The Darkest Child

by Delores Phillips

  “Why does Miss Lucille think your daddy is giving money to my mother? My mother never has any money.”

  Mattie gave a bitter laugh—a sign that she had not left all of her anger on the front porch of her house.“How she pay the rent then? How she buy food and stuff? And she got all them fancy clothes like some white woman. My mama say half the men in Triacy County pay yo’ mama’s rent. She say Miss Rosie do nasty, filthy animal things wit’ men, and they give her money to do it.”

  “Then I’m glad your daddy hit her,” I said angrily. “I hate your mother.”

  I didn’t truly hate Miss Lucille, but I had said it, and it was too late to take it back. I dropped my books to the ground and stepped back, keeping my gaze on Mattie. I assumed the stance that Tarabelle always took when she boxed with Sam, and I brought my fists up, ready to jab.

  Mattie stared at me, then she grunted.“I ain’t fixin’ to fight you, Tangy. I hate her, too. Leastways, I hate her most of the time.”

  She resumed walking, glancing back at me several times, waiting for me to catch up. I snatched my books from the ground and followed. After a while we were walking side by side as though nothing had happened. I glanced over and saw that she was looking at me, a half-smile on her face, but I could not return the smile. We reached the library on Duluth Street and Mattie stopped. Neither of us knew what to say to the other.

  “Well,” Mattie said.

  “Well.”

  “See ya,” she said as she turned for home.

  “See ya,” I echoed.

  eighteen

  Our first correspondence from Mushy was delivered by Velman Cooper nearly an hour after the post office had closed. He stood on our porch, shifting his weight from foot to foot, holding a white envelope in his hand.There was a broad grin on his face as he nodded a greeting to Mama.

  “Evening, ma’am,” he said. “I got a letter here for Miss Martha Jean Quinn.”

  Mama glanced at the envelope in his hand.“You work for the post office?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Um hum.” She nodded her head slowly.“Since when they start delivering mail out here?”

  “No, ma’am,” Velman said, and gave a short laugh. “I just saw this here letter in the box and thought I’d bring it out.”

  I placed a finger to my lips, trying to silence him, but he didn’t see me.

  “How you know Martha Jean?” Mama asked.

  “I met her at the post office.You got some fine daughters, Mrs.

  Quinn.”

  “Daughters?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Martha Jean and Tangy. Oh, yeah, and Mushy.”

  There was something about Velman Cooper’s mouth that had troubled me from the very beginning—from the first time I had seen him. It was a mouth that was too big. It opened and closed before his brain had a chance to warm up.

  Mama turned and stepped away from the door, allowing me a clear view of Velman. I tried to warn him with a stare, but he seemed not to get it.

  “Bring Martha Jean out here,” Mama said.

  I found Martha Jean in the kitchen and told her, in a rush of signs, that Velman Cooper was at our front door and we were in a world of trouble.

  “Come on over here,” Mama said, beckoning to Martha Jean as we entered the hallway.“This boy say he got a letter for you.”

  I raised my hands to interpret my mother’s words.

  “Quit that!” Mama yelled.“She know damn well what I’m saying. She done had sense enough to go out and invite this boy to my house.”

  Velman’s smile faded when he saw the terror in Martha Jean’s eyes as she approached our mother.He extended the letter toward Martha Jean, but Mama intercepted and snatched it from his hand. She opened it and withdrew a birthday card.Without bothering to glance inside the card, she ripped it and threw the pieces over Martha Jean’s head.

  “Ma’am, I didn’t mean no harm coming out to your house,” Velman apologized.“Nobody invited me.”

  “Why did you come, then?” I snapped, and for the first time he looked directly at me.

  His lips formed a circle that blew a long stream of breath into the cold air, as his hands moved nervously about in front of him. My mother stood between us, with her thumb and forefinger pressed into Martha Jean’s cheek. Martha Jean’s lips were opened and fixed like a gulping fish. Her head bobbed up and down to the flex of Mama’s wrist.

