Nobody's Son, page 12
The first thing Jenise wanted to do when she came home and saw the state her apartment was in was to break down and cry, but she didn’t. She called her parents and asked if she and Aaliyah could stay with them until she was able to find another place. Her father was so elated to know that she was finally separating from Reggie that he immediately came over with his pickup truck so that they could move anything that was salvageable. Jenise reported the vandalism to her landlord, and then they left.
One of the first things her mother told her when she arrived at their home was that she needed to get counseling. It wasn’t easy walking away from a marriage, and Jenise had been through a lot. It didn’t take much convincing before Jenise agreed to attend the meeting.
Jenise inhaled. Then she exhaled. Lastly, she pushed open the door and walked into the room. Although the meeting hall was located in the basement of her church, Jenise was surprised when she walked in to see that some of the women were from her own congregation. For some unknown reason, she had assumed that the ministry was set up for and attended by other women within the community. She’d never imagined that so many women in her own church were currently or had been the victims of domestic violence.
“Hello, Jenise.”
She turned in the direction that the voice came from and was surprised to see her former third-grade Sunday School teacher Mrs. Grayson smiling at her. Mrs. Grayson was a wiry old lady with silver hair and cocoa skin who’d known their family since Jenise and Ellen were small children.
“Hi,” Jenise answered nervously.
“Your first time here is always the hardest. Don’t be afraid, and don’t feel as if you have to talk. There are people here to listen if you want to share, but you don’t have to do anything you are not comfortable with.” She smiled reassuringly and led Jenise over to an area with chairs.
Jenise quietly took her seat and looked around the room at all of the women. Many were members of her church, and others were complete strangers. She immediately felt a twinge of apprehension at sharing her business with so many people. For a brief moment, she considered leaving. Then she remembered the heartbreaking sound of her child screaming when Reggie hit her and her bottom suddenly felt glued to the chair. She wasn’t sure how it would help, but she knew that she had to stay.
The leader of the group was a black woman in her midforties named Claire. Jenise was immediately impressed by her demeanor, style, and obvious class. Her natural hair was cut in a short, curly afro with brown highlights. She was dressed casually in designer jeans and a nice blouse. Claire stood up and introduced herself, then welcomed everyone to the meeting. The very first thing she did after that was give the ground rules to put everyone at ease.
“This is a safe place, and above all else, we exercise discretion. Some of the ladies here are in hiding. Others have not found the strength to move out, and they go home to their abusers on a daily basis. For that reason, we have some basic rules that are designed to protect all of us. First of all, if you speak with your family, friends, babysitter, or whomever you talk to about where you will be on Tuesday evenings, you need to tell them you are attending a women’s Bible Study group. That is a truthful statement as everything we do will be based on biblical principles and taken from our Bibles.”
Claire told them in the past, word had gotten back to the husband of one of the attendees that his wife was attending domestic violence classes and he retaliated by assaulting her. There was a separate class held at the church for couples; however, that particular group was only for those couples who’d reached a point in their marriages that they wanted to work on their domestic violence issues together. According to Claire, unfortunately, the women in their group had not gotten that far yet. Therefore, their primary responsibility was to assist and protect each other. She went on to say that names were not mandatory but welcomed if you wanted to share. The most important ground rule was that everyone attending the meeting must agree to the utmost level of confidentiality. Nothing that was said or done during their sessions was to ever leave the room.
“If you are in hiding, or you feel that you are being stalked, or if your life is in danger, then please let the members of this class know. We encourage you to share a photograph of your husband with the group, so that if he is seen on the premises, we can make you aware and alert the authorities if necessary. Statics tell us that a woman and her children are often in much more danger from their abuser after they leave their home.”
Jenise suddenly felt grateful that she was not in such a predicament. After his assault on their apartment, she had not seen or heard from Reggie and felt confident that she would not.
Next, Claire rattled off some startling statistics regarding domestic violence. “Every nine seconds in the United States a woman is assaulted or beaten. Around the world, at least one in every three women has been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused during her lifetime. Most often, the abuser is a member of her own family. Domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women—more than car accidents, muggings, and rapes combined. Studies suggest that up to ten million children witness some form of domestic violence annually,” Claire said.
Hearing that statistic made Jenise think of Aaliyah again. She made a mental note to ask if there was any type of counseling she could get for her daughter.
Claire continued. “Nearly one in five teenage girls who have been in a relationship have stated a boyfriend threatened violence or self-harm if presented with a breakup. Every day in the United States, more than three women are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends. Ninety-two percent of women surveyed listed reducing domestic violence and sexual assault as their top concern. Domestic violence victims lose nearly eight million days of paid work per year in the United States alone, which is the equivalent of thirty-two thousand full-time jobs. Based on reports from ten countries, between 55 and 95 percent of women who had been physically abused by their partners had never contacted nongovernmental organizations, shelters, or the police for help. The costs of intimate partner violence in the United States alone exceed five point eight billion dollars. Four point one billion are for direct medical and health care services, while productivity losses account for nearly one point eight billion. Men who as children witnessed their parents’ domestic violence are two times more likely to abuse their own wives than sons of nonviolent parents.”
