IF LOVE DOESN’T LIVE THERE ANY MORE - NEITHER SHOULD YOU.

Domestic violence is a societal cancer that transcends age, race, sex and class to bring shame on the abused as well as the abuser. What makes someone stay in a relationship that places their mind, body, and soul under siege? Why would anyone opt to remain in a situation that no longer serves them?

Friday, June 26, 2009

Beatrice Franklin felt the familiar warmth of her husband’s gaze as she sat comfortably in her wheelchair with a glass of white wine in her hand. MS was her constant companion. Save for special occasions, she seldom drank.  

Celebrating my 20th wedding anniversary with my beloved Roscoe by my side, and having all of my babies under one roof constitutes a special occasion, she told herself, taking a sip of the delicious bouquet. Roscoe left the bar to make his way to her. Bea smiled when he took her hand.

Their story began some twenty-odd years ago when Roscoe, an estate planning and corporate lawyer of some renown, received a call from his frat brother, Samad Hardin. No sooner did Samad get the obligatory greeting out of the way before he was dangling yet another carrot to entice Samad to leave the white sand beaches and sunshine of California to join his corporate firm in the frigid steel trap of Newark, NJ.

Recently divorced, and emotionally scarred from a long, drawn-out custody battle for his two kids, his beloved canine, and his sanity, Roscoe thought a temporary change in scenery might do him some good. He surprised Samad when he told him he would consider the latest offer and readily accepted Samad’s invitation to visit Brick City. The next day, Roscoe packed a weekend bag, dropped the kids and the dog off at his former in-law’s house, and boarded a plane for the east coast. 

As the universe would have it, that evening Samad took Roscoe to a civil rights rally where he met Samad’s wife, Vivienne and his sister-in-law, Beatrice Minette Baker. One look in Beatrice’s soft brown eyes, and the bitter pain of his failed marriage melted away, rendering Roscoe deaf, dumb, and blind to anyone but her. Suddenly gifted with that all-knowing knowingness inherent in those touched by spirit, Roscoe took a leap of faith and agreed to join Samad’s firm on the spot, even though the one he would come to know as Bea was already married.

It was not serendipitous, but by divine design the two like-spirits would meet during the time and in the manner they did, and that they would be the last couple standing in a scorched field of dead bodies.

Theirs was a love-match forged in pain and purpose, with Bea emotionally and legally tethered to someone else, and Roscoe doing something he never thought he’d do; that being to wait in the wings, content to exist in any space she occupied.

I love you, Roscoe Franklin, Beatrice thought, stroking Roscoe’s memories, both good and bad, with those of her own. The look in Beatrice’s eyes transcended the need for words. Roscoe raised his wife’s hand to plant a kiss in the center of her palm, as his eyes responded in kind. 

And I love you, Sweet Bea, more than life itself. Look at what our love has created. 

They had reason to be proud. Other than Jamal, Roscoe’s son from his first marriage, who was serving his second tour of duty in Afghanistan, every child, grand, and family friend was present and accounted for, including Jamal’s twin, Jennifer, a recent divorcee, who was hanging solo, and Beatrice’s sweet niece, Mickey, whom she and Roscoe hadn’t seen in over nine months. To this day, Beatrice couldn’t look at Mickey without seeing the imprint of her parents, Samad and Vivienne, etched on her beautiful face. 

An opposing band of witches brutally murdered Vivienne and Samad in the summer of 1967. Their daughter, Mickey, was only two years old when Beatrice, who lost her first husband and younger sister on that same night, went into hiding with her niece and her three children, Rayna, Rockmon, and James. It had taken Roscoe over a year to find Bea, and longer still to convince her he could protect her and her children. He was determined to make her his own.

Through every trial, Bea and Roscoe remained fiercely devoted to their children, including Mickey, whom they raised as one of their own.

“We need to talk to that chile,” Bea stated in a low voice, her eyes firmly fixed on Mickey.

“You talk to Mickey and I will have a word with Marty,” Roscoe replied, in tacit agreement that there was something not quite right between their niece and her husband, Marty. 

