Ordinary Hazards

Home > Other > Ordinary Hazards > Page 2
Ordinary Hazards Page 2

by Nikki Grimmes


  and spat it out,

  the bitter taste chasing

  my tongue from the comfort

  of my mouth.

  Why would she coat her throat

  with something that could only

  strip her taste buds bare?

  NIGHTMARE

  Dad gone for good,

  we moved in with Mom’s cousin

  and her grown boys, for a while.

  In the bedroom across the hall,

  the boys often entertained themselves

  with needles of joy juice.

  That’s what they called it

  between bouts of laughter,

  heads lolling back, eyes the color

  of a blood moon.

  Sometimes, they’d moan

  and Carol would rock me on her lap

  while Mom prayed over us

  pleading for protection.

  One day, Mom decided

  prayer was not enough.

  She confronted—

  let’s call her Sadie—

  to lodge a complaint

  about her boys shooting heroin

  right where we could see.

  A fight broke out between them,

  and Sadie cracked Mom in the head

  with an iron.

  Blood gushed everywhere,

  to the tune of me screaming.

  But it was all delirium, wasn’t it?

  Some bad dream born of

  indigestion? That had to be it.

  I was certain right up until

  the night, years later,

  when Mom took my index finger

  and placed it on her scar.

  “The next day,” she said,

  “we moved away.”

  ON OUR OWN

  1.

  No one warned me

  the world was full of

  ordinary hazards

  like closets with locks and keys.

  I learned this lesson when Mom,

  without her cousin to fall back on,

  left us daily with

  a succession of strangers

  while she went to work.

  One woman was indisputably

  a demon in disguise,

  full lips grinning slyly

  as Mom waved goodbye

  each morning.

  “See you after work,”

  Mom said that first day.

  The second she was out of sight,

  Demon’s smile melted like

  hot paraffin.

  Snatching up Carol and me,

  she dragged us, kicking, to

  the bedroom closet.

  She shoved us in, quick as the witch

  in “Hansel and Gretel,”

  jamming the key in the lock.

  “You tattle to your mom about this,”

  she growled, “I’ll come back

  and beat the black off ya.”

  Deadly threat delivered,

  she left for the day.

  2.

  I screamed, my puny fists pounding the door

  till Carol caught me by the wrists

  and held me still. “Shhhh,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

  Once my breathing slowed,

  Carol left me long enough

  to navigate the darkness.

  She found suitcases to sit on.

  Sniffling, I perched on the edge of one

  and pressed my fingertips together.

  “Now I lay me down to sleep,

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

  I repeated those words

  like a chant.

  I was three years old.

  It was the only prayer I knew.

  3.

  I should’ve prayed not to pee my pants.

  The cramped and stuffy space

  made me wheeze.

  Brass fittings on the Samsonite case

  dug into the flesh

  behind my knees.

  But worse yet,

  the occasional roach

  skittered along my calf,

  up a thigh,

  and I would scratch

  and stomp and cry

  till it was off.

  No one was around

  to wipe away my tears,

  except my sister,

  who had tears of her own.

  4.

  Day after day,

  the routine remained unchanged.

  Demon locked us up in the morning,

  then let us out and fed us just before

  Mom came home from work.

  Despite the witch’s threat,

  the minute Carol saw Mom, she poured out

  the horrors of that first day,

  but Mom waved her away

  with a warning

  to quit lying.

  5.

  One afternoon,

  when I thought

  we’d live in the dark forever,

  I heard what sounded like

  a familiar voice.

  “Girls?”

  “Mommy?” I screamed,

  afraid to believe.

  But the lock turned,

  the door flew open,

  and I leaped into Mom’s arms.

  “My God!” she said.

  “How long have you two

  been in here?”

  “All day,” snapped Carol,

  keeping her distance.

  “I told you!

  I told you,

  but you called me a liar!”

  6.

  The slap of words sent

  Mom to her knees, please

  written all over her face.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered,

  reaching for my sister.

  Carol backed away.

  “Jesus,” Mom said. “What did

  this woman do? Are you all right?”

