Beth

By Faye Bryant

How do you live when there's

nothing worth living for?

The Grandma, Mom, and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Academy Elite
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647468156

Faye Bryant

Faye Bryant is a recovering codependent and perfectionist. She is the author of Ramblings From the Shower

Book preview

Chapter 1

Iremember the story of my birth, which is good, because though I was there, I don’t remember the event at all. It was in a little town in North Central Florida, in a doctor’s clinic.

So the story goes, my beautiful brunette mother went into labor that morning in September and my dad, with the movie-star good looks, took her to the clinic. Lunchtime came along, and the doctor told Dad to go home and take a nap, that this baby wouldn’t be born until much later in the evening. This was accompanied by a declaration that he was going to lunch.

Doctor, you won’t get to finish that lunch, Mom told him.

Oh, sure I will. I’ve delivered hundreds of babies, the doctor retorted.

Not mine, Mom told him, then finished with, I’ll bet you won’t even get to have your dessert.

The doctor scoffed, Dad went home, Mom continued in labor, and before his dessert was brought to the table, Dr. Teel was called to the telephone. That’s how I started out, interrupting a good meal.

Dad missed the whole thing because he listened to the doctor. When he arrived back at the clinic, he found his wife lying in bed holding his beautifully perfect baby girl—the doctor’s words, not mine.

Dad was beside himself and declared himself to be the richest poor man alive. That was a phrase he used often throughout the years.

When you were born, Buckshot, you made me the richest poor man alive. That was his favorite nickname for me, Buckshot.

Shortly after I made my appearance, Dad’s work took us to several other places. He worked for bridge contractors all along the eastern part of the state. We lived in Tequesta, Mayaca, and Avilés before we settled just north of Tomoka Beach.

In Mayaca, we lived in a little cabin at a fish camp. Dad worked, and most days, Mom fished so that we had food.

Dad would say, Most nights, we had fish with pork and beans, but some nights, we had pork and beans with fish.

What I didn’t know until much later is the reason for the scarcity of money was the abundance of booze and beer. A nightly stop at the local bar was the norm, and groceries seemed a second thought. My chubby cheeks in my baby pictures will tell you that I didn’t go without, though.

The street we lived on when my memory comes to bear ran between the Atlantic Ocean and the Halifax River, and our house was just about halfway between the two, slightly closer to the river.

When I was four years old, Mom’s brother, Uncle Clem, came to stay with us in our white block house with dark green trim. When he stayed there, his bedroom was in my playroom, but I loved my tall, dark-haired uncle so much that it didn’t matter. He had been my friend, my playmate, my helper for as long as I could remember.

One sunny afternoon, he held my hand and slowly led me from the back door along the driveway, down the slight hill toward the street. His intention was to take me for a walk in the fresh air, down to the river and back.

Tippy was the scruffy black dog Mom and Dad had adopted. He had a white smudge on the end of his tail, hence his name. Tippy came racing around the corner of the house and planted himself in front of us, pacing, growling, and barking. He was herding us back toward the house. When Uncle Clem tried to shoo him away, Tippy paced more, growled more, and would not let us pass. Parkinson’s and tuberculosis had taken the volume of my uncle’s voice, so his calls to my mother went unheard, and we finally went back into the house. Our Heinz 57 guard had put a stop to this stranger taking me away from home.

Sitting at the small round dinner table that night, Clem said, Vince, I don’t know what that dog was doing. It wouldn’t let me take Beth out of the yard!

Cutting the fried pork chop on his plate, Dad glanced at my uncle and laughed. Clem, you know that dog sleeps under Beth’s window every night, don’t you?

Yeah, I’ve heard y’all talk about that. My uncle’s voice was soft.

If she sleeps in our room, Tippy is right there under our bedroom window.

Okay… Uncle Clement said, not quite understanding.

That dog will protect this little girl, Dad explained as he twirled one of my curls around his finger, from anyone and anything. You could have been a mountain lion, and that little dog would have taken you on.