  “Please, don’t do that, ma’am,” Velman pleaded. “I’m sorry. I won’t come to your house again, but please don’t do that.”

  Mama stepped toward him, pulling Martha Jean with her.“This my child,” she said.“I birthed her and she belongs to me.You keep yo’ hands off her.You hear?”

  It seemed he wanted to say something. He scratched one side of his face and his mouth opened, but before he could form a word, Mama released Martha Jean, gave her a savage, backhand slap across her face, and kicked the door shut in Velman’s face.

  “Tangy Mae, get the belt!” she ordered.

  I stepped into her bedroom and selected the thinnest belt I could find. As I came back into the hall, I could see Martha Jean cowering and retreating. Mama swung with her fists, landing powerful blows on Martha Jean’s chest.

  “You slut!” Mama screamed.“You goddamn slut! I’ll teach you to go out and shame me.”

  Martha Jean backed into the front room, giving Mama ample space to direct her punches. She aimed for Martha Jean’s head. Martha Jean threw an arm up to protect herself, but Mama gripped it brutally and forced it behind Martha Jean’s back.

  Martha Jean brayed, and arched her spine against the pressure Mama exerted on her shoulder and arm. Effortlessly, Mama wrapped her other arm around Martha Jean’s neck and breathed into her ear, “Dumb bitch.You no-good, dumb bitch. I’ll break yo’ goddamn neck.”

  I stood there horrified, holding the leather belt, the buckle dangling at my ankles, as my mother and sister struggled in a false embrace.

  Edna, crouched in a corner beside Laura, used the knuckles of her hands to wipe away her tears. She either saw or sensed how dangerously close Mama was to trampling Judy. I saw it, too, but feared the slightest movement on my part would be catastrophic. I stood perfectly still while Edna took two small scoots forward, gripped the basket, and pulled Judy to safety.

  Mama released Martha Jean. “Goddamn children!” she yelled. “All y’all can go to Hell. I’m sicka worrying ’bout y’all.” It seemed she was done with Martha Jean, then suddenly, gracefully, she pivoted and balanced herself on her toes. Her fingers curled and tightened into fists as she landed softly on her heels, and she began to jab.With artistic precision, she opened gashes, loosened teeth, and viciously rearranged my sister’s face. Martha Jean collapsed to the floor, and finally Mama snatched the belt from my hand.

  I was beyond praying, and had resorted to begging God to help Martha Jean—to stop Mama from hitting her again.

  Amen! Amen! God answers prayer. Ain’t my God a great God?

  Hallelujah!

  The belt looped through the air in a rush, but instead of striking Martha Jean, it cut into my shoulders, neck, and back. It knocked me off balance. It tangled in my skirt, frustrating my mother, forcing her to change her strategy. She unwrapped the leather from her hand, flipped it over, and brought the metal buckle down on my head.

  I did not know why Judy was crying. I was crying from pain, Laura and Edna must have been crying from fear, because they had not been touched. Whatever sounds Martha Jean made were drowned out by our sobs.

  “Y’all, shut up!” Mama screamed at us.“Y’all giving me a damn headache.”

  She sauntered over to an armchair, sat, and leaned back to rest her aching head.We didn’t stop crying, though—not right away. Laura and Edna eventually hushed, even little Judy fell silent long before I could. I shed tears of pain, of despair, dry-sobbed from injustice, gave a feeble heave, then finally calmed.

  From across the room, my mother smiled at me and slowly shook her
head.“Tangy Mae, you oughta be shame of yo’self,” she said. “I was two seconds away from giving you something to cry about if you hadn’t shut up.”

  She was still staring at me and shaking her head in disgust when Tarabelle came in from work, then she turned her attention to my sister.“ I think we got enough space out in the yard to plant a garden,” she said.“What you think, Tarabelle? We can grow our own beans and tomatoes. I’m gon’ buy some seeds the next time I’m in town.”

