Screaming Divas Part 1

SCREAMING DIVAS.

SUZANNE KAMATA.

F+W Media, Inc.

For Helene.

1.

Columbia, South Carolina, 1983.

Trudy Baxter sank into the back seat of the squad car, her shackled wrists resting lightly on her lap. Outside the windows, fields of tobacco and cotton whizzed by. Mobile homes and loblolly pines wavered in the heat. It was probably a hundred degrees. Better here in this air-conditioned automobile than out there, she thought. Well, almost. She shifted and craned her neck to peer into the rearview mirror. Her lipstick was still bright, hadn't melted. She'd nicked a quality brand. That was weeks ago.

Today they were hauling her away, at her own mother's request, for a pair of sungla.s.ses. She'd been bold-too bold-taking the mirrored lenses into the dressing room along with a pair of jeans. She'd sc.r.a.ped off the price tag with a painted fingernail and perched the gla.s.ses on her head like a tiara. When she'd emerged from the curtained cubicle, she'd found a clerk hovering just outside. "Too big." She handed over the jeans without even looking at the middle-aged woman in the faded employee smock, and strutted out the door.

"We'd been watching her for some time," the store manager told the cops later. They were sitting in a little room at the back of the store-Trudy, the policeman, the manager. Trudy's mother, Sarah, sat there chain-smoking. She didn't say a word, but Trudy knew that she was trying to distance herself from the whole scene. Fight the negativity. Focus on the positive. Sarah, the rich Charleston deb-turned-hippie. She was probably imagining peace signs or colors-green, maybe-or sheep.

The shades were ugly. She didn't really want them. She probably would have given them away or ditched them in the parking lot. It was the thrill that she was after, the sweet adrenaline rush.

They'd all had their say. Officer Fred looked from the store manager to Trudy's mother and back again. "So what do y'all want to do?"

Trudy could tell he was hoping for an easy solution. An apology and a few weeks of sweeping up the shop floors, for instance. Maybe he was overdue for a doughnut break, maybe he was sympathetic to her situation. But she knew by the way that the manager avoided her eyes that the woman didn't like her. And she knew all about her mother.

Sarah fixed a cool gaze on her daughter and blew out a long stream of smoke. "Officer, I'm afraid I don't know how to deal with her anymore. I think she needs to be taught a lesson. Why don't you go on ahead and arrest her."

Officer Fred looked to the lady in the smock, registered her timid nod, and sighed. "All right, then. Trudy Baxter, you're under arrest for petty larceny. You have the right to remain silent ...."

Riding in the squad car, Trudy looked out and saw a little blue bungalow, like the one she'd lived in when she was small. She thought back to that day when she'd found the For Sale sign stabbed in the front yard. When she'd figured the words out, she'd detonated. Without thinking, she hurled her body against the sign, which hardly budged, a st.u.r.dy match for her then-forty-pound body-though it tilted a bit to the left. She stood in the waist-high gra.s.s, her chest heaving from the effort, then she launched another attack. That time, she curled her hands into claws and began sc.r.a.ping at the "sold" sticker pasted over the sign.

A door slammed. The scent of cigarette smoke. High heels clattering over the sidewalk. Then Sarah, her mother, was beside her, grabbing her hands, stilling her, looking at the blood.

"Trudy, what has gotten into you?"

"I don't want to move! I want to stay here! Don't make me leave!" She couldn't stop shrieking. She was a thing possessed.

Her mother winced, checked to see if the neighbors were spying at their windows.

"You'll like New Zealand. I promise. There will be lots of fuzzy wuzzy sheep for you to take care of. I'll get you a staff like Little Bo Peep-"

"I don't want to! I don't want to go!"

Every time they moved, the promises were the same: It'll be fun, like summer camp, like Disneyland, like the Island of the Blue Lagoon in that dolphin book that Trudy liked. And always, she was disappointed. When they'd lived in that teepee, the adults had wandered around in a daze, smelling of the pungent cigarettes they puffed. They forgot to cook. Trudy had gone to bed hungry. She'd worn the same clothes for a week. She hadn't had any toys.

Trudy was sick of her mother's adventures. She didn't want any more surprises, any more promises of happily-ever-after. The kids at school teased Trudy about her dirty hair and her hand-me-down clothes and her hippie mother, but she was used to it. She could handle it. She didn't want to live with Baa Baa Black Sheep on the other side of the world. She wanted her pink room and the doll that Grandma Baxter had sent and the dandelions that sprouted in the yard.

"I'm not going. I want to live with Daddy."

Her mother sighed. "Trudy, your daddy did something bad to you. He made you drink bad medicine. You can't live with him."