Dad took a bite of his supper and went on, When we would go to the beach and Beth got too close to the water, Tippy would grab her by the diaper and pull her back.

But after a few times, Beth would wiggle her little butt and walk to the water, knowing exactly what he was going to do, Mom added, making everyone laugh.

After supper, Dad and Uncle Clem led me out for a walk, taking the same route, but this time Tippy allowed it. Dad made sure that Clement and Tippy became friends so the dog wouldn’t see him as a stranger. After that, Tippy joined us on those walks, protecting both of us.

I was such a cute little girl. When my strawberry-blonde hair was longer, I had curls, and when Mom had my hair short, it formed against my head, framing my round, freckled face. Looking at the pictures, it seemed I smiled a lot. Except that time, I was angry because someone put this other baby in my walker. That picture shows a red-hot anger that is impossible to miss.

The first time I fell in love, I was five. We were both students at the Chatterbox Play School. His name was Tony, and he had the prettiest curly brown hair and eyes. The love story didn’t last, though, because he lived in a different part of town. His elementary school and mine were miles apart, and for some reason, our parents didn’t see the need to keep us together.

Chapter 2

Vince, I already told you, she can’t sit up here at the bar.

Monica was adamant that she would not lose her liquor license over a child being at her bar. The law said if the child was there with a parent, it was fine, as long as the child sat at a table and was not at the bar.

We were in the little dive bar that sat on the highway just across from the beach. The tan block walls and picture windows could fool the casual observer into believing it was a store or beauty shop. When one walked through the double glass doors, they would see the room divided by a partial wall that ran parallel with the sides of the building. On one side stood a pool table, a light hanging down just over the green felt. On the other side of the wall, there were several tables, topped with Formica and ringed with stainless steel. Each was surrounded by chairs covered in vinyl that matched the table top. Across the back of the room was a bar with ten slatted wooden stools along the front—the fancy ones with a back—and one parked on the left side facing into the big room. That’s where Monica sat when she wasn’t behind the bar.

Mom worked at the A & P grocery store on Saturdays, and Dad didn’t know what to do with me, so we would end up at Monica’s. That’s where we were.

Can I play the jukebox, Daddy? I asked. The reason I was anywhere near the bar was to ask him for coins to play music.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out two shiny quarters, handing me both.

There you go, Buckshot. Go play what you want.

I skipped to the jukebox near the front of the bar and slid the two coins into the slot. I had to pick fifteen songs. As I chose song after song, I pressed the buttons that matched the code for each record. I still had one more song to choose, and I called to my father.

Daddy?

Yeah? he replied.

I motioned to him to come near me.

He leaned down and I asked, Can I sing my song over there? I held my hand close to my face with my index finger pointing to the stage with the microphones.

Dad winked and said, I’ll see what I can do. You go ahead and play it.

I was wearing my new blue plaid miniskirt and white go-go boots. I had seen the go-go girls on television and declared I wanted to be one. Mom had balked, but I finally wore her down, and she allowed me to have two dresses and the boots. My strawberry-blonde hair was short, and the bangs barely covered a third of my forehead.

Hey, Monica! I heard my father’s voice.

What is it, Vince? the raspy voice of the owner shouted back.

My girl wants to sing us a song.

She can’t be at the bar, Vince, Monica replied.

She doesn’t want to be at the bar, she wants to sing. Over there. Dad pointed at the stage.

Oh, she does, huh?

Oh, let the girl sing, a man I’d seen in the bar several times shouted.

C’mon Monica, let her sing! a blonde lady called out.

Several others prodded the owner on my account, and before long, Monica went to the stage and turned on the equipment and lowered the center microphone. The previous song I had chosen finished, and I pushed the buttons for These Boots Are Made for Walkin’ by Nancy Sinatra. I stepped up onto the stage.

When the music started, my crowd cheered and I began to sing. I knew every word and belted them out like I’d seen Miss Sinatra do on the Ed Sullivan Show. When the song was done, everyone in the bar applauded. I was in heaven. Someone even bought me a Coca-Cola.

