Seventy Times Seven

She suffers abuse throughout her childhood, so why does she go back home?

From award-winning author Fayla Ott comes a "Grit Lit" story about secrets in the south. It's 1979, and there are two entities that are sacred in the Mississippi Delta: the church and the family. If things aren't what they're supposed to be, then you keep your mouth shut. And if you're a white child, like Tara, you certainly don't go seeking solitude at a black woman's house. Unless you're looking for trouble.

Tara suffers abuse as she grows up, not only from her mother, but from men in the church. Wandering into the forbidden "Color Town", she meets Onnie, a scarred black woman with secrets of her own. Despite their strong bond of friendship, Onnie is unable to rescue Tara from her nightmarish childhood, but the two remain close until tragedy and loss strikes, and Tara runs away from all she has ever known. Thinking she is finally free from her lifelong abuse, she settles in the "Big Easy" city of New Orleans and enters another world where she accepts her fate as a forever victim.

Until she has to go back to where it all started.

Can she move past the pain to forgive her mother and accept a love she doesn't trust?

Join Tara on her journey to healing in the deep south where family loyalty is as strong as cotton and the secrets are just as plentiful.

1

Cotton is strongest when it’s wet. I don’t know how many times I heard Onnie say that. That phrase was as familiar to me as the deep, long scar across her sunken, brown cheek.

The first time I saw that scar was the summer of ’79. I had just finished second grade. In those early days of my life, I often wondered away from my little shotgun house, with its peeling, white paint, and dark shutters. The porch had also seen better days. There was no lattice to surround the bottom, leaving the underneath exposed to reveal bricks, tools, and a broken ladder. That little house, like so many in the Mississippi Delta where I grew up, was surrounded by rows of cotton. The Delta landscape wasn’t much more than cotton and soybean fields. Other than the Yazoo River, with its banks of muscadine grape vines and the occasional gator peeking up from its murky waters, there were small communities of post offices, gas stations and grocery markets, and what was known as Honky Tonks where the men—married or single—would gather on Saturday nights to engage in activities I wasn’t supposed to understand.

That afternoon I decided to do something I’d never done. I crossed the railroad tracks at the wrong part of town. My cousins and I had often played on the tracks where they ran close to my grandfather’s property, but we had never gone this far down, and we wouldn’t have dreamed of going across the tracks and into what was known then as Color Town. Color Town wasn’t really a town. It consisted of several rows of little houses with tiny porches, clotheslines draping off the end of them, with the occupants often sitting on old couches or broken chairs that no longer served a purpose inside the house. When I looked up and realized I was on the road that ran right in front of the first row of houses, fear seized my legs and I stopped. My gaze collided with a black man on a porch. He stared and I stared back. Color Town was off limits. My mama would have given me a whooping had she known where I stood.

The man had on one of those undershirts without sleeves. His arms were skinny and long. He held a fly swatter in one hand. On the floor of the porch sat a little boy. He had wide, dark eyes, and chubby cheeks. He wore only a diaper and sucked on the pacifier in his mouth. He stared at me, too, as if he’d never seen a white girl before. Maybe he hadn’t.

I decided to keep walking in front of the houses. There was a field past the first row, and I could cut across that, then walk down the railroad tracks to the back of our property. My heart beat so fast that I couldn’t hear my footsteps on the pavement over its thud in my chest.

“What are you doing here?” A tall group of boys stood on the side of the road. A couple of them had bandannas on their heads. The others had them tied around their blue jeans on their thighs. The one who spoke had one of those Afro hair styles and he had a laugh in his voice.

I didn’t answer him. I wasn’t supposed to talk to them. I stared at the field ahead but didn’t run. I felt them before I saw them. The boys were suddenly there behind me, laughing and grabbing at my long, blond hair.

“That’s some soft hair you have, girl.” It was the Afro boy again. He had a handful of my hair. My heart beat faster, but this time it didn’t compete with my footsteps. I couldn’t move.

“Tyrone James, get away from that little white girl and go home before I call your grandma. She’ll tan your hide.” I turned and saw a tall, slender woman standing in the doorway of a house, holding the screen door open.

“Oh, c’mon, Miz Onnie, I ain’t hurtin’ nobody. We’s just havin a lil’ fun, that’s all. She’s the one who came up in Color town where she don’t belong.”

“You best get home where you belong. Right now. All of you.”

The boys murmured as they sauntered off in the opposite direction where I was headed.

“Why you here, Suga?”

I looked back at the woman who had shooed off the boys. She had stepped to the edge of the porch, so I got a good look at her face. A deep scar stretched across her cheek from the side of her nose to her jawline. I couldn’t speak. I only stared at this woman whose voice sounded nothing like I would imagine.

“You want some cookies, child? I don’t have any fancy ones, just those store-bought vanilla kind with the cream inside, but you welcome to ’em. I have milk, too.”

She held a dish towel in her hands. Her yellow dress had little blue flowers all over it, with a ruffle at the bottom. I just stood there, staring at her. I had never been inside a black person’s home before. I’d get whipped for sure. But her voice sounded kind. Although her face scared me, her eyes didn’t.

I finally answered her. “I have to go home now.”

“Suit yourself. You’re probably better off that way.”

I nodded, then started walking. I looked back. She still watched me.

“You can change your mind, you know. Ain’t no law against you eatin’ my cookies. No real law, that is.”

I liked how she talked to me. I surprised myself by walking back toward her house. For the first time, I noticed a difference between her house and the others on the street. Her house had flowerpots all over the porch. There was no old furniture, just a rocker and a table with more planters filled with various flowers.

She didn’t say anything but turned and opened her screen door. I followed her inside. As soon as I walked in, I half expected my mama to come in after me, dragging me out by my soft hair.

