Like Rain on Parked Cars, Chapter 6 – Divide

Rain on tarpaper roof,  Author W.carter, (CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication)

“…’Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven‘” (Matt. 19: 14).

In December of 2000, I learned that Aretha would be spending Christmas at her older sister’s home in West Philadelphia, but essentially alone because of Shantice’s employment situation.  I offered to take Aretha out on the 23rd, and we made plans for that.

Directions in hand, I drove with some trepidation to Shantice’s place in West Philadelphia around 1 PM, expecting to take Aretha to a late lunch or matinee.  The address was a row house, across from a vacant lot.  I passed it twice, since not all houses in the area had their numbers displayed.

Standing on the small cement stoop, I knocked on the door, and waited.  There was no answer.  I knocked again, a little louder.  Still, no answer.

A passerby, an African American man in his early twenties, hands in the pockets of a hooded sweatshirt, cast me a suspicious, sidelong glance.  I began to grow nervous, as well as chilled, checked my watch, and knocked a third time.

This at last evoked a response.  Aretha called from an overhead window that she had been asleep, would be down directly.  My heart slowed to a normal pace.

Aretha opened the door in her pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes.  “Come on in, outta the cold,” she said, waving me through the door into a dim front room devoid of either furniture or warmth.  “We were asleep.”

Tyrell

I noticed for the first time a boy of about four years standing shyly behind Aretha.

“I’ll go get dressed,” Aretha said.  She disappeared up a rickety staircase, leaving me in the cold and unlit room with the boy, the blinds drawn.

“Hi,” I said.  “My name’s Anna.”

“Hullo,” he volunteered.

“What’s your name?”

“Tyrell.”

“Tyrell.  That’s a good name.  Are you related to Aretha?”

No answer.

“Is she maybe your aunt?”

“My aunt,” he nodded.

“Is this your house?  Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a nice house.  Do you have your own room?”

“I share,” he almost whispered, using his right foot to draw circles on the floor, all the while gazing up at me, his little brow furrowed in thought.  Then, as if he had made a decision, “Would you like to see my truck?”

“Su-u-re,” I replied.

Tyrell pattered off into the darkness, the soles of his pajama-clad feet making a slapping sound on the hard wood floors.  In a moment, he returned with a small plastic truck, and began explaining its operation to me.  I knelt down beside the boy, the better to see the truck and hear his explanation.

Aretha returned and began her own explanation.  She had been left to watch the child, but was under instruction to take him to relatives in North Philadelphia.  Aware that I was on my way, the family had told her to ask me to drop the boy off.

I had not expected to assume responsibility for a minor child whose mother I had not yet met, on the word of a teenage girl I was only starting to know.

It was not that this was an inconvenience.  I simply could not think what the best thing to do was.  I had no car seat for Tyrell.  What if I had an accident?  What if his mother accused me of kidnap?

There was no phone in the apartment.  There were no public phones on the deserted street, no shops nearby that might have a phone.

I had no cell phone in those days, so no way to reach Shantice for confirmation as to her wishes, and no way to reach the aid organization for guidance.  There was no one nearby with whom to leave the boy.  We three seemed all alone in the world.

I wondered if there was any food in the house for the children.

North Philadelphia

I might have left Aretha there – the dark and cavernous apartment, behind her – but could not bring myself to do that.  So the three of us got into the car, Tyrell buckled into the back seat, his feet too short to reach the floor.

With Aretha acting as co-pilot, I made my way cautiously out of West Philadelphia, through Center City, and up Broad Street.  The disadvantaged area known as North Philadelphia is little more than five miles from the affluent business center of the city.  On this day, however, it seemed a hundred.

Aretha sat truculently to my right, unhappy at having to look after Tyrell, rather than spend the day on her own with me.  Tyrell sat timidly behind us, barely uttering a sound.

In an effort to cheer the children, and normalize the situation, I kept up a mindless chatter.  “Oh, look.  There’s City Hall, with the tower.  That’s where the mayor is.  See, that’s William Penn on the very top.  Not far now.”