Mama! Mama! Guess what? I cried when my mother walked into the house later that day.

What is it, honey? she asked tiredly as she sank into the green faux leather recliner.

I got to sing on the stage at Monica’s today! I hopped onto her lap and hugged her tightly, still excited over my foray into celebrity.

Oh, you did? Mom’s eyebrows arched as she looked at my dad.

Uh-huh! And they all clapped for me, like they do on television. My words tumbled out all over each other. It’s a wonder anyone understood them.

It wasn’t long after that experience that we stopped going to Monica’s. I’m not sure what happened, but I heard Dad talk much later about how Monica had gotten uppity, and he had told her to do something physically impossible, and we didn’t go back in. As I recall, that bar didn’t last long after that.

Chapter 3

We walked through the back door into the cool dark interior of the bar on the outskirts of Tomoka. Bennett’s had become the place to hang out. As we would walk in, Mom would point me to one of the two booths situated by the back door. That would become my domain as they enjoyed their time drinking and talking with their friends. The floors were a dark, well-worn, burnished wood. The bar top, old and heavily waxed, curved around in an L-shape. It had plenty of room for people to enjoy a drink, with at least thirty stools where patrons could sit as they sipped their draft or liquor.

Mom and Dad usually stationed themselves on the small part of the L, placing them within sight of the booth where I was relegated to sit. Sometimes Dad would hand me a few quarters, and I was allowed go up the steps to the front of the bar where there was a dance floor, a pool table, and booths that lined the wall. It was also there that the jukebox waited.

Hey there, little lady, what are you doin’ back here all alone? a man slurred at me as he walked in through the back door.

I’m doing my homework, I replied, ever mindful of the rule to be respectful to adults.

What kind of homework?

English.

I speak English. You need some help? I could sit down here and help you.

I’m okay, thank you. I looked for my parents.

Who you lookin’ for, little lady?

Oh, just checking in with my dad.

Who’s your daddy?

Right over there. The one looking at us. His name is Vince.

Oh yeah, I see him. Say, do you know where the bathroom is?

Yeah, I replied, pointing, it’s right around that corner.

The man walked away, not saying a word as he passed my parents.

What did that man want? my father asked me, sliding across the booth from me.

He wanted to help me do my homework, I said.

Right. Okay. Listen, if somebody bothers you, let me know.

Yes, sir, I said, turning back to writing my sentences as Dad walked back to the bar. I didn’t know then what might have been on that man’s mind, but as an adult, I’m sure he wasn’t a tutor interested in helping a third-grader with her homework. Experience tells me he had more nefarious thoughts in mind for me.

Chapter 4

Mom led me up the steps to the second floor of the white block building next to the big white church. It was the first time we had gone there, and I was being led to the second-grade Sunday School room. I had never attended Sunday School, but I figured if it was a classroom, it must be like regular school, and I loved school.

We went into the classroom furnished with low tables and me-sized chairs. Mom introduced us to the lady there, who waved me to a table. She gave me a piece of paper and indicated the crayons that the other children were using to color in the picture.

Do you want me to bring her to church, or will you come back and get her? the lady asked my mother.

I’ll just come and get her this time, Mom declared. She looked so pretty with her hair all done up and hair-sprayed into place. She was wearing a pretty white skirt with a print blouse, while I had on a sunny yellow dress with white lacy socks and shiny white patent Mary Janes.

I settled in to color my picture, and after a few minutes, the teacher closed the door and sat down at the table with us. She taught a lesson, and just like that, it was over and Mom was back at the door.

I walked with her to the main door of the church. It seemed dark and brooding inside, and I could hear an organ playing softly. Mom shook hands with the man at the door, and we moved past two of the long cushioned benches, then slid into the next one on the right. Mom scooted us all the way down to the other end, where we sat down.

