“You are unbelievable,” she told her. “The only thing we’ve talked about since you came here is you. You’re depressed. Big fucking deal. Could we please talk about something else?” She flung herself back in her chair.
Bob looked at his hands. The older woman folded her arms across her chest. Dark glasses hid Terry’s eyes.
“You asked me the questions,” Debbie said plaintively.
“Because you never stop whining about being so fucking sad,” the younger woman yelled, her face swollen with anger. “I’ve got no job. Terry’s an addict. Maynell,” she nodded toward the older woman, “has two kids who live off of her. We don’t know what he’s here for,” she nodded over at Bob. “Who cares about your shitty little problems?”
“Why does this make you so angry, Carol?” the doctor cut in.
“Why can’t she be angry?” the older woman asked. “Aren’t we supposed to talk about how we feel?”
Debbie was fighting back the tears. She didn’t know how to be part of them. She didn’t know what they wanted her to be. She didn’t fit in anywhere, not anywhere, not even this room. They would be happy if she left. Yes, they would. What was wrong with her?
“I don’t care what we talk about,” the younger woman stated, “as long as it’s not about her.”
Bob shook his head.
“How’s Terry?” the older woman asked, her voice like a chirp from a bird.
“Well, man,” he pulled out of his couch slouch, “I guess it’s okay. Yeah, everything is going fine.”
“You trying to convince us or yourself?” Bob asked.
“Hey, man, no. I mean, you ask how I am and I’m tell you I’m fine.” He gave a quick smile. “But, hey, I don’t want to talk about it. Okay? I don’t feel like talking today. That okay?” He looked at Debbie. She tried to smile.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
They all seemed to nod, to smile back at him. That is what Debbie saw. She looked down at the floor. She would not let them see her cry.
34
“You talk to Debbie much?” Clifford asked Ellen “I mean, in the past couple of weeks?”
“We talk in the station and on the phone. Not that much.”
“I think she’s in trouble,” he said, not talking his eyes off the road.
Ellen shook her head. She was tired of the phone calls, tired of the little-girl voice pleading for reassurance. She was keeping those late night calls short. Sometimes she didn’t bother to answer the phone.
“Remember when she first got here she was having all those dinners and things?” Clifford asked.
“Uh huh.”
“Well, I went by there last night and a couple of times last week and I knew she was in there, but she wouldn’t answer the door.” He turned to Ellen, his eyes wide.
“You don’t know for sure she was in there.”
“I know,” he stated firmly. “I know because of that peephole. I know because I see a light in that peephole and then somebody was looking through it, blocking it. That’s how I know she was in there. And, her car’s there.”
“So what?” Ellen snapped in annoyance. “She’s okay. I’ve talked to her. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Whatever you want.”
After a moment of silence, he commented, “Sure is nice today.”
“Only one more month and we turn on the air conditioners,” Ellen reminded him.
“Not me. Uh uh. I ain’t staying in this sweat hole one more summer.”
A Greyhound bus pulled alongside them.
“I once traveled across the country on a bus,” Ellen said, looking up at the bus windows. “It was an interesting trip.”
“Ain’t no way I get on a bus,” he said. “Eating my kneecaps all the way to Philly? No way.”
“I went all the way from Boston to Albuquerque on a bus,” she went on. “I wanted to see the country instead of flying over it. I did get nervous once, in Washington D.C. Wouldn’t you know, the nation’s capital.”
“What happened?”
“There were some mean-looking people in that bus station.”
“Brothers?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, remembering the pointed black faces, the skinny bodies leaning against the walls, the slick suits. They were waiting for young girls, the runaways, waiting for somebody who didn’t look like they knew the scene.
“We are a mean bunch of motherfuckers,” Clifford said with a laugh.
“You know,” she said as they drove, “Debbie’s okay. She gets too involved in things, that’s all.”
“She’s had some bad times,” Clifford said cautiously.
“I know she’s had bad times,’” Ellen said. “And, I know about the latest one. She told me.”
“You know about the abortion?” he blurted it out.
“Yeah,” she nodded.
“Man,” he sighed with the relief of finally being able to talk about it. “It was bad. There wasn’t any blood or anything. I would have died right there. Still, it was bad, man, and there I was, my big, black self hanging around this place, thinking she’s inside half-dead with some coat hanger or something.”
Ellen broke into laughter. “Oh, Clifford.”
“Go ahead, you can laugh. You weren’t there. I was there and the whole time I’m thinking what am I going to do if this girl dies. Who’s going to believe me with some dead white girl in her bedroom?” He shook his head.
“I ain’t never been through anything like that before and I ain’t never doing it again.”
“She’s okay now,” Ellen said.
“I guess so,” he said but he sounded doubtful.
*
He never told anyone, not anyone. That’s what he promised her and he kept his promises. But, man, did he want to call Jason and tell him to get his white ass over there. He was the one who should be taking care of her. It was his mess. And where was he, Mr. Wonder Bread boy? Not taking care of his mess, that’s where.
All Debbie said when he brought her home was that she wanted to sleep and he should go home. No way he was leaving her alone. She could die, they did sometimes, he knew that. He checked on her, every hour or so. He tiptoed into her bedroom and
