Like Sisters on the Homefront Read online

  Dedication

  for Alana, Michelle, Stephanie,

  and especially Elaine Isaacs,

  who made this work possible

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Books by Rita Williams-Garcia

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  THE FIRST TIME GAYLE slammed the bathroom door, her mother let it go. The second time, Mama’s ears perked up, listening for familiar sounds. The third time Gayle ran into the bathroom, Mama was up the stairs and on Gayle’s heels, witnessing what she already knew. Gayle, stooped over the toilet bowl, face flushed, body heaving, was pregnant. Again.

  Mama snatched a paper cup from the dispenser and almost crushed it. She filled the cup with tap water, thrust it at Gayle’s mouth, and ordered her to gargle and spit. For once, Gayle did as she was told, then wiped her lips, thinking, No use breaking into a story. Mama already knew.

  Ow!

  Gayle rubbed her hot cheek, keeping the hurt to herself. If anything, she felt a chuckle bubbling underneath the sting of Mama’s slap. Sensing that Mama was hardly in the mood for fun and games, Gayle wisely kept it to herself as well.

  Mama splashed a handful of cold water on Gayle’s face and dabbed it with a towel. “You far ’long?” she asked, then sought her own answer by patting Gayle’s belly. Gayle shrugged. “You clean? Did you bathe?” Before Gayle could respond, Mama added, “Then dress the baby, ’cause we going.”

  “Where we going?” Gayle asked, excited that Mama was taking action. Mama was something else when she was wound up for war. Oooh, bet we going to Troy’s house, Gayle thought. Have it out with Troy Mama.

  “Where we going?” Gayle asked again.

  Mama repeated, “We going,” with an eerie determination that made Gayle anticipate fireworks at Troy’s house.

  Gayle stood in the hallway, listening to her mother’s telephone conversation. Judging by Mama’s humble demeanor, Gayle ruled out Troy’s mama as the other party. She heard “. . . No, it’s not Junie. It’s Gayle . . .” follow by three “Yes, Miz Feldmans” in Mama’s best “work voice.” Then she heard the receiver slam. Now Mama was angry because she had to sound like a child begging permission to take care of business.

  Gayle fled into her bedroom to avoid hearing what she had cost Mama. She sat on her bed, where her son lay on his back kicking his fat, buttermilk-colored legs wildly, celebrating her return. She fought the urge to smile at him, not wanting him to get the idea that this was playtime. José was being obstinate this morning. Curling his toes so she couldn’t slip the soft shoes on. “Hold still,” she told him. He kicked his feet. “Why you gotta act so stupid?” she scolded and smacked his toes a little so he’d know: STOP PLAYING AROUND. It worked. His wet little mouth made a perfect O, and he let out suspenseful breaths. “For seven months you ain’t too stupid.”

  Gayle tied her own sneakers then put her son on her too narrow hip. Down the stairs she trooped, hoping the thunder would end Junie’s sleep.

  Mama was at the door. “I gave you your one mistake,” she said. “Thought you’d learn something.”

  Junior rolled over on the sofa and blinked until his eyes stayed open. “She belly out again? It was Troy, wasn’t it?”

  Mama turned her attention to the sofa. “Junie, go to work and stop minding everybody’s business.”

  Junie swore he’d hurt Troy first chance he got.

  For being eighteen and out of school, Junie still had a lot of kid in him. He was always into some low-level trouble. Nothing that would get him put away, but always busy trying. Mouthing off, getting into fights, selling things that obviously weren’t his—prompting strangers to come knocking on the door at two and three o’clock in the morning hunting him down, while he lay on the sofa faking a coma and leaving Mama to deal with them.

  Junie rolled back into a fetal position and closed his eyes. Junie was Mama’s favorite ’cause he had his daddy’s face on him. As far as Gayle was concerned, Daddy could stay dead if that’s what he looked like. Junie made her sick. Mama let Junie lay up in the house doing nothing while Gayle did all the housework. Gayle sneered at him, thinking, Junie gon’ be a punk boy all his life. Her consolation was that she would be a woman for the rest of hers.

