Yours Truly, Johnetta

Dilinna Nwabueze

Johnetta P. Grant takes shit from nobody. If it wasn’t for watching her mother fall down a three-story staircase, pushed and dragged by a man who made them both call him daddy, she would have been a docile, take-me-as-I-am, I-like-it-like-that, fool.

As the man disappeared into the starry night, little Johnetta helped her mom back up the stairs, her rounded figure crushing against her small head and sides. Johnetta placed her on the soiled, broken couch. Her skinny arms shaking, her heart pounding, as she observed her mother breathing slow and ragged, like a car engine that refused to start. Little Johnetta, with her purple corduroy overalls, her dark kinky hair parted in two, tied with red and yellow duck ponytails, did not cry. Her momma would not, could not die. Then suddenly her mother began to laugh, as if a strange mist, carried by the sharp winds of their small town in Warfield, Virginia, dispersed an unruly mix of particles that she had inhaled too deeply. It was an uncontrollable, choking laughter that startled poor Johnetta.

“Mama, you want some ice?” she asked, eyeing the red-hot bruises starting to appear on her face and arms. Her momma pushed her tiny hand away.

“Nana always said her great-aunt bought this very strip of land, saving sharecropper money, even carried a shotgun when they threatened to take it away,” more laughter escaped. “I don’t even know if that shit’s true.” Johnetta retreated into the kitchen and returned with a bag of frozen chopped spinach. She held it to her mother’s cheek and blew gently on her warm tears. If Johnetta had the insight, a mystic living on the street had once said she possessed, she would have known her mother was not okay. Sometimes, she sat and watched her cook and clean. She would start one task but never finish it before starting another, or start singing a hymn and then burst into tears.

A few weeks after the beating, her mother began disappearing on the weekends. Little, nine-year-old Johnetta would come home from school on a Friday afternoon to an empty house. Alone in the kitchen, she would fry bologna with butter and alone in her room, she would do her homework and read. Johnetta did not worry. Her momma would not, could not abandon her. And every time she returned on Sunday, sometimes Monday, she said so with fierce hugs and leftovers from her restaurant meals. Johnetta became accustomed to her “sales trips” and when her “uncles” started hanging around, she eventually stopped asking questions. One late night, an uncle and her mother stumbled into the living room, laughing and holding each other around the waist.

“Say hello to your Uncle Bellamy,” her mother said as Johnetta pulled her focus away from a book.

“Hey there, pretty girl,” he said, lowering himself to her eye level. His hot breath smelled like burnt maple syrup. Johnetta recoiled from his shabby presence. Uncle Bellamy plopped himself on the couch as he watched her resume reading. “Baby, you should let me buy you a new couch.”

“Then buy me a damn couch. Buy me something,” her mother said, walking towards the kitchen.

“Aw sugar, you know how it is right now. Don’t pout, sweet thang,” he spoke to her mother but kept his gaze on Johnetta. “I know what will make my Josie happy.”

“That’s not my name,” she said. It was silent for a while. Johnetta leapt from her seat and headed for her room. Before entering, she hugged her momma good-night and then locked the door behind her.

Around the time she was sixteen, her mother started disappearing for weeks at any given moment. She was seeing a new John–Johnetta no longer called them uncle–who had bought new furniture for their home, styled them both in new clothes, and often found crumpled hundred dollar bills in his pockets that he gave to her like candy. Johnetta did not care for him and he seemed old enough to be her grandfather, but her mother was happy or at least smiling more.

For a few days Johnetta was fine, until she fell ill and had to stay in bed. She wanted her momma to comfort her and tell her sweet things. She could not eat, she could not sleep, but she kept faith in her mother returning. When Johnetta did not attend school for three days, her English teacher, stricken with grief, stopped by to check on her promising student. Within minutes of prodding around and asking questions about her mother, Ms. Lindon discovered she was living alone. Johnetta was too weak to plead and defend her momma’s case, and before she could process everything, she was sent by Child Services to live with her aunt in New York City. It was either that or foster care.

Johnetta hated her aunt. For sisters, there was not a single similarity between the two, and whenever she spoke of her mother, there was no affection, no concern. Johnetta could not tell if her aunt’s greying hair was a sign of age or stress, maybe both. She hated New York too. The buildings towered over her, almost dizzying her senses, and everywhere seemed small, including her make-shift bed in her aunt’s make-shift living room. Homesickness yanked on her heart strings like a vicious tiger mauling its prey. So every night she began to write letters home.