A month later, Trudy, her little brother Joey, her mother, and her mother's new husband Clifford, got into the Peace Van (thus named because of the mural of Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, and Gandhi painted on its side) and left the little white-washed house, with its square yard and red swing set, forever, Trudy shrieking all the while.

She'd shut up when the airplanes came into view. There they were, landing and rising into the sky, a whole flock of them. Trudy had never seen so many airplanes in one place in her life. They had always traveled by the Peace Van, or on foot until someone gave them a ride in the bed of a pickup, or scrunched together in a backseat.

"Kiwis, here we come!" Sarah had one arm hanging out the window. She was waving to every driver they pa.s.sed.

Trudy knew this mood. Always, it was the same. Sarah, full of hopes for the future, for their new life in the teepees or the nudist camp or the little house in suburbia, sang and danced and bought extravagant presents for her daughter. This time it was a suitcase just for Trudy, filled with frilly dresses and patent leather shoes and a straw hat with plastic daisies on its crown.

Clifford parked the van in short-term parking. He'd already arranged for someone to come and get it. It was sold. They'd probably never ride in it again. Trudy didn't care. She hated that van. The kids at school made fun of it, and it smelled like incense and marijuana and adult sweat.

They walked, each carrying a suitcase-Trudy dragging hers over the asphalt-to the airport. "Departures." (Trudy could read the sign; she was a whiz at reading.) They found the desk for Kiwi Airlines and lined up behind the other people-red-haired, ruddy-faced, thin and fat. Psychedelic dresses, scuffed cowboy boots, frayed jeans, a suit or two. There were all kinds of people waiting to get on that plane.

When it was their turn, Clifford lifted their suitcases onto the luggage conveyor and handed over three blue pa.s.sports. Trudy still held her suitcase. Clifford must've forgotten it. "Cliff," she said. "Cliff. Cliff!"

He looked back at her then, away from the lady at the counter, then at Sarah, then at Trudy again. Little hills popped out on his forehead.

"You forgot my suitcase," Trudy said, quietly now.

"No, I didn't." Trudy wasn't sure, but it looked like he sneered. He looked away from her to her mother, and something pa.s.sed between them. They were sharing some secret. Panic fluttered in Trudy's stomach. Why were they making her carry the heavy suitcase? Was it some kind of punishment? And then the thought was pushed aside as they broke away from the line, made their way up the escalator and to the security check.

They walked and walked down a long corridor, and finally Clifford lifted the suitcase out of Trudy's hands. Her mother picked her up, even though she was too big to be carried, and didn't set her down until they reached the waiting area. And who should they find there but Doctor Claire? What was she doing there?

Trudy liked Doctor Claire. She liked her fresh, clean scent and the white coat that she sometimes wore. Trudy liked the little pearl earrings that dotted her earlobes and the smooth, pale skin of her face. Doctor Claire was nice. Sometimes they played together with blocks. Sometimes Trudy colored pictures while Doctor Claire wrote on her yellow paper. And sometimes they talked about Trudy's bad dreams or her father or the mean kids at school.

Trudy ran up to greet her. "We're going to New Zealand," she said. "Are you going, too?"

Doctor Claire looked over her head to where Sarah and Clifford were standing. Her lips pressed together tightly and her eyes narrowed. But when she turned her attention back to Trudy, there was a sweet, sad smile on her face. "No," she said. "We're not going to New Zealand."

Trudy thought that was strange-"we" when it was just Doctor Claire standing alone. She wanted to ask about this, but then her mother came over and hugged her tightly. "Your wish came true, baby. You don't have to go."

None of it made sense. Clifford bent down to kiss her, but she shoved him away. Joey was now in his mother's arms, waving bye-bye. Trudy looked at her suitcase, settled on the floor next to Doctor Claire. She took in the huge airplane outside the window. The crowd was flowing toward the doorway. A young woman in a green jumper was checking tickets. Trudy caught her eye for just a moment and the young woman smiled at her. Then Trudy began running. Her mother and Clifford didn't run after her. They didn't want to miss their plane.

Trudy remembered crying for days, but things were different now. She was tough. All these years later, she knew she could be counted among the girls who clouded up the high school bathroom with their Marlboros, the ones who climbed on the backs of motorcycles with their twentysomething boyfriends, the ones who carried knives in their purses and carved their initials into desks. They acted like nothing could hurt them. No rules could tame them.

Trudy had been so many places-even New Zealand for two miserable months-that the Pine Hills Juvenile Correctional Center seemed like just another way station. How bad could it be? Trudy saw the gates up ahead-like Graceland or something-and the long, groomed stretch of lawn beyond. She felt a surge of hope. They could have picnics here. Play Frisbee! This wouldn't be any worse than that boarding school in England she'd been sent to for a year, or Sarah's old boyfriend's house. At that place, she'd slept on the couch. At least here she'd have her own bed.