Once all the people had gotten there, a man stood up and told us to all stand up and sing. I had never heard the song before, and Mom used a book that had the words in it. I could not follow along. In my years of reading, I had learned to read one line and then the next, but what I was reading wasn’t what these people were singing. I was so confused.

After we sang a song or two, another man stood up and read from the Bible. Mom had hers on her lap and followed along. The man talked about what he read, then we had another song, and then Mom and I went home. It wasn’t a bad way to spend a Sunday morning, but it was vastly different than what I was used to.

I had wondered why we were getting all dressed up, especially when we headed straight toward Bennett’s. Mom drove right past the parking lot of the bar, though, and ended up at that church.

It wasn’t long until I would bound up the steps myself as Mom walked down the hallway to her Sunday School class. I wondered if she got to color pictures, too. When class was over, I would meet her at the foot of the stairs and we would go into the church together, almost always sitting in the same spot.

I figured out the weird way the people were reading those words of the songs. A bunch of lines were settled in between these two groups of lines with dots on them, and a sentence would run from the top group of lines to the next, then the next. It was strange, but I was happy that I could keep up.

I remember one Sunday, just before the service ended, the man who always talked—Mom called him the preacher—got into a pool of water that was behind the stage. Now I was paying attention! He talked a little bit, then a kid got into the water, too. The preacher said a few words, then dunked that kid under the water, and everyone around us said amen.

Mama, what just happened? I asked.

I’ll tell you later, was her reply.

But Mom, I want to do that! I came back.

Shh. I will explain it later, giving me that look that brooked no further discussion. I waited for her to talk about it more, but she never did, and I soon forgot about it.

Chapter 5

But I didn’t know that was a bad thing! I cried to the hefty man seated behind the steering wheel of the school bus.

You get your stuff and go right to the principal’s office right now. I will not have that sort of behavior on this bus.

I left the bus in utter confusion and shame. I was being sent to the principal’s office for doing exactly what that older boy had done. I stepped onto the sidewalk and turned left to enter the shadows of the hallway. Another left turn led me to the door of the school office. I tried to explain to the secretary why I was there instead of on the school bus. The pretty lady with the beehive hairdo pursed her lips and pressed the button on the intercom.

Sit down, Miss Koebner, the principal said. School was out, and the halls were quiet. I sat in the chair in front of his desk.

Now Miss Koebner, please tell me what happened on the bus. First, tell me what grade you’re in.

Finally, I was going to be able to tell an adult what actually happened! Surely he would understand that I didn’t understand what was going on.

I’m in third grade, I replied.

Okay. Go on. He wrote something on the yellow pad that lay in front of him.

Yes, sir, I replied. When the bell rang, I went right to the bus, except it wasn’t my bus. It’s a substitute bus. When I got on, there was a boy already on the bus. The front seats were full, so I tried to walk to a seat that was empty.

I see, the principal murmured.

That older boy, I don’t know his name, he had his legs stuck in the aisle and wouldn’t move so I could walk through. I asked him to please let me by, but he said something mean and stuck up his finger. All the other kids laughed, so I did it, too. That’s when the bus driver saw and screamed at me. What did I do wrong?

Surely you don’t mean to tell me that you don’t know what it means to ‘shoot the bird,’ the principal jeered. I don’t believe that for an instant.

I don’t know—what did you call it?

Oh, never mind. I’m calling your parents. I’ll have them straighten you out. Step out into the office and have a seat, Miss Koebner.

I walked out to the chairs lined up against the wall of the office and waited.

After an interminable length of time, both of my parents walked in. They both glanced at me, then walked on.

I watched as they entered the principal’s inner sanctum. I knew my mom and dad would set him straight. They believed in me. I knew they would tell the principal that I didn’t have any idea what obscene gestures were or how to do them. That would serve him right, thinking I would do that sort of thing, whatever it was.

Elaina Beth! my mother’s voice rang from the inner office door. Come here this instant.

I hopped up and moved swiftly to her side. Yes, ma’am?

