The Kid (25 page)

“No telling what Fast Ass died of. I know it near ’bout killt her mama—between Carl Baby ’n Fast Ass, umph, umph, umph!”

I remember taking the kaleidoscope from Etheridge Killdeer, but I don’t know if that’s because it was his, I don’t think so, I think it was mine, and I traded it for something, then didn’t want the something and wanted my kaleidoscope back, that’s fair.

Slavery Days ain’t operating with a full battery pack. The hamburger was good, bigger than McDonald’s but not as good. What I really need is fries. I look at the film on the kitchen wall, a coat of dust attached to years of grease. It ain’t like this at St Ailanthus, it’s clean there. Over the stove on the wall is a clock, not a digital, but a tick-tock, second hand moving. I don’t make any answer to the woman (my . . . my what?) when she talks to me. It would make this whole shit real. Across from the table at the other end of the room is a door to a maid’s room, Slavery Days said when I was looking at it one day. A long time ago rich people lived here in Harlem, had maids. That must have been a real long time ago. Slavery Days got to be around a hundred. I don’t know if I am really going to live here—

I look down at my jeans. I need new gear, dance shit. I want money. How I know this arf-arf is gonna get ducats for me? I don’t wanna hafta rob. I remember the pigs walking my elbows, that . . . that anticipation in their bones just radiating out, joy, if I give ’em a chance to kill me. I decide to die I’ll kill my motherfucking self. I don’t need no motherfucking NYPD.

“I knew you even though I nevah seed you befo’—”

“Nevah seed?” For God’s sake! And, like, hello! Didn’t the brothers or someone tell her I was coming? Who else could have showed up at her door?

“I was scared to say anythin’ when you didn’t show up after yo’ mama died—”

Slavery Days sound like when you call and get an automated message, it’s going, going but you know you not connected to a real person.

“See—”

No, I don’t.

“’Cause I was, you know, keepin’ care of yo’ sister again.”

“Sister” broken pieces shake broken pieces of goddamn glass goddamn pieces of glass I’m only thirteen Miz Mary Mack Mack MACK all dressed in black My country ’tis of thee Now I lay me down to sleep Our Father who art in heaven hallow be thy name. As many times as you shake it, it’s picture change, who’s crazy who’s crazy? Sister?

Slavery Days walks over from the stove where she’s been standing talking her crazy shit to me and picks up my plate. “Lemme git you some more meat.”

St Ailanthus we had a microwave we could put our snacks in, cookies, nachos, half burrito with cheese, stuff like that. She gets another burger out the pan.

“I want some cheese,” I mumble, a little embarrassed and leery at the same time. Leery because to ask for something is to give in to the situation and admit it exist, and this shit here does not exist for me.

She goes to the fridge and gets out a jar of mayonnaise and plunks it down on the table. Only one of her legs is swollen big, but both are bowed.

“Sister?” I echo when I realize she hasn’t paused but is finished talking. Plop! A piece of the peeling ceiling paint drops. Suddenly I want to smash her!

“Yo’ mama wadn’t but twelve.”

Twelve what? Size? Grade twelve? I’m thirteen, twelve, thirteen, twelve, thirteen, twelve?

“Shit, I had Mary when I was ten.”

Free. Right now I’m free. I can’t let them take my freedom. Ten? The date? What day is it today?

“She was retarded. She shoulda died. I kept care of her till yo’ mama got her ass on her shoulders, den dey take her from me. I tell you I miss my record player more than I miss yo’ mama ’n dat damn Mongo. But I took care her, only natchall I shoulda took care of you too.”

Natchall? Only natchall?
Only natural, she mean. She’s crazy.

“You look like yo’ daddy. Look like her too, same difference. You pretty like him. She looked like him too, only what’s pretty on a man ain’ so pretty on a gal, gal cain’t get away wit’ big lips can she, ’n being dark. People like dey meat dark if it’s a man, light if it’s a woman. But yo’ mama looked like she was twenty-five at thirteen, sho did. You de same. But you ain’t fat. You was spozed to come here after yo’ mama died. Hear dat?”

What’s she talking about? Then I hear the rain.

“Hear dat?”

I nod. I didn’t realize we were on the top floor. It’s raining hard. Hard.

“How did my father die?” Maybe he ain’t dead. Maybe my dad is out there looking for me.

“AIDS, he had it. Don’ know if thas what killt him. AIDS, nigger nevah give us nothin’ ’cept his disease ’n three damn kids. Took, took, took! I tol’ Mary from day one wadn’t nothin’ dere. I only saw him in de beginnin’ when he was comin’ round to court Mary’s welfare check. Or whatevah he call himself doin’. Don’ you evah feel like you de only one. Yo’ daddy did his duty in many a pussy. You got brothers ’n sisters out dere. You jus’ gotta go out ’n dig ’em up ’n you ain’ got to do no deep diggin’!”