She'd put things on the wall or on a bulletin board-her posters of Marilyn Monroe and the Supremes, the little black and white snapshot of her and her father. She'd been a baby then. She didn't remember having her picture taken. She didn't remember her father, either.

They were beyond the gates now, approaching the main building. It was one story, sprawling, your basic no-nonsense design. Something that a kid with blocks might think up. Trudy would have added turrets and gingerbread trim. She liked pretty things. She'd always imagined herself living in a castle. Someday she'd be a famous model or a rock star and she would live in a mansion.

"This is it," her driver announced. His voice had a slightly menacing tone as if she were off to the electric chair. The officer climbed out of the car, opened her door and helped her out by tugging at her elbow. Or maybe he wasn't helping her. Maybe he was afraid she'd run away.

He shoved her down the sidewalk, staring straight ahead. Then he opened the door and yanked her through. A little too rough, Trudy thought. But she kind of liked it. Trudy Baxter, hardened criminal. n.o.body was going to mess with her in this place.

There were rules at the Pine Hills Juvenile Correctional Center. There were many, many rules. The girls wore green dresses that looked like Girl Scout uniforms. They were not allowed makeup or barrettes (possible weapons) or jewelry. They slept in rows of beds like in the Madeline books Trudy had read as a child. The beds had to be made each day with the covers smoothed out so that not one wrinkle could be seen. They had to polish their shoes. It was like the army, Trudy thought. The rest of the time they studied in locked rooms with barred windows, scribbling equations or capitals of countries on the blackboard. Sometimes they watched nature films.

If the girls got out of line, if they used dirty words or showed bad manners at dinner, they were punished. For milder misdemeanors, a five-page essay might be a.s.signed. Worse infractions could get you thrown into the Quiet Room, a padded cell with a camera in the corner, way up high and out of reach, so they could watch every move you made.

One early summer afternoon the girls were supposed to be picking up trash and pine straw and breathing in the fresh air. Being outside was a great privilege, they were always reminded.

"My sister," a girl said, "lives over at the Women's Correctional Center. She gets to go out four, five times a week on work release."

"Oh, yeah? Is that what happens when you graduate from here?" Trudy and another girl, Lydia, were squatting, combing the ground with their hands, pretending to work.

Lydia was kind of fat and the extra flesh gave her a babyish, innocent look. It was hard to picture her doing something bad.

"What did you do?" Trudy asked her.

Lydia shrugged. A blush colored her pasty skin and Trudy thought, here is a girl who needs her makeup. "I was down at Myrtle Beach with my friends and I met this old man who said he'd give me a hundred dollars if I'd, you know, do it with him."

Trudy raised her eyebrows, impressed. "How old was he?"

Lydia shrugged again. "I don't know. Like, sixty. But I guess he had a rep because some cops'd been watching him. They followed us to the hotel."

"So you didn't actually do anything?" Trudy was a virgin and she thought she might like to talk to someone who wasn't. Find out what it was like.

"Oh, yes, we did. It only took about five minutes. The cops came in right at the end."

"Wow."

"You want to smoke?" Lydia reached into the front of her uniform and pulled out two limp, slightly bent cigarettes.

Trudy took one. "Got a light?"

Lydia extracted a matchbook from her shoe and handed it over.

Trudy had just struck the match, torched the tip of her cigarette, and inhaled deeply when one of the guards stalked up to them.

"Just what do you think you're doing out here, missy? Planning on starting a bonfire?"

Only Trudy was sent to the Quiet Room. She guessed that she had looked guiltier because she was the one with the matches and the lit Marlboro. And Lydia, even if she was a teen prost.i.tute, couldn't help but look innocent with her round, clear face. Lydia didn't make any confessions and Trudy didn't make any accusations. What was the use?

In the Quiet Room there was nothing to do. No TV, no books, no video games. Trudy figured that some girls sat on the floor with their knees hugged to their chests and rocked the hours away. Not her. It would take more than an empty room to break Trudy's spirit. After all she'd been through in her sixteen years-the confusion of step-siblings and foster homes, the constant noise and lack of privacy-the Quiet Room was almost a refuge. Even so, she started to get bored after a while. She decided to sing, remembering how songs had made long trips in the Peace Van seem shorter than they really were.

She started with "Stop! In the Name of Love." She knew the words to every song by Diana Ross and the Supremes, that great girl group of the 1960s. Sarah had been a big Motown freak. It was the only thing she'd pa.s.sed on to her daughter.

Once Trudy's mother had married a black man, Alphonse, from Bermuda. (He'd been husband number three.) "I wish I could be black like you," she told him.

"Why's that?" He smiled-a string of pearls. He was used to her non sequiturs, her weird musings.

"If I was black, I could be a Supreme."