Bea was a practicing witch, and not above putting in some work to straighten out whatever was crooked, if need be. 

***

Michelle “Mickey” Hardin-Michaels absorbed the joy of being around her family like a sponge soaked in flower festooned river water. She experienced the same giddy feeling whenever she stepped foot inside the place of love and light that was her childhood home. She felt alive and loved—safe, cleansed, and without a worry in the world, because of her family and the effects of the apple martini she’d just polished off. No matter the source of her contentment, she would treasure this night for a long time. 

“Here you go, honey,” her husband Martin said, choosing that moment to hand Michelle a fresh apple martini. It was the deep cultured timbre of Martin’s voice that initially attracted her to him. Three years of marriage, and it still ran through Michelle’s body like an electric current, charging her from the inside out. Martin bent to place a solicitous kiss on her forehead, shocking her. Public displays of affection were not Martin’s thing, but then again, neither was socializing with Michelle’s family.

As one of the founding partners at H.L. Wright & Company, Wall Street’s first Negro-Owned securities firm, Martin Wayne Michaels, III, was an anomaly; a Negro, born with a silver spoon, who was no stranger to hard work. Martin didn’t have to work—he thrived on it. Wheeling and dealing and amassing significant wealth gave him an exhilarating rush. He pulled all-nighters in the office at least twice a week. Whenever Michelle’s family tendered an invitation, Martin would cry off, using fatigue or his busy schedule as an excuse. 

What confounded Michelle was the sudden burst of energy Martin always received whenever his mom issued a summons. One call from Le Grand Dame Michaels, and they dropped whatever they were doing to schlep all the way to the Michaels’ mini mansion in the Hamptons. Michelle didn’t begrudge the time they spent with Martin’s mother. She wished he consider spending more time with her side of the family, who lived less than fifteen minutes away from their marital residence. 

Martin was implacable. Not only did he frown on Michelle going anywhere without him, but he warned her not to let anyone in his house while he wasn’t there. Other than her part-time job in the parapsychology department at NYU, Michelle twiddled her thumbs every weekday and most weekends, waiting for Martin to come home. It was for that reason that it genuinely surprised her when he agreed they could attend her Aunt Bea and Uncle Roscoe’s twentieth wedding celebration. 

This celebration was special. It almost made up for all the ones she’d missed.

Michelle’s eyes followed Martin’s tall commanding figure as he returned to the bar where her Uncle Roscoe had his signature drink, two fingers of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon neat, waiting for him. Martin was leaning against the bar in a casual stance with his back to Michelle when her Uncle Roscoe said something that caused Martin’s demeanor to change. Sensing her eyes on him, Martin turned and raised his glass in a mock toast. Michelle rewarded him with one of those rare smiles that reached her pretty brown eyes.

***

No party in the Franklin household was complete until the card table was unfolded and decks of playing cards pulled out for rousing games of bid whist, pinochle, or spades.

The day before, the news that Michael Jackson had died from sudden cardiac arrest shocked the world. Michelle’s best friend, Caren Martin, was a huge Michael Jackson fan. As soon as Caren arrived, she hung her coat in the hallway closet, and gave everyone but Martin a hug and or kiss. She handed Rockmon a cassette tape, instructing him to keep the music flowing, declaring the evening as an official Michael Jackson party. Rockmon played one Michael Jackson hit after the other.

Once the card table was set up, Caren secured a drink and an ashtray, placed a pack of Newports on the table, and with a fresh deck of cards in hand, shouted across the room at Martin. 

“Hey, Marty! She said, taking a drag of the cigarette and allowing the smoke to tunnel through her nose. “Do you and my girl Mickey still remember how to play spades?” 

Caren patiently awaited Martin’s response while shuffling a deck of cards with the precision of an Atlantic City croupier. 

Determined to poke the bear when Martin refused to take the bait, she continued. “I’m just asking, since yah’ think yah’ too damn good to hang out wit’ the family, and shit. What’s up with that, Marty?” she asked, annoying Martin to no end while popping a stick of Juicy Fruit gum to the rhythm of the background music.