  Gayle strapped the baby into the stroller and lifted the stroller down the porch stairs. Before leaving, Mama issued another warning for Junie to unpeel himself from the sofa, though Mama and Gayle knew it was fruitless.

  Mama was walking awfully fast. They seemed to be going the wrong way. Weren’t they going to Troy Mama house so they could start some fireworks?

  “We not going to Troy’s?”

  “For what? Troy already stuck in his two cents. That’s what you carrying. Troy’s two cents.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Women’s Clinic.”

  “For what?” Gayle asked.

  “Don’t be cute. Cute got you where you at.”

  “S’pose I want to keep it. It’s mines.”

  “As long as you fourteen and in my house, you mines,” Mama said. “Only one woman in my house. I say what goes on in my four walls—and I’m not having it. What you think I’m running? Does my door say South Jamaica Welfare Hotel? No. Do you see Hoe House on my mailbox? No. It say 150-11 South Road. Have the nerve to say ‘Whitaker’ on the welcome mat.”

  Gayle giggled, then laughed out loud. “See, Mama. You be pissing me off and making me laugh at the same time.”

  Mama kept up her pace. “Laugh now,” she said. “The joke won’t be on me and it damn sure won’t be on you. Not while I’m living.”

  When they got to the Women’s Clinic on Sutphin Boulevard, the lady said Gayle didn’t have to have no abortion against her will. Mama couldn’t force her on the table. She used words like choice, consent, coercion, and some other big c words. She was white, but young like a college girl. No makeup. No hairstyle. Looked like she been studying all night long. Had her schoolbook open at the desk with yellow highlighter streaks all through it.

  Mama could care less for the college girl look. Mama smacked her in the face with some southside talk. Stomped her into the ground with one of those vicious “Mama glares,” all ’cause she a little white girl using big c words to make Mama look like a caged gorilla. Boy, Mama could show out!

  When Ruby Whitaker spit out the last of her wrath, that white girl didn’t utter another c word. Didn’t look up. Just signed Gayle in, told mother and daughter to have a seat in the room till Gayle’s name was called, and went back to marking up her schoolbook in yellow highlighter.

  They made the mistake—judging by Mama’s expression—of sitting next to a young woman who told Gayle right away, “I’m having an abortion and a tubal ligation.” She was much older than Gayle. Early twenties, at least.

  Gayle wrinkled her nose, not liking the sound of it. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “When they tie your tubes so you don’t have no more babies. Only takes a minute. See, this ’bout
my sev—no eighth—pregnancy. I got four kids at home. Had some abortions, lost some. How ’bout you?”

  Gayle didn’t know if she meant pregnancy or abortion. “I just got this here baby,” she said, pointing to José, who had discovered the jingle bells fastened to his shoelaces and was kicking his legs excitedly. “And this one.” She meant the one in her belly. Mama grunted.

  Gayle eyed some Hispanics across the room. She assumed they were a pregnant girl, her mama, and her boyfriend. They were praying and crying—the boy and the mama doing most of it while the girl consoled them.

  Everyone else was just waiting, biting lips, turning paler, staring at posters but not reading them. At fourteen, Gayle was hardly the youngest in the room. She saw all kinds of black girls, white girls, Hispanic girls, and Asian girls. There was an East Indian–looking girl with perfect brown skin and a ponytail long enough to sit on. Gayle imagined herself with that long ponytail, then snapped out of it. The thought of being dragged around the schoolyard by the hair was not pleasant, as Gayle was always starting something with the biggest gal she could find.

  A woman wearing a blue-and-white RESPECT LIFE button pinned to her sweater and a gold crucifix around her neck came in and identified herself as a counselor. She said that life was a gift and that there were other options besides abortion, such as adoption. She described the loving environment each child would have, and the nice TV family that would adopt the child and raise it to one day be president. She said that anyone who decided to have her baby would be entitled to prenatal care, the opportunity to finish school, and job training.

  Without parting her lips, Mama telegraphed, “Get that thought out your head ’fore I smack it out.”