  Tarabelle did not answer. She gazed at Martha Jean’s crumpled form on the floor, then briefly glanced at me, but did not ask what had happened.

  We were all quiet now, even Mama. She sat silent for so long it seemed she had fallen asleep with her eyes wide open. Finally, she said, “Well, I gotta finish getting dressed.Tarabelle, you get yo’self together.You gotta make a run wit’ me tonight.”

  “No, Mama, ”Tarabelle begged. “Please! I’m tired.”

  God, look down on us. I am in a room where your daughters are weary. They are moaning, and it is a most wretched sound. Can you hear it, Lord? Do something! I never want to shed another tear as long as I live.

  “I’ll go with you, Mama,” I heard myself say, although I had no idea where my mother was going.“I’m not tired. I’ll go with you.”

  In a split second, my mother was across the room and standing over me. I spread my arms to shield Martha Jean, although I knew I was the one in danger.

  “Look here!” Mama said.

  I glanced up, and she slapped my face so hard that I bit my tongue, and the blood coated my palate and rolled down my throat.

  “Who the hell do you think wants you?” she asked.

  “Nobody, Mama,” I answered truthfully.“Nobody.”

  nineteen

  Martha Jean’s face was a horrid rainbow of black lumps and blue bruises encircled by thin rings of lime-green and yellow discolorations. She peered at me from beneath the swollen, black lid of her right eye. Her left eye was closed, puffy, and draining a clear fluid down her cheek. Her upper lip, swollen like a mushroom, blocked the flow of air through her nose and made her breathing sound like snoring.

  It pained me to look at her. I think it hurt us all, but each of us expressed our distress in a different way. Harvey paced, and Sam was silent.After they left for work, Wallace mumbled, and Tarabelle said, “Ain’t nobody gon’ be calling Martha Jean pretty for a long time.”

  “I’m gonna stay home again today and look after her,” I said. “She can’t take care of Judy.”

  “Judy is Mama’s baby.”Tarabelle said in measured syllables, as if explaining something to a small child.“Martha Jean shouldn’t have to take care of her. Mama ain’t doing nothing all day ’cept laying up on her ass.”

  “Will you take her coffee in before you leave?” I asked.

  “Nope. I’m late,” Tarabelle answered, “and if I can make it through the rest of my life without seeing Mama, I’ll be a happy child.” She reached the doorway of the front room, then turned and whispered, “Tan, write Mushy a letter and tell her I’m waiting.”

  She left, and Wallace gave her some distance before he struck out for school. I took coffee in to Mama, then I fed and changed Judy, got Laura and Edna dressed and fed, and managed to get a few spoonsful of food between Martha Jean’s swollen lips.

  Martha Jean had remained curled on her pallet all the day before. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even made a trip to the outhouse. Today, at least, she was sitting up, and I noticed that her gown was wet. I cleaned her up as best I could, then helped her walk over to one of the armchairs.

  Mama emerged from her room around noon and got her first glance at Martha Jean’s face since the beating. She ambled on toward the kitchen, and did not speak to us. Laura sat quietly on the floor beside Martha Jean’s chair. I winked at her, and she smiled timidly, as if afraid her smile might attract Mama’s notice. I held Judy on my lap, and imagined my mother leaning against the kitchen wall, weeping bitterly for the pain she had inflicted, and promising herself and God that it would never happen again.

  Mama had always taught us that we were not to hit each other, and I wondered why she was exempt from that rule. Sometimes I believed she did not mean to hurt us, but could not help herself. She was, after all, the same gentle woman who had once, long ago, taught us to love, and I had learned to love with every part of my being. My love for Martha Jean alone filled my heart to aching.

  I was baffled by the ambiguities of my mother’s emotions and behavior. She denied and feared God in the same breath. She allowed our actions to shame her, and yet she was void of shame. I truly believed there was something unnatural about her—a madness that only her children could see. My yearning was not to understand it, but to escape it.

