The Power in Words
I’m not even sure what day it is anymore. Nothing is right in my world. Everything should be right, but it isn’t.
You’d think I’d be happy. I’ve just received some good news. That monster, that evil, cold, vile person who tormented me, ridiculed me, verbally and emotionally abused me for a great part of my life, is dead. He can never hurt me again.
I guess I should be rejoicing.
I tell myself that his death means nothing to me. I can’t understand why I still feel pain, even as I down another drink.
I contemplate not attending his funeral. That can be my final act of rebellion against that cruel man. He doesn’t deserve to have anyone mourn him.
But, I will attend, if for no other reason than to spit on his grave.
I sit for a while, and reflect on my childhood. I experienced a horrible upbringing, and I blamed everything on my father. If it weren’t for him, maybe my life would have turned out differently.
I shake off a feeling of melancholy, not wanting to dwell on the past too much. I consider making myself another drink even though I already feel a bit tipsy. Hell, why not? I’m not hurting anyone. Another drink is exactly what I need.
I prefer hard liquor, and most of the time I like to drink alone. Therefore, I keep my own fully stocked bar. I have just about everything I need to pacify my thirst when I get a taste for booze: Jack Daniels, Jim Bean, Bacardi Spice Rum, Captain Morgan, Absolut, Tanqueray, Grey Goose, Hennessy, Courvoisier, and some of the cheaper stuff, too.
Today, my choice is brown liquor. Brown liquor goes down easier for me than white, and it doesn’t leave that morning-after queasiness in my stomach.
More often than not, I find solace in the bottle. If I’m not drinking, then I’m out partying. For years, I needed a man in order to feel validated. After so many men, I finally gave up on validation.
In the past, I used sex as a soothing balm to my soul. I don’t take men home anymore, at least, not without a price. I wised up and learned that what I was giving away for free could easily be sold.
I walk over to the bar, and refresh my drink; straight brandy, no chaser, on the rocks. Heading back to the living room, I sit down in the leather recliner, and take a gulp. Even alcohol can’t take away the ache, but it does give me the strength that I need to call my brothers. I wonder how they’ll react when I relay the news.
I can immediately sense that Charles thinks I’m calling because I need something from him. He doesn’t know it, but I have my finances under control now. I no longer need to ask anyone for anything. I went into business for myself for that sole reason.
“Charles, you may want to take a few days off to fly back home.”
“Why?”
My voice is emotionless when I tell him, “Your dad is dead.”
“What? Oh.” There’s a long pause. “Okay. Well, I have to get back with you. I have customers. We’ll talk later.” I hear a click as he hangs up without saying ‘bye’.
“One down. One more to go,” I say aloud.
I take another large swallow of brandy, emptying the glass. I notice my hand shaking as I dial the number. Is it because of the excessive drinking or something else? I quickly dismiss the latter.
I desperately pray that Mitch’s wife doesn’t answer the phone. She’s a woman who dislikes everyone. She has an unpleasant disposition, and a bad attitude. She’s the type that has an opinion about everything and everyone. I avoid her most of the time, and ignore her the rest of the time. I can’t figure out for the life of me how she and Mitch ever ended up married. They even managed to produce three children, no less.
“Hello?” It’s her. I consider hanging up, but they have caller ID.
“Hello Daphne. Is Mitch home?” I don’t attempt to be civil. I know she doesn’t like me, and the feeling’s mutual.
“No. He’s probably off fishing or gambling or whoring around. Your guess is as good as mine.” Her voice drips with condemnation. She always has something negative to say. Why should I have expected anything different?
“Well, it’s nothing important. When you get a chance, just tell him our father died. Okay? Bye now.” I quickly disconnect the call before she can reply. I don’t doubt that Mitch will get the message. If she doesn’t tell him then Charles will. He’s at Charles’s house more than he’s home most of the time. I can’t say I blame him. If I had to deal with a bitch like Daphne, I’d be gone twenty-four hours, seven days a week.