  Gayle glanced up at her mother and snickered, figuring since Mama had ruined her chances of hooking Troy, she would get back at her mother by saying to the Tube-Tying Woman, “That ’doption sounds good,” all the while knowing it was hype. Ain’t nobody breaking they necks to adopt black babies.

  Out of a dozen, two girls couldn’t discern the “hype.” They leaped to their feet, choosing adoption, and followed the RESPECT LIFE lady into another room.

  A nurse came in to explain the procedure. Gayle grew impatient with the nurse’s concern that they understand everything. Gayle didn’t want to understand. She just wanted to get it over with.

  Finally, those who wanted to go ahead followed the nurse into another room. The one girl who kept holding things up by asking questions wanted to call her mother. Gayle and the Tube-Tying Woman shared furtive glances, knowing the girl on the phone wasn’t going ahead.

  They were now on their own. No mamas. No boyfriends. No sisters. No girlfriends. Just pregnant girls. Some pregnant women. Bare legs and paper gowns. One after another, submitting to exams. Gayle passed. Six weeks pregnant. Another girl was told to come back in two weeks. It was too early to do anything. She was crying about how hard it was to get there. That she had come a long, long way. Couldn’t they just do it? They said no. Then she started rolling around on the cold floor in that paper gown like a little kid having a sugar fit. Even when they took her out, Gayle could still hear her tinny teenage voice screaming, “Pleeese! Pleeese!”

  The Tube-Tying Woman, who struck Gayle as being goosey, suddenly adjusted her tone. “Someone should watch that girl. No telling what she might do.” The Tube-Tying Woman said she had seen this all the time. “Girls wind up trying to do it theyselves. Mess theyselves up for life or bleed to death.”

  It was time. Big-armed nurses in aqua uniforms came in every ten minutes to load up the gurneys and push them left or right. The Tube-Tying Woman was the first to go.

  There was a woman doctor and a man doctor. Gayle didn’t want no woman doctor getting into her eggs and fish cakes. She thought, Womens shouldn’t be touching womens down there. How do you know they not jealous ’cause you young and can have babies while they gotta work and be doctors ’cause they can’t get a man?

  Good. Man doctor.

  He looked at her chart to see what kind of anesthesia she wanted. He looked twice, then asked if she was sure the local. Mama had already told Gayle she had to be awake. They didn’t have extra money for sleep.

  Gayle figured since she had already toughed it out with birthing José she could deal with local anesthesia. It wasn’t as if she could die from the pain. And the doctor was so nice. West Indian guy. He talked to her with her knees up and her feet in the cold stirrups like it was nothing. Gayle said she was ready once they gave her the needle. She wanted to see it happening, but the doctor said she had to be still. She felt some pumping and some pinching. Whoooooooo. That local wasn’t kicking in like she thought it would. She made a fist, then cursed Mama for not having enough money for sleep. The doctor told her she was brave. “Oh, Doc, it ain’t nothing to cry about,” she said. When it was over she asked if she could see what he put in the metal pan. He said it wasn’t nothing to see.

  Gayle remembered the gurney rolling again but couldn’t remember being helped into her clothes or into her chair. She searched the narrow room, noting familiar faces—minus the two who had chosen adoption, the one who had asked for her mama, and the one the clinic had turned away. They had all made it. The Tube-Tying Woman wanted to leave and pick up her children from day care. The East Indian girl combed her long ponytail with her fingers and stared at her feet. The Hispanic girl comforted an Asian girl, who was also staring at her feet. When the girls’ eyes left their feet or the tiles or the posters, they found each other and conveyed their relief and concern.

  A nurse wheeling a tray of orange juice stopped to pour Gayle a cup. Gayle took it, feeling the nurse resisting the urge to shake her head um, um, um.

  A counselor came in and stood at the front. To keep from catching the reflective glare of her too shiny, too round glasses Gayle focused on her huge blue-and-white button that said RESPECT YOURSELF! Gayle craved a cigarette, a stick of gum. She needed something to bite on while the counselor went on and on about self-esteem, self-control, birth control, keeping clean, cotton panties, and no nookie for six weeks. Restless, the Tube-Tying Woman took advantage of every joke-cracking opportunity.

