In the Forest of Light and Dark (2 page)

this
distraught. And, without any doubt, my Step Daddy Cade would’ve had that smirk on his face that he’d always get whenever I did something wrong. His lips would curl up around the corners of his mouth as he desperately tried to hide his grin. Knowing full-well that if he had ever let on to my mama that he thought my antics were funny to him, she’d turn her frustrations she’d had with me out on him just as soon as she’d finished dealing with my sorry butt.
     But for once though, they didn’t beat around the bush as they tried figuring out a way of gently breaking to me whatever it was they had to tell me.
     I had always hated that shit. Dragging out the inevitable and making me wait in anxious anticipation for them to inform me that something horrible has happened or was going to happen. As if waiting and dragging things out was going to lessen the sting of whatever it was they were going to say. That’s like pulling off a band-aid slowly—it’s just plain torture. For as long as I could remember I had always thought that whenever my parents had treated me with kid’s gloves, it was nothing but bullshit, and cowardly to bout. I had wished that they’d just man up, grow a pair already and spit it out. I have things to do today.
     “Your Grandmother died.” My mama said to me sorrowfully after taking a long moment to work up the nerve to say the words, and my first thoughts were,
Oh, shit no… Not Grandma Singer.
I love Grandma Singer
. Then, suddenly I felt as if I had a thousand pound weight bearing down on my chest—as if a force was trying to burrow its way deep inside of me eager to rip out my heart.
     (
A little about my Grandma Singer. She’s the coolest, toughest; four-foot six-inch old broad you’ll ever meet. She loves to gamble, smoke, drink, swear, hunt, fish, race cars, make moonshine, and she cooks with tons-and-tons of butter. And I swear… given the chance, she’d be a Madam running her own burlesque house. My Grandma Singer is everything I inspire to be one day.)
    
The news of Grandma Singer dying had hit me like a punch to the gut and I quickly became so wrought up that I hadn’t even noticed when my mama began consoling me when she’d wrapped her arms tightly around me. At that moment it was as if I was a million miles away and all I could feel was this impenetrable wall of sadness welling up inside of me. Looking back at that moment, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more abject in my entire life than I did right then, curled up in my mama’s arms crying like a baby. But then my mama had said something to my step daddy that had changed everything, she said, “So, what do you think is going to happen with her house up in New York now?”
    