The tension between Martin and Caren was palpable. A family member would later reflect that the room got so quiet, you could hear a mouse pissing on cotton. The family, Michelle included, held their breath, waiting for Martin to blow. Everyone knew Caren scratched on the blackboard of Martin’s cultured sensibilities with long, jagged fingernails, and that there was no love lost between them. 

The five-foot, one-hundred-pound, dynamo with short red hair, a freckled-faced, bright yellow complexion, and a flare for the dramatic, and Michelle have been friends since pre-school. Caren said whatever was on her mind and cussed like a sailor while doing it; a fact that was overlooked because she also had a heart made of twenty-four carat gold. Caren was family in every way but blood, and she made it clear from day-one that she didn’t much care for Martin Michaels. She silently counted off the top three reasons she enjoyed needling him.

One, he is a pompous ass. Two, he’s responsible for keeping Mickey away from her family and friends. And, three, contrary to his inflated opinion of himself, he’s not nearly good enough for my best friend.

Martin, who was engaged in a silent countdown of his own, held his breath to cool off. He hated the bastardization of his given name almost as much as he hated the ridiculous sobriquet the Franklin clan reserved for Michelle. Martin had no words to express how much he hated Caren Martin. Caren threw the gauntlet. Martin hastened to accept the challenge.

***

Michelle and Martin partnered against Caren and James while Jennifer and Rayna waited in the wings to take the seats of whoever lost the current game.

Caren bopped her head to the beat of “I’m Bad” while she arranged the cards in her hand. Now sporting a huge grin, Caren suddenly broke out in song. “I’m bad. I’m bad. You know it. Hah!”

Michelle thought, Damn; she must have a good hand.  

Thanks to Uncle Roscoe, who was efficiently manning the bar, everyone was more than a little drunk. By the time “The Way You Make Me Feel” came on, everyone but Martin joined in.  

Aunt Bea, who wheeled herself closer to the action, couldn’t help but think Michael was probably moonwalking upside down in his grave; the singing was so bad. 

Lord, somebody ought to call the cops, she thought, giggling to herself as she waited for the game to begin.

Roscoe made several frozen pitchers of Pina coladas, margaritas and daiquiris, and for the brave at heart, he made a killer apple martini. When “Leave Me Alone” queued up, Caren stopped her antics and let her opponents know what was about to go down.  

“Alright children; ya’ll had better listen up, cause’ Mama Caren is bout’ to spank some ass up in here tonight! What you got, partner?” All jokes were off when she leveled her eyes on James, who surveyed his cards for a half minute before he responded.  

“Well, baby girl,” he said, chewing on the bright yellow toothpick hanging from one side of his mouth. “It looks like I got one, two, three…well hell; I think I can pull at least five or six books over here. What you got, baby girl?” Caren’s responding laugh was downright wicked.  

“Well, alright now! Let’s go for ten and call it a day; how bout’ that, sugah?”

“Works for me,” James said, giving Caren a high-five. Michelle quickly snapped out of her daydream, leaving behind visions of angels and Michael Jackson to focus on her hand. 

The game of choice was spades and Michelle had an Ace of Clubs, an Ace and King of Hearts, and just about every diamond in the deck. To make matters worse, she only had one trump card - the small Joker. If Marty couldn’t bring it, they were going to get set.

When it came time to bid, she did so conservatively. She felt confident she could win three books with the two Aces and the King; but she didn’t know if she could count on the small Joker since she also had a few lower cards in the club suit. Martin didn’t hide his chagrin when Michelle suggested they bid “board”.  

“Are you sure that’s all you can bring to the table, Michelle?” he asked.  

It was not unusual for Martin to question Michelle’s decisions. If a decision she made did not coincide with what he thought; then that decision was flat out wrong. 

Caren sang, “Ya’ll are about to get set,” when Martin over-rode Michelle’s decision and bid six books.

When Martin threw out an Ace of clubs, only to have Caren slam the three of spades on the table to cut it, Michelle knew they were doomed to lose and that her husband would not be pleased even though the fault would be his for over-bidding. Somehow, he would find a way to blame her. Martin didn’t take well to losing.  

