Like a Woman
like a woman
like a woman
debra busman
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5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.
Ann Arbor, MI 48103
www.dzancbooks.org
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author
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LIKE A WOMAN
. Copyright © 2014, text by Debra Busman. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.
Cover art by Oscar Hernandez
Designed by Steven Seighman
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Busman, Debra, 1953
  Like a Woman: a novel / by Debra Busman.
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pages cm
 1. Teenage girlsâFiction. 2. Self-realizationâFiction. 3. Los Angeles (Calif.)âFiction. 4. Bildungsromans. I. Title.
 PS3602.U8446L55 2014
 813'.6âdc23
2014013392
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ISBN: 978-1-938103-24-7
First U.S. Edition: March 2015
Printed in the United States of America
10Â Â 9Â Â 8Â Â 7Â Â 6Â Â 5Â Â 4Â Â 3Â Â 2Â Â 1
Contents
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Part One: A Fire that Had to Burn
The First Thing You Need to Know
the mother sucks the baby's marrow
the particulars of her emergence
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Part Five: Secondary Drowning
PART ONE
A Fire that Had to Burn
The Book of Bad Men
The first job Taylor ever had was pulling down her pants and peeing in front of the old man who lived in the wash behind the Hollywood Freeway. It was easy money. Steady work. Flexible hours. He never touched her, never frightened her. Just gave her dimes for every puddle she made. She was seven.
At first she used the money to buy sodas and ice cream. Then she figured out that having just a little money made it so much easier to steal. She could walk into a store like she belonged, strut up to the counter with her two extra-large cans of Alpo dog food, and hand over the money, all in dimes. Twenty-nine cents. Three puddles' worth, with a penny back. The checkout lady would say, “Oh, how sweet. Do you have a doggy, little girl?” and she would answer, “Yes ma'am,” and smile at the cool, scratchy feel of the Gaines Burger packets stuffed up under her shirt, pressed tight against her flat chest, back and belly.
Taylor fed all the stray dogs and cats in the neighborhood. That was her other job, but of course that one didn't pay. Hollering for the Shepherd/Collie mix with the hurt foot was how she had first met the man in the wash. She'd called the dog Shane until she found out he was a girl dog and then she called her Shane anyway. The old guy said he'd seen the dog earlier that morning and helped Taylor look for her. They got to talking about dogs and pretty soon the guy was telling Taylor about every dog he'd ever had since he was a little boyâBlue Tick hounds, Chocolate Labs, a little Terrier named Snitch, and even a purebred Dalmatian fire engine dog.
When Taylor said she had to go back home, the old man said, “Why? It's still early,” and she said, “Because I gotta pee,” and he said, “That ain't no reason to leave, honey. You can just squat right here in the sand. That's how Shane would do it, isn't it, honey?” And she thought about it and he was right, that was how Shane would do it, and why should she waste time running back home.
Taylor pulled down her jeans and underpants, squatted and peed, careful to not let the hot liquid touch her legs or shoes. She watched the sand turn dark as the puddle spread. It felt good, very liberating, like she'd discovered something the other kids didn't knowâthat you didn't have to go inside and use a bathroom if you needed to pee, not even if you were a girl. Then the old guy gave her a dime and said, “Now this will be our little secret, won't it,” and she nodded, zipping up her pants. Taylor understood about secrets.
The trouble started one day when Taylor was running out of the house, bladder full, to look for Shane and the old man. “Where you going and where'd you get that book?” her mama yelled after her, stopping the girl in her tracks. Taylor looked down at the
Encyclopedia of Dogs
she had stolen from the five and dime.
“Never steal, unless it's from the government,” her mom always said with a laugh but with eyes that meant business.
“It's my dog book,” Taylor said, turning around slowly. “I got it from a friend.”
“What friend?” her mom laughed. “You don't have any friends that can read.”
Truth was, Taylor didn't have any friends at all yet in the new neighborhood, but now she was backed into a corner. “Do so.” She clutched the book to her chest. “I got a friend who lives over by the freeway.”
Taylor never figured out quite how her world unraveled so fast. First her mom got all red and angry, interrogating her about the man in the washâwho was he and how did she know him and what did he do to her and did he touch her, did he touch her, did he touch her? “No, Mama. He don't never touch me. We just talk about dogs. He's my friend.” And did he ever touch her and did he ever make her touch him and did he ever touch her
down there?
“Mama, I told you, he don't never touch me and I ain't never touched him. He's my friend and he gives me dimes when I pee and we talk about dogs and he helps me feed Shane⦔ And then it was over.
The next thing she knew there were police everywhere. Three of them were right inside her house, two plainclothes from a squad car and one motorcycle cop standing by the door, arms crossed, sunglasses and helmet still on. Taylor started to tremble. She knew her mom was terrified of cops, hated âem worse than head lice and Satan, but there she was talking to them like there was something in the world even worse than cops and Taylor hadn't yet known that such a thing existed.
“Here, honey,” the older cop said. “We'd just like you to take a look in this book and tell us if you see the man who hurt you. These are all pictures of bad men. Tell us if you see anyone who looks like the man who hurt you.”
Taylor stared at the huge brown book lying open on the table in front of her. Rows and rows of black-and-white mugshots blurred before her eyes. She counted the men, six across, seven rows down, the plastic-covered pages yellowed, peeling, and worn.
“But he didn't hurt me,” she said, her voice thin and soft.
“Now tell us just exactly what he did to you,” the cop continued. “Did he touch you? Did he make you touch him? Did he put his fingers where they didn't belong? Did he touch your privates? Did he touch, you know, your pee hole?”
Taylor felt like she was going to throw up. She had never been so close to a cop before. She looked down at the table where he was still touching the book. His hand was huge, the knuckles covered with dark hair, furry, just like her uncle's hand. Her uncle touched her down there. His hands had touched her pee hole. His thick fingers had pressed against her lips. It was a secret.
Taylor wondered if her uncle's picture was in the brown book. She looked up at the motorcycle cop standing by the door. She wondered what he was smiling at. She thought he looked like a shiny black insect. She wanted to run for the door but she knew he would grab her if she tried. Then the older cop put his hand on her shoulder and she screamed. The hot piss ran down her legs, steaming into her socks.
as a child i believed
as a child i believed we came from wolves, somehow lost, separated inside the city's mass. the children, that is. i had no idea where adults came from, but i thought that children were all adopted, picked out like puppies from the pound. some got good homes with lots of food and room to play. some could only cower at the boot, snarl, or run away to try again. my home was not particularly good, except that it was filled with other strays, the pain came mostly in the night, and there was enough to eat
.
in that schoolyard moment when the other kids informed me that we didn't come from wolves, several strands were broken from the fraying thread that held me to that place and time. i was actually quite shocked by their versions of how we came to be in families. i never spoke of it again, but secretly, i still dreamed about the wolves. i' d hear the special howl the wolves used to bring their children home, and i' d run to join them. we' d all tumble together with lots of suckling, wrestling and chewing on ears. licked and growling, nuzzled about, tufts of fur in happy mouths, coming up for air
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