… Nothing But the Truth

Content: Alcohol abuse. Domestic and Familial Violence.

Author's Note: 8th in a series of stand-alones. Takes place after "… Cannot Be Undone."

“Tell me about yourself.”

Not much to say. My name is Joan Temperance Dark. Birth date: October 30th, 1983. When I was in middle school, I met someone who made me want to become a police officer, like her. When I was old enough, I joined the Greensboro Police Department. I was sworn in on February 2nd, 2006—Groundhog Day, but I wouldn’t mind reliving that day for the rest of my life. For the past two years, I’ve been on administrative leave due to an incident.

“Tell me about what happened yesterday.”

It’s August 3rd, 2010, and two combined cases, the State v. Andrew Lewis and Darius Williams—case numbers 08CR42346 and 08CR42347—have ended with the sentencing hearings. I was subpoenaed as a witness for the defense, despite being the one most responsible for Messrs. Lewis and Williams being on trial in the first place. In October of 2008, I apprehended the two gentlemen in a car with a ton of drugs and a woman who’d been abducted to become their sex toy. At issue, so far as the lawyers were concerned, was the fact that I was legally intoxicated at the time, despite being on duty. Throughout the case, the public defenders—very good lawyers, considering—did their best to impeach me and have the evidence, the arrest, and anything else possible thrown out. Appeals went up and came back down. They’ve both gone to prison, with relatively long sentences.

However, once the cases ended, so did my career. Until this point, I have been on paid administrative leave, since there was a chance that the prosecutor might have me testify—she didn’t, clever girl. With the end of those cases comes the end of my life as a police officer. And despite the opinions of the only people I give a damn about, I do not need any help to get through this time, thank you very much.

But it’s been taken out of my hands. Which is why I’m here.

“Tell me something about these people.”

Where should I start? Mama. Her name is Deborah Ann Dark, but her maiden name is Crumpler. She was born in ‘62 in Davie County, at her parents’ farm, the youngest of six. When she was in high school, she met a man who swept her off her feet. Since they got married, he’s done many other things to knock her off her feet. But she loves him and makes all of the excuses for his behavior.

She’s a God-fearing woman—and a husband-fearing woman, too. She did her best in raising us and trying to keep us from learning too early what it means to be beaten down, to give up. I wonder sometimes how many times she put herself in his way to protect us.

“Do you love your mother?”

Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of course I love Mama. She’s… she’s beautiful and wonderful and always smells of flour. She never uses makeup or perfume, and there’s nothing I love more than remembering coming home from school and just… smelling her. What kind of question is that?

“Tell me about what happened yesterday.”

Cynthia’s kicked me out. I’ve been moping around the apartment for two years waiting for the trials to end. Waiting to get my life back. I don’t blame her for getting sick of my shit. I was so ashamed and upset about that. So embarrassed.

I needed to leave. She wants me gone. She is done with me. I’m done with her, too. I can’t believe that she would put me in that position. So I went to see my Mama yesterday. I hadn’t seen her in person in five years. I wasn’t in the mood to see Pa, but he was there. Junior wasn’t at home; he should have been at work. He showed up almost the same time the police did, I think.

I went to jail first; I remember that now. Dinner was a bologna sandwich in the holding cell, one of my favorite meals. I got mustard on my bandages, and they wouldn’t give me clean ones. After the magistrate saw me, they took me to another jail. Another magistrate. Then another cell. And now you.

“That’s not a cell. It’s a residential room.”

Same difference.

“Tell me about someone else.”

Junior. Properly, his name is Steven Thomas Dark, Jr. He’s older than me by three-and-a-half years. He’s always been there when I needed him, and I’m there when he needs me. Even with the situation with my parents, he’s been there.

Five years ago, Cyn and I moved in together. Same place we still have now. Stupid me thought that once I was out from under Pa’s roof, that I’d have control of when to see him or not. I didn’t think he’d know where we lived. I didn’t think he’d drive all the way to Greensboro just to flex his ego. But he did. He found out about us. About me.

Some say that Hell isn’t a proper place of torture, with the fire and brimstone. They say that it is being outside of God’s love. Well, at that time? I knew how that was so much worse than a dozen whoopings piled on top of one another. Because up ‘til then, Pa was God for me.

Now? I don’t give a damn about the man. I’ve seen who and what he is. He says I was born on the Devil’s night. Well, I say he’s the Devil himself.

“How did your talking about your brother become a talk about your father?”

That’s just how Junior is. He’s there. He’s reliable. And everything and everyone else just pushes him to the background, and he doesn’t mind. He’s just… he’s just there.

