Born at Dawn (7 page)

Cynthia punched in the number to Dr. Chang's office. It was a few minutes after four, and she suspected she'd catch him between patients. It was the fourth day she'd been at her mother's and her mind was not equipped to focus on filing claims about broken arms and mild coughs.

The last thing she wanted to do was bail out on Dr. Chang, but if she didn't take a step back to figure out what was going on, someone would be filing a claim for her medical expenses soon. There were two other billers who worked in the office: Rita, a full-time biller who complained all the time about Cynthia working from home; and Jenna, a forty-something mom trying to make the return to the workforce since her two sons had started college. They weren't as thorough as Cynthia, but the two of them should be capable of handling the claims in her absence, she hoped.

“Chang,” the doctor said in his thick Chinese accent screaming into the receiver.

“Hi, Dr. Chang. It's me, Cynthia.”

“Hi, Cynthia. How are you? Is something wrong with one of the claims?”

“No. I've got a real serious problem,” Cynthia announced. “I need to take the week off due to a family emergency. You've got enough money in this month's budget for Jenna to work extra hours this week if you want to stay ahead. I'm not at home right now. If you need to reach me for anything, I have my laptop. Just shoot me an e-mail and I'll respond either via e-mail or telephone.”

“Can I help you in any way? Are the kids all right?” Dr. Chang asked his voice full of concern.

Cynthia laughed at her boss. Dr. Chang was good like that. Maybe it was because he was a doctor. He was aware of his employees' humanity and their frailty. As long as you communicated with him and gave him enough time to find someone to cover a shift, he didn't mind if his staff took time off. “Only you, Dr. Chang. Other bosses would lose it, but you want to help me.”

“If you're no good to yourself then you're no good to me, that's my philosophy. Take all the time you need.”

After checking in with Dr. Chang, Cynthia figured it was time to check in on her home. First she dialed star-six-seven to block Mildred's number before dialing the number to her home.

“Barclay residence.” The squeak and formalities were definitely Keith.

She held her breath. She wanted to knock him down with her usual barrage of questions: How was school? Did he have a lot of homework? Did James get into any trouble?

Before she could release the words, Keith spoke to her.

“I know it's you. I knew you wouldn't desert me. I know you had to go. We ate breakfast this morning. I gave James Lucky Charms and I ate Lucky Charms with toast. We had school lunch today. I don't know what's for dinner 'cause Daddy's not home yet. He thinks you're going to come home. I know you won't. I was afraid this day would come. I always thought you would take me with you or at least James. You'll come back for me, won't you? I'm sure of it. I'm almost done with my homework, and James is working on his handwriting. Don't worry about dinner. Daddy will be home soon.”

“Who are you talking to?” James chirped in the background.

“Call me back tomorrow, Mom,” Keith whispered before hanging up the phone.

A smile spread across Cynthia's face as she returned the cordless phone to its base. Keith was taking charge and taking care of everything like a little general. She marveled at how he knew what concerned her: if they ate breakfast, homework, and he even mentioned his father. He was only twelve years old, and his relationship with his father was as shaky as a loose tooth while chewing on an apple.

It was her fault. She allowed Keith to witness their constant bickering. He'd been exposed to the intimate details of his parents' relationship, from their financial worries to his father's inability to commit to his mother. Cynthia knew it was inappropriate for Keith to hear those things, especially as he was growing older. Since she'd started attending Bible Study, she had begun to control her response to Marvin's attacks and redirect the children while these battles were being hashed out. Yet it seemed like the more she backed down and declared peace when Marvin was in one of his moods, the more antagonizing he became.

“Don't turn your back on me,” he would scream if she tried to ignore him.

If she said, “This isn't the appropriate time to discuss this,” he would cut her down like a tree at a sawmill.

“You only have two children in this household. You better mind them and not me,” Marvin would bark at her.

The boys sat seething and breathing in these toxic fumes. Their fights, like carbon monoxide, were odorless, colorless, and seemingly tasteless but poison nonetheless. The chronic exposure to their fights led to the same symptoms: depression, confusion, headaches, and poisoning of the heart. Cynthia's greatest fear was the boys would eventually grow to disrespect her and any other women with whom they had a relationship.