All dated and signed, your loving Johnetta. She hoped when her mother did return, she would turn the lock and be showered with envelope after envelope, all from her beseeching daughter.

One day, after she returned from a dreadful time at her new school, her aunt handed her a letter from Virginia. Johnetta leapt for joy and ripped it open, but as she read line after line, she realized it was not from her mother. It was from Martin Newman, the doe-eyed boy with a small gap in his front teeth who sat behind her in English class. He did not admit that he had a crush on her, just that he was simply checking in and thinking about her, but Johnetta thought otherwise. She was touched by his thoughtfulness and wrote back. She talked about starting a part-time job as a hotel housekeeper with her aunt. She talked about school, how the students made fun of her big lips, how the teachers glared with disapproval at her tight jeans and inappropriate tops, even though she wore the same things back home and no one seemed bothered by it. She shared everything, except for the fact that she was lonely, that in such a densely populated city she had never felt so alone. After writing and sending the letter, she felt healed in an odd way. Something inside her was mending. Something she did not even realize was broken. It was the tiny, human connection that reminded her that she was a part of something bigger, something beyond her control.

The next day she started her new job, dressed in a frumpy tan dress and white apron. For someone who never worked up until now, Johnetta was no stranger to hard work. It was in her muscles, it seeped through her pores, down her forehead, arms, and back. While she cleaned the last room of her shift, a hotel guest barged through the door.

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “Forgot my briefcase.” He retrieved it from under the bed with ease. She noticed the crisp lines on his fitted suit, his broad shoulders, his warm, silver eyes.

Johnetta froze into place, watching him watch her. “Wow, you cleaned this room all by yourself?” He whistled, taking in the space with quick glances. “Amazing. Beautifully done.”

“Thank you,” she said. She stared at the ground, her face heating with shame. Perspiration trickled through her clothes, strands of curly hair askew, never before had she felt so concerned about her appearance. When she looked up, he licked his thin lips.

“Well, you deserve something, hold on,” he said as he reached into his left jacket pocket. He held out a folded twenty dollar bill. Johnetta was dumbfounded but used all the energy she had to shake her head no, she even took a step back. “It’s a tip,” he said, stepping close to her and placing the twenty in her hand. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand and he smiled, then left. Johnetta was so flustered, so angry that she did not, could not finish cleaning the room. She thought of her mother all night. On her way home, she bought a bottle of water from a kid hawking them near the subway. His white shirt was dirty with holes in the front, and not once did he offer her the change. Johnetta didn’t mind. Maybe on some level he knew too.

As she finished out her last year of high school, she continued to write letters home, insisting her mother call her on the new phone she bought. When Johnetta received the news that she would be graduating in the top ten percent of her class, her aunt took her out for ice cream. It was a rare moment of affection and genuine pride. But her elation only lasted a few hours. Upon returning home, she found two of her recent letters marked “Return To Sender.” It felt as if her mother had slapped her in the face. Her whole body was on fire, and in a matter of minutes she was numb all over. Johnetta stopped writing. She began to convince herself that she had no mother. Instead of being brought to life from a womb, she had somehow crystallized from a mutinous mix of particles and appeared fully formed.

By the end of summer, she was off to a small, prestigious, liberal arts college several miles upstate. After a couple of semesters, she became good friends with Rose, another Political Science major. She and Rose were invited to the annual President’s Dinner, where faculty and selected students drank cocktails and ate appetizers at his refined townhome near campus. That evening, Johnetta stood, sulking, near the window. Rose approached with two mini plates of hors d’oeuvres.

“Here,” she said, handing her a plate. “You could at least pretend to be happy. I think one of the Board of Trustees just arrived.”

“Maybe I should’ve broken it off with him tomorrow, instead of today,” Johnetta said. She wanted to sneak a glass of wine, or two but thought otherwise. Rose made a tsk noise that sounded a bit like annoyance. “What?”

“I mean, it seems pretty harsh to break up with a guy over that,” said Rose.

“He couldn’t perform. I gave him plenty of chances.” She glanced about the busy room of couples and groups interacting, watching as if to make sure no one eavesdropped. “So what if people think I’m a bitch for it.” Rose made a face, almost like sarcastic shock.