She grabbed my shoulder and marched me to stand in front of my principal’s desk. I looked at my dad. He was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the big desk. The look he returned to me was one of sadness all mixed up with anger. I didn’t understand. Did he not set the principal straight? Did he not fix this problem for me?

Beth, Dad hardly ever called me by name, we have a problem. What you did was wrong. What were you thinking?

Daddy, I didn’t do anything! I did the same thing that boy did to me. What’s wrong with it? What does it mean? My voice was high and squeaky.

Don’t try to act like you don’t understand, Beth. You knew exactly what you were doing, my mother intoned. You will apologize to your principal, and tomorrow you will apologize to the bus driver.

He’s not my bus driver, I muttered, my head hung low, my chin on my chest.

What? my father growled.

He’s not my bus driver, I repeated more clearly, emphasizing the word my.

What do you mean by that? Dad asked accusingly.

My regular bus driver didn’t come to pick us up today. We were told to get on this substitute bus. It was crowded, and I don’t know very many people on it.

Well, fine, Mom replied. You can write a note of apology to the bus driver, and it will be handed to him.

Why? I asked, my own anger rising. I didn’t do anything wrong!

That is enough! my father declared. Is that all? he asked the principal.

Sounds good, Mr. Koebner, Mrs. Koebner. I can see that you will handle this well at home. I don’t expect there to be any further problems. Thank you for coming down.

Mom and Dad shook hands with the man and then marched me out of the office, barely giving me time to pick up my books from the chair where I’d been sitting. The school was completely empty as we walked out to the silver Oldsmobile that day. I followed Dad to the driver’s side. Without a word, he opened the door and pulled the front seat forward, giving me access to the back seat. Once Mom was in the car, Dad backed out of the parking space and drove home. Nobody spoke on that ride.

The car was parked in our driveway and yet everyone sat silently still.

Mom? Dad? I really didn’t—

That is enough, young lady! my father boomed. It’s bad enough that you would do something like this, but to then lie about it is unbearable. Just admit that what you did was wrong and take your punishment.

Daddy, I did that hand signal. But I still don’t know what it means.

Barking a harsh laugh, Dad jerked the door of the car open and stepped out. He walked to the back door where he entered the house, not uttering another word.

Why can’t you just tell the truth? Mom asked pleadingly.

I am telling the truth, Mama, I replied, tears falling freely from my eyes.

We went inside where my father was sitting at the kitchen table, holding his leather belt folded in his hand. I spent the rest of the night holding my tears back, because I believed the man who said, The longer you keep crying, the more of a whipping you’re going to get, as he brought the belt across my backside repeatedly.

The next day, I was talking to my friends before class and told them what had happened. I refused to make the sign again, only holding my hand palm down and pointing to my middle finger. The boy held this finger up at me, and everyone laughed, I told them, so I held mine up at him and got sent to the principal and got a spanking at home for it. I still don’t know what it means to do that, but it must be really bad.

Elaine shook her light brown curls, saying, Oh, that’s really bad. My brother told me about it. It’s . . . She leaned in close and whispered, about sex, and it’s really gross.

Every face in our little circle crinkled up and Ewww! was said in unison. I still didn’t know what it meant, but if it was that gross, no wonder everyone got mad. My heart ached that my parents didn’t believe me when I told them I didn’t know what all this was about, and I decided that I would never believe that they would support me again.

Chapter 6

Irarely played in the front yard. My playtime was barefoot time, and the front yard was chock full of sand spurs, those vicious little prickles of pain that would stab even the most calloused of little girls’ soles.

I was in the backyard one day, swinging on my deluxe swing set, when I saw them. There was a mom and three girls walking from a blue car into the house next door. Every one of them had white-blonde hair. The girls looked like they were about my age, and I jumped from my swing and raced into our house.

Mama! Mama! There’s kids next door!

Shh, Beth, my story. Mom waved her hand at the television, barely listening to me.

Mama! There’s kids next door!