  The counselor suggested with true sincerity, “Have someone else do the housework.”

  “You lending out your maid?”

  “Have someone else watch the children.”

  “A maid and a nanny,” cried the Tube-Tying Woman. “Say, lady, that’s some life you living!”

  Then the counselor insisted, “Absolutely no strenuous exercise during the next six weeks. No jogging.”

  The Tube-Tying Woman did not need to say a word. Everyone hollered with laughter, including the counselor.

  When she emerged through the side door, Gayle found her mother waiting anxiously with the stroller. She peered down into the stroller and smiled at her son, noting that single-mindedness must run in the family. José had finally kicked off his shoe and was worn out by his efforts.

  “You all right?” Mama asked.

  Gayle tilted her head, lifted her eyebrows, and released a sigh. “Guesso.”

  Mama said the cab would be there any minute, but that was all she said. They looked off in opposite directions as they waited. Mama wouldn’t give Gayle room to vent her feelings about her ordeal and Gayle wasn’t about to volunteer the details of her pains.

  2

  GAYLE CALLED TROY MAMA house every half hour and let the phone ring fifteen times before she hung up. On her fourth try, Troy Mama answered the phone and said her son wasn’t home so stop calling and worrying her to death. Gayle said it was important. Could she please tell Troy—then Troy Mama cut her off quick. “Look here, miss. I know which one you are. You’re that pale, skinny child always in my living room starting up business every time I turn around. If Troy wants to find you, let him find you. If he ain’t scout you out, take the hint.”

  Thwarted, Gayle mashed down the receiver, cutting short the other woman’s “problem with you gals today” litany. She placed the phone on
the nightstand and smoothed out the wrinkles on Mama’s bedspread before returning to her room.

  The locked-in mustiness of her own bedroom was strong, particularly after having left Mama’s clean, lilac-scented room. It wasn’t just the smell of her sloth sealed in by July heat, but all that it signified. Being trapped. Missing out. While all that good old dirt was kicking up out there, she had been inside for the past two days changing diapers and listening to José scream and carry on because Mama had ordered her to stay in her room. If it were left up to Mama, Gayle wouldn’t set foot on concrete heaven until she was too old to care. All that talk about “resting and healing” was Mama’s cover-up for “Stay yo’ shiny yella heinie behind bars.”

  Enough was enough, Gayle decided. She had healed all she was gonna heal outside of a little spotting and some cramping. She bathed José, then dressed and fed him, strapped him into his stroller, got dressed, laced her sneakers, and left without washing her face.

  Times like these called for getting with the homegirls and trashing both Mama and Troy Mama for hours on end. With spirits rising, they’d move on to Gayle’s adventures at the Women’s Clinic. How they’d marvel at Gayle’s ability to laugh about her experience. In minutes she would have them dying over hilarious accounts of the girl at the desk, the counselors, the doctors, and the women waiting—especially the Tube-Tying Woman.

  The southside homegirls. Tight since day care, holding on through junior high. Winning double Dutch jump-offs. Ditching Bible studies, study hall, and ballet classes. Protecting one another’s secrets and lies, yet always quick to “read” one another when necessary. Lynda, Terri, and Gayle. Sometimes Joycie. Like sisters on the homefront, looking out for one another. All Gayle needed was to get with the girls, get with the girls . . .

  She rang Lynda’s doorbell only to discover she had missed her by five minutes. Lynda Mama kept Lynda busy with a baby-sitting job across town followed by track and field with the Police Athletic League. During the school year, Gayle and Terri would go to Lynda’s track meets to cheer her on. Fine guys with muscles and colored trunks would be there flexing and strutting and calling out to Lynda, “Yo, baby, yo, lightning” ’cause Lynda was fast. The homegirls would hook up Lynda’s braids with red and yellow beads so she’d look wicked rounding those turns in the relays.