And yes, before you ask: I love him. I know he won’t abandon me, or betray me, if he’s got a choice in the matter. Sometimes, though, I wonder if he makes choices or if he just lets others make them for him.

“Do you love your father?”

Ah, tricky you. He’s a dozen years older than my mother; did you know that? No, you wouldn’t. I should have realized sooner he’s nothing but a predator. Not even a noble kind, like a wolf or an eagle. Pa is a jackal, a vulture, a hyena. A scavenger. Lurking in the background, waiting for his chance to steal the meat from others. He worked at the jail for decades, and I think he learned from the prisoners. From their mistakes. How not to get caught at it.

I used to. Love him, that is. I was Papa’s Girl. He wore a uniform; I wanted to wear one. He watched football; I tried to play one year. He was always in charge at the house; I wanted to be just like him.

I am nothing like him. I do not want to be anything like him. I don’t love him. I don’t hate him. I despise him. I despise what he’s done to Mama, to Junior. To me. To who knows how many other women, because I know that too: he’s a lech and a cheat and not worth spit.

“Tell me about what happened yesterday.”

I got to their house. He was upstairs in bed; he still sleeps during the day, from his time working at the jail. I needed to see Mama. I haven’t seen her in years. I need her. She’s my Mama, you know? And sometimes a girl needs her Mama. Sorry, not used to this. May I… thanks.

Anyway. So I got there. She was shocked, but she let me in. We were talking in the kitchen. And I saw him come down the stairs. He stopped when he saw me. Froze, like I wouldn’t see him if he didn’t move. I could see him turning red; he was a boiled lobster, in seconds flat.

So, he came into the kitchen shouting, and threatened to hit her. More than hit, I think? No matter. He’s mostly bluster, really. So I started shouting at him. Told him to go ahead and hit me. He did. Open hand across the left side of my jaw; backhand across my right. I felt like Jesus all of a sudden, turning the other cheek. I laughed at that pathetic old man.

Have I mentioned that Cynthia is Black? Yeah, a cracker country girl like me is dating a sophisticated Black woman like her. Well, like I said, Papa knows about her. When he found out about me. So what do you think he said? Yeah, sit there all quiet, only asking questions, not answering them.

He said two words. Eleven letters. Maybe a hyphen? Last word is “lover.” First word begins with an “N.” I’ve heard people say it before. I hate the word. Doesn’t matter if it’s an “a” or an “r” at the end, if it’s them saying it or not. I can’t even say it in private, nobody else around, you know? And I’m not just saying that because you’re here, and, well, you know….

Anyway. I don’t remember much after that. Mama threw a pot of water over me to get me off him. Thank God it wasn’t boiling. It did have the start of supper in it, as she was making him mashed potatoes, so there were spuds and such all over.

It’s funny, I can’t cook, but she tried to teach me. Her secret for mashed potatoes? She puts a bunch of mayo in it. She also boils them with the skins after she’s peeled them. I love her mashed potatoes. Just not all over me.

Anyway, she started hitting me with the broom after that. And I couldn’t believe it, she was choosing that asshole over me. I’m her daughter. I’m the one she’s supposed to protect.

Then Junior was there. He hugged me. Well, to pull me off our father, but it felt nice. I’m not sure why he’s there? Maybe she called him before; she seemed to know I was coming. Anyway, it wasn’t long ‘til the ambulance and police got there.

Yes, I know. I’m getting all my present and past and future mixed up. I’m sorry. It’s confusing. To me, anyway.

“Tell me about before that.”

I got home before noon; sentencing didn’t take long, and the department’s had my paperwork all filled out for two years, just waiting to finalize this.

I was expecting Cyn to be at work, that it would just be me. I’m not allowed to drive—suspended license, still. So I walked. We don’t live far, really. Plus there’s a store along the way. I learned to drink on beer. I got a degree in rum. My doctorate’s in whiskey with a specialization in bourbon. I don’t know what it is about Appalachia, but they know how to age liquor perfectly. It was a present for myself. I’ve survived the worst two years of my life. So I started on the way, just enough to calm my nerves.

When I got home, it wasn’t just me. She was there with others.

“Tell me about those people.”

It was the four people I love the most, I think.

Lily Maxwell. She was the security guard at the alternative school I attended for half my life. Also the first lesbian I knew. Not like that. She has a partner, Gladys. They live in Winston-Salem. She helped me. I never accepted myself—even when I was baptized, even when I knew that Jesus loved me no matter what, I didn’t love myself. To be honest, sometimes I think I still don’t. She just hugged me, let the others do the talking.

And Lieu was there. Lt. Brandon Kelly. He’s a brother to me. He didn’t care that I was some white hick chick; he saw something in me, and told me I could be something, someone. I know… sorry, thanks. I know I disappointed him with all this. Part of me wishes I’d never see him again.