WHAT?
Was all I can remember that was going through my mind the instant my mama had finished speaking that sentence.
     You see, Grandma Singer was my Step Daddy Cade’s mama. My step daddy had been born and raised right here in Alabama along with the rest of his family. He had never even left the state except for a brief time when he had attended college in New Orleans. And, from what I had heard of that, I guess college hadn’t worked out all-too-well for him. (You could say my Step Daddy Cade isn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. In fact, I’d say he’s so dim-witted that he couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions printed on the bottom.)
     Well, during my step daddy’s brief time in school books had quickly and thoroughly kicked his ass, so he had spent most of his time getting high and drunk down in the French Quarter before eventually returning home.
     But, what I was getting at was, Grandma Singer
didn’t
have a house in New York. She had always lived right here in Saraland with us. So, of course, I was a bit confused.
     After having wiped away my tears with the palms of my hands, I’d asked my mama, “What do you mean? You said Grandma Singer is dead.” I say this to her as my chest continues to hitch and I do my best at keeping another sob from creeping up into my throat. At the time I remembered having felt a little embarrassed over my sobbing. Not that it wasn’t okay to cry when somebody dies, of course. It’s just that… I’m no wimp, and I have never liked letting people see me cry, not even my parents.
     “No, Cera.” my mama, then says to me in a soft tone. “Grandma Singer’s just fine. It’s my mother, your Grandma Barrett, who has died.”
     Now, I don’t want to sound like I’m coming off as a cold-hearted bitch here, but
Wahoo!
Grandma Barrett…
Who-the
-
hell
cares, I had never even met the old buzzard. I had only seen one wallet-sized picture of her, and the photo’s quality was sketchy at best. As far as I’d been concerned, this wasn’t even going to put the slightest of dents in my weekend plans at all.
     But at this point before we move on I should probably tell you a little more about my Grandma Lyanna Barrett. She was my mama’s mama obviously, and she had lived up in a place called Mount Harrison, New York. That was where my mama and the rest of her family (whatever’s left of it) are originally from. I had never even met my Grandmother Lyanna, let alone have been up to her place in New York because my mama had ditched her hometown and skinned-out back when she was just eighteen. Yeah, she just grabbed her cigar box of running away money and took off for the South.
     From what I had managed to piece together, though, over the years—because mama would never talk about her past—was there had been a lot of pretty messed up rumors about my Grandma Lyanna circulating around in Mount Harrison. Apparently, the people there had thought of her as somewhat of a Witch, or harridan, or something like that. Like she was the old woman who had given Snow White the poison apple. Well, at least that’s how I had pictured her in my mind to be when I had thought of her. But, judging from that small wallet-sized photo of her that my mama still kept in her bedroom, she really didn’t look that way at all though. She was still very much quite youthful looking and appealing for her age. Not that she was all that old in the first place of course. I think she was only in her upper fifties.
     From what I had taken of her, though. I somewhat get the impression that my Grandma Lyanna was into a lot of pretty weird stuff my mama would never elaborate on. That she was like Wiccan or something similar—casting spells, growing herbs, deeply into moon catchers and dancing by a boiling cauldron. You know, the fairy tale type of weird shit that would’ve gotten her burned at the stake a few hundred years ago but thankfully people are too smart to believe in today. Well, I probably shouldn’t even say that, if you take a look around here you’ll still find plenty of morons in Saraland, and even more in New Orleans where they still believe in voodoo and zombies. And, every once in a while I’ll still hear of a story in the news about how a woman made ghetto lobster out of one of her kids because she said the Devil made her do it.
     But, for now, let’s get back to my mama. So, the way I figured it… My mama takes off because she just couldn’t deal with Grandma Lyanna’s weirdness, or her reputation, or all the dicks in her hometown talking shit about the two of them. (I can relate.) So, she leaves home at eighteen for the South and spends the next two and a half years partying in N’awlins. (That’s New Orleans for you Yankees who read this.) Until one day, she finds herself knocked-up with me, compliments of some dirt bag and a bottle of tequila.
     But, it’s not all bad though. A year or two after I was born, she meets my Step Daddy Cade at a Phish show while I was apparently dancing for a crowd of onlookers, one of which happened to be my Step Daddy Cade, and they’ve been together ever since.
     Really though, I guess you could say my mama’s story isn’t all that uncommon now that I’ve thought about it. It’s the same one that gets played out over-and-over again, especially here in Saraland. And, as I grew up in Alabama, I saw this same thing happen to some of the girls in-and-around my hometown quite-a-bit. It even eventually happened to my friend Lettie Sheppard, and I had already told you about my friend Amanda and her baby Jeremy.
     So at this point, like I said, my mama hugs me again and then asks me if I’m gonna be alright, and I tell her, “Yes, I’m fine.” I then let my tongue slip by telling her that since I’d never met Grandma Lyanna, so… And I didn’t want to say,
so her dying is really no big deal to me
, but honestly that’s  kind of how I felt. I was sixteen. I was self-involved. That’s how all sixteen-year-olds think, right?
     Anyways, given that it was obvious that the news had saddened my mama, I then found myself being the one giving her a hug and asking her if
she’d
be the one to be alright, to which she replied, “I’ll be fine, honey. You go be with your friends if you had something already planned. There’s not much we can do now anyways.” Then, she kissed me atop my forehead again and told me how sweet I was. Soon after that I was out the door, but not before having made a quick stop to my room where I retrieved some of the contents of my cigar box.
 

*****
 

A week later I had turned seventeen and had landed myself a summer job at
the Boonies pizza and subs
making pies and all kinds of assorted sandwiches. Sometimes during busier shifts I would also wait on tables in the place’s small dining room for tips. It was okay work, and the money wasn’t too bad either. I had brought home roughly eighty bucks on a good day and about sixty for an average.
     I had decided to use the tips as my spending money and save the paychecks for repairing the Trans AM and it wasn’t long before the money really grew. By July’s end, I could already see myself flying down the road with my friends, T-tops off, with the wind blowing my hair back, while sound of white noise filled my eardrums as rubber met the pavement.
     And as the dog-days of summer passed by everything for me seemed on track and running smoothly for once. At the time, if you would’ve asked me, I would’ve had to have said that it looked like it was really turning out as a pretty decent summer for me indeed.
     I had spent most of my days off just goofing-off with Lettie and Gerralyn down by the Gulf. The beaches having still remained open even though we couldn’t go into the water due to that BP Deep Horizon oil rig blowing out its asshole and spilling a bunch of crude in the water. It sucked the big one, but I got over it because it was my evenings that I looked forward to the most. I had spent them partying in the forested area a couple of miles from my house with my best gals and a few of my guy friends Tucker Calhoun, Eron Durfee, and Owen Doss whom I’ve mentioned already from our game of spin-the-bottle.
     Owen had his brothers ID and would use it to pick up a case or two of Budweiser along with a bottle Southern Comfort because that was the universally accepted favorite that everyone was okay with drinking. Better yet, sometimes Lettie would score a handful of Mitsubishis from her cousin Jeff, who was a low-level drug dealer and part-time cashier at the Winn Dixie.
     (If you don’t know what Mitsubishis are? They’re ecstasy pills that are all white and look like an aspirin. The only way to identify them is by the three-diamond Mitsubishi symbol embedded in them.)
     They were my favorites! I loved it when Lettie could score them. They would make me feel all mellow and happy and would give me the color trails when I glanced at something too quickly. The only downside of having them was that every time Tucker was rolling on them, he would try his damnedest to get into my pants. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. It was just… At the time I would never want to have such an awesome buzz ruined by a sweaty guy thrusting his unwashed junk
at
or
in
me. Plus, like I said, I’m not that sort of girl. I’m still very much a Southern belle thank-you-very-much even though what I may have written so far might suggest to you otherwise.
 