We arrived at a housing project that seemed to crouch menacingly by the side of the road.  Aretha looked first at the building, then at me, and again back at the building.  “I can take Tyrell in by myself,” she said.  “I should go in by myself.”

Truthfully, I was tempted.  But the thought that there were children living in the building, under the very conditions Aretha was trying to spare me, would not allow it.  “We’ll all go in,” I said.  “Just let me find parking.”

We made it safely through the front doors.  It was the odor that assaulted us, a rancid mix of urine, alcohol, lighter fluid, exposed metal, feces, and human sweat, too many bodies confined in too little space, with too little alternative.  The pungent aroma of hopelessness.

We took the elevator up, and walked the halls in search of the apartment we wanted.  Aretha’s face was expressionless.  Tyrell held my hand.  Finally, we found the right door, and rang the bell.  “They’s not in,” we heard from an open doorway, behind us.

I turned to see a woman in her late fifties, lounging against the doorpost.  The color of weathered mahogany, wearing a slip and loosely-belted robe, she invited us into her own apartment, explaining that Aretha’s relatives (which relatives, I still was not clear) were at work.

Dina, if I recall her name, graciously offered us her phone.  We attempted to call from her apartment, but were unsuccessful in reaching anyone.  Dina then suggested we let Tyrell stay with her until the unnamed relatives returned.

Again, I was faced with a dilemma.  Kindly though her demeanor, I knew this woman not at all.  Could I possibly leave a child with her, so casually?

An open liquor bottle on the table decided me.  I thanked Dina, but said I would take the children with me, and bring them back later.

Neither Aretha nor Tyrell had eaten.  It was now well past 3 PM.  With little other recourse, I drove home with the children, praying the whole way that I would avoid any accidents.

I attempted repeatedly from home to reach Shantice, finally arranging with her to drop the children off at the housing project around 10 PM.  Meanwhile, I put in a video and pulled dinner together.

Aretha slumped against the couch cushions, still unhappy at having her day with me spoiled.  “I ain’t never gonna have no children.  No way,” she said repeatedly.  Tyrell contentedly watched the video, munching his chicken fingers.

Ruth was distressed to hear of these events when I described them to her.  “You should have called our emergency number.  You could have cancelled the visit, under the circumstances,” she said.  But how could I call the emergency number without a phone?  And how could I leave Aretha there like that?

Boundaries and Disruption

Afterwards, I tried to set some boundaries, explained that I would not again take responsibility for a young child without notice or transport a young child without a car seat.

Aretha nodded that she understood, but barely seemed to hear.  These had not been unusual events for her.  Life was ordinarily disrupted by one thing or another.

The Classical Concert

I had the joy of sharing Aretha’s first experience of a classical concert the following month.  I met Aretha’s mother, a heavyset woman in her late forties, at Shantice’s apartment that same evening.

Aretha had been delayed by a hair appointment, but her mother spoke with me enthusiastically about how much Aretha enjoyed our time together.  Though the woman was courteous to me, I had the impression the jovial demeanor she displayed was assumed for my benefit.  A time or two the mask slipped.

Aretha was excited as we settled into our seats, in the upper tier, at the posh Academy of Music.  Applause rose around us, as the lights dimmed and the music began to swell.  Aretha leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Like rain on parked cars.”  She had to repeat the remark, before I could process it.

Aretha was right.  I hadn’t realized it, but the applause did sound like rain.  All I had to do was close my eyes.

That single remark summed up poignantly the vast distance Aretha had to cover, the enormous divide she faced.  It has haunted me ever since.

Copyright © 2010 – Present Anna Waldherr.  All rights reserved.

READERS CAN FIND MY VIEWS ON ABUSE AND ABUSE-RELATED ISSUES AT ANNA WALDHERR A Voice Reclaimed, Surviving Child Abuse
https://avoicereclaimed.com