The Shade of My Own Tree Read online

  A One World Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2003 by Sheila Williams

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  One World and Ballantine are registered trademarks and the One World colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com/one/

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Williams, Sheila.

  The shade of my own tree / Sheila Williams.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  A One World book.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-54568-8

  1. Women—Appalachian Region—Fiction. 2. Appalachian Region—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.I563S48 2003

  813′.6—dc21

  2002043652

  v3.1_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  … At last I am a woman free!

  No more tied to the kitchen …

  No more bound to the husband

  Who thought me less

  Than the shade he wove with his hands

  No more anger, no more hunger,

  I sit now in the shade of my own tree.

  Meditating thus, I am happy, I am serene.

  SUMANGALAMATA

  (6th century B.C.E.)

  • • •

  … if you don’t have dreams, you don’t have anything.

  And I wasn’t willing to give mine up and become poor in spirit.

  THE SHADE OF MY OWN TREE

  Prologue

  I live in a small river town that is nestled in a valley at the northern edge of the Appalachians. It is a place where big-city hustle and provincial gentility are constantly at war. The town is quaint and small but only on the surface. It is a river town. Over the thousands of years these dark waters have flowed past, they have brought pretty much everything in the world with them. The town has seen it all, so it’s not surprised by much. And the things that don’t quite add up don’t have to. The town’s charter reveals that it was established in 1792—but its sensibilities are years older than that.

  The midwestern temperament ruled where I grew up, which means there wasn’t much of a temper at all. Eccentricity was just a word in the dictionary. The dispositions, language, food, and, especially, the landscape were even and plain. No hills, no valleys. Even the waterways weren’t that deep.

  Not like here. There are valleys and gently rolling hills. And those hills turn into mysterious-looking craggy peaks farther south and east in coal country. When the weather changes, the fogs and mists roll in. Rocks and fertile river bottom land, hills and marshes. You can’t see around the next bend in the road.

  And then, there is the river.

  This river is old, deep, wide, and dark. The river has presence. People have lived along its banks for thousands of years, but they still don’t really know it. It has a history and is content to keep its own secrets.

  Some time ago, a bridge fell and many people died. The divers brought in from the city to retrieve the bodies still have nightmares. They say that there were catfish on the river bottom that were as big as a full-grown man. The old-timers weren’t surprised.

  It’s a small-town population, but it has a sly sophistication. The residents may seem backward and out of things, but that is an inaccurate observation. There is an undercurrent. Like the river, they have been there and done that many times. They can choose to be the way they are. River people are different. They have seen the best and the worst of life and are not surprised by anything in between.

  These are tough people, forged by hard times, a fluid landscape, and the constant presence of the river. There has never been the luxury of time to put on airs. You had to take what the river brought you and earn a living, feast or famine, drought or flood. Use what floats by and send the rest on its way.

  I came here several years ago after I left my husband. I had a little dream about owning a place of my own where I could be peaceful and think and sit on a porch. And be left alone. I wanted to paint. And create a place where other women like me—throwaway women, I call us, women wounded by life or just plain tired—could come and rest or just catch a breath. It was just a dream.

  But if you don’t have dreams, you don’t have anything. And I wasn’t willing to give mine up and become poor in spirit.

  So I came to this little river town and ended up staying. The town barely noticed my arrival, but it’s not that I was ignored. I’m just not peculiar enough to warrant a mention in the newspaper.

  Anyway, the river treats me as if I belong here. And that is enough.

  Chapter One

  I sit in the shade of my own tree now, but it wasn’t too long ago, I didn’t have a twig, much less a tree to sit under. I was running from a marriage that was no good. It took me fifteen years to take that first step, but once I did, I just kept going. Now, several years have come and gone. Already! Time flies when you’re having fun. Or running for your life.

  I married my college boyfriend, Ted, when I was twenty-one.

  After a few years of marriage, I knew that I had made a terrible mistake.

  But once I was in, I didn’t know how to get out. It was like being in prison. And I had a life sentence with no chance of parole.

  I got three squares a day and had a bed, but that was it. There was hard labor and solitary confinement if I was uncooperative. Or if, as in Ted’s words, I acted like a “sassy, smart-mouth bitch.”

  Even when it got as hot as hell in the summer, I wore long sleeves. My arms were always bruised. One August, I wore turtleneck sweaters to work for two weeks until the marks of Ted’s handprints faded where he had tried to choke me.

  I know what you’re thinking: She sounds so articulate! She could get a job anywhere. Why didn’t she just leave? Why did she stay and put up with that?

