Ain't No Sunshine Read online

  AIN’T NO SUNSHINE

  by

  Leslie DuBois

  AMAZON EDITION

  ~~~

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Leslie DuBois on Amazon

  Ain’t No Sunshine

  Copyright © 2010 Leslie DuBois

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Prologue

  The officer placed a cup of black coffee on the table in front of me.

  "I don't drink coffee," I said, continuing to stare out the window at the Chicago skyline.

  "Well, you might want to start. You're not going anywhere for a while, son."

  I crossed my arms and slouched in the chair. "I'm not your son," I said through gritted teeth. I focused on a pale yellow Volkswagen van driving past the window of the police station. I shook my head with frustrated regret. I should have bought a new car before we left. I never thought a broken taillight, of all things, would land us in this police station. Now they were asking me questions. Questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. Not yet, anyway.

  The officer didn't respond at first. The only sound was that of the rotating fan in the corner of the room, blowing out the same hot, stale air.

  "Fine," he said after a few minutes. "Let's talk about whose son you are then, huh?" He took some pictures out of a file and laid them out on the table. I refused to look; I knew what they would show. "Do you see this, Stephen? Why don't you look at your father's mutilated body? Beaten to death with a shovel outside his own home."

  He picked up one of the pictures and waved it in front of my face. I shut my eyes tightly. I was there when it happened. I knew what it looked like. I didn't want to be reminded of the image; it was already permanently ingrained in my mind.

  "Did you do it, Stephen? Did you kill your own father in cold blood?"

  I kept my eyes closed and refused to answer. The image of my father's bloody corpse floated behind my eyelids.

  "No, you couldn't have done it." I heard the officer's footsteps as he walked to the other side of the room. "There's no way a smart, wealthy boy like you could murder the man that took care of you and loved you for eighteen years."

  I opened my eyes and glared at the fat, sweaty man interrogating me. "My father never loved me. Never!"

  His eyes expanded. My tone shocked him. He took a step back as if he was actually afraid of me for a second. He quickly recovered his composure, though. "Well, then I guess you did kill him."

  I bit my tongue and turned away. I had already said too much. There was no way he was getting me to talk. Not yet, anyway. I needed a few more minutes to get my thoughts together.

  "I guess we're gonna have to do this the hard way," he said after a few moments. He sat down in the chair across from me and opened his file again. "Maybe I'll just have to ask that pretty little colored girlfriend of yours," he said, staring at Ruthie's picture and licking his lips.

  "You leave her out of this." My hands clenched into fists.

  "I don't know if I can do that. She seems to be pretty involved." He kept staring at her picture as he spoke. "Your father is found dead at your home in Virginia and you're found seven hundred miles away with a nigger whore. I can't -"

  He didn't get to finish his thought. I leapt across the table and started pounding his face in. Seconds later, I was subdued by several officers. They placed me back in the chair and handcuffed me to the table as everyone stepped outside and decided what to do with me.

  This was getting worse and worse by the minute. I'd gladly go to jail for killing that man. He deserved to die. I just didn't want Ruthie to get dragged into this. After all we'd been through, at least one of us deserved a chance to be happy.

  After what felt like hours, another officer entered the room. He placed a bottle of peroxide and some napkins on the table.

  "You gonna behave?" he asked, holding up the key to the handcuffs. He was much younger than the other officer. With his dark hair and blue eyes he kind of reminded me of my older brother, Matthew, except with a bushy mustache. For some reason, I felt I could trust him.

  I nodded and he unlocked my handcuffs.

  "What's that for?" I asked, indicating the peroxide.

  He looked at me strangely. "Stephen, your face is covered in cuts and bruises. The officers who subdued you kind of went a little too far. You have open wounds. You’re bleeding.” He pointed to a couple of places on my face. “Doesn't it hurt?"

  I shrugged and reached for the bottle and paper towels. I didn't feel pain like most people. It was a coping mechanism I'd developed at an early age.

  "I'm Lieutenant Drake," he said, still staring at me as I cleaned my wounds. "This must have been a hard few days for you."

  I nodded.

  "Your father is dead, your mother is missing, and you and Ruthie are on the run."

  I nodded.

  "Why are you running? You know running only makes you look guilty, and I don't really believe you killed your father. I don't think you're capable."

  I stared at him. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. You have no idea what that man did to me."

  "You're right. I don't," he said, trying to hide his surprise at my response. He sat down and crossed his arms. "So why don't you tell me? You obviously have a story and you need someone to listen. So tell me your story. Tell me everything."

  Chapter 1

  I don’t remember when I met Ruthie. She was just always there. She was the reason I woke up in the morning, the reason I survived as long as I did in my father's house, and the reason he deserved to die.

