Run, Robin Run

Chapter 13

When it came time to decorate my big-girl room at 113 S.E. 57th, my mother asked what color I wanted the walls. I said pink. She painted them the color of ballet slippers, sewed a pink-and-white gingham bedspread, and piled pillows across my white canopy bed. When she finished, the room looked exactly like the one I had imagined in my dreams.

For the art, she chose four canvas prints of big-eyed children dressed in harlequin costumes. Months earlier, I had torn their picture from a catalog and tucked it beside my bed. Night after night, I studied their faces, never dreaming that one day I would look up and find those same children hanging on my wall. I loved them.

I lined the baseboards with stuffed animals and baby dolls. Mom filled the bookshelves with fairy tale books and set up a table for my record player. My Fisher-Price turntable played Peter and the Wolf by Sergei Prokofiev so often that I knew every narrator’s cue and every instrument by heart.

My mom’s way of showing love was through books, music, and the pretty pink room I had asked for. It worked. I felt like a princess. If anyone had slipped a pea under my mattress, I would have known.

Most days, I left my princess kingdom behind and headed outdoors. One scorching afternoon in May, I climbed onto my bike, listening to soft ‘70s melodies drifting through the intermittent static from my Pomeranian radio dog. The little brown dog hung by its collar from the handlebars of my purple Schwinn. As I pedaled, it bounced against my knees, seeming to dance to the music.

We lived on the south side of Oklahoma City, in a neighborhood safe enough that, at seven years old, my mom let me ride my bike from one end of the street to the other. On hot days, the pavement gave off a faint petroleum smell. Blackbirds called from the solitary trees planted in each yellow yard while hungry grasshoppers chewed at the leaves.

I excelled at being a little sister. My daily mission was to chase my brother, Mark. He hated being followed, and I was relentless. Solid-colored shorts, striped tank tops, and bare feet were my warm-weather uniform. A blonde poof—a grown-out, wayward pixie cut—topped my stick-thin frame. After the haircut, Mark said I looked like a boy. I didn’t care. I was just happy the daily hairbrush battles with Mom were over.

Dad straightening the handle bars of my bike.

We pedaled until the sun dipped behind the hill at the end of our street. The rosy sky signaled it was time to listen for our parents calling us to dinner. They expected us home the moment they called.

Mark and I took turns peering toward our house, watching for Mom. Experience had taught us it was smarter to spot her than wait until we heard her. Before long, she stepped onto the porch, squinting, her hands on her hips. Then she cupped her hands around her mouth, and her faint call floated toward us. She stayed there until she saw us turn our bikes toward home.

When we reached the driveway, Mark slammed on his brakes. His rear tire hissed across the concrete, leaving an impressive burnout. We parked our bikes on their kickstands in the overflowing garage. Mark pulled the garage door down behind us. It squeaked along its track as we headed inside for dinner.

We knew to head straight to the sink and scrub our hands before sitting down at the dinner table. Mom taught us that clean hands and a pure heart went together.

Our dinner table was an oval, Early American-style table where Mom and Dad sat opposite each other at the ends. Jody, my oldest brother, sat across from Mark and me. Every meal followed the same ritual. We sat in the same seats, listened to Dad recite the same prayer he’d recited the night before, and kept folded paper napkins in our laps while resisting the urge to rest our elbows on the table. Mom valued proper behavior and frequently reminded us not to act like we were raised in a barn. Dinner was always a full meal: meat, potatoes, a green vegetable slathered with butter, bread, and a tall glass of milk.

After dinner, I watched whatever Dad was watching. His favorite was Columbo; mine was The Carol Burnett Show. We watched television beneath a cloud of white smoke while he sat in his Naugahyde recliner, chain-smoking Kool cigarettes. The air inside the house cooled, and a gentle breeze drifted through the screened doors. Gradually, the clanking of dishes stopped as Mom finished in the kitchen. Mark disappeared into the garage, where Dad had moved the piano. Jody paced in his bedroom, tethered to his turntable, listening to his record collection through oversized headphones.

The house grew still when Dad fell asleep in his recliner. Mom called it his “sullen time” and warned me not to disturb him. I’d seen Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, so Dad’s evening transformation made perfect sense to me.

During the day, he was game for anything. I grabbed his hands, climbed up his body, and begged him to flip me like a monkey. He caught every ball and Frisbee I threw his way and lofted each one gently back to me. Sometimes he took me to Kip’s Big Boy for hamburgers. Behind the restaurant stood a three-story giant slide. Dad climbed to the top with me and rode it over and over until I finally decided I’d had enough. That was the version of Dad I knew best.

After dinner, another version emerged. Once he fell asleep in his recliner, Mom’s attention shifted to keeping me out of his way.

To avoid trouble, Mom would softly tell me it was time for my bath. We tiptoed upstairs to the bathroom. Mr. Bubble poured generously from its pink box. She ran the water extra hot and let me soak until my fingers and toes were pruned.

Next, she tucked me into my pink canopy bed and turned out the light. I tried to fall asleep, but sometimes she sent me to bed too early. Often, I slipped out of my room and crept to the top of the stairs. With my footsteps muffled by the thick shag carpet, the dark stairway became the perfect place to spy on my parents. Dad’s cigarette burned, untouched, in the ashtray as he snored. Mom, with a lamp glowing behind her shoulder, was always reading. I don’t know why I felt the need to watch, but I crouched there night after night, reassured by the familiar scene below. When sleep finally overtook me, I crept back to my bed.

Under my warm pink bedcovers, it felt as though I had just closed my eyes when a noise jolted me awake. An icy wave of fear washed over me, and I froze. Moonlight spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. During the day, I didn’t believe in the Boogeyman, but at night, I was certain he lived behind my closet’s bifold doors. If not there, then under my bed. I held my breath and bit my lip, listening for the sound again.

What had I heard?

The sound seemed to come from the hallway between my room and my parents’. To investigate meant leaving the safety of my covers. I launched from my bed in one long jump, making sure I landed as far from the mattress as possible so the monster underneath couldn’t grab my foot. My feet hit the floor with a thud that seemed loud enough to shake the light fixtures downstairs.

I froze and listened for a parent to reprimand me for being out of bed—but no reprimand came. Instead, I heard a strange sound.

I crept to my door and peeked into the hall. Light glowed beneath my parents’ bedroom door. My knees shook. I crawled army-style toward their doorway and pressed my face into the carpet. A soft whimper drifted from the room, followed by a low groan.

Entering my parents’ room without knocking usually meant trouble—perhaps even a spanking—but I had to open the door. Something didn’t feel right. The doorknob turned, and I pushed the door open.

Dad stood at his desk, still wearing his work pants and a white undershirt. I watched his arm flex as the tattoo of a red heart bearing my mother’s name, Joy, slipped into view beneath his sleeve. Mom sat in the desk chair with her back to me while Dad hunched over her shoulders.

As I watched Dad, I thought of the old Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde movie. He leaned close to Mom and whispered something I couldn’t hear. His lips pressed against her ear. I crept farther into the room.

Dad’s arm encircled Mom’s head, his hand clamped over her mouth. A soft whimper escaped beneath his hand. I stood there, shaking in my little white gown, and called out to them. He didn’t seem to notice, but Mom tilted her head just enough for me to know she’d heard me.

I spoke again, louder this time. Dad turned toward me.

That’s when I saw it.

A black handgun pressed against Mom’s temple. His hand crushed one side of her face.

When he saw me, it was as if a spell had been broken. He jerked the gun out of sight, and Mom twisted her face free from his grip. I was at eye level with her. Our eyes met.

“Run, Robin.”