Frankie Lennon's memoir of her struggle to find freedom from "the chains that bind her" is a compelling page-turner. Order it at www.amazon.com or www. barnes & noble.com
Excerpt from "Scotch on the Rocks"
Copyright 2007
1. Night Flyer
I was late for the play at Evansville College, my dashboard clock told me. I muttered a curse. If I hadn't had that last drink at Allen's tonight, I wouldn't be crunching the accelerator to gain some extra minutes driving down Lincoln Avenue. The rain-spattered windshield had me squinting to keep inside the road's yellow line. I blinked to clear my vision, easing up on the accelerator pedal a bit. It was annoying that the damn line kept wiggling. How was I supposed to drive on the right side if it didn't stay straight? The frantic swish-swish of the wipers dancing across the windshield was getting on my nerves. If only I could switch on some music. That would drown them out. But the radio was on the blink. To calm myself down, I stuck a Pell Mell between my lips, pushed in the cigarette lighter, and waited. In a few seconds, it popped out and I lowered my eyes to grope for it. My fingers found the lighter and as I looked up at the road again, out of the darkness, a parked Volkswagen materialized inches away on my right. Startled, I jerked hard on the steering wheel just in time to keep from side-swiping the car. A shaky breath escaped my lips as I gripped the wheel firmly with both hands.
“That was a narrow escape,” I whispered to myself.
The light turned red at Kentucky Avenue and Lincoln; I braked and tossed the cigarette in the ashtray. The urge to smoke had evaporated. A peep at the clock, while I waited for the light to change, needled me, once more, to keep hurrying. It was in my favor that the streets folded up this time of night in Evansville. No cars out and about meant I could go faster for the rest of the way down Lincoln. I gazed at the red light. Come on, come on. How long are you gonna stay red? Ahead, streetlights threw out yellow shafts of light. A couple of cars sped across the intersection in front of me, their tires whistling on black pavement that glistened with raindrops. My eyes shifted to the painted line ahead down the middle of the street. It still shimmied like a snake, so I closed one eye and looked again. The line seemed to straighten.
“No more shimmy, shimmy like my sister Kate,” I bragged to the empty car.
The light turned yellow. Then green. My toes pushed down on the accelerator and the car jumped forward to cross Kentucky Avenue, the line of demarcation between Black folks' home ground and White folks' territory. Outside my windshield, I noticed the outlined shapes of trees streaking by and melting into pools of black shadows. Further back, big, brightly lit houses sat comfortably on broad expanses of lawn. It was getting hard for me to make out what was shadow and what was substance. I scooted forward, squinting. Because the rain was now no more than a few drops, my car's wipers began to screech and scrape. I twisted the control dial to intermittent and glanced at the clock. It was five minutes after eight and the play would be starting now. The speedometer needle pointed at thirty-nine miles per hour. There'd be no more stoplights for a few blocks, so I could get away with just a little bit more speed. Must go faster, I told myself and pressed down on the accelerator.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a puppy dart out into the street. I slammed my foot on the brake, hard. And as soon as I did, the car skidded to the right. For a moment, my mind froze. Was I supposed to turn the car into the skid or away from it? I couldn't remember. Following instinct, I steered left instead of right. The Pinto spun like a whirligig, weaving across the street's middle line. Everything was out of control. Not far ahead, I saw the lights of an oncoming car. Desperate to get out of harm's way, I hit the accelerator, at the same time, tugging at the wheel. A corner appeared out the darkness and I jerked right, sharply, swerving in. Too fast! My mind screamed as the car barreled toward parked cars on my right. To compensate, I pulled the wheel to the left, but too far. The car surged into a driveway and up the incline of a yard. Wind rushed past my cheeks from the half-opened windows. Suddenly, a huge Magnolia tree loomed up out of the yard, directly in my car's path. I tried pulling the steering wheel to the right to avoid the tree, but it wasn't quite enough. Bark flew and I closed my eyes, hearing the sound of screaming metal as the Pinto plowed in and sideswiped the Magnolia. I could feel the driver's door buckling while shattered glass popped like firecrackers; shards flew into my hair, fell on my coat, and into my lap. The car came to rest with the driver's door jammed shut, and its nose bulldozed into the Magnolia. I groaned when I realized the car and I were sitting in the front yard of a Georgian style, two-story mansion. Shit-a-mile! No way could I play this off; these folks would be calling the cops for sure. Maybe they wouldn't smell the liquor though. I fumbled for some breath mints as a young, blonde woman came running out of the front door to find out if I needed an ambulance. I told her I didn't, then threw a couple of mints in my mouth as I climbed out on the passenger side. It was gonna be a long night.
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TRUE STORY. Bella survived an abusive powerbroker father with organized crime ties, a drug-addicted mother and a physically/sexually abusive brother. Shocking & inspirational. When she couldn't cry, she tattooed a crying angel to cry for her.
She never felt safe at home as a young girl, and didn't understand why when she finally escaped she wasn't safe in the big wide world either ...effectively jumping out of the frying pan into the fire!