Lieu told me something yesterday, at my place. I guess he had to keep his distance before. But he told me he was an alcoholic. But he’s nothing like Pa. He was the first person in the department I admitted the truth to. His wife and kids, we’ve been to each others’ homes. He’s a good man. A loving husband. An attentive father. He’s no fucking alcoholic.

“Who else was there?”

Was there someone else? Lily, Lieu… oh my God. Steve—I mean Junior was there, too. He and Cyn have been talking, ever since… well, the incident. That’s what they said, anyway. There’s something in his eyes, though. I’ve seen it before, in Mama’s eyes, when Pa would go off to “help” one of the neighbors—yeah, I can’t believe I didn’t realize what he was up to sooner. She used to go up for altar calls, begging Jesus to sanctify her, to take away her envy. She has green eyes, too, Pa would call her his personal green-eyed monster. A real bastard, ain’t he?

Anyway. Junior. I saw him looking like that. Looking at me and Cyn. At my Cyn. Here he is, going on about how much he loves me and respects me and wants me to straighten out my life. He even has a letter from Mama, about how she’s willing to help if I just ask for it. And he’s been thinking about my girl this entire time? That asshole.

“How did you get from your apartment to your parents’ house?”

I… I don’t remember. Do I? Let me think. They had me sitting on a chair from the dinette, in front of the TV. Lily and Lieu were on the sofa. Cyn and Junior were in chairs to each side, across from one another. It felt like a trap. I felt trapped. I felt like a caged panther. I needed to pace, but they wouldn’t let me. I needed to drink, but they wouldn’t let me—well, nothing other than water. I needed to run, but they wouldn’t let me.

I remember holding the keys. Even though I couldn’t drive Nova—my old Ford Escort—we still kept her running, still kept the insurance, because as soon as I could drive again, I’d need the car, so….

So I stormed out of the apartment. Left them all behind, Lieu trying to grab me, Junior yelling, Lily just standing there. I yanked the cover off Nova, just left it there in the lot next to where she was parked. I don’t even really remember the drive to Mocksville. Muscle memory, maybe? I remember the driveway; it’s bumpy and dusty and everything, always has been. We knew visitors were coming because of that driveway. Maybe that’s how Mama knew?

“Tell me about Cynthia.”

I met her the night I turned twenty-one. I grew up without birthday presents, you know? And she was twenty-one birthdays-worth of presents all in one gorgeous package. She was my first. First date, first real kiss, first love, first… lots of firsts. She’s been my only one, too. It’ll be six years, soon, and she’s the only person I’ve ever felt this way about. She’s kind, and funny, and attentive, and she listens. She’s not afraid to tell me what she wants. She’s not afraid to let me have what I want. She’s everything I wish my parents could have been.

And yet. She embarrassed me yesterday. The people I most respect, and she had them there to see me when I was at my lowest. To have them mocking me. Staring at me, like I’m an animal in a zoo. And my brother—the two of them making eyes at each other. Right there in front of me, as if I wasn’t there. And then she’s accusing me of being just like Pa. A no-good drunk. A violent bastard. An evil evil man—well, not the man part, obviously. But hateful. All those things she said. All those things she made me feel.

I love Cynthia. But she just made me so… angry. I couldn’t help it.

“Tell me about what happened yesterday.”

I got home from the courthouse. My bottle of bourbon was about half full. They were all there, hugging me, talking, trying to cheer me up. Telling me I need help.

I got angry. I needed to get out of there. I’ve never run from something in my life, not like that. I needed to just go.

She told me I needed help or else. Ultimatum, I think? Get help or that was that. How dare she talk to me that way? She’s still got her career. She’s still got her life, her dreams. Me? All I had was her, and she was going to take it all away.

I’ve seen the other end of that backhand too many times. I know what the blood seeping from my cut lip tastes like. Checking to make sure he didn’t knock anything loose. How hard it is to not just curl up like a ball and want to die.

Cynthia stood there and took it. Didn’t bat an eye. “You are just like him.” That’s the only thing she said. It’s the first time I’ve ever not seen love in her eyes. They were cold, so cold.

“Do you remember why you’re here?”

Now, yeah. Lawyer tried to explain. Williams’ defender, so I know he’s good. Diversionary program. Since my father struck first, and his language, the judge might be lenient. But it’s DV in Guilford. Fortunately, the law’s sexist like everything else, so it’s only simple battery; not like if I was a man. If this therapy doesn’t take, I serve a month. If it does, it’s expunged. Then no contact with either. Restraining orders.

“That’s our time. Anything else?”

Yeah. I am not my fucking father.