I consider pouring another drink since my glass is empty again. It’s tempting, but I have to meet a client. If I show up drunk, there’s no telling what might take place. Half drunk, I might be able to control the situation, and make the most of it.
I can be classified as a female escort/dominatrix/stripper or highly paid whore.
I got tired of my youngest brother out-doing me in life, so I started my own business in the adult entertainment industry. I no longer have to see him look down his nose when I ask for help. I felt embarrassed having to go to him for loans to pay my bills. Now that I can manage on my own, I’ve stopped resenting him.
Charles has always been our father’s favorite. The youngest of four, he didn’t get to experience the abuse the rest of us endured. Besides, he was so young when we left that he probably doesn’t remember how awful things got. If he does remember, he’s chosen to block it all out.
Most of the time, the boys got the beatings, and I got the verbal assaults. That’s how the cookie usually crumbled. Sometimes, I used to wish that he’d just hit me like he did them. A whipping with a switch stings for a while, but cruel words damage self-esteem, and destroy self-worth for a lifetime.
“Street-walker!”
“You’re nothing but a tramp.”
“You whore!”
I can hear Dad’s words reverberate down the walls of my heart as I get dressed.
“Daddy, I hope you’re proud,” I say, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. “You’re the one who made me what I am.”
I leave the bedroom, pick up the keys to my Mercedes, grab my Coach purse, and walk out of my condo.
Many have called me beautiful. The outside of a person doesn’t always give away the inner self. If you look at my soul, you’ll see that it’s crisscrossed with scars.
I arrive at my destination. My client’s apartment is located in an upscale, ritzy neighborhood that I’ve visited several times before. This particular complex houses a great deal of my clients. I’ve seen the female residents walk their fancy poodles. They wear designer shorts and tank tops, with high heels--looking like Brittney Spears or Paris Hilton replicas.
I walk up the stairs and ring the doorbell.
A very handsome, Caucasian guy with emerald green eyes answers. He’s about six feet two, a hundred and ninety-five pounds. He is shirtless, and I can tell that he works out frequently. His age is between 25 and 30, give or take a few years.
“Er- you’re definitely not what I expected,” he says. “Come in. At least you’re easy on the eyes,” he adds. When he smiles, one corner of his mouth curls higher than the other. He has the most prefect teeth that braces have helped to straighten.
I smile sweetly, and let the leather coat I’m wearing fall to the floor. His eyes widen in admiration and appreciation.
He’d requested a maid to clean his apartment. He specifically asked for a black woman. I don’t know what he thought he’d be getting.
I’m always full of surprises. I love the way the men turn into gawking idiots when they see me. I stand five feet seven. My skin is a caramel completion. I have hazel eyes and high cheek bones. My hair is naturally long, and auburn.
“When you requested a maid were you aware that you’d called an exotic maid service?” I ask the young man.
“Well, no. But, I don’t mind.” His words come quick in his excitement.
“Doesn’t Nightteaser’s Cleaning Service sound like an exotic cleaning service to you?”
“Now that I think about it, I guess so.”
I sport a black and white three-piece French Maid costume. It’s a sexy number with off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, and a cute little frilly apron. I’ve added a white petticoat with black fish net stockings, for emphasis. I topped it off with a feather duster. I strut in a pair of Gladiator, six-inch platform shoes with studs and four ankle straps.
“So, which room should I start in?” I ask in a seductive voice and gaze at him. As I stare at him I stick my index finger in my mouth and suck on the tip.
“T-this one is fine.” He swallows, and takes a seat on the sofa. It’s made of expensive leather like the one I have in my own apartment. He sits on the edge in anticipation.
I take my time. There’s no need to rush- I get paid by the hour. I’ve brought my own supplies other than the feather duster. If he wants, his apartment will definitely get cleaned, but it will be the most expensive cleaning job he’s ever gotten in his life.
