Like a Woman (6 page)

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” her mom yelled, spotting Taylor at the cutting board. “You know I told you not to touch that damn knife. Put that thing down right this minute. Mother, what did I tell you about letting that girl handle a knife? She's too young. It's just too damn dangerous for a child.” She looked at her watch. “Damn,” she said. “And now you've gone and made me late.” Shaking her head in disgust, Taylor's mom walked out, letting the back door slam behind her.

Taylor froze, slowly placing the knife down on the counter. Heart racing, she held perfectly still and listened. Once she heard the engine crank and the car pull out the drive, she relaxed a bit and began to breathe. Still, she didn't move.

Still humming and rolling out the dough with her one good hand, Taylor's grandmother looked down at the frozen girl. “Honey, what's wrong?” she asked.

Taylor stood still, one hand down by her side, the other resting inches from the blade.

Her grandmother wiped the flour from her good left hand onto her apron and put her arm around Taylor's shoulder. “Ah, honey,” she said, pulling the girl close. “Is it your mom? Don't mind her. She knows better than that foolishness. Saying a child like you can't handle a simple knife.” She sucked her teeth, making a tsking sound. “Besides, I'm the one who taught her, just like my daddy taught me. He'd say, ‘Child, just handle it. Whatever it is. Handle your business. Handle your fear. Because whatever you can't handle is just going to come back round and handle you.' That's how I was raised and that's how I raised your mama.”

She reached down and picked up the knife, carefully handed it to Taylor. “Here, child,” she said. “Take this. You're just fine. Go ahead now, cut.”

Taylor took the knife in her left hand and with her right picked up the first lemon, holding it steady, firm grip, knuckles out, keeping the blade away from her fingertips just like her grandmother had shown her. Taking a breath, with one smooth slice she cut through the lemon, smiling as the left half fell away, glistening, on the cutting board.

“That's right, honey. You're just fine.” Taylor's grandmother wiped her hand and picked up the rolling pin, turning back to her dough, softly singing now instead of humming, “Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee…”

Taylor reached for the pile of lemons and sliced through one after another, each with one smooth, simple stroke, the knife perfectly balanced in her small hand, the juice slightly stinging in the scrapes on her knuckles.

a quick snapping of the trap

i am not the soft brown mouse ambling down the trail, coming upon the yellow cheese propped here and there to find, nibbling along her way. picked up! suddenly rising in the air, thick thumb and fingers circling her belly. her tiny feet scrambling. her tiny heart exploding. put down to face another way. here's some water. here's some cheese. here's another wall. and i am not the sleek grey rat who races, stands and sniffs, turning corners with ferocious speed, precision cuts that do not touch the walls. the darting mind that fully knows its maze, yet still thinks there is a way. no longer bothering to stop and eat the hardened cakey cheese. and i am not the white and dying one, pink eyed, missing tufts of hair, though she knows who it is i am, and we watch together as the walls come closer. hands reach in, replacing wooden slats with shiny mirrors, some streaked with blood and shit. whose? hands which mostly leave, but sometimes come to push, to prod, as the big red faces peer down and wonder why she no longer tries to find her way. what went wrong with the experiment? how once she ran so quick. how once she cringed when the hands reached in—four legs peddling the hot thin air, wild heart beating, body stiff. how once she turned to bite. but who really wants to taste such flesh? i tell you these things so you know how i feel about outstretched hands, so you know i can't be picked up and taken from the maze. for i am not the soft brown mouse, and i am not the sleek grey rat, and i am not the white and dying one. i am what got left when recognition shattered. so don't mistake this hen's headless twitching for some thing you know as life. the bodies die, the walls cave in. there is no way. i am just a point of pain, a quick snapping of the trap
.

A Fire that Had to Burn

Taylor woke from a furious sleep to the sound of her mother's car careening up the drive. She knew how to read all the sounds that puke-brown Chevy Impala could make and she could tell from the protesting creaks on the last turn by her bedroom that it had been a whiskey kind of night down at the “union hall” everybody else knew as Ernie's Bar, and that she was in for a fight.

