Tuesday Night Miracles (22 page)

26

The Green Dot

K
it is sitting at her kitchen table—her new office, she jokes to the few people who still speak to her. So far today that includes the UPS man, who delivered a book on how to write résumés, the papergirl, and the woman next door, who was obviously trying to be polite and couldn’t care less about Kit’s so-called office.

The neighbor was getting out of her car when Kit happened to be in the front yard waiting for the newspaper. The poor neighbor woman, who has probably heard more from Kit’s side of the fence than she should have during the past few years, had a tight smile that was so forced it looked to Kit as if she had just had major plastic surgery.

Kit didn’t even mind. She’s never liked the old bat anyway. Instead of ignoring her, Kit waved and said, “Have a great day.” The woman almost fainted. Kit loved how that made her feel.

“Oh, my God,” she laughed as she ran into the house. “That made me happy!” Maybe next week she’ll have the woman over for coffee. Why not?

She picks up the paper, grabs her mug of coffee, and starts reading.

There’s another political mess down at City Hall, the winter is supposed to be worse than ever, and the Chicago Bears may as well call it a season. Kit drops her eyes to the bottom of the front page; there’s no sense rushing to the Help Wanted ads because there won’t be much there anyway.

The story at the bottom of the page is a killer in every sense of the word: “Woman Kills Mother in a Fit of Rage.” Kit has just taken a sip of coffee, and when she reads the headline the coffee ends up all over the newspaper. Coffee is also dripping down the sides of her mouth, and Kit hastily wipes it on the cuff of her long-sleeved T-shirt and keeps reading.

A forty-three-year-old woman from East Lake, California, was sentenced to fifty years in prison Monday for killing her mother. Tamantha Babcock hit her mother, Louisa Armstrong, numerous times in the head with a ceramic coffee cup and then strangled the woman with an electrical cord.

“I just snapped,” Babcock told authorities. “It was a buildup of years of rage and hate and anger. I am so sorry. I loved my mother when I was a little girl. I did. I remember that.”

Babcock plead guilty to the first-degree murder charge to “spare her family any further grief.”

When authorities arrived at the house Babcock shared with her mother, they found Armstrong lying on the floor in the kitchen. Babcock had also placed duct tape over her mother’s mouth and nose, “just to make certain she was really dead.”

The judge who sentenced Babcock said her sentence was essentially for life, and that if she managed to live for fifty years she would be an old woman when she was released.

Authorities investigating the murder said it is highly unusual for women to be involved in a crime this violent.

“We have seen an increase in these types of rage-fueled murders,” said Detective Bryce Gault, of the East Lake Police Department. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman. When you cross that line there is no turning back.”

Babcock is the mother of two children who are young adults. They did not attend her sentencing.

Kit can barely breathe as she reads the story a second time. Then she holds the paper up so that she can get a better look at this Tamantha Babcock.

She looks like an old woman who has had a very hard life. Her greasy hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and there are deep, dark lines in her face.

Wow!

The woman staring at Kit from the newspaper looks the way an angry woman is supposed to look—rode hard and put away wet, used up, old before her time, lost, alone, and a total sad story.

Kit keeps going back to what the woman said about the night she killed her mother.
Killed her mother
. Sweet hell! “Years of rage and hate and anger.” She reads the story three more times before she puts down the paper, sets her hands on top of it, and then nervously starts rotating her wedding ring with the thumb of her left hand.

When she turns her head either way, everything looks so normal. There’s the door to the garage and the opening into the living room when she looks the other way. Light is streaming in through the windows, the clock on the stove is ticking, the breakfast dishes are still lined up on the counter waiting to go into the dishwasher, Peter’s favorite and most worn Chicago Cubs blue-and-red sweatshirt is draped over the chair he always sits in, and the refrigerator rattles every fifteen seconds when the slowly dying motor kicks in.

Kit starts to move her left leg up and down so fast it feels as if the entire floor is jiggling. She flips the newspaper article upside down, smooths it out with her hands, and gets up to refill her coffee cup.

She is so not like the woman in the newspaper. Her life has been wonderful in so many ways, hasn’t it?

There is a window above the sink and next to the coffeepot that looks out onto their small backyard. The old wooden swing set with metal climbing bars still sits in the center of the yard. Peter has wanted to take it down and extend the patio for years, but Kit refuses to let him.

