I learned some important lessons from Helen. First of all, I learned that women can use their sexuality to manipulate men, and that there is power in that. Before spending time with her, I saw men as having all the power and I’d only experienced being the victim to men’s sexuality. Helen taught me that women could be as powerful as men.
She also taught me that women can be just as dangerous and manipulative as men. I didn’t know it then, but Helen was a sexual predator; in fact, she was probably capable of most anything when it came to sex. Her seductiveness with me and especially Danny, her own nephew, was a testament to this.
Helen also confirmed for me what I had already begun to learn from my mother and her family: a great way to cover up your own insecurities and your own shame was to act as if you were more powerful than everyone else, and humiliate them in order to make yourself feel better.
chapter 29
It was finally the summer before my junior year; I was one year closer to escaping Bakersfield. My mother had started drinking more—or perhaps she was just getting drunk faster, I’m not sure. I’ve heard that as people get older, women especially, they don’t metabolize alcohol as well, so maybe that was what was happening with her. At any rate, she often slurred her words and stumbled when she walked, even though she was still only drinking beer. Several times I saw her fall and knock over a lamp.
Each time this happened I felt a hot red flash of rage build up inside me. My mother had been many things over the course of my young life—neglectful, selfish, cruel—but at least I had always respected her. It was hard to respect or admire a drunk. And when she was drunk she frequently became the angry, sarcastic “wicked witch” version of herself.
That summer, the summer of 1963, was one of Bakersfield’s hottest in years, often getting to 110 degrees before noon. It was too hot to go outside; when I tried, the heat slapped me in the face and took my breath away. So I was basically stuck in the house all day. Even there I couldn’t fully escape the heat, however. We only had what was called a “swamp” cooler—a unit installed in a window with water flowing through it, to keep the air colder—and it was in the back bedroom, so the living room and kitchen were never really cool. If I tried to clean house or iron or do any other chore, I was dripping with sweat within minutes.
I could find no jobs except the occasional babysitting gig, so I sometimes spent entire days lying on our couch watching old movies, getting up only to pee or get yet another white-bread sandwich. About an hour before my mother came home from work, I’d scramble around the house washing dishes, taking out the garbage, picking up the clutter, and starting dinner. After she got home and we ate, I’d spend the evening watching more television with her.
When my mother came home from work, exhausted and testy, I knew to stay away from her and keep quiet. After two or three beers, she’d suddenly become friendly, chatting up a storm about whatever was on television or what had happened that day at work. By her fourth beer, however, the ranting and raving usually began. One of her favorite things to rant about was the Civil Rights Movement. Being the racist she was, she was appalled that Negroes were demanding equal rights.
“Who do they think they are?” she cried. “They should shut up and just be grateful that they are no longer slaves! Those Negroes are just a few steps away from being the monkeys they once were. They aren’t smart enough to know how to vote, much less be able to choose who they want to vote for! Why should we give them equal rights when they haven’t earned them? Most of them are criminals or living off welfare.”
If I could block her out and not get caught up in arguing with her, she’d be passed out in bed by nine or ten and I’d be left alone again with my TV.
We still didn’t have a car, and my friends seemed to have other things to do during the week. But on Friday and Saturday nights, six of us girls would all cram into Florence’s baby blue Mustang for a big night out on the town, which consisted of getting shit-faced drunk and cruising up and down Chester Avenue all night long until someone got so sick we had to stop the car for a puke break. That usually dampened our spirits some, and soon we’d head home to make someone’s curfew.
After the weekend, it was back to the same old routine: spending my days alone, wishing I had someone with me, spending my nights with my mother, wishing I were alone. I was a sinking ship, ready to grab on to any lifeboat that came my way, not caring whether it was full of stinking sardines or smelly sailors. I was becoming increasingly depressed; I needed to be away from my mother and out of that tiny little cracker-box apartment. I needed light, freedom, and most of all, stimulation.
So when Sue Campbell came back into my life, I jumped at my chance for escape, however short-lived. The last time I had seen her was just before we moved away from Janice Drive. At the time, she had still been grieving her mother’s death and was heartbroken because Glenn had just