I feel like vomiting hearing her talk. Lie. Hearing her try to tear my father down like what happened to Alvin Johnson at school, but his father did love him, and his mother keep shit from him because she didn’t get no child-support money.

I could call the social worker and tell her this is some wack shit, I can’t deal, come get me, save me. And then what? Get put in a group home or some juvenile detention shit. I could just walk out of here, run away, live on the street, be a park boy till I get AIDS or killed or some shit. How come I can’t just get a full deck like everybody else, why? Why?

First thing I got to get is a schedule. I’m used to getting up, going to school, and doing good stuff every day. I’m not a bum.

“She nevah even brought you by to visit. I nevah even seed you once. She act like her fast tail ain’ de cause of a lot of what happened. Carl did it by himself? Twice? I don’ think so. How old is you now?”

I’m not used to talking to people unless it’s other kids. It’s hard to describe, but she ain’t really talking to me. Her talk is like a fog, every now and then she throw a question out of it. Now her crazy ass is . . . is what? Singing? Or trying to in a rusty voice.

She’s making like she’s playing a banjo, stomping her feet, and stepping side to side. This is it, I guess she done dived all the way off the deep end.

“You know when I come here from Mississippi?”

“Huh?” Why me? Why is this happening to me?

“I said, you know when I come here from Mississippi?”

“Ahh, no.”

“A long time ago.”

Kill her, kill her! Just slap her old ass and stomp her brains out. What kinda life could I have here! St Ailanthus!
God, author of all heavenly gifts, you gave St Ailanthus both a wonderful innocence of life and a deep spirit of penance.
Now I lay me down to sleep—I think the life here, whatever happens to me here, is worse than if I went to jail. Then I think, chill, it’s all a big mistake or . . . or I don’t know. Brother John is probably working on this right now.

“You through?”

I look at the circles of stiff grease on the plate, shake my head yes. My head is a kaleidoscope. She gets up and with her dragging walk goes to put my plate in the sink. Looking at her gives me a sick feeling, the dream I had of Blondie her jar breaks in on me.

“I got a lot of stuff to do to catch up with my schoolwork and dancing,” I tell her.

“My mama hadda been dere ol’ Nigger Boy wouldn’ta got me. In fact thas how he got me, talkin’ ’bout my mama—”

I mean what is this, is she on automatic, does she jus’ sit up and talk to anybody?

“I was sittin’ on a rock—”

And I’m sittin’ on a chair at a table in a blue room where a piece of peeling paint has just fallen from the ceiling.

“Yeah, honey, I was sittin’ up on a rock away from de picnic tables ’n de music. Lookin’ down de road. Sky blue fluffy clouds, hog on de spit, good smell up yo’ nose. Nigger Boy pluckin’ de banjo. Banjo stop. Somebody start up on guitar. Black shadow cross me, Nigger Boy’s pant legs. Hair on my arm stand up. ‘Youze lookin’ for yo’ mama?’ Nigger Boy weird. Sick. Let’s face it, he ain’ de only man stick his dick in a ten-year-old. I seed a lot, ’n it almos’ ain’ nothin’. But Nigger Boy weird ’cause, let’s face it, back den every colored fella in de South a ‘boy,’ a ‘nigger boy,’ to de white folks. But Nigger Boy dat to hisself! Ask him his name ’n he’d tell you, Nigger Boy. How’s dat fo’ last week’s gravy! Why I care what a man fuck me when I’m ten years old call hisself? I don’! Jus’ when people find out he daddy my baby dey tell me—so, shit, I’m tellin’ you!”

Gee, thanks. I need my jacket, I think. I look at her sitting at the table talking. I just feel cold inside and like I need to vomit, but like my mouth is sealed. There’s a calendar on the wall from? Shit! Twenty years ago! Before I was born, before anybody I know was born except the brothers.

“You ain’t talkin’ to me,” I tell her. “You talkin’ to the air!” You know, like shut up! And stop wasting your breath. It’s not getting in me.

“I know who I’m talkin’ to. I’m talkin’ to you, nigger!”

Nigger? She’s crazy for sure, one thing for kids to be talking about nigger but a old lady like this—

“I ain’ talkin’ to you? You sho nuff is crazy! Who you think I’m talkin’ to? You mine, my great-gran’son. Nigger Boy yo’ great-gran’father!”

My mother died in a car accident, my father died in the war. I get up go get my jacket, but I come back in the kitchen.

