Black and Blue Ivy

Behind Closed Doors

The old stained wood steps, devoid of carpeting on the second floor, creaked beneath the soles of my penny loafers. I hugged the wall to prevent the noise. Never did my room seem so far away. It occurred to me then to wonder what was the purpose of keeping me so far away from the rest of the family. It seemed odd to have me annexed from the other children, especially seeing that I could help put them to bed or help one of them in the bathroom if they awaked fussy during the night. After all, Gardenia didn't seem to mind having her friends at church think I was a nanny.

What gives?

I recall Morningstar telling me once about how poor people are considered crazy while their rich counterparts are called eccentric. I guess she would know. Not about the rich part. I brushed that unpleasant thought away and continued down the upstairs hallway. Once I reached the tower steps to my own room I'd be home free. No one ever bothered me up there, but I had to pass the master bedroom suite: Gardenia had one room and Mr. Robinson the other, connecting by an adjoining door I doubted either of them passed through. What a sad relationship.

Again, not my business. Bentley's room was located in this hallway too. My pace slowed involuntarily as I passed his door, wondering how it was decorated and if he was he inside doing whatever he did to pass the time.

That's when I heard their voices: Bentley's and Gardenia's. They were talking softly, not whispering, but in a way grownup people do when they don't want any one else to overhear. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help pressing my ear against the seam in the door.

"It's wrong to lock her up, like that? What were you thinking?" Bentley's tone indicated a familiarity, like he were speaking to his peer and not his mother.

"I'm just trying to do what's right for this family!" Gardenia's voice caught a pleading, almost hysterical, edge.

"No," said Bentley. "You're trying to do what's right for yourself. And it's all going to blow up in your face."

"Not if you help me, darling. Please." Her tone became less angry, more pathetic. I thought I heard a mattress groan, like she were getting off the bed, or sitting down on it. I tried to imagine the scene; the masculine decor, dark navy or deep burgundy perhaps, with gold accents.

Bentley's said something then, but his voice was so muffled I couldn't make out.

"Ple-e-a-s-e." Gardenia's high-pitched voice, tinny like a little girl's, hitched with a sob. "I just need a little more time. Please, darling."

I thought I heard Bentley sigh and then there was silence followed by footsteps moving toward the door.

I turned and ran toward the tower staircase. I heard Bentley's bedroom door open, but by then I was already running up the stairs. I waited, keeping my panting breaths in check, until his footsteps faded in the other direction. My attic room was shaded in darkness. Although it was the high point of the day, the sky through my bedroom window was heavy with dense clouds.

I kneeled, hoping the splintered floor would not rip through my tights, and found, folded neatly in the back of the drawer, the white Target back with the red logo. Inside was the pink diary Ms. Crenshaw bought me with with pretense that I would use it to record all the happy memories with my new family.

Yeah, right.

I never recorded one diary entry. I suppose because the happy moments never arrived, notwithstanding the ones I had with Bentley, but I wouldn't dare write down my feelings concerning those moments lest some prying eyes discover my secret. My heart flooded with relief when I found Ms. Crenshaw's business card between the stiff, blank pages. Her email address and her phone number were printed beneath her name. Folding my palm around the card, I closed the drawer, left my room, and retraced my steps. This time when I paused in the hallway, there was no sound coming from Bentley's room, only what sounded like soft sobs from the master bedroom. Feeling like an actor in a drama I should never have been cast in, I crept silently past the door. Whatever pain Gardenia was in had nothing to do with me.