  Where to begin?

  There were too many answers.

  Even my big sister

  lacked the language needed

  for them all,

  so we chose silence.

  Besides, it was impossible to guess

  which atrocities

  Mom was

  prepared to hear.

  7.

  Thankfully, my sister and I

  never laid eyes on that

  bit of walking evil again. Still,

  Demon lived inside us for years,

  embedded in our twin fears

  of the dark.

  MISSING DADDY

  I missed the cushion

  of Daddy’s soft voice,

  the sleepy lullaby

  of his violin

  as his bow

  gently kissed

  each string.

  Even Mom’s

  occasional hugs

  were not as warm

  an embrace.

  FAMILY

  Uncle Abe.

  Aunt Esther.

  Uncle Willis.

  Aunt Lorraine.

  Uncle Gene.

  Aunt Edna.

  On the face of it,

  we had family aplenty.

  One question,

  never answered:

  Where were they all

  when Carol and I

  were small?

  A PROPER INTRODUCTION

  Sorry.

  I neglected to

  paint you a picture of myself.

  I began as a baby

 
with chunky cheeks

  that invited pinching,

  then, by five or six,

  transformed into a tallish

  brown twig of a girl,

  cursed with an enormous nose

  (in my rough estimation)

  and a small face

  swallowed up by

  oversized eyeglasses,

  like my sister’s,

  with lenses so thick

  they slowed the speed of light.

  I was quite sure “pretty”

  was not

  in my future.

  BINGE

  Babysitters came and went,

  with Mom pulling in

  all the overtime

  she could manage,

  taking the edge off of each day

  with a shot, or two, or three

  of blackberry brandy.

  Sometimes, she’d disappear

  in an alcoholic haze

  and be missing for days,

  leaving no one at home

  to watch over us.

  Carol, nearly five years my senior,

  would play little mama,

  mixing raw oats and buttermilk

  for us to eat—

  anything to fill our bellies.

  Someone must have noticed us alone

  and telephoned Child Services.

  The policeman and

  the freckle-faced lady

  who came to our door

  smiling

  asked if we knew

  where our mommy was,

  or our daddy.

  When we shook our heads no,

  they took us away.

  I tugged my big sister’s hand.

  “Carol? Are they taking us to jail?”

  “No,” she said. So why did they

  pile us in a police car,

  like we were guilty

  of some crime?

  AFTERMATH

  They kept us together

  for two years,

  serving us up

  to strangers,

  a merry-go-round of

  unfamiliar places,

  unknown faces of people

  with names my tears

  washed away.

  Don’t ask me

  how many homes,

  or where.

  Those days are lost.

  I held on to nothing except

  my sister’s hand.

  JERSEY

  I recall being five,

  doing foster-time

  at a temporary placement

  across the George Washington Bridge

  in Jersey:

  a detached A-frame floats into view,

  red brick, with the suggestion

  of a lawn out front,

  a place that screamed wholesome.

  Inside, Carol and I were whipped

  whenever the foster parents’ progeny

  misbehaved and pointed

  in our direction.

  Carol woke me one sunrise.

  “Quiet,” she warned in a whisper,

  then bundled me, like a bear,

  in heavy clothing

  and crept down the stairs

  with me tiptoeing behind.

  On the hall table,

  she found the lady’s purse,

  made a few dollars disappear

  without the use of magic,

  then motioned to the front door.

  A few more careful steps,

  and we were gone,

  racing downhill in first light,

  dodging patches of ice

  from the last snow.

  A neighbor’s dog snarled as we passed,

  and I stuck to the spot, trembling.

  “Don’t worry,” Carol comforted me,

  “he’s on a leash.” I breathed easier.

  “Carol?” I asked, starting to walk again,

  “Where are we going?” Not that it mattered.

  I’d have followed her anywhere.

  LONG DISTANCE

  A forever ride of subway trains

  and buses

  led us to Grandma’s house

  in Washington Heights.

  We rang her bell,

  listened for the crackle

  of the intercom.