“I had jumped up to run after Mama but Auntie slap me, hold me back till I cain’t see nothin’ of Mama goin’ down de road. After dat I go sit on de rock whar I can see de road, weeks I go dere waitin’, thinkin’ like she went down de road, she be back, gonna come up de road. Thas whar I’m sittin’ day of de picnic, on de rock off by mysef when Nigger Boy come up.”

In seventh we were looking at the one-celled amoebae on the projection screen.
Isn’t it fascinating, boys!
No! The seething blobs make my skin crawl. I want to tear the screen off the wall. I want to slap her. Why I gotta listen to this shit?

“Whatchu doin’ ovah here by yo’sef? Ize waitin’ fo’ Mama. Come on, Nigger Boy say, let’s go find yo’ mama. I jumps up hold out my hand fo’ Nigger Boy to take it. I’m walkin’ wit’ him into de woods ovah de little stream I ain’ spozed to go ovah by mysef. I think, Mama ain’ in no woods. You evah play house wit’ boys? How he know? It a secret what me ’n Jonesy Boy do! Why a big ol’ man like Nigger Boy want to know anyhow? We walk over to whar de weepy willow trees is. I’m scared of snakes. Nigger Boy jus’ push me down off my feet like we kids playin’ in de field or sumptin’. Den he take out his dick. I remember it don’ scare me. I don’ know what’s comin’, how could I? It’s so pretty, really, a man’s thang, his at least, shiny ’n black like a licorice. I sit up to see better, he push me back down, don’ say nothin’, spit in his hands rub on his dick. Is he gonna pee? He reach down pull my draws, such as dey was, off. Press his hand ovah my mouf. He stick hisself in a place I ain’ know I had yet. I’m lookin’ at de sky through de trees, it cracks apart in big blue pieces under de dark branches ’n green leaves. I go out today ’n look up, de sky dat same blue’n I feel it start to crack apart again. Cry, what else you gonna do? Rest here a few minutes ’fore you go home, he say. Don’ go back to de picnic, do dey’ll know what you did ’n you’ll git a whippin’ fo’ doin’ it! Yo’ mama find out what you made me do to you, she’ll nevah, nevah come back. Nevah! When you hear de banjo start up to playin’ again, git up go home, go to bed ’n don’ tell nobody, nevah, you hear me, what you done done. Shit, I don’ know what I done done. But ’cause he say it like dat I think of it like dat, dat I done done sumptin’.”

Synonym for make you sick? Revulsion. Use that word in a sentence. I am revulsioned by this stinky bitch. No revulsed. Repulsion. I feel repulsion I might throw up. Nauseate. Some little insect is jumping around the lightbulb screwed into the ceiling. The lightbulb is its sun. If some shit like that really happened, in broad daylight? A river, a river is with boats and people fishing and . . . and shipping, ports, commerce. Roaches, the opposite—they run from the light, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a roach outside. Can they live outside? I don’t feel like I’m cracking. I feel I have cracked. In two. I’m separate pieces. This kitchen is not dirty like no one has ever cleaned it or people throw shit and don’t pick it up. It’s grimy, grease and dirt stuck to stuff, but everything is in place, the dish towel is so dirty it’s almost black, but it’s folded neat hanging on a rack over the sink. What is she talking about? Who is she talking to? This is a worse mistake than the police station. Way worse. Like open the car door and driver point to that pile of shit,
Hey, dude, this is you, your fucking relative.
Get used to it? Fuck that!

“I don’ know what to say when people point at my belly.”

If this was a dream, I’d be done woke up already! I’m still standing clutching my jacket, which I left the kitchen to get . . . what ? A minute, second, a half hour ago. I sit back down press the jacket to my chest, sniff it, start to rock slightly. Toosie? What the fuck!

“Daddy? Daddy of what! You git what I’m sayin’ don’chu?”

She looks at me expecting something. I don’t blink. She’s acting mental like a homeless sitting up there talking to herself like she ain’t all there.

“Dey talkin’ ’bout Daddy ’n I ain’ even hip to I’m pregnant. Chile, chile, chile! Who you been playin’ doctor wit’? I shake my head. Doctor? I don’ know dat game. Come on now, we know it someone. Mama Daddy? House? I nevah played house wit’ nobody ’cept Jonesy Boy. Jonesy’s Mama ’n Daddy ask him he de daddy. He say naw! Dey beat him to tell de truth. He still say naw. Beat him some mo’. Tooth come out. He tell de truth. Auntie Sweet who keep kids while folks is in de fields say shame I’m in trouble so young. Trouble? Yeah, trouble, Auntie Sweet say, youze knocked up. She walk me ovah to de hog pen.”