Solomon leaned back on the leather coach. His confusion written all over his face. He stroked his thick beard and stared at the Marriage Counselor with frowned brows and twisted lips. His parents wanted him to speak with the counselor about their marriage. “It’s a part of the separation process,” his mother Jersey Roosevelt had explained. Solomon didn't understand what was happening with his parents. They proclaimed to be seperated, but they were always together. The counselor wanted an honest perspective about their marriage.
It was Solomon's first time ever speaking with a counselor. It was odd because he wasn't married. He had never gone to any type of counseling, not even guidance counseling. He knew very little about the process. As he sat there he made up in his mind that he would never go to any other session. He was annoyed by the way the Marriage Counselor continued to make side comments about his parents. He was aware his parents had issues, understood they were far from perfect, but they weren't the monsters Dr. Sally Buford was trying to paint them out to be either.
Dr. Buford, a wide high-yellow woman, with a frown as big as her waist, glanced up over her tiny spectacles at Solomon. After a few moments, she leaned back in her chair, and eyed him with beady eyes, a supercilious gaze on her face, she let her dreads hang in her face. locks. She was going to get to the very core of things. Solomon resented the superior gaze she wore, he resented the way she turned her pencil, over and over in her hand, like she knew well. He wasn't going to accept her conclusion, but she was going to let him have it anyway.
She said, her tone steady, purposely careful, "I'm going to recommend, you see a psychologist to address the issues of domestic violence you endured when you were growing up." She started to scribble in her notebook.
“Domestic violence?” Solomon repeated the words with a grin. They sounded almost dirty. To think of his parents as violent, "I thought this meeting was about my parent's marriage, not my life. I doubt I need a Marriage Counselor, or therapist, or psychologist or psychiatrist, or--"
"Maybe you won't need one, but will it hurt to speak with someone to find out if you do? She said, as if asking a simple rhetorical question.
The office they sat in was small and cluttered. Inside New Bethill Hospital, it was a strange space for a counselor. Solomon let out a sigh as he glared around. He knew this was going to be a mistake when Jersey told him it was located at the hospital. The office was located on the 1st floor of the main hospital building. A floor with no patient rooms, no beds, just a hallway of brown doors with gray carpet. Dr. Buford's office number was four, it was a nice size, not much in terms of decoration: only a couch, a large desk, a smaller sofa and a chair. But she had a lot of stuff: books and papers and a collection of ceramic clowns. He hated clowns and wondered why Jersey selected this lady to be their counsler, as it seemed she had problems of her own. Perhaps it was a black thing, but surly Jersey could find another black Marriage Counselor in New Bethill.
“Nah," Solomon replied after a moment of reflection, “It won't hurt to speak with anybody.” He shrugged his shoulders, "I just don't want to."
She hesitated without changing her tone, and she finally threw her dreaded-locks back, "You don’t think you’ve endured years of domestic abuse?” She asked the question with an aware tone—she didn’t want to believe Solomon’s answer.
“Abuse--no,” Solomon repeated. He tried to remain calm, but his irritation started to seep out of his demeanor. Clearly Dr. Buford didn’t understand. “You don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to upset you.”
“You’re not—you’re wrong.”
Jersey or Marshall had never once beat him or his brother and had always given them what they wanted. Since they were both older, they never fought and barely argued, they covered up many things and had covered-up news of their 6-month separation so well, Solomon had to question if they were still together. Especially since, whenever he went home to visit his father was there. Solomon would be the first to admit they had issues, they fought when he was growing up—had their share of problems, but he wouldn’t classify the relationship as abusive.
“You just told me your father beat your mother?”
“No,” Solomon said with clarity, “I said they fought a lot.”
“Exactly and you would have to jump into their fights?”
“Once,” Solomon said.
~~~
Solomon felt a bit like a traitor. He had told Dr. Buford about the time Marshall had given Jersey a black-eye. It was the first time Solomon had gotten involved in his parent’s fights. It was in 2007, he was eighteen at the time. The fight started that morning for reasons only the two of them could thoroughly explain, but Solomon tried his best.
He had heard his parents arguing that morning before he left for school, had drowned out their voices by turning up the radio. Kanye West had just come out with his new CD and Solomon was in the bedroom listening to the music, as they argued. When Marshall tapped on his door to let him know that he was ready to drop him off at school, Solomon thought the argument was over. They both gave Jersey the usual good-bye as they headed out the door. His parents were funny that way. They would argue like cats and dogs and saluted one another as if nothing had every happened.
When Solomon came in from school that evening, Jersey was pretty mellow. He found her sitting in the living room watching CNN.
“I’m going to vote for this man Barack Obama,” she said to him when he came through the door.
“Why because he’s black?”
“Nope,” Jersey said, “because he’s black and he’s smart.” Jersey liked her wine and had a glass sitting on the coffee table, that she sipped ever now and again.
“I’m going to vote for him too,” Solomon said.
“Why because he's black?
"Yeah," Solomon said.
"You heard from your father?”