Some of the happiest hours of her life have been spent standing right where she is now, with a cup of coffee, a mug of tea, or a glass of wine in her hand. When Peter built the play area for their daughter years ago, Kit was emphatic that it be placed so that she could watch Sarah and half the neighborhood play from this very window.

Thinking about those days causes a wave of emotion to rise up in her that is absolutely lovely. Kit leans into the counter to steady herself, sets down her cup, and pushes herself as close to the window as possible.

And then she truly remembers.

The sweet shouting from all the neighbor kids playing in the “fort,” as everyone had decided to call it. There were branches, piles of rocks, pails and shovels, brooms, buckets, and after a while it looked as if someone had pulled up and simply dropped off a load of junk that was headed for the dump.

When the kids got older, the piles of junk got larger because they could roam the neighborhood and rummage through garbage cans. On garbage day, especially in the summer, Sarah would get up early so they could cruise the streets and collect new things for the fort. And their yard became the neighborhood magnet.

The kids brought home a three-legged wagon, old bicycles, a bag of nails, a rubber boat with a hole in the middle that was immediately cut into pieces and used in some wild game they invented. Little Sarah convinced Peter to build an extension on the fort, and for weeks they worked together until there was a closed-in room halfway up the oak tree that became like a second home to at least seven neighbor kids.

They put in a pulley to haul their treasures up and down, and then gradually, toward the end of middle school, the fort became silent. There were new noises—soccer games and school activities that changed almost as much as all the kids did—but the fort remained in Kit’s mind as an echo that she did not want to erase.

Without realizing it, Kit starts to cry as she remembers the fort and everything else that is now missing. She misses the sounds of people in the house, doors slamming, the phone ringing, cars beeping in the driveway, the way Sarah pounded up the steps so hard it sounded as if she was dropping bowling balls each time a foot hit a step.

Kit wipes her eyes right on top of the coffee stain and turns away from the window. The memories are still here. The sweet signs and sighs of life.

“It was all wonderful,” she says, turning back toward the table and the newspaper. “It still is.”

Kit goes back for her coffee, and when she turns past the refrigerator she catches a quick glimpse of herself in the shiny door. There is so much to live for, so much to be thankful for, so much around the next corner. She suddenly can’t wait for whatever it is that she will see when she gets there. Wherever that might be!

She is so very different from the woman in the newspaper, and so are the other women in her Tuesday-night class. What a chance they have all been given! For the first time, she sees the connecting link between them.

Jane, Grace, and Leah have lives that are each very different from one another’s, but here they are—connected by one moment, one action, one mistake. Why is it so hard to see this? Why can’t there be a simple way to get past the differences in their lives that seem to shadow everything else?

Kit throws her hands down on the table, grabs the newspaper, folds it over and over until it’s about the size of a napkin, then carries it into the garage and stuffs it as far down in the recycling bin as possible.

Kit decides to do something bold. She has to.

She stands helpless for a moment and then, before she can change her mind, she races up the stairs to the second floor and goes into her bedroom closet. Her mother’s wooden jewelry box hasn’t moved and Kit picks it up, backs up into the room, where she can see, and quickly opens the box. Resting on top is a white envelope. Ignoring whatever else might be in the box, Kit tucks the box under her arm and opens the letter.

Dearest Kit. I have wanted to say I am sorry for most of your life …
Kit stops, quickly folds the letter back into place, and returns it and the jewelry box to the back of the closet. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, she can finish it. Maybe.

Then she runs back downstairs, grabs Peter’s red-and-blue Cubs sweatshirt, pulls it over her head, swipes the keys off the counter, and decides to walk as fast and as far as she can to clear her mind. Dr. Bayer would be proud.

But just as she’s coming back inside she hears the doorbell ring. Who in the world? There’s a man standing there with an envelope in his hand. “Akins Messenger Service,” he says. “I have something for you.”

He leaves, and Kit is left standing with the envelope. Another assignment! She rips it open, reads what it says, and bends over laughing. What next?

All she can think about, as she hits the sidewalk and starts walking so quickly that in some circles her gait would be considered a run, is how that damn Dr. Bayer is right about everything. Absolutely everything.

27

The Black Dot

N
ot so far from the very spot where Kit is pounding the sidewalk, Leah is in the shelter kitchen finishing up the morning dishes. The newest residents always get dish duty, and Leah couldn’t care less. She’d scrub the toilets with a toothbrush if they wanted her to. Cleaning up the kitchen and doing dishes is absolutely exhilarating and Leah is moved to tears, tears of joy, every time she gets to touch a dish, clean it, and then put it back where it belongs.