  He did everything he could to keep me away from her. One of my earliest memories was of sitting in the front pew of my father's church and twisting my neck to odd angles in order to get a glimpse of Ruthie in the colored balcony. I remember thinking that whites and coloreds weren't even allowed to worship God together, how were they supposed to be able to fall in love?

  On one occasion, when I was about five years old, I turned around for too long. My older brother, Matthew, grabbed my hand as a silent gesture to let me know that I needed to turn back before my father saw. But it was too late. As the choir began their rendition of Amazing Grace, I knew no amount of grace would save me from what was coming next.

  When we got home, my father sent Matthew to the store. I knew that meant trouble. He always sent Matthew away before he went into a violent tirade. He knew Matthew wouldn't tolerate it. Matthew was sixteen years older than me and proved to be a formidable opponent for my father. Any time my father lifted a hand to me or my mother, Matthew was right there diverting my father's wrath. It always ended
up turning into a fierce knock-down-drag-out brawl between the two of them. I think my father began to fear Matthew, thus the new habit of sending him away.

  I knew not to tell Matthew what my father did while he was gone; that would just result in a worse beating. I didn't mind that much. It was kind of easier this way. The beating was much shorter and I didn't have to watch my father and brother pound on each other over something that was my fault. I just shouldn't have turned around in church. I needed to learn to control my desire to see Ruthie. The sooner I learned that, the easier both of our lives would be.

  "Remove your shirt and lie on the floor," he instructed me.

  "Yes, Father." I obeyed, and then watched as he pulled the scourge out of its storage place next to his rifle. It was a special device my father had created that was like a whip with stones in it. He said it was what they used to beat the Christ.

  "Do you know what you have done?" he asked, staring at the whip and caressing it like it was an old friend.

  “Devil in Disguise” by Elvis Presley played on the radio. I tried to focus on the music as my father slowly, methodically laid the whip out on the couch. Then his quiet footsteps followed him over to the radio on top of the television. He switched it off. He didn't like anything covering over the sound of the whip against my skin. I think he enjoyed it.

  "Yes, Father," I answered him.

  "Never look at the coloreds," he said, glaring at me. I turned away so I wouldn't see the evil gleam in his eye. I buried my face in the shag carpeting, nearly inhaling the fibers. "I'm going to beat those desires out of you."

  Tears stung behind my eyes, but not because of the impending torture. His words hurt more. Ruthie was colored. I wasn't supposed to want to be with her. My desires were wrong.

  The first blow across my back knocked the wind out of me. I gasped and tried to concentrate on making the room stop spinning. It hurt like hell, but I wasn't allowed to cry. If I cried, he would hit me until I stopped. So I just took it. Even at that young age, I had learned how not to cry or show any emotion at all, for that matter. I was an expert at getting people to see what I wanted them to see.

  Maybe he was right. I needed those beatings. I should have used them as a way to purge my impure thoughts about Ruthie. Unfortunately, the pain didn't drive away my thoughts of her. Instead, in an effort to escape my reality, I thought of her more. While my body convulsed in painful spasms, my mind was at peace and in her presence.

  During this beating in particular, I tried to plan my next adventure with Ruthie. I was not as creative as she was, so all the things I came up with were boring compared to her ideas. Even if I did come up with something halfway decent to do, by the time Ruthie finished making suggestions to make it better, it never really seemed like my idea anymore. I remember one time I came up with the idea to build a car and drive away from here. Somehow it turned into making a boat, becoming pirates and sailing to Europe. We made a raggedy raft that ended up sinking in the lake, but it was fun trying.

  I was so lost in my thoughts I didn't hear Matthew come home.

  He tackled my father to the ground. "Leave him alone!" They scrambled around for a while, knocking over anything and everything in their path.

  My mother, who had been cowering in the kitchen, came forward and pulled me out of the room. "Go to Ruthie's house, Stephen," she said. She looked sad and helpless. Her once-beautiful blue eyes had lost their luster. She probably should have come with me. There was nothing she could do here. They would keep fighting until one of them was out cold. Hopefully, my father would go out first. That would give my mother enough time to get the house cleaned up. If he came to and things looked slightly normal he was able to pretend that nothing had happened and that he didn't just get beat by a boy half his age. My mother and Matthew wouldn't dream of calling the police or anything. No one would believe that Reverend Phillips would do such a thing, and Matthew would probably be the one taken away. No, we were all just trapped, doomed to continue this cycle over and over again. Deep down I knew it couldn't go on forever. I knew one of them would eventually kill the other. I just didn't know how soon that would happen and how it would affect the rest of my life.

  Chapter 2

  We lived in a huge, white, colonial-style house situated in a wooded area on a hill. It had been passed down through my father's family for generations. For a long time, tourists would come to our house as they went through tours of Civil War trails. My father had put an end to that some years ago, though. It would be too embarrassing for him if someone witnessed how he treated us. My father liked this house because he was able to look down on the rest of the town, and, of course, because from here no one could hear our screams.

