Read Friends and Lovers for Free Online Page A

said, “Betty. Shut up.”
    The tiny woman folded her arms across her chest. Huffed. Ericka was still behind me, her big body using my little frame as a shield. A hiding place. I felt her breasts against my back when I stepped back into her. I was scared myself, but more angry than scared. Much more angry than scared.
    I said, “Mrs. Stockwell, I understand how you feel—”
    She said, “Are you married,
Miss
Mitchell?”
    “No, but—”
    “Do you have children,
Miss
Mitchell?”
    “I don’t have—”
    “Then how in the
hell
do you know how I feel? My
child
just got her first period six months ago; already she’s pregnant.
Four
months. Do you understand the position that leaves
me
in?”
    Faith said, “Mrs. Stockwell.”
    “I’m the one who will have to buy Pampers, bottles, baby clothes, have to deal with shitty diapers, baby crying all the time. All of that will be on me.”
    “Mrs. Stockwell.”
That was Faith in a tone I’d never heard.
    It quieted.
    Then Faith said a few things. Professional things. Things that calmed the room. She reminded Mrs. Stockwell who she was, who we were, told her what behavior was appropriate, what would be tolerated from this moment on, and said she would call Social Services and the police if needed. Then everyone fell back into their roles the best they could. I did the best I could.
    Mr. Stockwell took out his keys, jingled them, rubbed his face, turned around, left without a good-bye. No words for his daughter. He abandoned Ericka to her stern-faced mother.
    I remembered something I had heard my mother say once: “Men don’t cry, they deny.”
    Then Mrs. Stockwell cursed and left.
    Silence. Except for the hum of the air conditioner and the building’s radio system playing jazz from 94.7. Sounds I hadn’t noticed at first because I was used to hearing them. Toni Braxton sang a sweet song of sadness while Kenny G played his sax. That made me think of the jazz concert coming up at the Hollywood Bowl. Don’t know why I thought about that now. I needed to escape madness and find tranquility. Had to find a safe thought in a moment yet to be.
    Ericka looked at me. “What should I do, Miss Mitchell?”
    I said a flustered “What?”
    “I wanna know, what do you think I should do?”
    I made myself sound professional, put a lifetime of distance between us, and said, “What do you want to do?”
    Then her teenage eyes went to Faith.
    Faith’s face became less professional; her expressions raced through about a million subtle emotions and many thoughts. And I knew one of them was definitely about calling Social Services.
    Her final expression said: another lose-lose situation.
    I asked, “Ericka, did your mother strike you?”
    “I fell by myself.” She said that before I finished asking.
    “Looks like you fell by yourself five or six times.”
    Mrs. Stockwell appeared in the door.
    “Ericka,” Mrs. Stockwell said. “Don’t keep us waiting.”
    Faith nodded at me. I stepped to the side. Moved slowly, eased away and gave her back to her mother. As she moved toward that world, Ericka seemed void, looked as if she owned no essence. Mrs. Stockwell was smiling like it was Sunday morning in heaven. Smiling so hard it disturbed me.
    Ericka went to her mother. Mrs. Stockwell took her child’s hand, ran her other hand across Ericka’s mane, smoothed it out.
    Faith said, “Ericka, you need to get checked for STDs,blood tests, et cetera. Should I advise and prescribe prenatal vitamins and iron pills?”
    “That will not be necessary,” Mrs. Stockwell said. She adjusted her daughter’s clothing, but addressed Faith, “Has RU 486 been legalized?”
    Faith said, “No, Mrs. Stockwell, mifepristone hasn’t been approved. And if the FDA had approved it, RU 486 could only be used in the first seven weeks to discharge the embryo.”
    There was silence again. Ericka’s eyes held water. Confusion and fear. She was thirteen, but right now she looked all of nine. I couldn’t