*****
 

Soon, July had passed into August in what seemed like a blink-of-an-eye, but thankfully by then I had saved up most of the money needed to get the Trans AM fixed up and back on the road with new tires and tags—and just in time for the start my senior year. But, that was when the shit really hit the skids for me and my family though. Not that we hadn’t come to expect that already. We have had more than our fair share of rainy days over the years. I guess you could say it came with the territory of being a Singer. Our family motto being,
It can always get worse…
    
What had happened was, in the four months that had passed since that well blew out in the Gulf, my Step Daddy Cade’s job at Carson & Company (They’re a seafood distribution company in Mobile.) had slowed down to a standstill. My Step Daddy Forrest—sometimes I like to call my Step Daddy Cade, Forrest Gump because he’s born and raised in Alabama, he’s a bit of a dip shit, and he works in the shrimp industry—had spent the last twelve years working for C&C and when that well blew out. It had killed all the fishing in the Gulf real quick. The shrimp industry alone had decreased by more than seventy percent, virtually overnight, which meant, everyone in the area who had depended on the Gulf for their livelihood was now hitting the unemployment line.
     My step daddy’s boss, Brooks Fletcher, had done his very best to supply work for my step daddy and everyone else at Carson & Company during the tough time. But, after three months of not having any real work for his employees—due mostly on account of the FDA having put a halt to
all
fishing in the Gulf, not just where the oil was—money had become just too tight to keep everyone onboard, and mass layoffs was soon handed down from the bigwigs.
     My step daddy had ended up being one of the firsts with his head on the chopping block. (Probably because of his attitude and always being late, but he’ll never admit to that.) So once again, as if I was living in my very own version of
Groundhog Day,
I found myself sitting on a stool in the kitchen listening to my parents ramble on about how tough it was going to get around here again at least for a little while. Well, at least until Step Daddy Cade found new work that is.
    
My mama, who was now our sole household income, had worked at
the sweet tooth,
which was a local bakery here in Saraland. Her job didn’t earn her very much, but it helped to pay the bills. Well, it would have that is. If, weren’t for the store’s owner, Olivia Duncan, having to go and pull her new age hippie crap by changing the bakery’s menu from good-old-fashion artery clogging bake goods, to gluten-free, organic, vegan, this stuff will make you die of a vitamin B-12 deficiency crap.
    
And, just like that, what had happened to my Step Daddy Cade’s job down at Carson & Company had happened to my mama’s job at the sweet tooth
.
Business slowed, then crawled, and eventually died a few weeks later.
     So, where did that leave us now? I guess with me being the only one still with a job left. I had officially become the de facto bread-winner for the family.
     Goodbye Trans AM.
    
The very next day after having found out about my mama possibly being out of a job soon too, I had gone into work where I’d asked my boss, Ray Boone (Who was also the owner of
the Boonies pizza and subs
.) if he had any extra shifts he could give me. He had listened to me as I explained to him how my step daddy had just lost his job due to the mess in the Gulf. Then I told him all about how the relief money supposedly coming from BP to all of us people affected by the spill was taking its sweet-ass time getting here. I also told him about how my mama was having a hard time holding down hours at her job due to her boss’s new ingenious business model of trying to get people from the Deep South to put down the butter and lard in exchange for egg replacer, powder cookies, and sunshine muffins.
     Ray had seemed to have found that pretty hilarious.
    
“I think we can work somethin’ out.” My boss, Mr. Boone, then said to me in his usual wheezing and labored voice after having listened to my hardship. Then, he asked me if I would close his office door behind me and come up next to him at his desk where his fat ass was already sitting overflowingly in his tattered and stained chair so that we could look over the work schedule for the upcoming week.
     “I have you on four days this week, including Friday and Saturday.” He said as he peered through the schedule. “I think I can squeeze you on Tuesday and Monday of next week to be a little extra help around the kitchen. Maybe, I can have you do some cleanup work.” He then said to me having looked up and freezing in a pause as if what he had just mentioned was a question and was now waiting for my response. So I told him, “That would be great, anythin’ at all would be a big help.”
     “Good, good,” he replied. “You know I thought I overheard Mary Beth sayin’ somethin’ about wantin’ this weekend off so she could go to a concert or somethin’. Whatdayasay I have a talk with her and maybe you can pick up her evening shifts and pull a couple of doubles this weekend? Should be pretty good money.”
     “Yeah, I guess so.” I said, not happy at all over the thought of working doubles throughout the weekend, but what choice did I have? I needed the money—My parents needed the money.
    