  The only house within walking distance was Ruthie's. Hers was a cottage located at the edge of our property that used to be for servants. It was small, but I liked it much better than my own. It was cozy. Plus, I didn't have to fear for my life when I was there.

  As I walked to Ruthie's house, sweat dripped into the open wounds on my back. I must have grimaced with pain because as soon as Ruthie saw me, her eyes saddened and her lips quivered. She knew what had happened. She automatically ran into her house to get the peroxide. By the time I reached her front porch she was ready to doctor my wounds.

  "That bastard," she mumbled as she gently cleaned my back. I don't even think she knew what that word meant. It was just something she had heard someone say.

  "It's not so bad this time. Matthew was there."

  It wasn't so bad that time. I had been through much worse. Sometimes I would pass out during his attacks and wake up convulsing in Matthew's arms. For a while, I would have flashbacks whenever a word or smell reminded me of my father. I would freeze at the slightest stimulus. But over time I learned to deal with it. I trained myself to get over those episodes. I had to learn how to not let my father's behavior haunt me in other aspects of my life. That day I was actually able to forget about it and salvage the rest of the afternoon with my friend. I wanted to go swimming in the lake between our houses, but Ruthie thought my back might get infected so she talked me out of it. Instead, we played hide and seek. I ended up staying for dinner that night.

  "Mabel, you and your friend get in here for supper," her grandmother yelled into the woods from the kitchen window. Mabel was Ruthie's mother. I don't know how she got them confused. From the pictures I saw, they looked nothing alike. Mabel had a smooth, dark complexion with thick, black hair. She had big, round eyes and a round face. Ruthie's eyes were more almond-shaped, and everyone called her "high yellow.” We know now that they were referring to her light complexion, but back then those comments just started Ruthie's love affair with the color yellow.

  "Grandma, I'm not Mabel. I'm Ruthie. Mabel was my mommy, and she died a long time ago."

  “Don't you think I know that?" Grandma Esther said. She really didn't know. She was just too proud to ever admit she was wrong. "And who is your friend?"

  "Grandma this is Stephen Phillips. He's been here all day." Ruthie rested her head on her little fist. I could tell she was getting upset at the mention of her mother. It made her sad to think that she had never met her. Ruthie's mother died in childbirth.

  Grandma Esther asked who I was so often that sometimes we would make it a game and tell her I was some television star she had never heard of. One time we even told her I was President Kennedy's son, and she gave us an extra dessert at dinner. I guess Ruthie didn't feel like playing that game today.

  "You must be Theodore's boy." For a long time, I had no idea who she was talking about. I thought Theodore was some white person she had met when she was young and thus she naturally thought I was related to him. I was ten when I first learned that Theodore was my father's first name.

  Late that night, Matthew came over to collect me. Ruthie and I had fallen asleep in front of the television. Ruthie's grandmother had forgotten to lock the front door, as usual, so Matthew just came in. He picked me up and was about to walk out when Ruthie w
oke up.

  "Wait, Matthew. It's your gift day." She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Her dark brown curls were in a tangled mass on one side of her head. In the summer, the sun always dyed a few select strands of hair a light gold color, which made it look like she had yellow ribbons in her hair. She jumped up and scurried to her bedroom. Matthew set me down on the sofa and looked at me for an explanation, but I just shrugged. I had no idea what she was talking about. I was with her all day and I didn't see her making any gifts. This must have been something she had planned earlier.

  Ruthie came into the living room, smiling broadly and with her hands behind her back.

  "Close your eyes," she told Matthew. I could tell that he was exhausted but he played along and tried to perk up.

  "What's this about, kiddo? What do you mean it's my ‘gift day’?" he asked playfully.

  Ruthie liked to choose random days, give them a name, and hand out gifts. She always thought it was sad that people only gave each other gifts on birthdays and Christmas. I think the real reason was that her birthday marked the death of her mother. And her senile grandmother never remembered Christmas.

  "I mean you get a gift today because it’s a very special day." Ruthie cleared her throat and tried to sound official and grown up. "This is August of 1963. August is the ninth month of the year. Nine plus sixty-three is seventy-two. Seventy-two minus fifty is twenty-two which makes this a very special day because fifty days from today you will be twenty-two years old." Ruthie was so proud of her convoluted logic that she almost forgot to give Matthew his surprise.

  "Oh, here you go," she said as she handed him a very elaborate picture colored with a combination of crayons and finger paint. "You can open your eyes now."

  Matthew had been smiling throughout Ruthie's speech, but when he saw the picture his smile waned. He looked sad. Ruthie started to get upset.