His breath smelled of alcohol and rot. One hand is covering my mouth while the other flashes a knife in front of my eyes. I can taste the sweat from his palms against my lips and it makes me want to vomit. I choke a little and try to scream. I instantly regret making any noise, now the children are awake too, and he sees them. He glares down at the floor where they lay on their pallets and they gaze back up at him with confused, blank faces. Oh, my poor babies.
The knife is pressed against my throat now, his face is just inches from mine and I can see the red veins darting across the whites of his eyes. “If you make another noise I’ll cut you, and your bastards too.”
I nod my head once. I strain my eyes to see past him to my children, but he’s blocking them from my sight. He laughs in my face and takes his hand from my mouth to unbutton his pants. The knife is still pressed to my throat; it’s one of the steak knives from the kitchen. I begin to cry. “Mommy, who is here?”
Miranda’s little voice is filled with so much malice, she sounds like a grown woman instead of a nine-year-old child. My stomach is in knots, please Miranda, shut up. Don’t draw him to you.
That’s the first night I learned to shut my mouth and curl up into the smallest ball possible. The tall black man towered over my mother that early morning in July with a knife to her throat and raped her over and over again. We both survived by sealing our lips and eyes and letting what ever was going to happen, happen.
Now, a couple months later I’m sitting in my grandmother’s front yard under an orange tree. Scattered around me are over ripened oranges with big, gushing wounds stabbed into them so they look like they are grinning in the sun. I haven’t seen my mother since she left in the white van with the tinted windows. My brothers and I have been living with my grandma, my mothers mom, for over a month and every time I ask about my mom my grandma tells me I have to be patient.
So I pass the time by replaying that morning over and over in my head. But in my head I am my mother, and the big coffee colored man is laying on top of me, breathing into my face. I’m ready for him though, in my minds eye. I have my pocketknife in my left front pocket and I pull it out and hold it in my hand until he is close to my face and I can see his pores like craters and smell his rotting teeth.
Instead of lying on my pile of blankets on the floor listening to my mother cry I send my one-inch long knife into his throat, into the soft, fleshy space right under his chin. I slam it into him and pin his wet tongue to the roof of his mouth and watch his blood shot eyes bug out in surprise.
I practice the fluid, up ward motion I would use on the oranges. Over and over again I send my knife sinking through the flesh of the fruit, imagining arteries severing instead of pulp. The sound I imagine it would make is soothing to me, as comforting as a lullaby. The gasp of his breath catching in his wind pipe, the gurgling of his blood flooding out of him and over me.
I’m so caught up in this dream that I don’t even notice my Aunt Beverly pulling up in the driveway in her little white car. She taps her way towards me in her shiny red pumps and stares at me killing the fruit with disgust plainly written across her face. Her plump, lipstick lined lips are set in a frown and one drawn on eyebrow is arched at me. I look up in surprise when she snaps at me, “Girl, where did you get that weapon?”
My head snaps up as I instinctively hide the knife behind my back. “My dad gave it to me Aunt Bev.”
My aunt Beverly looks and acts nothing like my mother, it’s almost hard to believe that they are sisters. Her eyes are the same dark, muddy shade of brown as her hair, and she always keeps it hanging loose around her round, moon face. She has 3 chins, and she keeps a bottle of hair spray in her bag at all times. Her eyes narrow at my reply, and I regret mentioning my father. There is nothing that will piss her off quicker than talking about my dad. “It figures that piece of shit would give a child a knife to play with. Stupid fucker.” She’s seething now.
I dip my head low until my chin is touching my chest, as if it were I she was cursing at instead of my father. I wish with all my might she would just go inside her trailer and leave me be. But no such luck, she had just come home from shopping. I peek at her shopping bags from under my eyelashes and see some from Macys, Ross, and Payless. Dread begins to bubble up in my guts and my head starts swimming.
“I bought you some stuff today, come inside with me and try it on” She rakes my body with her eyes quickly and takes in my crumpled cargo shorts and over sized T-shirt and adds, “After you wash that mess from your face and hands, of course.”
She has this ability to make me feel like the most disgusting thing on the planet, all she has to do is look at me and I feel the need to bathe and brush my teeth. Bathing isn’t enough though. My aunt Beverly has this idea that I need to dress up, wear make up and have tea parties, like other little girls. She is constantly buying me clothes, perfume and dolls that I loath.
