Born at Dawn (3 page)

“Are you telling me this is my fault?” Cynthia tightened her shoulders and pointed at the dark blue ring below her left eye. Her twisted mouth and aggravated tone expressed her frustration. After three weeks of attending spiritual counseling, her patience was wearing thin.

“Sister, calm down,” Pastor David said stretching his hand toward Cynthia. “You misinterpreted what I said. Nagging doesn't help the situation. It only antagonizes him, frustrates him, and you know him. He's the ‘hit first, take names later' kind of guy. The Bible says it's not with all your words that you will win your husband over, but with a meek and quiet spirit.”

“A meek and quiet spirit? What does that mean, Pastor?” She rested her elbows on the oval-shaped conference table in the Upper Room, which served as the location for First Sunday fellowship dinners, the adults' Sunday School class, and Pastor David's counseling sessions.

“You already know what it means to be quiet, but meek means to be patient, to be humble and long-suffering just as Jesus was. It's that kind of behavior that will help you get through this storm.” Pastor David leaned back into his chair and stroked his goatee. It seemed as though he was patiently awaiting the protest brewing in Cynthia's dark brown almond-shaped eyes.

“Pastor David . . .” Cynthia paused and stared at a portrait of Jesus hanging on the cross surrounded by darkness. “I'm not Jesus. I can't carry the cross and take the beatings. Isn't that why He went through what He went through, so I wouldn't have to?”

“Must he bear the cross alone? Sister, may I speak freely?” he asked.

“I thought you already were.”

Pastor David sat upright in his seat and blurted out, “You made a judgment call. You chose the wrong man, and now you're calling on God to clean it up like He's some maintenance man. That's not what it's about, sister. If you want to see this thing turn around, then you must acknowledge your role in it and worship God in spirit and in truth.”

He's a man of the cloth. Watch what you say to him.
“Pastor, you better put the kid gloves back on. Remember, I'm a baby Christian still struggling to climb up that mountain. I've only been saved since October and it's, what, January now.” Cynthia paused to count the months on her fingers. “That's just three months. I can't take too much more of you reprimanding me.”

“A man's word is his own burden. If what I've said to you is wrong, God will deal with me, but you have to believe you are a child of God and trust that He will fight for you. The same rules that apply here apply at home. Your pride causes you to react to everything Marvin says.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes and tried to imagine the clean-shaven, statuesque Pastor David as Marvin had described him—running around wielding a knife beside her husband just to steal some pocket change—to take her mind off the fact that he was the man of God over her. Seeing him as a regular human being made this spiritual whipping a little bit more bearable.

Pastor David rose, placed his hands on his hips, and tried to mimic a woman's voice as he continued to counsel Cynthia. “‘How dare he talk to me like that? Who does he think he is?' How many times have you had those thoughts before going off on him or joining him in a heated argument? Do you see how your behavior contributes to the situation?”

Cynthia just stared past him with her eyes fixed on the woman hanging her laundry on her fire escape across the street from the church.

“But woe unto a man who thinketh he is something when really he is nothing,” he said, clearing his throat and returning his voice to his normal pitch. “It is the Lord who raised you and will save you, but He can't help you if you insist on doing it your way.”

“So, what am I supposed to do, just grin and bear it? You know this doesn't even make sense.” Cynthia pushed her chair back from the conference table and stood. “This will be my last session, Pastor. I thank you for your help.” She put her head down and focused diligently on removing her wallet from her tote bag. She'd had enough of the charade and hearing the same advice: just wait on the Lord.
I'm not getting any younger.

“Why?”

“May I speak freely?”

He nodded.

“Since you have never been married, you may not realize this, but marriage is a partnership that takes two people.” She held two fingers in the air. “Two not one. Why should I be here alone?”

Pastor walked around the table, taking wide, hurried steps to reach Cynthia before she broke for the door. “You should be here because you are the Christian. You are the saved one, the woman standing in the gap for your family. When your hands are like this”—Pastor David took her tote bag and let it fall to the floor. He tossed her wallet on the table and pressed her palms together as if she was praying—“they are more powerful than any punch Marvin can throw.

“And when your head is lifted like this,” he said, tilting her chin toward the ceiling, “and the only words you are uttering are prayers to God, your words hold more weight than anything he has to say. If you give up, what will happen to this marriage? God can fix this. You know that, right?”