This morning she is whistling as she scrapes tiny pieces of scrambled eggs and toast crumbs off the plates. There are very few scraps of food left on the plates here. Everyone waits until every plate is filled, every child has eaten as much as he or she wants, every young mother is absolutely full, before seconds are requested.

While the warm water fills the sink so that she can wash the pots and pans, Leah surrenders to a dream she has been growing since the first night she was transported to the shelter.

She’s no longer living there but she’s still in Chicago, in a cute house with three bedrooms and a yard, where there is a swing set and a sandbox. Leah has always wanted to have a sandbox for her children, and she’s determined that she will. They might be teenagers, but someday Leah will get her babies a sandbox and many, many other things that she has promised herself to get them.

And someday she’ll be in that little house with all the bills paid and her own driveway, and she will have saved enough money to get the van fixed and to fill up the supply closet and make certain there is new carpeting and maybe even a new kitchen floor at the shelter.

Leah is still whistling, and when she opens her eyes to turn off the water she looks up and sees that Cindy, the daytime house supervisor, is standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, smiling at her.

Leah is startled in that way all people are startled when they have been dreaming and are interrupted. She steps back, and water and suds go flying everywhere

“What are you doing, Miss Leah?” Cindy asks, chuckling softly.

“Oh!” she says, laughing as she wipes water off her face. “I’m just putting in new carpeting and changing tires.”

“Honey, are you snorting suds over there?”

“No. I was just thinking about how grateful I am to be here and how someday I want to be able to give back.”

“So you noticed the flat tires and the carpeting from 1968?”

“Mostly I noticed the warm hearts, quiet evenings with no yelling, and the gentle way you help transform women.”

Cindy steps forward, grabs a towel, and starts wiping the pots as Leah washes them.

“You never complain, Leah, and you’re the first resident I’ve ever seen who loves washing dishes. What’s up with you, girl?”

Leah knows Cindy has heard every story in the book, because she’s been working at the shelter for fifteen years. She’s heard about guns and knives and locked closet doors and ropes and things even Leah can’t imagine, or doesn’t want to imagine. And Leah’s trying so hard to forget.

She’s trying to forget about what brought her here to the shelter and the years before that, when she dreamed about living in a place just like this. A place where she doesn’t flinch every time a door bangs and where people are polite and kind; a place where she has one spot, even a few inches, that she can claim for her own. A place where her son and daughter can live without worrying about sitting wrong, or saying the wrong thing, or having the wrong expression on their faces. A place where they can play and laugh as loud as they want to, and maybe even fall asleep without having to put away the few toys they’re allowed to own.

And a place where she can hear their untamed, beautiful laughter.

Leah has longed to hear their shrieks and sweet cries of wonder. She has prayed for a day when they can giggle without worry, and when she can lie down beside them and keep them laughing for so long that they all roll into a heap—weak and short of breath.

Leah tells Cindy that the simple task of washing dishes without someone yelling at her makes her want to sing.

“But my voice is not the greatest, so I whistle,” she says, handing a huge frying pan to Cindy.

“Your kids are adjusting well.”

Leah looks down. She plunges her hands into the water, wishing that the water would scald her so that she would have a scar, something to always remind her that she is no different from
him
.

“Thank God,” she manages to say.

Cindy senses the change in her demeanor. She puts the towel down and gently touches Leah on the arm.

“Leah, it’s okay. No one here is judging you. Your children adore you. You are making huge strides. You haven’t been here very long.”

Leah can barely talk. “Forgiving myself isn’t easy, Cindy.”

There is a pause. Leah knows Cindy is giving her a chance to compose herself, and Leah is smart enough to know this roller-coaster portion of her life is going to take a while to even out. She knows about the other mothers who have sold their babies for drugs. The mothers who have given their adolescent daughters away as gifts. The mothers who have pawned the new shoes and the bus vouchers to buy their boyfriends whiskey. The mothers who snuck out in the night and were never heard from again.

“Honey, you have to stop being so hard on yourself,” Cindy tells her. “You’re trying. That’s more than so many other women are doing. How is your class going?”

Leah wants to laugh and cry at the same time. She turns, and at the last minute decides not to say much. Cindy has heard it all, but she probably wouldn’t believe it if Leah told her about the shooting range and the arrow.

“It’s okay.”

