I was also reunited with Ophelia. Seeing her, Sharon, and Kim at the funeral was awkward, with our “don’t ask, don’t tell” family tradition. The warring configuration of emotions inside of me was so overwhelming that I reverted to the need for something to do, some plan of action to stick my focus on. For one thing, despite the fact that I hadn’t seen much of Freddie since Momma had been gone, I resolved to resume the job of putting him out of our misery, a determination I’d only temporarily shelved when my poison potion exploded on me. And another thing, I decided, for however long my mother was going to be away, I was going to have as much of my childhood as I could muster. I was going to hang out with my group of friends, “my boys,” get into a little trouble—instigate some of it too—go riding on our homemade skate trucks put together from wood and old skate wheels, and maybe figure out how to earn some chore money to buy myself a bike. Then me and my boys were going to cruise around town, out to the lake if we felt like it, or pedal all the way uphill to the highest point in our part of Milwaukee, near the water reservoir, and look out beyond, feeling like kings of the world. And then, living large, we were going to take that plunge down Snake Hill, the biggest rush of our lives, taking our feet off the pedals so we could go even faster, pushing the limits of danger and excitement and just letting it rip.
What I also decided at Uncle Henry’s funeral was that I wouldn’t cry. That was my signal to Momma that I was hanging tough and that she didn’t need to worry about me.
For the next two years I did the best I could not to break down. My resolve was severely challenged one afternoon when I stopped by Baby’s house, where my younger sisters were staying. One of the only redeeming aspects of having the scourge of Freddie in our lives was how good his sisters Baby and Bessie were to us. Baby saw how her brother rode me and tried to compensate, saying nice things whenever she could, and she would even kick a few dollars in my direction here and there.
“You hungry, Chris?” she greeted me that day, knowing the answer before I grinningly nodded yes and starting to take out some sandwich fixings. As she did, Baby remembered the laundry she was doing downstairs and asked if I’d go load the clothes in the dryer.
Without hesitation, I head down to the basement and begin to pull the wet clothes out of the washer when a smell surrounds me. It’s the wonderful smell that first came into my senses when I lived in foster care. Not a specific perfume, nothing rich or heavy, just a clean, warm, good smell that wraps around me like a Superman cape, making me feel special, strong, safe, loved, and her.
