She even replayed what I’d said to her friends more than once in the weeks that followed, laughing her heartfelt laugh each time. She thought it was cute.
On the one hand, I was happy whenever my mother laughed at anything I said or did. But it was also confusing. She seemed to be proud of me when I said things she thought were “precocious” and “cute,” but then she’d turn around and criticize me for being “too precocious” when I said or did something she didn’t like.
The only place where I didn’t have to worry about being good was Pam’s house. There, alone with Pam in her bedroom, I felt accepted and loved for who I was. I didn’t have to worry about making her angry, like I did with my mother, and I didn’t have to worry about doing something that would send me to Hell, like I did when I was at Mrs. Jones’s house. I didn’t have to worry about impressing her, like I did my teachers. In fact, I didn’t have to worry about anything. I could just let my imagination run wild as we played with her dolls, dollhouses, stuffed animals, and other toys. If I got carried away and started making noises, I didn’t have to worry about “quieting down.” If I started giggling to the point where I was rolling around on the floor, I had no one there to tell me to not get “carried away.” Instead I was met with sweet smiles when I looked up from my playing, and looks of approval and even appreciation when I came up with some crazy idea about what we could do.
I always left Pam’s house feeling renewed and strong, able to go back and face the criticism and disapproval of my mother. No one could touch me when I was buoyed up from Pam’s warm smile.
To my mother, being good meant many things. It meant being quiet while she took a nap. It meant not talking back. It meant not bothering her while she sat for hours talking to her friends. But mostly it meant not embarrassing her.
One day when I was in the second grade, I woke her up from her afternoon nap to tell her I was going over to Ruby’s. She turned over and issued her usual warning to “be good” before closing her eyes again.
I spent that afternoon with Ruby, sitting quietly on the floor of her dark apartment, drawing pictures while she read her mystery novel. I was soaking up the richness of the smell of leather and old books, looking up periodically to stare at the mysterious gargoyles and the line of carved elephants making their way across Ruby’s bookshelves.
As was our custom, after a few hours of this, Ruby looked up from her book and said, “Don’t you think it’s time for a snack?”
I shot up off the floor and put my hand out for the coins that would pay for two Coca-Colas and a can of Vienna sausages, then ran out the back door, across the large, empty lot, and down the street to the little market. Inside, I grabbed the Cokes and the tiny tin of salty little wieners and paid hastily at the counter. As I rushed back to Ruby’s, I could almost taste the combination of the salty sausages and soft white bread slathered in mayonnaise. I could feel the delicious clink of the cold bottle of Coke against my teeth. I couldn’t wait to get back to Ruby’s, so I decided to come in through the court’s front entrance, a more direct route.
I was immediately confronted by a small group of people gathered around our little yard. They all turned in my direction—including my mother, who was clearly upset.
“Where have you been, young lady?” she called to me. “I’ve been worried sick. The whole neighborhood has been out looking for you. I even called Mr. Delis to drive around in his car.”
I looked through the crowd and sure enough, there was Pam’s father, looking out of place among the neighborhood housewives.
“I was at Ruby’s, Momma!” I wailed.
The crowd quickly dispersed as my mother thanked everyone for helping her. Then there was only Mr. Delis left in our yard. Momma apologized profusely for wasting his valuable time, yanked my arm, and told me to do the same.
“I’m sorry you had to go look for me, Mr. Delis,” I said through my tears. I knew my mother had been shamed by the experience, and I in turn felt humiliated. I also knew that once again I was in trouble, and once again I didn’t really understand why. I’d told Momma I was going to Ruby’s, but it was clear she didn’t remember—and it was all my fault. Again.
Momma pushed me into the house and sat me down hard on the couch.
“How dare you humiliate me in front of all those people. Don’t you ever, ever leave this house again without telling me where you are going.”
I looked up at her and dared to look into her eyes. “But Momma, I told you I was going to Ruby’s—”
She slapped me hard across the face. “Don’t you lie to me, young lady. I won’t have it.”
My face stung, causing my eyes to flood with tears. This time I didn’t look up. “But Momma, I did tell you. Don’t you remember?”
“You did no such thing. I would have remembered if you had. Stop lying.” Her voice was taking on the hysterical tone that signaled an impending full-on verbal assault—or, worse yet, the dreaded silent treatment. I kept quiet.
It wasn’t until a couple of days later, when my mother could once again afford to speak to me, that I was able to explain to her that I had woken her up to tell her I was going to Ruby’s.
She never told me she believed