She nodded in agreement with him. Truthfully, she wasn't really sure that God could fix it. “Thank you, Pastor David, for your time,” Cynthia said, bowing in front of him with her hands still folded like she was praying. “Here is my offering for your counseling ministry.” She grabbed her wallet from the table and pulled out a folded twenty dollar bill.

“Cynthia, I don't want your money and neither does God.”

“Then what does He want from me, Pastor?” she asked completely exasperated.

“Submission.”

Cynthia waved the money at Pastor David. “Please, just take my offering and let me go.” The word ‘submission' sounded like an obscenity to Cynthia. She'd been submissive for their whole marriage. Where was God and his warring angels that would do battle on her behalf? There had to be another way to resolve this issue that didn't involve submission and Cynthia planned on finding it with or without Pastor David's approval.

Based on how Marvin's eyes bulged and the way he slurred his words, Cynthia could tell he'd been to Tropics Bar and spent some time receiving counsel from his favorite spiritual advisor, Jose Cuervo. It was the same thing every time he came home like this. He moaned about the burden of raising two kids in the city, the stack of bills on the counter that were turning into its own entity, and how Cynthia and the kids were draining him. They also prevented him from saving up enough money to open the garage he had always wanted. Cynthia had no desire to engage in this conversation after a draining session with Pastor David.

“Fix me some food,” Marvin demanded, pushing the bedroom door open.

“You know where the refrigerator is.”

“I said fix me some food, Cynthia.”

She refused by paying him no mind as she lay in the bed flipping through a magazine.

“Fix me some food.” Marvin pounded on the bedroom door. “Now, now, now,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“Marvin, I am so tired of you,” Cynthia replied calmly, not even glancing up from the pages of
Essence
magazine. The article she was reading stated that a woman needed to voice her opinion in order for a relationship to work. Cynthia felt she'd been silent for too long. The article only confirmed her belief and the notion that submission was not the answer.

“That's not very Christian of you. You think being married to you is a picnic? Look at this house.” He walked to the bed and pulled Cynthia out of it by her hair. When she rose, he dragged her through the apartment, squeezing her arm. “What is this?” he screamed, pointing at their living room.

The coffee table was covered with video game cases and beauty magazines, and the boys had left their bikes lying on the floor near the door.

“I almost killed myself coming in here,” Marvin complained.

Silently she wished he had.

“If you had come in here at a decent hour, maybe the lights would have been on and you wouldn't have such a hard time navigating through the apartment,” she said, snatching her arm away from him. Cynthia rubbed her arm before the soreness could settle in.

“Navigating . . . Spell it. This ain't the ocean. I shouldn't need a compass to get around my house. Aren't you supposed to be submitting to me and honoring me, not talking back? What are they teaching you at that church? You stay home all day long, and this is all you can get done?”

She touched her eye—the ring around it was a marker of her last beating—then she considered her arm. To appease him, Cynthia went into the kitchen and got started on the dishes left over from this evening's round of tacos. But even that was not enough to stop tonight's rant.

“You're holding me back, Cynthia. My garage could have really taken off by now. I see what you're doing,” he said, shaking his finger at her. “Telephone bill, Con Ed, cell phone. School lunch? Why am I paying for school lunch if they take lunch with them to school?” Every question he asked was laced with disdain.

“They don't take lunch with them every day, Marvin.”

“Stop being lazy,” Marvin shouted at her, bunching up the bills in his hand. “Make them boys lunch every morning.”

“I do make them lunch every day, Marvin,” she said, spinning around to face him, shaking the soap-covered spatula she held at him, “but they like to eat the chicken nuggets and pizza at school.”

“So put some frozen pizzas in their lunchbox. All these bills are holding me back.”

“From what?”

“From opening the garage. I told you the bank said I need twenty percent of the startup cost.”

“Marvin.” Cynthia pointed at herself. “That doesn't have anything to do with me. It's not my fault you have bad credit,” she declared. Cynthia directed her gaze back to the sink full of suds and turned the water up to full blast, the steady stream drowning out the sound of Marvin's voice.

“Yeah, well it is your fault; it's your fault I can't save money. All you do is spend, spend, spend. You got me paying for school lunch, karate, afterschool programs. Why do I have to pay for afterschool and you're here all day hanging out?”

“I stay home all day hanging out?” Cynthia blurted out. “Filing medical claims is not hanging out. I am the best medical biller Dr. Chang has ever hired. When I'm at home I'm working.”