The disjuncture between Marvin and Keith disturbed Cynthia. Rarely did they speak to each other except during the typical male communal moments like a bad call during a football game. The longing to close the gulf was apparent in Keith's actions. All of his favorite teams—the Jets and the Knicks—were the same as Mar-vin's, regardless of their records and various setbacks. Cynthia blamed herself for getting between the two of them. A man should be able to talk to his son, but Keith often opted out of conversing with his father by sticking to one-word answers rather than launching into the monologues about his day he shared with his mother.

Cynthia cracked the window open and inhaled the afternoon air. Her missing status made her a prisoner of 116th Street. It also allowed her to relinquish her responsibility to her home and focus on her. Cynthia was able to get her best thinking done when she was cooking or cleaning.

After she called Keith she spent the two hours straightening up Mildred's apartment and thought it was time for a break. Marvin, however, did not agree as he used Mildred's answering machine to bust up her break time. Cynthia was in the middle of lounging on her mother's white Italian leather sofa with her feet resting on the glass coffee table when the phone rang.

Marvin's voice sounded like gravel as he pleaded for her to return home over the answering machine while the boys fought in the background for the remote control. Keith was saying something about homework and James was crying for
The Simpsons.
Marvin's sorry almost sounded sincere.

“Mildred, if Cynthia is there, please play this for her. I'm sorry for everything. We need you. I'm lost without you. I don't even know what to make them for dinner.”

Just as she leaned toward the end table where her mother's telephone sat, contemplating picking it up, the answering machine cut him off. He called back citing more domestic duties that only Cynthia could take care of.

“Keith has soccer practice on Friday. I have no idea where his uniform is and James has a science project due on Friday that he hasn't started yet, and I don't have any more clean overalls.” Before the machine had a chance to cut him off again, he cried out, “Mildred, if she's there, please,
please
tell her we need her.”

Cynthia stood and headed to her mother's bedroom. She felt like diving into her mother's bed and hiding behind the mosquito nets. She took a seat in a wicker chair with the rounded back near her mother's oak dresser. She marveled at Mildred's exquisite taste and sense of design. Tonight Cynthia needed a place to hide, and she knew she would not be found in the jungle.

Years—three to be exact—had passed since she'd last sought the comfort of this room. She hid in the folds of her mother's comforter and drowned all her sorrows in Mildred's chocolate stash.

She rummaged through her mother's lingerie drawers in search of some chocolate to nibble on. Although the décor had changed one thing had not; Mildred still used her lingerie drawer to stash her snacks. Cynthia ripped open a bag of peanut M&Ms with her teeth
.

Marvin had left those same messages on Mildred's answering machine when Cynthia had fled their happy home after catching Marvin with another woman when he was supposed to be working.

The irony of that day had never struck her until now. She was supposed to be at home working also, but a patient who had no insurance came into Dr. Chang's office to discuss his bill. Since Cynthia was the head biller, she had to come in to meet with him and create some sort of payment arrangement. When she finally took a break, she stepped out the office to catch her breath and grab a bite to eat. Strolling eastward across East Eighty-sixth to Gray's Papaya, she spotted Marvin on the corner of East Eighty-sixth Street and Lexington Avenue. There he stood holding hands with an extremely shapely, tall woman. He had moved a stray strand of her jet-black hair that disrupted her linear blunt-cut bangs. She leaned in, kissed him on the neck with one hand resting on his chest, and he cradled her.

Gentle. He was gentle with her. He held her like a bird with a broken wing.

When she got home, instead of preparing an afternoon snack, she'd packed bags for herself, Keith, and James and left a sticky note on the door:

Cynthia met the boys on the sidewalk like she normally did and took them to her mother's house.

Every day after work Marvin came to her mother's house begging for her return, for a week. He even slept in the doorway of Mildred's apartment.

How did we wind up here? How did I wind up here?
Cynthia found herself staring at a shattered version of herself in the mirror over Mildred's bureau. Cynthia bit the right corner of her mouth. She could taste the words of encouragement she'd been fed. Today they felt like a belch. The sweetness was long gone.

The rich scent of garlic greeted Mildred as she stood outside her door. The table was set, and Cynthia was hovering over a pot of pesto sauce, licking the spoon, a change from the dark corner of the couch she'd been planted in for the past three days.

“Don't you put that spoon back in the pot,” Mildred scolded.