Jenise was startled by the numbers. She’d had no idea how prevalent domestic violence was, or how costly.
As if sensing everyone’s reaction, Claire spoke again to reassure them. “I know these numbers can be a bit frightening and overwhelming, but they are necessary. Most victims of domestic violence believe that they are alone in their pain and that no one could ever understand how they feel. The statistics prove that simply is not true. Everyone here has been abused by a loved one. You are not alone, and we do understand.”
During the next phase of the meeting, Claire allowed the women there the opportunity to share their stories. Jenise shrunk down in her chair, praying that she would not have to speak. When Mrs. Grayson stood up to speak, her ears perked up. It was difficult for her to believe that the kindly old baldheaded gentleman she saw in service every Sunday was an abuser, and she was anxious to hear their story. Her suspicions were quickly proven wrong. Mrs. Grayson explained that she’d been abused when she was in her early twenties by her high school sweetheart. The two of them married after she became pregnant when she was only nineteen years old. Jenise could not believe how closely Mrs. Grayson’s story resembled her own. Mrs. Grayson went on to say that she had two children with her first husband before she grew weary of the abuse and left him. After they were divorced, she married her current husband that Jenise knew at church.
She wasn’t sure if it was proper protocol or not, but Jenise raised her hand to ask a question of Mrs. Grayson. “I left my husband and moved in with my parents,” she said. “But I have to admit that I still love him, and I don’t believe God condones divorce. Isn’t there any other way?”
“Of course there is, sweetie,” Mrs. Grayson answered. “What we do here is try to help you learn to deal with the pain you’ve experience with prayer and scriptures. As Claire mentioned, we also have a couple’s class for those who can get their husband to attend. We are not here to talk you into divorcing your husband. It’s our sincere prayer that every marriage can be saved.”
“While we are not promoting divorce, we also feel it’s very important that each and every one of you realize that God does not condone domestic violence. Many women stay in abusive marriages because they believe that God wants them to. That is simply not true,” Claire said. “The scripture tells us in 1 Peter 3:7, ‘In the same way, you husbands must give honor to your wives. Treat your wife with understanding as you live together. She may be weaker than you are, but she is your equal partner in God’s gift of new life. Treat her as you should so your prayers will not be hindered.’”
Instinctively Jenise had known that God did not approve of Reggie constantly punching, hitting, and slapping her, but she felt grateful to have actual scripture references to support that belief.
Another young woman who Jenise guessed was about her age raised her hand to speak. She also guessed that the woman weighed around 250 pounds. She told the group her name was Harmony; then she told her story.
“My husband and I were married for ten years, and we had three children. We had a beautiful four-bedroom home, a nice car, and an abundance of material things. Most people thought we were living the American dream, but I lived in an abusive relationship for most of that time. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad. We had some good and even some great times. Often we could go months without an incident, but I still spent most days feeling afraid and apprehensive.
“After the first few times I learned the signs when it was coming. I could tell by the sound of his voice or the way he looked at me that an attack was about to happen.
“One time he punched my coworker right in the face because she gave me rides to work when he wouldn’t. He told her if she ever came near me again, he’d kill us both. She had him arrested, but by dinnertime he was back home blaming me for it and knocking me around the kitchen.
“I grew up in a Christian home and believed that God could solve any problem, so the family joined a church together. We attended regularly, and he even became an usher. I foolishly believed that would be the end of our issues, but it wasn’t. He’d get angry at me for putting too much money in the collection plate or coming home late from choir rehearsal. Once he even accused me of making eyes at the pastor during his sermon. I’ve taken many beatings as a result of trying to be involved with my church family.
“Finally, I moved into a shelter, and I filed a restraining order against him. The next thing I knew, I became an instant outcast among my church members. No one could believe that as big as I am any man could hit me and get away with it. My pastor called me and told me that I needed to get into joint counseling with my husband and learn how to forgive him. He told me that men have lots of pressures and that as the nurturer, it was my responsibility to ease those pressures and fix things. He told me that God wanted me to go home, so I did, and I became a victim all over again. During our ten-year marriage, I have had my nose broken twice, two ribs broken, and several lacerations over and around my eyes. I’ve suffered through busted lips, numerous dislodged teeth, and a dislocated shoulder. I’ve also suffered broken bones that included my arm, my wrist, and my leg.”
Harmony stopped talking and touched her bright red hair. Jenise thought the color was brash and looked unnatural.
“Some of you may notice that I’m wearing a wig,” Harmony continued. “It’s not a fashion statement. He set my hair on fire, and it never grew back completely. I still have several bald patches.
“For a long time I felt that there was nothing that I could do and that one day I was going to die at the hands of my husband. Then I found this group of women who welcomed me, cried with me, prayed for me, offered me solace, and have supported me without blaming me. I thank God for this group and for all of you ladies.”