Her mom had been organizing workers in bars and pool halls ever since she could remember, and she knew the late nights and drinking were never gonna change. “But baby,” her mom would explain, “you know I can't meet with the machinists until they get off their last shift, and if they want a drink, well what can I say? We've almost got that contract wrapped up. We can't stop now.
Someone's
got to look after their rights.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know,” Taylor would answer, her stock reply.

Right now, however, Taylor had to quick jerk her jeans on and her mind out of its last bit of sleep because she knew this was not going to be a “yeah, Mom, I know” kind of night. She heard the engine die as the old Chevy rammed the plastic trashcans at the back end of the garage and choked to a stop.

When she was young Taylor had been afraid that car would crash right through her bedroom window, burying her in a pile of splintered wood and shattered glass, the metal beast finally coming to rest with its steaming radiator spitting down on her face and chest. But it never did, always making that last turn, although sometimes it took out part of the scrubby bush beside her window. More often than not the car's embattled body encountered some piece or other of the garage's equally beleaguered frame, a frame Taylor was determined to keep standing.

She felt a small rush of satisfaction that the trashcans had done their job. That afternoon she had strategically placed the two cans, filled with dirt and weeds, by the one remaining decent two-by-four holding up the back wall of the garage. Taylor had almost gotten busted stealing sheetrock the month before from the construction site down on 24
^th
Street and, even though two-by-fours were much easier to steal than sheetrock, she knew the contractors would be looking out for her and she'd have to lay low for a while. She had hoped to lift some lumber from the gas station they were building around the corner, but her friend Mario was the only Mexican working on the construction crew and she knew he'd be fired if anything turned up missing.

Taylor heard the front door slam. Too late to make it out the bedroom window, she knew she had made the mistake of lingering too long in her trashcan satisfaction. She heard her mom coming down the hall and knew her room was next.

“Goddammit, girl, how many times do I have to tell you to put shit away? I ran right into those damn trashcans you left lying around and it just about scared me to death.” Her mom balanced against the bedroom door, swaying slightly.

“I'm sorry, Mama.” Taylor took a step back, wondering if she could still make it to the window. Her bag lay by the closet to her mom's left, just out of reach. She felt tired. A sludgy, familiar mist crept up her back and neck and she knew there was no way out.

“Sorry don't mean shit, young lady! I'll show you sorry.” Taylor's mom took an unsteady step forward. Taylor stood still, ready to catch her if she fell, ready to block a blow.

She watched the cigarette smoke curling out of her mother's red-smeared mouth. It worried her that she hadn't seen her mother inhale. She made a quick mental note to pay better attention to the stained left hand holding one of the Pall Mall unfiltereds she bought her mom each week down at Joe's Liquors. It was the reason she missed the right hand coming up against the side of her head.

“Pay attention when I'm talking to you, goddammit,” her mother yelled, her voice husky and raw.

Taylor cursed the tears that came with a slap even though she refused to cry out. “I'm sorry, Mama,” she said. “Come on—it's late. Let me put you to bed.” Taylor reached for her mother's arm.

“You're not putting me anywhere until you do some explaining,” her mom said, pulling away. Taylor knew “explaining” was a dead-end trick. No, she wouldn't play that one anymore, though there was little else to play on nights like this. If she cooked dinner and her mom didn't come home, she was careless and wasteful of food. If she didn't make dinner, she was lazy, worthless, and ungrateful. If she didn't clean the house right, she was a no-good freeloader taking advantage of her hardworking mother. If she cleaned it too good, she was trying to shame her mother and pretend to be something better than she was. No, this was not something to be explained. This was just a fire that had to burn.

“Mama, I said I was sorry. It won't happen again. I'll put the cans up right next time, okay? Let's go to bed.” Taylor tried to make her voice something louder than a mumble, but still soft, calm—an engaged monotone.

The left hand caught her square across her face and she felt the warmth of blood sliding out her nose. Furious that she hadn't seen that one coming either, the girl raised her arm to block the next unseen blow and accidentally knocked the cigarette out of her mother's hand. They both stared in shock at the little glow burning into the dirty beige carpet. Neither moved. Then, slowly, Taylor bent down for the cigarette, ready to come back up with another “I'm sorry” when she got hit on the side of her head.