“No. Didn't he take Elijah to Aunt Cordelia’s for practice," Solomon looked just like his father, especially when he furrowed his brows.
“That was at 5 o’clock, it’s close to 7 now.," Jersey said sipping her wine.
“He’ll be home soon,” Solomon said and he sat down next to Jersey and started talking about music. “Call him.”
“Nope, can’t stand him. I’m not calling him.”
“You married him,” Solomon said with a gentle laugh and he got up to go to his room.
“Yes I did, and he’s your father,” Jersey returned. She smiled at him as he disappeared beyond the landing.
It was another hour or so before Marshall came into the house. From upstairs Solomon heard him fiddle the keys to the door and heard his familiar entrance, two stomps and a deep inhale, as if he was letting the world into his Kingdom.
“Where you been all-day long,?” Jersey asked. Her tone was sweet and she sounded as if she didn't know Marshall worked all-day.
“Out! Why?” He said. He threw the keys on the table and started to walk into the kitchen.
Solomon was coming downstairs to talk to his father about the basketball game. It was during the playoffs and their favorite team was playing. When his foot hit the top step, he heard Jersey snatch the keys off the table, and he made it down the steps in time enough to see her sling them at Marshall.
BAM, the keys hit him right at the back of the head. Marshall yelled out.
Solomon was shocked. He stared at Jersey and shouted, "Mom."
"Next time I bet you'll watch your mouth," Jersey snapped at Marshall.
Marshall wiped the back of his head and glared at Jersey. He had an amazed expression on his face, as if something didn't register correctly. He gazed at the blood on his fingers and back at Jersey. She pretended to be otherwise occupied, but through her peripherial, she saw his every move. She was about to duck, but Marshall leaped toward her and slapped at her. He hit her dead in the eye. Jersey was insulted, she tried to slap back, but missed. He grabbed both her arms and slung her on the sofa.
Somehow Solomon managed to separate his parents. Jersey was up off the sofa and rubbing her eye. Marshall was near the door holding the back of his head. They stared at one another with angry glances. Their chest weaving in and out as they tried to catch their breath.
"I'm going to get you back," Jersey repeated before she squeezed between Marshall and Solomon and went upstairs.
"I'm going down to Pop's house and watch the game," Marshall said.
It was always awkward when his parents fought. Solomon remembered the sad look that lingered in his father's eyes, as he watched Jersey climb the steps. It was as if he wanted to cry, but he just couldn't bring himself to tears. It was the first time he'd felt bad for his father. Jersey rolled her eyes at Marshall and turned and smiled at her son.
They made up quick, Solomon always thought it strange how they fought hard one minute and the next minute they got along like nothing ever happened. That's the point he wanted Dr. Buford to understand that people fight--even parents.
That night Solomon lingered at the house for a little while making sure Jersey was good. She emerged from the bedroom room and started cooking stir fry.
"You better go check on Marshall," she said to him after he'd eaten dinner, "I know the game on too, I'm going to pick Elijah up."
After Jersey left, Solomon made his way down to Pop's house to check on Marshall. Marshall was settled in, watching the game, he didn’t complain once about the hole in his head. Instead he carried on about their teams lost. They stayed well after the game was over, talking about the highlights. It was after 11pm when they made it back home. The smell of stir fry and blown-out candles greeted them. Upstairs they could hear music coming from Elijah's room. Jersey must have been sleep.
The following morning was Saturday and Solomon opened his eyes to the sound of All Green and the smell of bacon. It was Breakfast as usual.
“Mom,” Solomon said when he came down stairs and noticed his mother’s eye. It wasn't as bad as he thought, it was surrounded by a pink and black puffiness. She was peeling potatoes, Marshall was at the stove frying bacon and Elijah was at the bar eating cereal.
“Yup," she said. She glanced right at Solomon as she nodded her head, "you can blame your father,” she said as if Solomon hadn't witnessed the entire episode.
“I got a hole in my head,” Marshall said in his own defense.
“Mom's going to be good," Elijah confirmed, "dad's gonna need stitches."
Solomon patted his brother on the back, "I guess all that's well that ends well," he said.
"Nah," Marshall said, "I'll be fine in a couple days.
Solomon walked over to Jersey to get a closer looked. He grabbed her hands and kissed her on the forehead and on the cheek, and then on the eye.
“Oh, stop it,” she said. “I’m fine, it’s not even that black. Trust and believe your father going to pay for this hit.”
“You shouldn’t have hit me with those keys. You know what, I should've called the cops and reported you,” Marshall returned.
They all laughed, that was the end of things and they never spoke of that night again. Solomon had never thought of that night again, until he sat down with Dr. Buford. Funny though, he thought of that day with warm feelings and had learned it’s just better to walk away, rather than fight someone you love, because neither of you win in the end.
~~~~
Solomon was leaned over his knees, he looked up at Dr. Buford who was still leaned back in her seat with a smug expression on her face.
“I don’t know if you would call that abusive,” Solomon said after he thought things through. He never thought about it before, but his parents taught him love, the only way they knew how, and in the process even they learned to love each other.
~~~~~~
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