  Her tinny voice came through.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hi, Grandma,” I said.

  “It’s me.” “And me,” said Carol.

  “Good God!” she said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Before we could answer,

  she rang us in.

  She shuffled to her door

  in robe and pajamas,

  but already wearing

  her perfectly coiffed

  reddish-brown wig

  to hide her early-onset

  female-pattern baldness.

  Grandma got

  right to the point.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  Carol explained while I

  took in the living room.

  The sofa was slick

  with that horrible plastic cover

  that stuck to your butt

  when you sat on it,

  especially in the heat of summer,

  but it was big enough

  for my sister and me

  to sleep on,

  and that’s all that mattered.

  “Why didn’t you call your mother?”

  Grandma asked.

  Carol and I gave each other a look.

  “We don’t know where she is now.”

  “Lord,” said Grandma.

  “Well, you can stay here—

  for a few days. But that’s it.

  I’ve already raised my kids.

  I’m done.”

  Her words slammed me in the face

  like a door.

  Did we do something wrong?

  Is that why no one wants us?

  Troubled thoughts

  clung to me like shadow

  through the day,

  and sleep that night

  was fitful.

  Still, no nightmare visited

  till morning

  when Children’s Services

  slipped in quietly

  to take us away—

  Carol to one home,

  me to another.

  As I walked out the door,

  I dried my eyes

  so Grandma could clearly see

  my hatred.

  MARCH KIDNAP

  Anger and I

  stood stiff on the train platform

  next to Mr. Klein,

  the social worker,

  his thin face a pasty white oval,

  nose straight as a ferret, lips pouty,

  his cat-gray eyes peering from

  wire-rimmed glasses,

  his hair a dirty-blond cap

  of spring-loaded curls.

  Every now and then,

  I stomped my cold feet

  to keep them from getting numb.

  Inches from Mr. Klein,

  I gripped my suitcase with one hand

  and buried the other in my pocket

  so he couldn’t reach out and hold it

  as if he had a right.

  He was taking me away from my sister,

  taking me—where?

  That’s when the tears came,

  each drop following the salty trail

  already marked.

  TRAIN RIDE

 
I kneeled on the tweed-covered seat,

  bifocals pressed against the sooty window.

  “Sit properly,”

  Mr. Social Worker told me,

  as if that mattered.

  Ignoring him, I watched the sun

  turn the river into a mirror,

  in some places solid enough

  to walk on, in others broken

  into odd bits, like my family—

  pieces of light scattered.

  Where’d they take my sister?

  More than an hour passed

  before the ticket-taker

  strode through the train car

  belting out, “Ossining!

  Next stop, Ossining!”

  which is where

  my future waited.

  The Mystery of Memory #1

  Author and storyteller,

  I cry out for order,

  logical sequences,

  and smooth transitions.

  A modicum of skill

  allows me to create as much—

  in story. But here?

  Where is the chronology of a life

  chaotic from the start?

  There is no certainty of sequence,

  no seamless transitions,

  nothing as neat and orderly as that.

  Only scraps of knowing

  wedged between blank spaces,

  flashes of who, what, and when

  to capture as best I can—

  a poor offering, I know,

  but I am the widow,

  and this is my mite.

  BOOK TWO

  1955–1960

  “It is you who light my lamp; the Lord, my God lights up my darkness.”

  —Psalm 18:28

  Search my life for luck,

  and bad is all you’ll find.

  Keep an eye out

  for grace, though.

  Hard evidence appears

  round every corner.

  It is the invisible bridge

  spanning the abyss,

  the single light

  that outstrips the dark

  every time.

  THE FAMILY BUCHANAN

  Anne Sharrock Buchanan,

  a five-foot-eight-inch woman,

  light-skinned and sturdy,

  met us at the door,

  her husband, James,

  a walnut-colored man

  beside her.

  The word crowded

  popped into my mind.

  Several children

  crowded the entryway.

  The narrow hallway

  we stepped into

  was covered with

  sand-colored wallpaper,

  busy with bouquets

 

‹ Prev