," Line began.
Don't spoil it! her eyes cried out to him. Don't talk. It's pleasant here. Don't bring in life, people, dreams. Let's be quiet and let nature take hold of us with her tranquillity and lack of pretense. I don't want to know I'm alive. I only want to know the woods, the birds, the chipmunks, and breezes exist-not us. Here there's happiness and hope. With us, there's nothing!
"I love you," he whispered. "Won't you give me another chance?"
"It's too late, Line. Please forget."
"Forget? Forget that I love you? That you promised to marry me?"
"It's over. It's been over for a long time!"
"I want you, Naomi. I need you!"
His arms went out to embrace her. And she looked up at him, his strong, muscular, mahogany handsomeness. But there was nothing. No emotion. No longing. No desire to have him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Line's mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. Trying to drain her strength. Trying to draw out the woman he'd lost.
His tongue scoured her mouth with longing. And his hands worked feverishly at her breasts. He wanted her. Wanted her badly. It was in his fingertips and his lips as he sucked her into him. Crushed her to him.
One more time, she thought. Just one more time. And she let him work at the buttons of her dress, peeling it from her tawny shoulders. Let him undo the clasps of her brassiere and felt her abundant full breasts fall free.
He gnawed at her strawberry tipped mounds of flesh, kneaded their softness and smelled their sweet perfumes.
She stretched out beneath him as he pulled her panties from the honey-skinned curves of her hips and thighs. And she winced when his fingers probed at the soft warmth of her pubic mound, his head still nestled in her breasts.
His hands coursed her body charged with the heat of desire, the electricity of lust. With that black, coarsely curled head of hair digging into her tits, his big hands leathery with the hard labor of menial tasks masticating her pussy, she wanted to scream. To beat wildly upon his big, muscled shoulders and force him away. Away!
This big, black brute of her own people. What had he to give her! Rough hands and dirty poverty. Love in a squeaking bed in a grease permeated room. The sound of many other old brass beds squealing and banging through the thin walls of a shabby tenement. Sirens blaring in the night and nigger children! Black babies to grow up scared and hurt, calloused with the toil of menial labor and the insults and abuse of haughty colorless bastards who stood guard between these innocent children and the good things of life, the hope and the promise of security, comfort, and happiness.
No! No! I don't want that! Naomi's heart cried out. No more rubbish-filled slums. No lying awake nights to hear others make love in a battered old bed or let them hear me. No more sorrow and abuse. No more black babies to grow into delinquents and prostitutes filled with fear and hate. To grow into men and women like her parents, thanking a heartless God for the gifts of filth, hate, poverty, and slum living. For the callouses and scars of menial labor and the hope of nothing better, no comforts, no security. To grow into men like Line who think they can whip a world into recognizing the worth of a down-trodden, despised people.
I don't want babies to grow up in a world of hate! I don't want to bring life into this vacuum! This world of no hope, no love, no comfort, no peace, no joy, no meaning, no acceptance-!
"No! No!" she cried pushing Line from her body. "No! No!"
Naomi scrambled to her feet, pulling on her panties and bra, oblivious to the stunned and shaken man at her feet.
I feel nothing for you. Nothing! She wanted to cry out to him. There's only hopelessness, resignation, in your arms. No love. No desire. For you can give me nothing but more of what I've escaped from. More pain, needing, and loneliness.
She had her dress on and was turning away, running to the car.
"Please. Please, take me to a bus stop! Please!" she cried over her shoulder.