“No thank you, I’m not ready to go inside yet,” I tell her politely, hoping that good manners will win this battle for me.
Once again, no such luck. She had starting walking away after she instructed me to come in side, not even waiting to hear my response. Now she is standing stalk still in the pathway, her bags swinging gently in her chubby fists.
“That was not a request Miranda. Get your ass out of the dirt, come inside and wash your hands. Then you are going to put these clothes on and help me cook dinner for your brothers and uncles. Now.”
I stare the 3 big fat rolls that make up her back and think about telling her to go fuck her self, but stop short. The last time I cursed at my Aunt I was beat with the razor belt and made to stand in the corner for an hour in parade rest. I did not want a repeat of that so instead I stand and thrust my knife in my front left pocket. “Okay” I reply softly.
She begins tapping her way to the front door again with out looking behind her and I imagine the thin heels of her red pumps snapping under her weight and sending her flailing on her back like a big beetle. I snicker at the thought of this as I follow her into my grandmother’s 2-bedroom trailer.
My grandmother has two acres of land, and two trailers sit on it like big fat toads. They are ugly and do nothing but croak out nasty smells and people all day. My grandma and Uncle Bill lived in the first trailer until my two younger brothers and I came along, now we all share it. My aunt Beverly and her son live in the second trailer. We zip between the two toads all day like flies, trying not to be swallowed up for too long. When I can I sit in the yard, a safe distance from the hungry hole I live in, and think about my mother. I worry about if she’ll ever come back, or if she’ll ever forgive me for letting that man hurt her and then get away scotch free. Sometimes I sit for hours worrying, until the mosquitoes have left dozens of angry little hills across my arms and legs and it feels as if I’ve cried all of the water out of my body.
I allow my aunt Beverly to dress me in the pink tank top and shorts she bought me at Target. She runs a brush through my thick, long hair until my eyes water and there are no more knots or tangles. “You have your mothers hair, you should take better care of it,” she scolds me.
I know she doesn’t expect me to respond so I just sit there in front of her big mirror and allow her to apply gloss and eye shadow to my face with her plump sausage like fingers. I hate my hair; it’s so thick that if I don’t wash and brush it everyday it mats up at the nap of my neck. Usually I just allow it to form into one big dread at the base of my neck. That is until my aunt Bev gets her hands on it.
She stops smudging blush on my cheeks long enough to take a drag off of her Marlboro. I watch her fire engine red nails bring the cigarette to her lips and marvel at how she can puff on it with out messing up her lipstick. It’s the most talented thing I’ve ever seen my aunt do.
I breathe in the smell of the smoke and her perfume with out flinching. I’ve been breathing second hand smoke for as long as I can remember, it doesn’t faze me at all now. What tickles my nose is the smell of pot leaking in from the living room. My cousin is hitting his pipe again in the other room. The smoke makes my head tingle and my eyes water.
Aunt Bev catches me staring and glances at herself in the mirror as if she’s checking to make sure her eyebrows are still drawn on evenly. After a couple seconds of pruning she compliments me in her matter of fact way. “You look very pretty with your hair brushed. And Pink suits your complexion.”
“Thank you Aunt Beverly,” I mumble at her.
She faces me and purses her midnight wine lips, anger flicking across her face. Oh fuck, I messed up again. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, but I don’t dare wipe it off for fear of smudging my foundation.
“You look really nice too!” I add, hoping that will fix whatever error I made.
She doesn’t say any thing; instead she’s looking past me to my cousin standing in the doorway. He’s drooping the doorframe and the sight of him makes me nervous. His eyes are red and angry looking, as if he’s possessed with something evil. “Yo ma, Barbie is here,” He croaks.
Barbie is my aunt Bev’s best friend. She is a big woman like my aunt, and she wears too much make up. Her fat folds burst out of her clothing in provocative ways. I squirm in my seat and Aunt Bev glares at me as if she wants to slap me so I sit still.
Barbie has a daughter, a little girl about 2 years younger then me. Her name is Maria, and I don’t like her because she’s mixed. I was always told I shouldn’t talk to people who weren’t white or Christian. But I’d rather sit in the bedroom with Maria then out in the living room with my aunt.