“Well, that is what some people think. Why not be nicer, approachable, actually look like you want to be here,” Rose said. She shoved a stuffed mushroom into her mouth.

“Really? Sean thinks I’m an excellent pupil,” Johnetta said, batting her eyelashes. “He also said I’m a great addition to the program.”

“You know he only said that because you’re...” Her voice trailed off. Rose tried to give a look that would make her understand but Johnetta played dumb and looked confused.
“Tall? Pretty?” Johnetta asked, smiling in a duplicitous manner. Rose scoffed.

“Yeah that too. It’s simply history, attractive women are always given the upper hand.” She shoved another stuffed mushroom into her mouth.

“What about people who have uncles that are old pals with the Dean of Admissions? Is that a part of history too?” Johnetta sat her plate on the windowsill and looked out onto the starry night. Rose’s face flushed a soft pink.

When Johnetta graduated, she moved back to the city to pursue law school in the fall. She didn’t quite believe in fate, or chance, but after bumping into Martin Newman on her way to class, she changed her mind. He was about a foot taller than her, same doe brown eyes, same front tooth gap, and a lean physique. They arranged to meet for coffee later, where they exchanged old stories and phone numbers. He admitted that he never forgot about her, that deep down he knew they would run into each other again. How funny it was that they both wanted to be lawyers, that they both ended up at the same law school. By the close of their encounter, Johnetta felt a tingly sensation in the pit of her stomach. It traveled through her vessels, pass the heart and to her brain, setting off tiny circuits and sparks. It was not necessarily love, maybe for Martin Newman it was, but for her it was the awakening of what was logical and what would inevitably take course.

They found themselves deeply committed over the next three years and were so inseparable that people often referred to them as a joint entity. ‘Johnetta and Martin have interests in corporate law,’ ‘Johnetta and Martin eat at Ming Fu every Thursday,’ ‘Johnetta and Martin are coming to the party,’ ‘Johnetta and Martin have a doctor’s appointment.’ Johnetta did not mind the togetherness but when Martin started to receive acclamation for her successes, she became bitter. Not quite full-blown, but little spouts here and there. She would even make it a point to call out her better grades, better cases. And when Martin seemingly sensed her new attitude, he began to resent her. Not full-blown either, but little jabs here and there. He sometimes took her friends out to dinner without her, just to remind Johnetta what jealousy feels like.

After graduation, they moved in together, a nice, little apartment in Harlem. Johnetta began working at a corporate law firm within a few months of passing the bar. It took Martin a bit longer, but he started at a practice only a few blocks away from Johnetta’s, pursuing civil law. By the holidays, Martin had quit his job, saying he didn’t like the way certain Senior Partners treated him. She said she understood but deep down she thought he was being sensitive. It was at this moment, Johnetta realized she had to be supportive, that Martin may be having the unfortunate epiphany that many post-grad students had about law: that it was not for them.

One evening, she decided to take him out to dinner, anything to keep him from sulking in the apartment. As she sat across from him at their candlelit table, trying to cheer him up but getting nothing in response, she felt the bitterness return, souring in her mouth. If it wasn’t for that stupid letter, for that stupid chance encounter that day on campus, she could have been anywhere else right now instead of sitting across from an uncertain, self-deprecating, could-have-been lawyer. Johnetta P. Grant takes shit from nobody. And she intends on telling him exactly so.

“Can we get the check?” Martin asks the server, who approaches their table to refill their glasses with sparkling water. He nods his head and leaves.

“I wanted dessert,” she says, then downs the rest of her wine. He tosses his cloth napkin onto the table, as if in resignation. Johnetta clenches her jaw, fighting every urge to go off on him. “Fine. I’m only doing this to make you feel better,” she says. He laughs, very dry and coarse.

“By taking me to this stuffy ass restaurant when it’s ten degrees outside,” says Martin. Johnetta peers at the couples sitting near them, hoping that the clatter of the room is drowning out their voices.

“Law isn’t for everyone. Sometimes you make the wrong decision,” she says, leaning in closer.

“This isn’t about law.” His fist pounds down on the table. Johnetta shoots him an icy stare, one he returns with equal animosity. “When you’re assigned cases, do they give you busy-work? Do they leave you out of emails? Important phone conferences? They treat me like a goddamn paralegal.”

