Fear, such as sheâd never known, rose along her flesh like prickly heat then spread mercilessly through her slender seventeen-year-old frame. Every limb ached, partly from the uncontrollable tremors that rocked her, but mostly from the vicious beating inflicted upon her by her fatherâwith the two-inch thick, black leather strap that he used to sharpen his razorâeven as he prayed to God for forgiveness, and tears of remorse coursed down his tortured cheeks. If her mother hadnât finally pulled him off her, she was certain sheâd be dead.
Cowering in the farthest corner of her bed, eyes swollen, throat raw from crying, she jumped at the sound of breaking glass and raised voices from the floor below. Her parents had been screaming and yelling at each other for what seemed an eternity. And it was all her fault. Her fault.
Oh, God, what would she give to turn back the clock, use her head and remember all the lessons that had been drilled into her over the years? How could she ever face her mother again and not feel her shame, or face her father and not feel worthless and dirty? She didnât know if she ever could.
Fresh tears coursed down Dioneâs cheeks, surprising her. She was sure sheâd had no more tears to shed. And then, suddenly, the three-story brownstone on Madison Street, grew silent, which was more frightening than the noise.
She sat up in the bed, listening. The front door slammed, rocking the house. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. They were light. Her mother.
The door opened and her mother stepped into the dimness of the frilly, but precisely ordered bedroom. Margaret Williams didnât say a word, but went straight to Dioneâs closet, took out a suitcase and began pulling clothes off hangers then out of drawers, stuffing them inside.
Dione watched in silence, her horror mounting with each breath she took.
Her mother snapped the suitcase shut and turned toward her daughter, unable or unwilling to meet Dioneâs pleading eyes. She reached into the pocket of her pale peach robe, pulled out a thick, white envelope and handed it to Dione.
âYou have to leave. Now. Your father doesnât want you here when he gets back.â
Dioneâs eyes widened in terror, her stomach lurched and seemed to rise to her chest. âMommy, please! Donât let him do this to me.â
âThereâs nothing I can do. I canât go against your father. I canât.â
âWhere can I go? What will I do?â
âYou should have thought about that beforeââ Her voice broke. She turned away and walked toward the door.
âMa, please! Please!â Dione scurried to the end of the bed and went after her mother, wrapping her arms around her motherâs stiff body. âYou canât let Daddy put me out,â she begged as tears streamed down her face. âI have nowhere to go. Iâll do anything. Hide me,â she begged in desperation. âPleaseââ
She felt her motherâs body tremble as she struggled to contain her sobs. âDonât be here when he gets back, Dione. For your own sake. I donât know if I can stop him if he goes after you again.â
Dione dropped her arms to her sides, feeling as if the life had been sucked from her and she wished, at that moment, that her father had killed her, because it had to be better than this.
âThereâs enough money in the envelope to last you awhile.â
âAnd then what?â she choked. âWhatâs going to happen to me when the money runs out? How can you let him do this to me? Do you even care?â she screamed at her motherâs back.
Her mother took a breath and walked out, shutting the door and her daughter out of her life.
Through clouded, tear-filled eyes, Dione stared at the closed door and vowed from that night forward that no door would ever be closed to her again.
Eighteen years later
Dione Williams sat in her small, but neat, afrocentric office, located on the basement level of the four-story brownstone sheâd purchased five years earlier in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn. Laid out from end to end on the gray metal table she used for a deskâpurchased at a discount city auctionâwere utility bills, invoices from vendors, taxes due and another pile of rejection letters for the three proposals sheâd written for additional funding.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead, then began to massage her temples with the balls of her thumbs.
Chances Are was in trouble. Serious trouble, and according to her accountant if she didnât secure a solid influx of capital within the next four to six months, the ten teen mothers and their babies whoâd come to live at the reconverted residence and who depended on her for their survival would be put out onto the street, and her staff would be out of jobs.