Cynthia shot her mother a glance coupled with a side smile. The muscles in her face had finally given up their protest. Mildred walked into the kitchen, keys in hand, and scanned the area. Her counter was decorated with basil leaves and black pepper, and the sink was full of dishes.

“What is all of this?” she asked.

“Dinner. You've taken care of me all week. You helped me to see this should be our last night together. We're having broiled tilapia, linguine in pesto sauce, and French-cut string beans sautéed in a garlic almond butter sauce.”

Relief swelled in her at the thought that Cynthia had heeded her advice and was headed back home to her family.

“Girl, you don't know anything about cooking,” she joked, leaning against her daughter's shoulder. They both laughed. Why on earth a black woman would want to cook Italian food was beyond Mildred, but every time Cynthia got in front of stove she was transformed into a world-class chef mixed with a dash of sunshine.

“Go change your clothes, Ma. The food is pretty much done. Prepare yourself for a feast.”

Behind the closed door of her bedroom, Mildred rummaged through her purse in search of the detective's card. She'd decided against calling him the other day since Cynthia still seemed to be in a funk. Her head seemed to be on straight now.

“Come on, Ma, it's getting cold,” Cynthia shouted from beyond the door.

Steadying her cell phone in one hand and the card in the other, Mildred replied, “Give me a minute.” She punched in the number and was relieved when the phone was answered on the second ring. “Detective Laurel, please.”

“This is Detective Laurel.”

“Good evening, Detective Laurel. This is Ms. Hathaway, Cynthia Barclay's mother.”

“Good evening, ma'am. I'm so glad you called. My partner was ready to knock on your door this evening. Is Cynthia still at your house?”

“Yes, but she just announced that she is ready to go. She'll probably be gone as early as tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you so much for your help, Ms. Hathaway. I wish all of our missing persons cases ended like this.”

Mildred waved her hand in the air as if the detective stood right in front of her. “No problem, Detective. I also want to thank you. Have a good night.”

“There's just one more thing that I need from you, Ms. Hathaway.”

“Anything. Do you need me to come down to the station and fill out some kind of report or something?”

“No, ma'am. Don't worry about that. We take care of all the paperwork. Ma'am, I want you to hold onto my card. You expressed Mr. Barclay has some violent tendencies. I want you to keep my card in case he doesn't welcome her home so easily or any problems arise between them later on. Please, please don't hesitate to give me or my partner a call.”

Cynthia rapped softly on the door. “Your food is getting cold.”

“I'm coming. Thank you, Detective. I've got to go. Good night,” she replied without even acknowledging his concern. She placed the phone and the business card on top of her bureau.

Donning a soft blue floral house dress, Mildred stood in front of the mirror and considered her daughter's plight. Sympathy ate at her heart. She understood the difficulty of maintaining a relationship, maintaining your sanity with a man who was completely unstable, and raising children. The relationship Mildred shared with Kirk, Cynthia's father, was beleaguered by some of the same demons that plagued Cynthia and Marvin's: alcohol and rage tempered with unbridled lust. Last she heard Kirk had made it big in the UK. For Kirk, big was a gig that lasted more than a week and offered him a plethora of women for him to choose from.

The rich aroma of Cynthia's garlic butter sauce called her back to reality. With her eyes lifted to the ceiling, Mildred whispered, “Even to a thousand generations, please, Lord, guard the fruit of my womb,” before walking out the room.

Mildred took her place at the table. Mildred and Cynthia sat across from each other, their eyes casting reflections of each woman's pain.

“I know you don't want to talk about what happened, but I'm glad to see you're feeling better,” Mildred said between forkfuls of linguine. Cynthia's gourmet meal was a sure sign all was well.

“I'm not really feeling better, but after talking to you this morning I know what I have to do now,” Cynthia said firmly.

“Praise the Lord!” Mildred exclaimed. “God is good, isn't He? He can turn any gray sky blue.”

“Why don't you tell me some more of your stories from the Blue Note or sing one of your songs from your unreleased album,” Cynthia said, chuckling.

A guttural laugh escaped from Mildred. “You serious, girl?”

Cynthia nodded.

Mildred stood, using her knuckles to push off the glass dinette table, tapping her foot on the floor. “‘He don't love me no more. He don't love me no more, so I'm headed for the door before I don't love me no more,'” she sang in a throaty alto unaware of her prophetic lyrics.