“You don’t think I deal with stupid shit? We all do. This is what we have to do. This is how we make it to the top.” She sits back, sipping her water. “I guess I cope with it better. C’mon Martin, you can’t handle the punches?” A muscle in his jaw twitches, so subtle that she almost didn’t see it. He gets up without a word and leaves. The server returns with the check and Johnetta hands him her credit card.

When she returns to the apartment, he’s not home. Not even bothering to call and check on him, Johnetta crawls into bed. She figures everything will blow over in a few days, or maybe this is the final crack in their relationship, a thought Johnetta considers too fragile to contemplate.

A couple of short dreams later, she awakes to someone breathing on her, heavy, long breaths. It’s dark, and she can barely make out his face. But eventually her pupils adjust and she can see the outline of his features. He lowers himself onto her chest and she cradles his head. His skin and clothes ooze of whatever bar he went to. Martin begins to roughly kiss up her neck, and she knows they both need to let out their aggression, no apologies given. There is a battle to see who can pin the other down, who can use the most body weight, who can thrust the hardest with no regards to the other’s pleasure or pain. Ultimately, who can come first and Martin seems determined to win this time. But when his struggle becomes clear, Johnetta revels in it, careful to hide her smile. He slides out and flips her over. She’s not prepared for what is about to happen. The pressure is immediate, but the cavity is so tight his tip cannot fit. Johnetta curses out loud, for the first time during sex not in control. Her fear is fleeting and astoundment takes over when a warm sensation swims down her lower back, butt, and legs. She lays still.

Except for their breathing, the room is quiet. She can hear the beeping of an uptown bus letting passengers off. Without ever realizing he’s left, Johnetta hears the bathroom door close and the shower run. A thick weight sits at the back of her throat and she wants to cry but no tears materialize. She’s not even sure if she can process what just occurred. Never before had she felt such anger, such begrudging humility. How can she look him in the eyes again and pretend nothing is wrong? It’s impossible, she would have to get even, then leave. The shower runs for so long, it lulls her to sleep.

The next morning, she awakens to her phone ringing. Johnetta hesitates, fearing it’s Martin, knowing it’s him. She answers the call.

“What?” She looks over at the alarm clock, which reads six: thirty-two a.m. She takes a moment to make sure she heard him right, but then all she hears afterwards is ‘your mother has passed away.’ It echoes in her head like a twisted joke, bouncing off her eardrums and onto the walls in her brain, lodging deep inside the crevices. ‘Your mother has passed away.’ Johnetta’s heart is pounding so murderously hard, she’s afraid it will rip out her chest. Her breaths are so short, she feels as though she is drowning and there is no one around to save her. ‘I’m so sorry, your mother has passed away.’ She takes breath after breath, waiting for everything to normalize, waiting for the cruel joke to end, but the clock still reads six: thirty-two a.m.

Nothing seems the same. She begins to feel out of place, and yet the things around her have not changed. Johnetta sits up in bed, trying to listen to Martin’s sorrowful voice. All at once, her mind is flooded with imagery of her mother, her smell, the way she spoke, memories of the past. She tries to think of the last time she saw her, but nothing comes to mind. She had buried everything about her a long time ago and now old emotions are bubbling up her throat, threatening to spill out. She had held herself with such composure for several years, with such contempt, and for the first time ever it all came crashing down. Johnetta does not need to look in the mirror to see what she’s become, she does not need a voice in her head telling her this is who she is, it is simply an awareness. A recognition, a conscious understanding of Johnetta P. Grant.

“I’m taking the next flight to Virginia,” she manages to say. Johnetta hangs up the phone, not waiting to hear what Martin says next and not wanting him to hear her sob like a child. After an hour of crying, she pulls herself out of bed and showers. Moving with haste, she dresses in black leggings and an oversized dark sweater. She grabs her keys, then purse, and leaves. Johnetta is unsure of the next steps, frightened of the lingering future that looks already obscure and abandoned.

When she arrives in Warfield, the first place she heads to, instead of the address Martin gave her, is their old neighborhood. As she drives along the familiar wide roads, stopping at the familiar bright signs, fresh tears stream down her cheeks and onto her chest. She told Martin she needed to do this alone but oddly enough she now wants him here. After a couple more miles, Johnetta discovers the building is gone, the entire complex has been knocked down and raised in its place, a super mega mart, complete with shopping center and theater. She slams on her brakes, mumbling a curse under her breath. She had wanted to see the place one last time. And now there is no memory of it, no way of confirming Nana’s story. Johnetta flips the car around, driving like a mad woman, racing to the second address.