  How many times have I asked myself those questions? How many times did I beat myself up after Ted beat me up? I’ll turn the tables on you. You don’t understand what I was dealing with. And for years, I didn’t understand, either. By the time I did, it was almost too late.

  The slaps, pushes, kicks, and punches didn’t start right away of course. The insults, put-downs, scoldings, and verbal abuse began slowly. He started with “constructive criticism.” I knew that I was in for it when he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but …” or, “This is for your own good.” By the time he finished with me, I felt like I was six inches tall and three years old, standing in the corner for bad behavior.

  Ted was charming in college. Smart and handsome, athletic and talented, he played a saxophone that Sonny Rollins would have been jealous of. Everyone loved Ted. Especially women. The cutest girl
s on campus threw themselves at him. I, on the other hand, was awkward and strange. I liked Bach, the Indian-influenced music of Alice Coltrane, Herbert Marcuse, and Jane Eyre. Ted could dance. I had two right feet and that is worse than two left ones. Ted talked and dressed “cool.” I didn’t.

  So when Ted Hearn asked the tall, gangly, studious-looking redbone girl from Ohio with straw-colored hair, braces, and glasses with lenses thicker than bullet-proof glass for a date, everyone was shocked. Especially me. I had never had a boyfriend like Ted before. I was thrilled and proud to be seen with him. I was finally “cool.” Ted took care of everything. He was wonderful. He made sure that my friends didn’t take advantage of my weakness for loaning out books and albums and helping with term papers. He helped me deal with my mother, who had a tendency to be a little overbearing and critical. Ted helped me with my class schedules; he even started to suggest the subjects for the paintings that I did, because I thought that I was a painter. He was so protective of me. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

  By the time we got married, the trap was nearly set. I was already isolated from my friends, who had been cut out of my life by Ted, who wanted only to be with me. He had alienated me from my mother, and my poor easygoing father accepted without question what he interpreted as a natural transition of authority: from father to husband.

  Two weeks after our honeymoon, Ted and I moved to Atlanta, where he had taken a job. I was now three states and fourteen hours away from home. I had a new house, a car of my own (that was in Ted’s name), and a part-time job. I was pregnant and I didn’t know anybody in the big, long state of Georgia, not one soul. By the time our daughter, Imani, was born, the cheese was in the trap.

  It started with an argument, I think. I don’t remember now what the argument was about. It ended with Ted back-handing me and then apologizing. It happened so fast. And then we made love. And it didn’t happen again for six months. I remember saying to myself, Maybe I imagined that. Maybe it didn’t really happen.

  But, of course, it happened again. A push and a shove into the stove. Dinner was late that night. It was early the next night and I was slapped because it was cold. This was before microwaves.

  I thought about calling for help. But who was I going to call? Imani? My friends? I didn’t have any friends. The only people I knew were the people Ted knew. And he was very careful to make sure that I didn’t get too friendly with anyone. I couldn’t call my parents, either. In my family, whining is not allowed. Thanks to Ted, Mother and I were barely speaking. And Dad’s gentle nature hid a strong resolve when it came to working out your own issues in a marriage. “If you make your bed too hard,” he always said, “be ready to turn over more often.” I turned over and over and over.

  So I did nothing. The years of my life flew by.

  Unlike prison, there was never time off for good behavior, because Ted beat me whether I was “good” or not. What was “good”? He made me feel small.

  As the years passed, I became numb. I did not feel at all. The only thing that made me smile was Imani, our daughter. And yet there were days when, even with her, I couldn’t remember how. My voice grew softer and quieter and then went silent. I nearly disappeared altogether. Except when I screamed. I had volume control. There was loud. And there was louder. When Ted told me to shut up, I bit through my bottom lip and sent the screams deep inside.

  I saw a silly movie once about voodoo and zombies. I watched the campy-looking zombie stagger through the scenes with its black-circled eyes and a blank expression. I could have performed that role myself without makeup, script, or rehearsal. Ted had beaten the humanity out of me.

  I did ask for help a few times when I could get up the courage and get past the humiliation.

  I just didn’t take the advice that I got.

  I called a domestic violence hot line. The woman told me to pack up my daughter and leave Ted. Right then. Take only my purse and my keys. They had a shelter on Peachtree. Leave Ted and do what? I was only working part-time then. Imani was six. What would I do for money? Where would I live? How would I live?

  Another time, after we moved north, a hospital social worker visited me, uninvited. I had been kept overnight for observation after Ted kicked me in the abdomen and broke a couple of my ribs. She touched one of the dark red roses that Ted had sent me from an expensive florist. I know that she saw the card that read: “I don’t know what got into me. I love you so much. I would die if you left me. Ted”

  The woman sat down in the chair next to my bed and looked me straight in the eye. She didn’t say good morning; she didn’t say, “How are you feeling?” She just looked at me without smiling.