I don’t know what I expected to find inside. It looked much like my house. There was a television set with a pair of rabbit ears on top. There was a couch, a braided rug, and a table with a lamp. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I followed her into the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a pack of sandwich cookies, then opened the refrigerator and lifted a carton of milk from the side door. I sat down at the small table that had been pushed against the wall to make more space.

“You gonna tell me what happened to your eye?” She asked, pouring the milk.

I looked down at the cookies and picked one up. Dipping it in the milk, I looked at her as I took a bite.

She watched me but didn’t say anything.

“I fell down.”

“Seems to me a mighty rough fall. You sure you didn’t get any help?”

I knew what she meant but didn’t answer. I looked out the window at two kids riding bikes. One stopped to fix his chain, slowly turning the pedals until the chain went back on its track.

“I’ve seen you before. You live over on that cotton farm, don’t you? The one with all the fruit trees.”

“No, ma’am. That’s my grandparents’ house. I live down the road from them.”

“I’ve seen you playing with some boys in the front yard.”

“Those are my cousins.”

She nodded as if she already knew. “Is that who gave you that nasty bruise?”

I shrugged my shoulders and twisted one of the cookies. I scraped the cream out of one with my teeth, then dipped the rest into the milk before shoving it into my mouth.

“I’d better go home.” I told her when I finished. “Thank you for the cookies.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name? I did slave over these cookies, you know.” She winked and I smiled.

“Tara.”

“Ah. Like that movie.”

“Yes, my mama loves Gone with the Wind. She-” I stopped. I had heard black folks didn’t like that movie.

She laughed. “It’s alright, girl. I don’t mind. It’s just a movie. You can’t expect movies to tell the truth, although I expect that one tells more truth than most people would like to admit, white or black.” She laughed and shook her head. “You can call me Onnie.”

“Is that your real name?”

“You’d think it was a nickname, wouldn’t you? I wish I could say it came from Veronica or something fancy like yours, but it’s just Onnie.”

I didn’t say so, but I liked it. It suited her.

“You don’t have to be afraid to be here. Most folks around here just tryin’ to make their way. They won’t hurt you. Just stay away from Shiloh and you’ll be fine.”

Shiloh was another black neighborhood even further up the tracks. It was named after the creek that ran behind it. Those shack houses were even worse than the ones in Color Town.

As I was leaving, she handed me a napkin with another cookie in it. “For the road,” she said. “Bring your cousins by for a visit.”

I didn’t tell her that I wouldn’t tell a soul I’d been in Color Town.

But I knew I’d be back.

***

My house wasn’t big, but it wasn’t much different than most houses in that area. In fact, my grandparents’ house was the same down the road. Shotgun houses were common in the Delta. Papaw Webb said they were easier to build. When I asked him why it was called a shotgun house, he decided to show me. He took down his shotgun from the rack on the wall, had me prop open the screen door on the back of the house, and meet him at the front. Then, Papaw actually fired that shotgun from the front door, aiming at the back. I thought Mamaw Webb was going to snatch that gun right out of his hand and fire it right back at him. Instead, she took her straw broom and started swinging at him. He laughed at her as he grabbed it out of her hand. Papaw didn’t talk a whole lot, but when he did, it was usually in a dramatic way that I’d remember. Once he threw a spoon at my cousin Albert when he mouthed off at the breakfast table. Albert enjoyed riling Papaw up and making us giggle behind our hands. Papaw was either laid back or hot headed. There was no in between. I didn’t mind. It was easy to read his moods, so I knew how to behave.

“That bullet went straight through, Tara Gail. And that’s why it’s a shotgun house.” With that, he put the gun back on the rack and went to his chair to watch the ball game on the television.

My own house looked sad when I approached. There were no flowers on the front porch. I heard Mama’s voice in the kitchen. It had that lilted tone, which could only mean one thing. We had company.

A man sat at the table with my mama. He looked like that funny doctor on M.A.S.H. My mama never missed an episode. He had on a suit with one of those wide, plaid ties.

Mama saw me and said, “Where have you been? We have company. Just look at your muddy shoes.”

“Hello, Tara. Your mama has told me all about you. I’m Reverend Martin, your new preacher. I’ll be seeing you at church on Sunday.”

I looked at Mama. She was looking at this stranger like he really was her hero from her favorite television show. Church? The only times we had ever gone was when Mamaw made Mama feel guilty for not raising me right. Whenever Mama tired of Mamaw’s guilt trips, she’d bring me. Papaw never went, except for Easter Sunday. Everyone went to church on Easter Sunday.

The man thanked Mama for the coffee, rubbed the top of my head, and walked out the door. Mama picked up the coffee cups and placed them in the sink. As soon as his engine faded away, her face changed.

Her fist came down hard on my right cheek.

“How dare you embarrass me in front of the preacher, coming in here looking all filthy!” She placed one hand on my mouth, grabbed the back of my neck with the other and started pushing me through rooms. When we reached the bathroom, she shoved me into the tub. I fell backwards and hit my head against the tile wall. She pulled the shower curtain closed and turned the faucet on. Cold water sprayed over my body.

“You stay in there until that mud is gone. Don’t you dare get out.”

I did get out, but only when I figured she had forgotten about me. Shivering and soaked to the skin, I tiptoed to my room, wrapped in a towel. I undressed and changed into pajamas. That night, I didn’t think I would ever get warm again.

The next day, I opened my eyes to see Mama smiling at me over my bed.

“Want some pancakes?”

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Seventy Times Seven follows the all-too common story of how childhood trauma often traps teens in a cycle that continues to bring trauma into their lives. It is also a story of what research has proven--that one caring adult in a child's life can make a difference. Fayla Ott's storytelling shines through once again in this story! ~Janyne McConnaughey, Author,
Trauma in the Pews: The Impact on Faith and Spiritual Practices