James and Caren trounced them. Michelle and Martin relinquished their seats to Rayna and Jennifer and made their way to the bar to nurse their bruised egos.

***

The topic soon turned back to Michael Jackson and how terribly thin his body appeared when the medics wheeled him out of his mansion on the stretcher. Rockmon was quick to give his opinion.

“I don’t believe any of that mess we see on the news about Michael Jackson. Let the media tell it; the man was a pile of skin and bones when he died. If that was the case, he must have lost a lot of weight real quick, because all the footage of him practicing for his upcoming tour showed an entirely different picture.”

“But why in the world did they have to vilify him?” Jennifer asked, waiting for Rayna to play her card.

Ever the gracious host, Roscoe poured all four players one of his extra-strong Pina Coladas. “Clever camera people can make you see something that is not there, just to build up negative sensationalism,” he said. “I believe the media is complicit in a conspiracy to portray Michael as a neurotic, drug-addicted, pedophile who already had one foot in the grave just because he no longer wanted to answer to a white man.”

“You ask me, Michael wrote his epithet when he brought his masters and gave Tommy Mottola and Sony his black ass to kiss,” Rayna piped in moments before she tentatively placed the small joker on the table on a search and rescue mission for the deuce of spades and the big joker.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Caren asked Rayna, slamming the deuce of spades down hard enough to make the table rattle. She released a bark of laughter at Jennifer’s expression when she snatched the book right out of her hand and continued to opine on the Michael Jackson conspiracy. 

“You are so right, Uncle Roscoe,” Caren stated. “The media can make a brown-skinned man look smudgy black and a size four woman look like a size ten.”  

“Remember how dark and sinister the media made OJ look during his trial?” Rockmon interjected, taking a sip of his drink. Suddenly, Martin decided to put in his two-cents. 

“You used to be a size four, Michelle,” he stated, leading her to believe she was somehow lacking. 

Michelle had absolutely no reason to feel uncomfortable with her weight. She may not be a size four any longer, but she was far from fat. In fact, she was a perfect size eight and blessed with a beautiful figure. But Martin, still pissed that they had lost the card game, was determined to pick at the scab of Michelle’s insecurity until it bled.  

Martin, on the other hand, was a big man; at least six-foot-one and weighing in at a hefty two-hundred sixty-plus pounds. Over the past year of their marriage, he had developed an unattractive paunch and love handles. Michelle dared not suggest he diet or start an exercise regime, even though he expected her to maintain a slim, trim figure.

Emboldened by one too many apple martinis, and without thinking, Michelle retorted, “And you used to have a full head of hair, Marty!” Everyone in the room erupted in laughter at her quip before moving on to a myriad of interesting subjects.

It was a great night. Roscoe and Bea made sure everyone had a couple of cups of coffee and a doggy bag before they left. There were hugs, kisses, and promises to get together soon as everyone walked to their respective cars and headed home.

Roscoe and Bea stood in front of the window watching Mickey and Marty pull off. 

***

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Martin and Michelle pulled into the driveway of their Sleepy Hollow home. During times like this Mickey wished she was Samantha on “Bewitched” so that she could twitch her nose, make her clothing vanish, and pop right into bed. But she had to wait until Martin pulled their car into the garage and unlocked the door leading from the garage into the house. Michelle suspected Martin was exhausted as well. He was uncharacteristically quiet as they entered the lower level of the house. He closed the door behind them and flicked on the light.

And then, without warning, he grabbed Michelle by her hair, swung her around to face him and punched her in the face. And just like that, it was “lights out” baby.

Martin’s brain rebooted like a ten-year-old Gateway computer; slow and tentatively. When he finally came to his senses, he was on his knees beside his wife with his bloodied fist drawn back and suspended in mid-air. Thankfully, he caught himself before he delivered what would have been a devastating blow to his unconscious wife’s battered face. He whimpered like a wounded animal when he saw the damage his ham-sized fists inflicted on his wife’s delicate features.

I meant to kick her ass; but I damn sure didn’t mean to kill her!  No woman is worth going to jail for; not even Michelle. He emitted a sigh of relief when he saw her chest rise and fall as she took small, shallow breaths. 