After she had James, Dr. Chang allowed her to work from home, enabling her to extend her maternity leave. Even after James began preschool, he continued to allow her to telecommute. At first, he'd required her to come in to the office once a week, then once a month. Since the claims she filed were rarely rejected, she began to come in only when he needed the books looked at or a new biller had been hired. Dr. Chang also served as the boys' pediatrician free of charge and his wife was Marvin and Cynthia's physician.

“What kind of work do you do, polish your nails?” Marvin asked.

“When I'm home, I'm on the clock. I can't have the boys running around here while I'm working, and I'm not a maid. Maybe you should be here helping out, not hanging out with your friends and your whores,” Cynthia cracked back.

“At least they keep a clean house,” he barked, walking away from her.

Cynthia could hear the scripture ringing on the inside:
be angry and sin not
.
Be angry and sin not.
They had just finished reading James 3:8 in Bible Study.

She watched him, trying to hold back the obscenities that popped into her head. “I'm working and doing the best I can. Besides, it's only three days a week. Dr. Chang has been kind enough to support our family as it grows by allowing me to telecommute and still function as office manager, and you want to question what I do. Are you serious? Why don't you get another job? You can tow trucks at Milton's garage and do security at night or something,” she suggested.

“There you go trying to tell me how to be a man,” Marvin said, hovering over her. “Aren't you supposed to revere me or something?” Particles of spit flew out of his mouth and landed on her cheek as he went into a rabid rage. “I don't need another job. You need to make some cutbacks.”

“Just shut up, Marvin,” Cynthia retorted, walking away from him. “I am not even going to entertain you tonight. The devil is a liar. Why don't you go take a shower and lie down?”

“Entertain me? The devil? Did you just call me the devil? Did you just call me a liar? You know, I'm not even sure why I married your raggedy behind. How's that for some truth?” he asked as he walked past her on his way to the bedroom.

The word stuck in her mind, and the devil used it as leverage to push her into a battle she certainly couldn't win.

Marvin eased down the hall, so smug and unapologetic.

Cynthia followed, spewing ugly words of wrath and desolation and hurling curses she'd learned from him at his back like darts.

“Is this more of the fine teachings you're getting from your dearly beloved pastor?” Marvin asked. “You're gonna be sorry for this come morning.” Marvin looked at her over his broad shoulder and grinned before retreating to the bedroom.

Cynthia felt good watching him walk away. She had stood up to him, and it did not end with her cowering in a corner massaging a bruised arm or in the bathroom in front of the mirror playing artist trying to find the right mix of concealer and foundation to camouflage a black eye. As his final words resounded in her ears, she realized he had still beaten her that night.

The tears came slowly. Her shouting match was a small victory that still somehow equaled a loss. She choked back the snot that gathered in her nostrils, stared out the dining room window at the curve of the moon, and tried to recall what it was Pastor David kept telling her about words and a burden. She couldn't quite figure out how she and Marvin went from canoodling in the park after dark to hating the sight of each other.

Before heading to bed, Cynthia propped open the door to the boys' room. Usually after a fight, James could be found sitting in the middle of his bed with his legs folded. He sat up listening to the arguments to see how far they would go. If it didn't sound too volatile, James just sat up until she walked in, her face flush and ashen from the ceremony of crying and rinsing her face with cold water. Only once did he bother to wake up his older brother to break up the commotion. When they ran out of the room, Marvin had Cynthia pinned against the bathroom door with his hands wrapped around her arms so tightly Cynthia's flesh was bursting through the spaces between his fingers.

Tonight he was in his usual position. His smile was bright enough for Cynthia to recognize in the dim light cast by his Spider-Man nightlight. She plopped on his bed with a heavy and pronounced sigh and asked, “What's up, partner?”

“Nothin', Mom. Are you all right?” James asked.

“Of course I'm all right,” she said while smoothing out the waves of his hair. “I am pretty tired. I should be in bed and so should you. Tell me, what can I do to get you back to sleep?”

“I always sleep better after I eat some ice cream,” James said smiling at Cynthia.

“James, I was thinking of something more like reading a book or tucking you in tightly.”

“Mom, I'm getting too big for you to read to me at night. How about I hold your hand and you escort me to the kitchen?”

“Come on, kid.”

Together hand in hand, they marched into the kitchen. Cynthia scooped vanilla bean ice cream into small plastic bowls, then they leaned on the counter, racing to see who could finish their ice cream first, then James went back to bed.

Cynthia shuffled into the dining room and flung herself into a chair. Her shoulders shuddered as she tried to subdue her cries.

This wasn't the life she had imagined for herself and apparently she wasn't a part of Marvin's vision for himself either.