As she gets closer, she notices the beautiful landscapes, the polished roads. Then the homes begin to appear, several yards away from each other. Each one with an individual style, some modern, some classic, some with delicate features, others more astute. Each one smells of money. Johnetta pulls into the driveway and shuts the engine off. She’s speechless. The woman she remembers would not, could not have lived here. Yet this is where her belongings are, her precious keepsakes. This is the address she was given. Johnetta is not sure how long she’d been sitting in the car, but eventually a short, curvy woman opens the front door. Her strawberry blonde hair is tied in a high ponytail, but the lines on her face and neck give her away, for Johnetta would have thought she was her age. The woman waves and Johnetta, although reluctant, exits the car.

“You must be Johnetta,” she says. There is a nervousness in the way she moves, as if she’s hesitating before taking a step or moving a hand. Johnetta forces a smile. “You look just like her.” She covers her mouth and Johnetta can tell she’s trying not to cry, which only makes her tear up even more. “Come inside.” She follows her inside, down a hallway and into the kitchen. It smells of fresh-baked pastries. “Coffee?” she asks. Johnetta shakes her head and takes a seat on one of the bar stools.

“Who are you?” Johnetta asks, and then realizes how brusque that sounded.

“I forgot to introduce myself, I’m Miss Cindy Thomas. I cook, I clean, basically take care of this house, and your momma. I’m working on my very own B.A. Mhmm. Now that my kids are grown and away, and I needed a job near the college, so...” Cindy’s voice trails off. Her mouth opens and closes like she’s trying to say more but doesn’t. Johnetta nods her head, taking in the room. It’s mostly accented with floral colors and tiny glass figurines scattered about. “This is Mr. Wayne’s house. He really took care of her, he loved her, he did. Always said one day he would marry her, but you know...” Johnetta begins to nod her head again, and then, as if on cue, starts to cry. She holds her face in her hands, embarrassed that she is breaking down in front of a stranger. Cindy moves with agility around the kitchen, and within minutes, places a steaming teacup in front of her. “She did try to write to you,” she says. Johnetta’s head snaps back up. It is the last thing she expected to hear. “Yeah she did but she was having, um, problems. I offered to help write but she always said no. She would see you in person, it was better that way. One day she would go, one day, but life you know...” Her voice trailed off again.

“Did she get my letters?” Johnetta asks, finally in control of her tears.

“No, no she didn’t mention any letters.” Cindy bites her lower lip, then uses her sleeve to dab at the corner of her eyes. They sit in silence for a few minutes. “Do you want to see her room?” Johnetta nods her head, and follows Cindy down another hallway. She waits until she’s gone to close the door. Johnetta wants so badly to connect with the room, to be reminded of their old place, their broken couch, and soiled carpet. But the items on the dresser, the paintings on the wall, the neatly made up bed conjure up nothing. It feels as though she is missing the other half of her, and she wonders if it’s always been missing, that she just had not realized it.

There are photographs all over of her mother on camels and elephants, some where she is smiling in the middle of a busy street market that looks to be in India, or Bangladesh, one where a pyramid is the backdrop, another where it’s the Eiffel Tower. Johnetta looks from one photo to the next, in awe and wonder. She is not upset, she’s not angry, or jealous but strangely happy, content with the fact that her mother, the world traveller, enjoyed a decent shred of life. A woman who was beaten and abused, who slugged through dozens of lousy men, had somehow turned her misfortune into something remarkable. Johnetta feels tears building again, and she collapses onto the bed.

After a few minutes, she becomes aware of the dimensions of something hard underneath. On her hands and knees, Johnetta pulls out a white, wooden chest with paint chipping on the sides. She lifts the lid and inside she sees all her old letters, opened, sitting crassly, one on top of the other. Her heart begins to pound, like incessant thunder and her tears fall freely. She grabs the first one she sees, one that is actually addressed, Dear Johnetta, not Dear Mama. The handwriting is borderline illegible, the spelling is poor and the grammar detestable. But she makes out the last few words on the page. Momma is proud. Momma loves her baby. Yours Truely, Johnetta. And suddenly, as if the chest has released an unruly mix of particles that she inhaled too deeply, Johnetta starts to laugh.