“All right, I’ll talk to Mary Beth when she comes in.” Mr. Boone then said as he tossed the work schedules back atop his desk. I then thanked him before turning around to head out of his office.
    
“Oh, and Cera, aren’t you forgettin’ something?” he then said calling me back into his office.
    
I couldn’t for the life of me think of what it was that I might have forgotten. I knew that I had just thanked him after he’d given me the extra shifts. So, dumbfounded. I turned back around and warily walked back up to the side of his desk and asked, “W-What’s that, sir.”
    
“
Well
…” he then said to me in a slithery voice. “I just did somethin’ nice for you. Don’tcha think you might want to do somethin’ nice for me?” He then reached out trying to take my hand in his.
     Ew,
I thought as I pulled my hand away from his as fast as I could before saying, “
Excuse me?”
    
“Oh, c’mon now, Cera. Don’t be like that.” he then said while trying to take my hand again, to which I pulled away once more.
    
I then told him, “I don’t think what you’re doing is appropriate.” and I quickly turned around making for the door. But before I could leave he suddenly grabbed me from behind pulling me down into his lap.
    
After landing on him, I could feel the heat radiating from his tree-trunk sized thighs on my bare legs. I could also feel an impressively small-sized mound from what I had assumed was his semi-erect penis bulging up from his dirty shorts.
    
“No. No!” I struggled to scream as I flailed slapping at his hands and corpulent forearms. I suddenly threw myself forward, grasping his desk’s edge for leverage before heaving myself upright in a desperate attempt to free myself of him.
    
Now at this point, I’m not sure if he had let me go, or if I’d managed to wiggle myself free, but I found that I was able to pull myself clear of his grasp and I instantly made for the back hallway and to the safety of the kitchen and my co-workers.
    
As I left his office I had screamed back at him, “Fuck You!” just as soon as I had felt safe enough away from his clutching hands, which by that point, was in the hallway just outside the office door.
    
“Wait…
Wait!
” Mr. Boone then cried out to me. “I’m sorry, Cera. Stop… Please wait.”
    
I was all set to storm out of there but for some reason I looked back at him from just outside of the office door’s threshold. Thinking back now, I don’t know why I had even stopped. I should’ve just walked out of there never to return, but I guess that… I guess that the thought of me having also lost my job would’ve ended up hurting my family too much at the time. So, I hesitantly walked back into his office hoping that he would apologize and we’d forget about what just happened.
    
Ray got up from his chair and I heard it make a creaking sound as if breathing a sigh of relief. He then slowly approached me as I took a tentative step backwards, edging, myself further down the hall.
    
“Look, I’m sorry.” he said sounding sincere. “It’s just that things haven’t been goin’ to well at home lately.” Ray then paused to adjust the waistband of his shorts and jostled his crotch in front of me while doing so. He then said, “Its Karen, and the kids. They’ve been puttin’ a lot of stress on her, and it’s been causing her to be in a real
mood
lately. She hasn’t been doin’ her
womanly duties
if ya know what I mean.”
     Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?
Is what I was thinking just then, but what I had actually said back to him was just, “
WHAT?
” having been incredulous of him blaming his perverted actions on his wife and kids.
    
“Look, why don’t you just get to work, and we’ll both put all of this unfortunateness behind us.” Ray then said giving me his best dirt-bag smile. “And if you’d be willin’ to keep our little conversation we just had between us, there’ll be a little bonus in your next week’s check. A little somethin’
extra
to help out the fam.”
    
I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to tell him exactly what I thought of him and his stupid fucking job. But, with my step daddy out of work and my mama’s hours at
The sweet tooth
having been cut back,
I was stuck. My family needed the money too badly. So, I was left with no choice but to bite my lower lip, swallow my pride and say, “Yes, sir.”
    
After choking out those words I felt my face become flush with embarrassment, and I hated myself just then for not quitting. But what could I do? So, I just headed for my workstation.
    
As soon as I had turned around though, to make my way down the hallway towards the kitchen, the fat pig said to me, “Now, that’s a good girl.” and he then proceeded to slap me on my ass. And,
of course,
I did then, what any self-respecting Southern girl would have done in my shoes. I slugged him.
    
Well, needless to say… My time at
the Boonies pizza and subs
had come to its end. It was as if the sound of my right hook making contact with Ray’s right eye was that of a judge’s gable hammering down on a ruling.