I also brought an Emerson CD player. I slowly bend over and plug the radio into the wall socket. When I straighten, I know I have his undivided attention.
As the song, “Clean Up Woman,” by Betty Wright, booms out, I do what I do best.
In less than an hour, we end up in the bedroom. Of course, no cleaning is taking place at this point.
I bend over the center of the bed, and place my hands flat against the mattress. I don’t like to face them for fear they’ll try to kiss me in the mouth. Kissing is too personal.
I can hear the condom package rip as he hurries to get the latex on. I see the discarded Magnum package hit the floor. I feel the length of him slide into me. I brace myself. Thankfully, he’s finished in less than five minutes.
Later in the week, we meet at Charles’ house to discuss funeral arrangements for our father. I can’t help but to compare Charles with myself, and my other two brothers. Charles is the successful one. He’s a business owner and homeowner, unscarred by neither physical nor emotional abuse.
Mitch, on the other hand, didn’t fare all that well. To get away from a life filled with anger, poverty and abuse, he enlisted in the Marines just before his eighteenth birthday. Four years later, he returned an alcoholic and frequent marijuana smoker. He married a woman whom he now despises, and by the looks of it, they’re headed for a divorce. He gambles frequently and drinks profusely.
Even worst off is our oldest brother, Fayette, deemed the “black sheep” of the family. We seldom mention him. Most who know our family doesn’t even know we have another sibling.
Fayette suffered the most abuse by our father. He had trouble all throughout his school years. He fought classmates, teachers, and even the principal. He got suspended so many times that he finally dropped out at age sixteen. By age seventeen, he was in and out of prison. At forty, he wanders the streets, embraced by the arms of insanity.
“You know, in order to understand Dad, you have to understand what his life was like,” Charles speaks out once we’ve decided on all of the details of the funeral.
“All I know is that he was abused, so he abused us,” I say with bitterness.
“Mama told me that he only had a third grade education. He wasn’t afforded the luxury of school. He had to work in the fields.”
”That’s no excuse for the way he treated his family.” I remain unforgiving.
Mitch doesn’t say much, just sips on a bottle of Budweiser.
“Well, it’s all in the past now. Forget about it,” Charles says.
“How can I forget? How can Mitch forget? You didn’t get cursed out on a daily basis. You never got beat with a rubber, inner tube from a car. Did you?”
“That was so long ago, I forgot,” Mitch says absently. With a shaking hand, he turns up the bottle. “It didn’t hurt anyway. It was nothing.”
Denial. Both of them are still in denial.
“He was the best father that he knew how to be,” Charles insists. “Why can’t you forgive him? He’s dead now. Get over it.”
Get over it. That’s all I want to do, but I wish it was that easy.
The plane touches down in ....Memphis.., ..Tennessee..... From there we get a rental car at ....Enterprise..... Charles has arranged everything perfectly. We get to the church just in time for the funeral.
The services are being held at the ..First.. ..Baptist.. ..Church.. in ....Edmondson.., ..AR..... We attended this church as small children. My grandma took me there every Sunday when I was a little girl. That was the only time I’d felt she cared about me.
The night before, she or my aunt Ola would go through the task of braiding my thick hair for Sunday services. The end results were four or five big braids beginning at the hairline, and going down the center of my back. They either put bows or rubber bands on the end so that the braids wouldn’t unravel.
On Sunday morning, I’d dress up in my Sunday’s best, which was usually some frilly dress that my grandmother kept for the occasion. I’d put on white tights and black baby doll shoes.
Before leaving for church, my grandmother would make sure that my face was clean. Then, she’d rub Royal Crown Hair Grease in her hands and use it as lotion on my face, legs, and arms. I hated that because it made me feel oily and my face would be as shiny as a new penny.
I feel heaviness in my chest as I enter the old structure. Surprisingly, it’s still standing after so many years. As most houses and churches in ....Edmondson.., ..Arkansas...., it’s built of wood.