Alphonse laughed. "Oh, it's not that much fun. Look at what happened to Flo. Turned into an alcoholic and drank herself to death."

In Trudy's mind, Florence Ballard was still alive. As long as her voice continued to flow from the stereo speakers and her picture was still on the alb.u.m cover, she was there.

In the Quiet Room, Trudy took the part of Diana Ross and launched into song. She sang "Baby Love" and "I Hear a Symphony" and "Come See About Me." Then she sang "Chain Gang," which had really been Sam Cooke's song, but the Supremes had covered it. She sang this one especially loud since it was a prison song, and wasn't this prison?

The next time she got tossed into the Quiet Room was for cursing at one of the teachers. The lesson had been boring, something about checks and balances, and Trudy was glad to get out of there. This time she just curled up on a corner of the dusty floor and took a nap.

The door opened about an hour later.

"Wake up!" The guard stood there.

Trudy couldn't believe the time had pa.s.sed so quickly. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and pulled her skirt over her legs. A sour taste was in her mouth. Her stomach rumbled. Suppertime?

"Your father is here to see you," the woman said.

"My father?" It must be some kind of a joke. Trudy hadn't seen Jack, her biological father, since the divorce. According to Sarah, Jack had slipped some acid into her Kool-Aid during an adult party. Trudy had freaked out and Jack was banished from their lives.

None of her stepfathers had ever been to visit her. Her mother's latest husband didn't even like her. That's why she was living in this hole. She was smart enough to figure that out.

She followed the guard out of the tiny cell into the corridor. In the waiting room, she saw him. He was standing, facing away from her, reading a notice posted to the wall. Something about holiday leave and what kind of presents parents were allowed to bring. The man was slim-hipped, dressed down in faded jeans and a black T-shirt. His black hair rippled over his shoulders like some hairdo in an old Italian painting. When he turned, when she saw that face-the kind dark eyes and the fleshy lips, the too-big nose that hooked like a beak-she recognized him. Her heart hammered.

"Dad, where the h.e.l.l have you been?"

He regarded her warily, as if he wasn't quite sure he had the right girl. Then he lifted his hands, palms out. "Your mother wouldn't let me near you," he said. "She took out a court order. You knew that, didn't you?"

Trudy stood stiffly, her chin angled upwards. It's got to be a lie, she thought. She wanted to believe him, but she'd been betrayed so many times in her life that it was next to impossible to have faith in this man. "All I know is that you abandoned me."

He looked stricken then. His face seemed to sag, and Trudy wondered for a moment if he would cry. Well, good. He deserved to suffer. She wanted a cigarette badly.

"Got a smoke?" she asked.

He shook his head. Stared at the floor. "Trudy, I-I wrote to you. Didn't you get my letters?"

"Nope. Not a one. But I've moved a lot. Maybe they just didn't get to me." She could see how disappointed he was. What had he expected? She'd fly into his arms-"Oh, Daddy!"-and it would be happily-ever-after from hereon out? Afraid not. Yet, he was here and she had a chance to get something from him, something to make up for twelve years of neglect.

"Can you get me out of here?"

He looked at her then. "Yes. Yes, of course. You don't belong here. I don't know what Sarah was thinking. You'll come home with me."

Trudy nodded. "Do you have a wife? Kids?"

"No, there's just Ginny, my girlfriend, but she doesn't live with me. And if you get to know her, I think you'll get along fine."

"You don't know the first thing about me," Trudy wanted to say. But she didn't. She kept her mouth shut. This man was her ticket out of that h.e.l.lhole. No more Quiet Room. No more bed-making inspections. If she didn't like her dad's place, she'd leave. She was old enough to get by on her own. She thought of Lydia, chubby Lydia who'd made a hundred dollars just by spreading her legs for five minutes.

Her dad went off to fill out some papers, and Trudy was sent to collect her things. The room was empty. Everyone else was off doing arts and crafts. Trudy opened the footlocker she'd kept beneath her bed and grabbed a handful of underwear, stuffed it in her duffel bag. She didn't bother folding the T-shirts, the jeans, the other Sat.u.r.day-only clothes, just crammed them into the bag and zipped it shut. Then she carefully unpinned the pictures from her allotted twelve inch by twelve inch corkboard-the magazine pictures of Marilyn on her back, bench-pressing a barbell, the Supremes in matching spangly outfits, the black and white picture of her father with short hair, wearing bell-bottomed pants and with Trudy in his arms. She tucked the pictures into the outer pocket of her duffel bag.

When she left, there'd be no trace of her. The bed with its plain blue coverlet would belong to someone else. Another girl would stow her panties in that latched chest. Trudy wished she had a knife so that she could carve her initials somewhere. Then someone would know that she'd been part of this place, if only for a short time.