By the time Harmony was done speaking, Jenise had tears falling down her face. Quietly she bowed her head and prayed. “Thank you, God. Thank you for bringing me here.”
At the end of the meeting, Claire gave them a list of books and other resources they could pick up for more information. She also gave out a list of Web sites and local agencies the women could visit. She told them that she hoped to see everyone again next week, but realistically she knew that some would not return for one reason or another. If that happened, she wanted to be sure that they knew where to find help when they needed it. When the meeting concluded, they all joined hands and prayed together for each other’s safety, and then they were free to go.
As she drove down the street to her parents’ home, Jenise was shocked to see two police cars parked in front of their house. Frightened, she jumped out of her car and rushed up to the front door. A police officer blocked her entrance.
“You can’t go in there, Miss,” the policewoman said.
“I live here. This is my parents’ home. What’s going on?” she asked.
Looking inside she noticed her mother and father sitting on the couch with two police officers questioning them. Her mother was staring sadly at the floor, and Jenise could tell that she was crying. Then she suddenly looked over and noticed Jenise standing in the doorway.
“That’s my daughter. Please let her in,” Deloris instructed.
Jenise rushed over to them. As soon as she did, she noticed a large bruise on the side of her father’s jaw.
“Oh my God, Daddy, what happened to your face?” she asked.
“He got into a fight with Reggie,” Deloris answered for him. “He came here demanding to see you, and when your father refused to let him in, they ended up in a fight.”
Jenise’s entire body suddenly filled with dread. “Aaliyah? Where’s Aaliyah?” she asked.
Deloris slowly shook her head and tried unsuccessfully to wipe the tears from her face with a handkerchief. “He overpowered us both, and he took her. Reggie’s taken Aaliyah.”
The police officers tried to reassure Jenise that a Levi’s Call Amber Alert had been issued, and that they were confident that Aaliyah would be found soon, but it did no good. All anyone could hear at that moment was the sound of Jenise screaming and wailing.
Chapter Fourteen
“What are you doing with my phone?” Semaj asked.
He’d just walked over to Gwen in the green room of the studio where Kandyss Kline’s talk show was taped. Gwen was among the family members scheduled to speak on the show they were taping regarding Wayne’s disappearance.
“This isn’t your phone, it’s mine,” she replied.
“Are you sure? I could have sworn I left mine lying on this table.”
Gwen looked at the screen and noticed that something was indeed different about her iPhone. She’d taken a photo of herself posing in front of a fountain in the park wearing her favorite pair of tight jeans with a red tank top. She’d set the photo as the screen saver for her phone, and it was no longer there. Confused, she looked across to the other side of the room and saw her mother chatting away on an iPhone. Suddenly she remembered giving her mother her phone to call their family to make sure they knew to watch them on TV. Guiltily she handed the phone to Semaj.
“I’m sorry. It looks just like mine,” she said.
“No worries. It’s an honest mistake,” he said.
Semaj took the phone and walked out of the green room before Gwen could tell him about the phone call he’d just missed. He went down the hallway to the area where his private dressing room was located.
Rip was lounging on the couch waiting for him and eating fruit. “Did you find your phone?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’d left it in the green room,” he answered.
Rip bit into a strawberry and swallowed the sweet fruit. “See, that’s exactly what I mean about you not being cut out for this. When I was in the business, I never carried a cell phone. All I ever used were pay phones and pagers. They are a lot harder to trace.”
“I have to have my cell phone for my work. I get tips from people via text message, e-mail, Facebook, and Twitter.” Although they were alone in the room Semaj looked around before continuing. “Besides, there is nothing in my phone that could connect me to the disappearance of Wayne James.”
Rip grabbed another strawberry and put it in his mouth. “That’s not the point. The point is that we cannot afford to make any mistakes. Not knowing where your phone is at all times is a mistake. Mark my words.”
“Yeah, well, there are not going to be any mistakes. I’ve got what I needed, and now it’s just a matter of putting everything altogether.”
Earlier that morning, Semaj opened his door to a FedEx delivery that contained the DNA results he’d ordered. After taking the package from the driver, he paced back and forth in his apartment feeling almost afraid to open it. For as long as he could remember he’d wondered who his father was, and now an envelope was in his possession that would answer that question once and for all, and he couldn’t bring himself to open it up.
Semaj sat down on the sofa and held the envelope in his hand once more. As he did he thought back over his life and all of the times he’d regretted not having a father in his life. Pop Al was a great man, and a wonderful grandfather, but for Semaj, his presence in his life just wasn’t enough.
When he was ten years old, his church youth group held a father-and-son camping trip. All of the boys were encouraged to bring their dads along with them. Neither Semaj nor Rip had a father to bring, so they asked Pop Al if he’d come along with them. Nothing in this world could make him disappoint his grandson, so he happily agreed. He closed the barbershop up early that Friday night and helped the boys pack up their gear and sleeping bags. They all kissed Semaj’s grandma Nettie good-bye and told her they’d see her the next afternoon.