“Do you like the other women?”

“I’m not in the same league as they are,” Leah offers.

Cindy snorts. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. They look nice. They dress nice. I bet they live in big houses and have those long, bright countertops I’ve seen in magazines.”

“Granite. And, Leah, it’s just a hunk of rock.”

“I bet they have granite in their kitchens, and they hate to look at me.”

Cindy snorts again.

“What?” Leah asks, perplexed.

“Honey, they’re in anger-management class. Not just a regular old anger class for people who kick the dog. They are in court-ordered anger-management class. They are, pardon me, badass women.”

This time Leah snorts.

“I just feel inferior around them, and it’s not like they’re inviting me over to play bridge or discuss plans for the holiday bazaar.”

Cindy fills up her lungs so it looks as if the buttons will pop off her blouse.

“Oh, honey, you have got to be kidding me? Those woman should be polishing your shoes.”

“If only I had shoes,” Leah jokes.

Cindy looks down, smiles, and then says, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Get your hands out of the water for a minute. Come with me.”

Leah can’t imagine where they’re going or what’s going to happen next. She follows Cindy through the kitchen and into a small back room right across the hall. She has never been in the room and has no idea what’s inside.

It’s apparently Cindy’s office, and it’s about the size of an airplane bathroom. Cindy is rummaging behind her desk. She stops abruptly and stands up.

“I have a confession to make,” she says, leaning on the desk.

“Whatever it is, I forgive you.”

“I went into your room when you were down the hall showering the other day so I could see what size clothes you wear.”

Leah stares at her. Where is this going?

Apparently a woman called asking for Leah’s clothing size. She said she was a friend of Dr. Bayer’s and wanted to get Leah some items for her Tuesday-night journey.

“My Tuesday-night journey?” Leah is perplexed.

Cindy lets Leah think for a moment. It doesn’t take long.

“Oh, duh,” Leah says, slapping herself on the forehead with the back of her hand. “Tonight. The meeting. Those women. My life.”

Cindy smiles, reaches behind the desk, and heaves a stack of clothes into Leah’s hands.

“What’s this?”

“It’s an alligator. What does it look like?”

Leah sees tags on the clothes. These are new clothes. A stack of new clothes.

Leah can’t move. She doesn’t know what to say. She can’t remember the last time she had something new or anything at all, for that matter.

“Who are these from?” she manages to ask.

“Apparently you have a secret admirer. I don’t know who it was. Dr. Bayer called. Someone else dropped them off. That’s all they want you to know.”

Leah is afraid to set the clothes down, move, say another word.

“You can go try them on,” Cindy tells her, sweeping her hand toward the door.

“I have to finish my dishes,” Leah says.

Cindy smiles. “Oh, Leah, it’s okay to let them sit for a moment.”

“I left most of our things,” Leah explains, looking away. “We took off so fast … I took things for the children, and then after that—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Cindy tells her. “I do have to admit, I was getting sick of those sweatpants and that other outfit you wear on Tuesday nights. You know there are free clothes in the front closet. It’s slim pickings, but it’s there for anyone. Don’t be so shy.”

“Cindy …” Leah hesitates.

“What, darling?”

“Darling? Not so much. There have been plenty of times when I’ve thought about how much easier my life would be if I was alone, if I had left the children, if I had never even had them. That’s part of the reason why accepting anything is so hard for me.”

Leah feels as if she has just unburdened a huge part of her heart. But Cindy just laughs.

“Oh, honey, every mother in the world feels like that. Being a mother is damn hard work. We all know that. You have got to stop being so hard on yourself. We all want to run away sometimes.”

“Thank you so much, Cindy,” Leah says, clearly relieved.

Cindy shoos her away and Leah takes the clothes to her room, gently sets them down on her single bed as if there is a newborn baby resting on top, and then hustles back to the kitchen. Someday she will be bold enough to share the rest of what is in her heart, the other secret, she promises herself, as she dips her hands back into the tepid water.

When she finishes the last pot, and the water is draining, there’s a knock on the back door. It’s a delivery service and someone is asking for her. Goodness!

Leah takes an envelope from the man, rips it open, and immediately starts to laugh. Dr. Bayer is out of her mind! Leah tucks the envelope into her pocket and turns to go back inside. That’s when she sees a woman walking past wearing a red-and-blue Chicago Cubs sweatshirt.

The woman looks a lot like Kit, and she’s grinning like a clown as she jogs.