  “If you don’t leave him, you will die.”

  And then, there was the memorable occasion that I talked with Miss Thelma, one of the elders at my church. She clucked her tongue at me.

  “Honey, there ain’t no problem with that man. Now he’s got a good job at the auto plant and he brings home good money. You-all have that nice house over there on the east side and you got your own car. You ain’t got nothin’ to complain about. What’s the matter with you?”

  Well, that was no advice at all.

  I was afraid to leave Ted. And I was afraid to stay.

  I left him four times. And I came back four times. I called the police so often that they knew me by my first name: “Opal, are you going to let us lock him up?”

  And I did a few times.

  Ted called me from jail: “Are you gonna come and get me out? I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.” Ted wasn’t charming anymore.

  I pretty much lost everything.

  The few friends I’d made stopped calling because I always canceled lunch and girls’ night out at the last minute. And I wouldn’t return their telephone calls. I didn’t want to hear what they were telling me.

  I missed the sermons and the music at church that gave me so much comfort. I stopped going to church because I dropped out of the choir. And I dropped out of the choir because I missed too many rehearsals. I missed too many rehearsals because I was ashamed. I didn’t want God to see my black eyes, bruises, and swollen lips. I didn’t want him to know.

  Except for work and the grocery store, I became a recluse. I hardly saw anyone. I learned, well, sort of, what set Ted off. I could walk on eggshells in high heels. I was good. I could sense an electricity in the air; I could tell from the set of his jaw or the look in his eye. Sometimes I could tell whether I was going to be slapped or kicked. Or both. I should have used that ESP on better things.

  It’s true that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. I call it the ruby slippers syndrome: you can wear those shoes all over the place, but until you click your heels together and chant the magic words, nothing will happen.

  I eventually made up with my mother and my parents offered me sanctuary. They knew what was going on. But I wouldn’t take it.

  My brother, JT, threatened to just show up one day with a U-Haul to take me, Imani, and all of our furniture and other belongings away. I refused to go.

  Even my cats left. There was a time, some years ago, when Ted would come home after he’d been drinking and pick up one of them and throw him against the wall to see if cats would bounce.

  They don’t.

  You don’t have to tell cats anything twice.

  By the time Imani was ten, she knew that her mommy and daddy weren’t like other mommies and daddies or like the ones that she saw on TV. The households of her friends may have been noisy and hectic, but the muffled sounds of shrieks, screams, and banging furniture were absent. The mothers of her girlfriends didn’t have bruises or black eyes. My daughter is a smart kid. She never brought her friends home with her.

  And I was stupid and blind enough to believe that because Imani was a child, she didn’t notice what was happening in her home.

  “Mommy, did Daddy hurt you?”

  Imani asked
this question again and again over the years until it became more of a statement than an inquiry.

  “No,” I lied. “Daddy was just a little upset.” My eyes were puffy because Daddy was “a little upset.” The kitchen chair was a pile of sticks because Daddy was “a little upset.”

  Who was I kidding?

  Certainly not my daughter. I became a “shadow” mommy, there but not there, lurking around the edges of my daughter’s life.

  Imani left for college when she was eighteen, and she hasn’t really been home since. She spent the holidays with my parents. Ted got worse after she left. Once she was gone, there was no more need for me to bite my lip to keep from screaming. There was no one to hear.

  And still, I stayed.

  I must have been waiting for a sign from God. It finally came.

  Ted and I went to Kmart. I think we were looking for a lawn mower or some yard tools or something, I don’t really remember now what it was. We didn’t find the lawn mower, but we picked up a few other things, moved at a snail’s pace through the checkout line, then headed home.

  Ted was quiet in the car.

  I knew then.

  The automatic garage door hadn’t finished its descent before he started in on me.

  “Think you’re pretty slick, don’t you?”

  My stomach began to churn.

  “Ted, what are you talking about?”

  His voice got louder and he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “I saw you looking at that man in the white shirt. I saw him looking at you! Who is he?”

  The first punch caught me on the back of my head. The second one grazed my right eye. I saw stars and dropped to the floor.

  “What man?”

  “Bitch! I am tired of this shit! Do you think that you can sneak around on me!”

  He kicked me in the ribs and in the stomach. My head was ringing and I remember thinking that now I knew how a football felt. A stupid thought, really, when you’re being beaten. But my mind was desperately trying to separate itself from the pain and the fear. I tried to open my eyes and look at Ted as I defended myself. But my left eye was bleary from the tears. And my right eye was swollen shut.