I take a deep breath and blurt out my question before I become too afraid to, “May I stay in here and play with Maria tonight please?”
Ryan looks at me as if he’s just noticing I’m in the room. “I don’t give a fuck.” He replies.
Maria has Carmel skin and huge hazel eyes. When I asked my grandma why Maria was so much darker than me, she told me Barbie was nigger lover. The little girl sitting across from me on the bare mattress didn’t seem as evil as the man who raped my mother. Her skin wasn’t as dark and her hair was soft and fluffy. I wanted to reach out and pet her, but I knew I couldn’t touch a black person, even a half black person.
In her hands she clutches a gold crucifix. I stared at it in disbelief, my mouth hanging open. “Don’t you know you aren’t suppose to have graven images of Jesus?” I blurt out.
She clutches the gaudy thing closer to her and stares at me as if I just slapped her. Her thick, full lips begin to quiver and I feel bad for saying anything. “My Daddy gave it to me…”
I instantly understand her pain. I wish I had something of my mothers to hold onto. I reach deep into my left pocket and pull out my pocketknife to show her. She flinches a little when I snap it open. I smile at her reassuringly and whisper; “My daddy gave this to me before he went to jail.”
I trace my fingers over the pack of wolves on the handle of the knife and a tear runs down my cheek. “I don’t have anything from my mom though.”
She smiles at me and I can see a big gap between her front two teeth. Maybe I can be this girl’s friend, if I don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t my grandma to think of me as a nigger lover, but I am so lonely.
She reads my mind and scoots closer to me on the mattress, our feet dangle over the edge and I admire her tiny, coffee stained toes. “Did your dad go to jail too?” I ask in a small voice.
“No… he died a year ago.” Her voice is as smooth as honey and doesn’t seem to match her frail frame.
I don’t respond to this so she continues, “It’s okay though, I’m going to see him in heaven some day.”
I almost tell her Niggers don’t go to heaven, but I stop. I want this girl to be my friend, so I just keep what my grandma taught me to myself.
She meets my eyes full on, something I’m not use to people doing, and asks me in a serious tone, “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your lord and savior?”
“No, but I do love Jesus and I know him” I reply defensively.
“Well you have to be saved and baptized in the blood of the lamb if you want to go to heaven when you die” she says with a bit of an attitude.
“I know, my grandma taught me all about that, we are Southern Baptists.” I look at her skeptically, “Are YOU saved and baptized?”
She kept gazing into my eyes the whole time and it made me feel weird. I’m not use to people keeping eye contact with me for so long.
“Yes, I love God more than anything in the world. He lives in my heart and soul.” She tells me in one breath; as if it’s the best thing she could possibly tell anyone.
“I love my mom more than anything in the world,” I tell her, and quickly add, “but I love God a close second.”
Maria shakes her head and frowns at me. I’m starting to get angry now. I don’t like people telling me I’m wrong. “Don’t you love your mom more than God too?” I ask.
“No, I love God more than any one or thing in the world. He is my lord and savoir.” She explains.
We sit quietly for a little bit thinking about God and parents. I’ve forgotten by this point that I’m talking to a seven year old mixed girl. Now she is just Maria, who doesn’t have a parent just like me.
“Why do you love God so much if you can’t see him?” I ask her. I’m afraid she might think I’m dumb for asking, but I’m curious and want to know.
To my surprise her attitude from earlier has vanished and she is crying again. In a quivering voice she whispers, “I can feel God holding me when my mom doesn’t hold me, he’s the only person who loves me and who will never die and leave me all alone. I can’t see him but I can feel him in here,” she taps her boney chest.
I put my arm around her shaking shoulders and pull her towards me. She’s crying hard now and I can feel her whole body sobbing. We lie down on the stained mattress together and cry. My fat, white flesh pillows her skinny dark head, her cotton candy hair sticks to my damp cheeks but I don’t bother to push it away. I don’t care any more what color she is.
I don’t know what to say to make it okay for her so I just pet the halo of dark curls around her face until her tears subside and she finally sleeps. I lay awake and stare at the wall, trying very hard to feel God the way Maria described.
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t feel his presence the way she said she could. All I felt was the empty spot in my chest where my mothers love once was. Tears pool in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks, mingling with Maria’s tears.