Mother turned from the television where one of her soap operas was playing. It was a dangerous thing to interrupt her story, but I was too excited to care. It was tough being an only child with no children nearby to play with. Now there were three girls right next door.

Okay. There are kids next door, Mom intoned, inviting me to tell her more.

Three girls, Mama. They look like they’re my age sort of. Can I go meet them?

Oh Beth, we don’t know them, Mom stated. I could see her eyes drifting back to the television.

I can go on my own, Mama. You can stay here.

Well, okay. You stay on the porch, though. Do not go inside their house, you hear me?

Yes, ma’am! I hollered back over my shoulder as I ran out the back door.

I circled around the back of the house, staying out of range of the sand spurs. I stepped up onto the little porch of the yellow block house and knocked on the door.

When it opened, the tall, beautiful mom opened the door. Yes? she asked when she saw me standing there.

Hello. I’m Beth. I live next door. I just saw you come in and wanted to say hello. The words rushed from my mouth.

Well, hello, Beth. It’s good to meet you. Her voice was silky, with an accent I had never heard. I have daughters who might be about the same age as you. Would you like to come in?

Oh, I can’t. Mama said I could come over and meet you but that I could not come into your house.

I see. Well, let me get my girls and we’ll just come outside. She stepped away from the door, leaving it open. I could see her walk to the back of the living room and disappear. I heard voices, then the three blonde girls appeared at the door.

Let’s go out here in the carport, the pretty lady said. We stepped off the porch onto the concrete floor of the attached carport. The lady had left the car parked outside it, on the driveway. There was a lawn chair where the lady sat, while we settled on the cool concrete of the carport floor.

"Girls, Beth is from next door. Her mother has allowed her to come and visit, but she can’t go inside with us. I thought we could talk here in the shade.

Beth, I am Mrs. Parker.

Hello, Mrs. Parker, I replied respectfully.

Now Beth, this is my oldest daughter, Meggie. She introduced the very pale-skinned blonde girl wearing light blue glasses that matched the blue of her eyes. She is nine years old.

We smiled at each other.

This is Connie; she is seven years old, the mother introduced her middle child, tanned brown with hair tinged slightly red.

Hi, Connie. I’m seven, too, I said.

And this is Tina, Mrs. Parker stated, motioning to the fair-skinned girl with the soft blonde curls. She is five.

What grades are you in? I go to Bostrom Elementary. Will you go there, too? I asked the girls, hoping to have friends on the bus and in the classrooms.

The girls looked at their mother, seemingly unsure of the answer.

No, the girls will be attending St. Fillan’s Catholic School. Except my Tina. She won’t be starting until next year.

Oh. My hopes deflated.

Do you have a bicycle? Connie asked.

Brightening, I replied proudly, I sure do! It’s a Western Flyer with a banana seat and a basket and everything.

From that day on, we four spent much of every day together.

After a couple months, the Parker family moved from beside us to a larger house across the street from us. Their new house had a building behind it. Part of that building became our kingdom. It housed two garage bays, and at the end was a screened-in room as big as our classrooms at school. It was heavenly! We played house and school and all sorts of games there. Our imaginations were the limit, and the weather didn’t matter.

They moved to this larger house because Mrs. Parker was expecting another baby. I had fallen in love with this German beauty. Her accent was so pretty. She never raised her voice to the girls, and she always had time for us. I was enthralled when she showed me some of the storybooks from her childhood in Germany. She told me the story in each one.

One afternoon I was at my house and the two older girls came to get me.

Get your bike, Beth, come quick! Meggie cried.

No time, Connie called. Get on back of mine!

Be back in a little bit! I shouted back into the house to my father as I threw my leg over the banana seat of Connie’s bicycle.

As they pedaled up the road toward the beach, they explained that there was a man they wanted me to see.

He’s so gross, Meggie declared.

He’s showing his— Connie couldn’t finish.

As we neared the house they were talking about, they slowed slightly and Connie hissed over her shoulder to me.

"That’s the one, the pink house on