Thank God she’s alive!

That smart crack she made about the bald spot on the top of my head was totally uncalled for. And to make the comment in front of her low-class clan of relatives and friends was unforgivable, he thought, lifting his unconscious wife in his thick arms like she weighed no more than a toddler. 

Marty carried Michelle into their bedroom and gently positioned her in the center of their king-sized bed like she was a pretty little doll whose owner had played with it a little too roughly. He’d broken her, but not so badly that a little “mending” would not make her look brand new again.  

I consented to allow her to attend her aunt and uncle’s anniversary party against my better judgment. And look what I got for my kindness. Give a bitch an inch and they take a mile every mother fuckin’ time! Martin jerked off his dress shirt, angrily tossing it on the floor, when he noticed speckles of blood on it.

I hope she got a good long look at her family; that she memorized their features real good. Because it will be a chilly day in hell before I loosen the leash on her ass again.

For the life of him, Martin couldn’t understand why Michelle continued to provoke him at every turn. She was like a wild filly begging to be broken. Whenever he graciously gave her some freedom, she never failed to disappoint him. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she enjoyed getting beat up.

He shook his head in disgust. He only had himself to blame. What did he expect? After all, he had married down when he made Michelle his wife. His mother warned him the marriage probably wouldn’t work; but he simply had to have her. He adored her. She was a fire in his blood—an addiction.

His mother's warning that you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, echoed in his mind. He stubbornly refused to admit she may be right.  

I shall mold Michelle into a suitable wife and companion, even if it kills both of us.

***

Martin stood at the foot of the bed to survey the damage. He was not sure, but this time it looked like her jaw might be broken. Michelle’s features were unrecognizable; bearing no resemblance to the young woman who, just a few short hours ago, was laughing and singing with her family and friends. Her blood-covered face had already begun to swell. Her lips were misshapen and cracked.

There was no getting around it.  Martin was going to have to get his wife to a hospital. The question was; how was he going to accomplish that feat without implicating himself in the beating? He was off his rocker, but not so far gone that he didn’t realize there could be dire consequences because of his actions.

Martin came from “old” money—a long line of wealthy blacks from the Hamptons who had for years subjected potential love interests to the brown paper bag test. Because of who he was and what he did, he couldn’t have it bandied about that he occasionally slapped his wife around. It just wouldn’t look good, and his partners and clients would never understand how he was repeatedly driven to the point of madness by his irreverent wife.

Resigned to a restless night, Martin cleaned Michelle up as best he could, put on a fresh dress shirt, and carried her back to the car. Through it all, Michelle’s only response was a series of sharp cries and moans.  

“You may not be in any condition to speak; but you damn sure can hear,” he said, prepared to outline the manner in which they would proceed.

The plan was that he would drop her off in the emergency ward at JFK Hospital in Edison. This would be their first visit to JFK. Their previous visits were to Overlook, St. Peters and St. Michaels. Martin always made it a point to take her to a hospital away from their residence in Plainfield.

 “You will tell the medical professionals that you became separated from your friends while at a local bar in Plainfield and had to secure alternate means of transportation. Two men attacked and robbed you while waiting for a cab in downtown Plainfield. Your attackers got scared and dropped you outside the emergency ward. Keep it short and sweet.” 

Martin realized the last bit of fabrication was highly implausible, especially considering Michelle's overall condition. It was the best he could do on the fly.

“Of course, a police report will have to be filed,” he continued. “After they patch you up, ask if you can call your husband and “Voila” I shall appear within a reasonable amount of time, suitably outraged, to collect you.” Martin paused before backing out of the driveway.

“Oh, and Michelle, the next time you enlist Roscoe to step to me, I swear to God, I will kill you and him.”

Again, I ask, “What makes someone stay in a relationship that places their mind, body, and soul under siege? Why would anyone opt to remain in a situation that no longer serves them?”

Maybe, like Michelle, they are too frightened to leave.

Should you, or someone you know, become a victim of domestic violence, please call the domestic violence hotline number - 800.799.7233