My brothers and I sit in the front pew. Family members, whom I haven’t seen since childhood, pile onto the rest of the benches. Some whisper their condolences and I nod in acknowledgment.
It’s a dusty little church with no central air. A rickety, old, ceiling fan circulates nothing but staleness. They have opened the doors and windows in the event that a breeze might float in.
Everything goes as well as funerals go. I stare at the program that was put together by one of my cousins. On the front there’s a picture of my daddy, smiling.
That’s funny. I can’t remember him smiling much, if ever. What I can remember is his voice raised in anger, as strings of profanity spewed from his mouth; the same mouth smiling at me from the program.
I slam it down next to me on the bench. I can’t stand to look at him, even in death.
We’re told to stand, and proceed to do the walk by. I figure, I’ll just glimpse at him and keep going, nothing to it. But, when I actually get to the casket, I lose it.
I look down at that body that’s so still. I see the face of a man that I have harbored resentment against for so long. I thought I’d feel nothing but hatred. I don’t. Surprisingly, I feel overpowered by different emotions.
“You'll never amount to anything,” he used to tell me.
“All I ever wanted was for you to love me, Daddy,” I hear a little girl’s voice speak. When I realize that it’s me, that’s when the dam bursts. The hot tears fall in currents. I’m sobbing loudly, and can’t stop.
Suddenly, I feel Charles’s arms around me. At that moment, I know he feels my pain, perhaps for the very first time. He helps me back to the front pew because I can’t see through my blinding tears.
The Pastor begins the sermon.
“God spoke to me last night. I don’t believe I was brought here for the sole purpose of preaching a funeral. I believe that I was sent here today to save lost souls.”
Amidst my tears and sniffles, I can hear the preacher’s strong words. Suddenly, I feel as though he’s speaking directly to me.
“When I was down on my knees in prayer last night, God spoke to me and said: “Brother Patterson, someone out there needs to hear this. Someone out there has a heart that’s filled with pain. Through the years they have carried that pain wrapped around them like a cloak. It’s the pain brought about due to verbal abuse. God said to me, talk to them about words.” Now I know he’s speaking to me. I stare at him in wonder, suddenly anxious for him to continue.
“So, I stand here today to tell you this: WORDS CAN KILL.” He holds the microphone for a second and looks around the entire church before going on.
“They can assault your self-esteem, curse your future, and stamp a lethal label on your life.” His voice booms throughout the entire church. Not a sound can be heard as all eyes are upon him.
“If words pierced your heart as a child, if they have wounded your marriage, or caused your career to spin in disarray, you may be a victim of verbal abuse. I’m here to tell you today, that God can help you learn how to deal with the pain. You have to deal with the pain in order to heal the wounds.” He takes a white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. His eyes fall on me. “Today is the day for you to start on the road to emotional and spiritual recovery.”
”Amen,” someone calls out. “Amen Pastor.”
“Whether that abusive person is your husband, your boss, your mother, your father, your child's teacher--no matter who it may be -- God will help you recover. You can re-gain your self-esteem. You can get back your self-worth. You can get back your life.” At this point, he winds down and speaks more quietly. “God can help you end the cycle of abuse, and through forgiveness, you can experience the healing of His love.”
Charles places his hand on mine and squeezes. I squeeze back. I glance at Mitch and see that his eyes are riveted on the pastor. They are glossy with unshed tears. I gaze around the church. I don’t see one person who isn’t crying or that doesn’t have moist eyes.
Pastor Anthony Patterson’s sermon changed my life that day. I no longer manage Nightteaser’s Cleaning Service. I turned in the exotic costumes, high heels and feather dusters for more professional attire. I now have a real career as a mortgage broker. I’m good at it and I love doing it.
Now, when someone hands me a check for $500 dollars, I can accept it without feeling the shame, humiliation, and self-hatred. Words definitely have power. They have the power to heal.