Broken Wings (Broken Wings 1)

“You know that most of the time my work takes me on the road, Mae,” Daddy continued, directing his plea mainly at her. “These days I have to expand my territory to make expenses. She’d be left alone for longer and longer periods of time. It won’t be long before the authorities come and take her off.”

We were all in the living room of their Stone Mountain home. It was in a housing development that was at least eighty-five percent black. After they had bought the home, Mama told Aunt Mae she just traded one ghetto for another, but even I had to admit that was just envy talking. This was no ghetto. Close your eyes and then open them when no one was in the street in front of his or her house and you would think you were in the finest suburbs, built for middle- and upper-class white people.

“That’s why Charlene went bad,” Aunt Mae Louise piped up, those black green eyes of hers narrow, dark, and angry. To me she always looked like an alley cat poised to pounce. “She needed looking after, Horace. Charlene was never one to be on her own. My folks only had to leave her in the house by herself an hour for her to do something to add gray hairs to their heads. You should have known that from the day you met her,” she told him. “I don’t know why you went ahead and married her. Men sure don’t think with their heads when they see a pretty thing. I won’t deny she was always pretty, but I’ll never claim she was anything but selfish and spoiled.”

Aunt Mae Louise wasn’t ever going to take her sister’s side just because she was her sister, I thought. She probably never had, even when they were growing up.

She glared my way.

“You take after your mama too much in that regard, Phoebe. It’s sad to have to say it, but she was a very bad influence on you. Lucky for the rest of us that she had only one child.”

I knew Mama had almost had another but miscarried in the sixth month, probably because of the alcohol and cigarettes and her wild ways.

Even so, and even though I knew she had run off with a small-time con man named Sammy Bitters, I didn’t like Aunt Mae dissin‘ her. I knew it was the same as criticizing me because, as she just said, in Aunt Mae Louise’s eyes Mama and I were cut from the same cloth. She never hid the fact that she had doubts my father was my father, too. I knew it was like someone sticking a pin in his chest whenever she implied or even came out and as much as said it. Daddy was just too easygoing to ever show anger or pain, especially in front of her. Maybe he was just a pincushion after all. Mama got so she thought so. No wonder he didn’t want her coming home now. Nothing would confirm that as much as placing me with my aunt and uncle. There was a finality to it, just like a period at the end of a long sentence. This is it; this is the way it will be, and that’s that.

Everyone was quiet in the room because the heaviness of the conclusion hung in the air like stale cigarette smoke. They all wished I had never been born, and now there wasn’t much choice about what to do.

“Of course,” Daddy said softly, “I’d give you money every week for her room and board and whatnot.”

He gave me a quick glance of deepest despair.

“We don’t need you to pay for her food, Horace, but she will need decent clothes, shoes, and a little spending money,” she said.

My uncle didn’t look happy about it, but it was clear they were going to take me in. I felt my heart sink. I wanted to do something to stop it, but I was afraid Daddy might just give up on me and call some child protection agency or the court and say he gave up. Mama had left him. His work was getting harder and I was in too much trouble lately, trouble that deepened the lines in his face. He was tottering on the heels of his shoes.

“But first, I want some understandings set down right now, while your father is sitting here, Phoebe,” Aunt Mae Louise began.

She stood up to continue, suddenly very full of herself. She was only about five feet two and weighed maybe one hundred and five. It gave her self-confidence to stand when she wanted to be firm and authoritative, I’m sure. Sitting, she looked like a little girl with those thin arms and tiny shoulders.

Unlike Mama, Aunt Mae Louise kept her hair straight and wore almost no makeup except some lipstick occasionally. Mama was five feet five, with a full figure. I had heard men say she radiated sex like a hunk of uranium or something. She could have a man eating out of her hand by just turning her shoulders, swinging her hips, and batting her eyelashes. Even though she drank too much and smoked too much and did drugs occasionally, she was obsessive about her teeth.

“Your smile is your billboard when it comes to men,” she would tell me. “Make sure you take good care of your teeth, Phoebe.”

As long as I could remember, Mama was giving me advice about men. She always made it sound like a war, like we had to prepare to do battle to defend our treasure. That was literally what she called our sexuality, our treasure.

“We don’t need no dragon guardin‘ the door, but don’t let ’em in unless there’s more in it for you than some cheap thrill, girl. Otherwise, you’ll end up bein‘ some sorry tramp like what hangs out at the club. I don’t have no money to give you, just good advice, so you’d better take it and stuff it in your heart,” Mama told me. It was usually after she had drunk too much and was feeling sorry for herself that she gave me these lectures. To me it seemed as if her sexuality had become more of a burden than an advantage.

Although she wasn’t exactly a prude, Aunt Mae Louise was a great deal more self-conscious of her sexuality. Uncle Buster was a good-looking man, firmly built at six feet one. He had played football in college, but was never a hell-raiser. His father was a Baptist minister, and whenever Uncle Buster was around Mama, he always looked at her and treated her as if she was a saleslady for Satan. Mama told me that was because Uncle Buster wanted her so much he had to make her seem terrible. I knew she loved to tease him, which was something that made

Aunt Mae Louise irate at every family gathering, not that we had all that many besides an occasional Christmas dinner, something we hadn’t done for two years.

It was no surprise to anyone, least of all to me, that for me family was as fictional a concept as Oz. The lines between us, the linkage was so thin and fragile, I never felt anything special about it. My relationships with my cousins, my aunt, and my uncle weren’t any warmer or tighter than the relationships I had with ordinary friends.

“First,” Aunt Mae Louise said, “I want you coming straight home from school every day. You go right to the guest room, where you’ll be, and you finish your homework,” she said, turning and twisting like a traffic cop so she could point at each area of the house she made reference to. “Then, you come out and help me set the table for dinner. On weekends, we shake down the house. We vacuum every rug, polish furniture, and do the windows. On Sundays after church, we’ll do all the ironing needs to be done.

“Uncle Buster and I play Bingo every Wednesday night at the church. We usually have a neighbor, Dorothy Wilson, baby-sit, but now that you’re living here, you’ll do it. That doesn’t mean you can invite anyone to the house when we’re gone. We’ll tell you exactly how we want you and the children to behave, and you’ll be responsible for them getting to bed on time, after they clean up and put away any of their toys, of course.

“Don’t you think of accepting any invitations from anyone you meet until either Uncle Buster or I find out everything we need to know about the person. We see how young people today slip through the cracks because parents don’t take enough interest in who their friends are and what they do,” she said.

You’re not my parents, I wanted to say, but kept my lips firmly glued shut.

Uncle Buster, still looking quite glum, nodded after every point she made as if he was in church listening to his father deliver a sermon. Any minute I expected him to let out with a “Hallelujah.”

“Of course, it goes without saying that we won’t tolerate any smoking or drinking, and if you do any drug, we’ll turn you in to the police ourselves, won’t we, Buster?”

“Without batting an eyelash,” he confirmed, his eyes fixed on me like two laser beams that could burn through my face.

“Now, neither Jake nor Barbara Ann ever use any profanity, and I don’t want to hear them start suddenly after you move in, Phoebe.”