The Answer is Within, Janice K. Whitney [best black authors txt] 📗

The Answer Is Within

It had been a year and a half since she had spoke or even seen Randy other then driving by each other on the streets or highway. She had heard conflicting rumors about him. Some said that he was still drinking and drugging, others said that he was doing well in the alcohol and drug rehab program. Even going to college. Still, their last night together was forever etched in her mind. Trish now stood undecided in front of the public telephone booth.
They had met a several months after her divorce from an eight-year marriage, leaving her with two children and no money. Her daughter had been six and her son three years old. She then spent 15 years with Randy in a stormy relationship with several breakups when she could not handle his drinking anymore. Then the wonderful reunions, with him moving back into the home.
The “honeymoon” periods would vary on length, depending on how long he would cut back on the alcohol. Then the long nights of waiting for him to come home would begin; the fights would get louder and more frequent. The vicious cycle would go on until she would throw him out.
Eventually she would give in and he would be back in the home. Things would be fine for awhile. Then the late arrivals for dinner started, progressing to not even showing up for dinner. At times not coming home until the small hours of the morning. She would lie there in bed sometimes crying, sometimes tense with anger. Always awake, listening for his car to pull into the driveway.
She could judge by how drunk he would be by what time it was on the clock. His uneven footsteps across the front deck, sometimes more pronounced then other times. The loud noise made by his keys being thrown down on the counter, followed by his bouncing off the walls of the hallway as he clumsily made his way to the bedroom. That was not the beginning of the nightmare, just the prelude.
Randy’s late arrival one night was accented by his bellowing from the kitchen. “Where is my damm dinner?” He opened the bedroom door with such force that it bounced back from the wall behind it. Reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, he yelled at her, “Why isn’t my dinner waiting for me?”
Without moving, she said quietly “You were not here for dinner, so I put the food away in the refrigerator.”
Grabbing her arm, he half pulled her out of the bed, “Then you better fix me a plate.”
Trying to keep from falling completely out of the bed, Trish asked, “Why can’t you do that? I have to get some sleep before morning. I have to go to work tomorrow.” “ Cause that is your job. To take care of me”, was the curt reply.
To save any further yelling, Trish got up and went to the kitchen. Hoping that he had not woke the kids up. Pulling the leftovers from the evening meal, she prepared his plate quietly and with resignation.
After the food was warmed up in the microwave, she carried it to him out in the living room. While she set the plate down on the coffee table, she glanced over at him. He was sitting on the couch, struggling to unlace his boots. She asked him, “Where were you tonight? I called the shop, but there was no answer.”
Randy’s reaction to that was to angrily tosses his last boot across the room. “It’s none of your damm business but if you want to know so bad I was with the guys over at Paul’s house. Call them if you want, since your don’t believe me.”
Looking at him, she said, “It isn’t that I don’t believe you, I was just wondering where you were. You did not call to let me know you were going to be late. You do that occasionally. Call me. I was worried that you had gotten in an accident.”
Picking up his dinner plate and flicking on the TV with the remote control at the same time, Randy sarcastically replied, “Yea, yea, yea. Sure whatever.”
Seeing it was futile to have any further conversation with him, Trish turned away from him; “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
The weeks, then months went by with the same scenario, some nights it was not so bad as others were. Trish went to work, came home, took care of the kids who were now teenagers, the house and the yard. She took great pleasure in her landscaping the backyard. It was a way for her to avoid making a decision, relieved some of the anger in her by the digging and setting of the rocks for her retaining walls. She would work until her back hurt so badly that she could hardly stand up from the pain. It matched the pain that she had in her heart. For she did love him, very much. However, she did not know how to handle this new, angrier Randy.
She could not come to a decision, to give up, again, or try to get him to see that he needed help. When she had asked him before, he had always dismissed it by saying, “I’m a controlled alcoholic. I know my limits.” That would be the end of the conversation.
Sometimes out of rebellion, she would go out with the girls. They would be laughing and flirting with the men that would ask them to dance. On some of those occasions, Randy would show up. If the evening were young, he would join her, much to her friend’s disgust. He would dance with her holding her close, caressing her back, kissing the top of her head. Like it was in the beginning. Those were rare and then non-existent.
One evening, she became angry waiting for him to come home. She decided to make a bold move and went looking for him. Randy was not hard to find in a small town with a limited amount of taverns and cocktail lounges. He hated that she found him and treated her like some loathsome tramp in front of the other patrons. Embarrassed and crying, she left to go back home.
When he got home, he wanted his dinner as usual. After she served him, the anger took hold again fueled even more by her public humiliation by him. Furiously, she asked, “Why do you find alcohol more important then me and the kids? Maybe it would be best if you left since I can not compete with the booze.”
Randy’s answer was to leap up, grabbing her by the throat, throwing her down into the living room chair. With closed fists hit her twice above the hairline of her forehead. Yelling that if she ever asked him again or thought she would ever leave him, he would kill her. The icy cold fingers of fear wrapped around her heart and stayed there. This was the first time in the years together that he had ever struck her or threatened to take her life.
Now the days were not only filled with heartache but immense fear too. There were no more questions or accusations from her. Dutifully she prepared his meals at all hours of the night. He would come in the bedroom, sometimes remorseful, most of the time angry about something. Whether it was with her, the kids, or just the world it did not matter. He quit giving her money to help with the running of the house. She did not question him or ask him for money out of fear. Things got tight financially when her oldest started college. Fortunately, her daughter was an honor roll student throughout high school, so she received several scholarships and grants. Still, it was not quite enough to cover everything she needed for school. Too many times she would close her eyes wishing that thing could have been different for the kids. They deserved better but she was weak and he did love them, but was a very poor example of a stepfather or even a father figure.
During one weekend, her daughter came in the house from the garage with a troubled expression on her face. She asked her mother to come out to the garage; she had something to show her. Following her, Trish wondered what was going on. She found out quickly. Lying there on the workbench was a plastic bag containing white-yellowish granules. She had not seen crystal meth before, but she knew that that was what it was. Randy had just been in the garage, when his friend Paul had stopped over, asking help from Randy with fixing his other car. He had obviously left forgetting to pick up his drugs. Dismayed, she told her daughter that she would handle it. Picking the bag up gingerly, she went out to the backyard. Sitting there staring at her beautiful flowers she did not see them. The sweet scent of the giant Madrona tree that grew in the corner did not reach her through the numbness of her heart and mind. All she could do was sit there. She did not know of the use of the hard drugs he was using. She knew of the pot but for her generation, you would probably say she was one of few who did not use pot. After awhile she realized that she needed to do something. This was a major crossroad in her life and a decision had to be made. She would have to confront him about this. Looking at the bag, she thought, this explains the progressively violent behavior. This poison destroys the mind, making rational thinking obsolete, but combined with the alcohol, made it even worse.
Hours went by as she gathered her courage waiting for his arrival. She finally heard him come in. Slowly she walked up to him, holding the bag out in front of her so that he could see it. “Where did you get that?” he said trying to look surprised.
“Found it in the garage where you left it. Can you explain?” She stared at him stone faced, waiting for his answer. Surprisingly, he did not react with anger as she had prepared herself for. He actually looked sheepish as he admitted it was his. “I only use it for you and the kids. So I can work longer and faster.” Astounded at this ridiculous excuse, then getting angry at his gall to use her and the kids, she replied through clenched teeth, “Not acceptable. I have sat here thinking on what to do. I was at first going to go to the police.” At that his eyes opened wide in alarm. “Then I decided not too out of fear that I may risk losing my house. Especially if you have been dealing this crap. Things have to change and not for the worse. The alcohol was bad enough, but now this.