What the fuck!
Knocked down onto one knee, Taylor moved quickly into a crouch, body coiled.
Stay down
, she told herself.
Just stay down
. She tried to will herself to breathe, calm, take inventory. Her nose was starting to bleed again, and a fresh new cut had opened up by her left eye where her mom's ring must have hit. She felt no pain, just an irritating tickle of blood dripping down her face, small drops turning brown as they hit the floor.
Nothing you can't handle
, she thought, but inside she felt something crack open, a hot burn splintering down her chest and back into her arms.
Stay down
, she warned, but her body sprang forward, slamming her mom against the wall. From far away she thought she heard someone scream, “Don't you dare raise your hand to your mother,” but inside she felt a strange quiet and the curious sensation of her hands circling her mother's neck, raising her effortlessly up against the hallway door. She was only fourteen, but she was taller than her mom, whose body felt surprisingly small and light. Taylor saw her own skinny arms pinning her mom to the door, saw her mom's feet kicking at the air in slow futility. She felt no anger, just the fullness of hot lava flowing through her body. The terror would come soon, leaving her trembling on the pavement, sobbing on the cold night streets, but for now, the empty cavern in her chest felt full, warm.

There seemed no real reason for her to release rather than squeeze but that is what she did, and she watched as her mother fell in a heap to the floor. The girl turned and picked up the bag she kept packed with boots, jeans, her three favorite t-shirts, and her Levi jacket. She took the heavy, scuffed boots out of her bag and pulled them on. She looked at the four books sitting in the bag. The clothes stayed the same, but every night Taylor argued amicably with herself about what books to bring. Constant were
Charlotte's Web
and
The Yearling
, her two all-time favorites. She was looking at the two new ones she had just stolen,
Soul on Ice
and a book by Gandhi on nonviolence, when she heard the heap begin to cry.

“Baby, what are you doing? Where you going? You're not going to leave me. You know you're my best thing. You're the only one who understands me. Come here, baby. You know I love you the best. I'm sorry you got such a mess of a mama. Come on, help me to bed, okay?” Her mother reached out her arms, pleading.

Taylor looked over at the crumpled pile. Her mom's legs were folded at an awkward angle; the cigarette continued to burn on the floor. Taylor watched the blackened circle spread on the worn brown carpet for a moment before rubbing it out with her boot. She bent to pick her mother up, then carried her to the bed. Her mom's head rolled against her shoulder and Taylor fought off nausea as her mom's hair touched her cheek. Laying her gently down on the bed, Taylor put a blanket over the trembling form, still amazed at how small her mother seemed. She pulled off her mother's shoes, turned out the lights, picked up the bag with all four books in it, and climbed out the window into the streets below.

PART TWO

Steal Away

Telling Stories

“Whatcha doin'?” Taylor called out, popping her head into the back of the camper. She saw Jackson sitting in her usual spot, writing. “Why don't you put that shit down for a while and come get high with me,” she said. “You've had your head buried in that journal all damn day.” Pulling out a freshly rolled fatty, she waved it in front of her girlfriend. “I think you're gonna like this.” She grinned.

Jackson sat curled up on the floor, the coolest afternoon spot in the camper, her journal balanced between her knees. “I tell you what, girl,” she said, leaning back. “I'll give you half of what you want. I'll get high with you and then I'll go back to writing.”

“Ah, shit,” Taylor groaned. “You're working the best end of that deal. As usual.” She climbed inside, put her gear down, and pulled off her boots. “What you writing, anyway?” she asked. “Another letter to your mom?”

“Nah,” Jackson said. “Actually, I'm writing a story. Come on.” She patted the floor beside her. “Let's fire that nasty thing up.”

Taylor lit the joint and gave Jackson the first serious hit. Jackson held it for a moment and then leaned over and kissed her, blowing the smoke deep into her lungs. “Umm,” Taylor sighed, exhaling. “Now isn't this way better than writing?” She passed the joint to Jackson. “What's your story about, anyway?”