  “Tan,” came her soft voice from the kitchen. “Tan, baby, come here a minute. I need you to do something for me.”

  With Judy cradled in my arms, I went out to the kitchen. Mama was sitting on a chair, her feet tucked beneath the seat, and an elbow resting on the tabletop. A foul odor—the combination of sweat, caffeine, and booze—emanated from her body and scalp. She reached out to touch me, but recoiled when she saw that I was holding the baby.

  “What happened to the dummy?” she asked. “What happened to her? Did she fall down the steps or something?”

  I accepted my cue.“Yes, ma’am,” I lied.“She fell down the front steps.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Who else saw it?” “We all saw it. I tried to break her fall, but I couldn’t. Harvey went down and picked her up and brought her in the house.We all saw her fall, Mama, but there was nothing we could do.”

  Mama nodded.“Okay. I ain’t blaming you.Y’all just gon’ have to be more careful on them steps.”

  “Is that all, Mama?” I asked.

  “Nah, baby. I need you to get them outta here.Take ’em for a walk out toward the country or something.You can do that for Mama, can’t you?” She closed her eyes and rubbed her head.“That damn Mr. Poppy coming for his rent today. I ain’t got it. I’m gon’ have to explain that to ’im, and I can’t do it wit’ all y’all sitting ’round.” She fell silent, and after a long while she said, “I’m gon’ tell him to fix them steps, Tan.”

  Nearly an hour passed before we were on the road. It had taken most of that time to wash dried blood from Martha Jean’s face and hair. She hadn’t wanted to move, and I couldn’t blame her.We started out toward the country, but as soon as we were out of Mama’s view, we cut through the grove of trees behind the field and took a detour toward town.

  The push broom dropped to the floor with a hollow thump. Velman, his eyes as wide as I had ever seen them, stepped cautiously toward us. He brought a hand up to touch Martha Jean’s face, then slowly lowered it to his side.His lips moved, but formed no words.

  “I told you not to come to our house,” I screamed at him.“I told you the first time you saw us that we were Quinns, but you were so busy listening to your own voice that you didn’t hear me.Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Hey, what’s going on out there?” Charlie Nesbitt asked.

  He and Chadlow had come from a back area of the post office and were standing at the counter watching us. Chadlow was tall and brawny, and he loomed about six inches over Charlie Nesbitt. He had dark, wavy hair that was thinning at the top, and dark eyes that always seemed cold and contemptuous. I had seen him sneer and scowl, but I had never seen a true smile grace his rugged features. To the Negroes in Pakersfield, he was an ugly, ugly man.

  Judy was heavier than a load of fire logs in my arms. I cradled her in one aching arm, and turned Martha Jean to face Mr. Nesbitt and Chadlow.

  “Look what he did to my sister,” I said in a voice trembling with threatening sobs.

  Charlie Nesbitt studied Martha Jean’s face, then nodded his round, bald head in Velman’s direction and said, “I reckon this boy knows how to handle his own affairs. Seems to me this here’s a private matter. Don’t
need no meddling from me or nobody else, gal.”

  Staring down at the counter, I mumbled, “She’s my sister.”

  “What’s that?” Charlie asked in a tone intended to humble me.

  “She’s my sister, sir,” I repeated in my most timid voice.

  “Don’t matter who she is. All I’m saying is you people got to take it someplace else. I can’t have you carrying on in my post office.You hear me, Velman? Get ’em outta here!”

  “Yes, sir, ”Velman answered. He lifted the broom from the floor and placed it against a wall, then came to stand beside me.“Come on, little sister,” he pleaded.“I know you mad, and it look like you got every right to be, but not in here. Okay?”

  We followed him outside and down the walk until we reached his car.All the while, I was thinking how best to cause him as much pain as I felt each time I looked at Martha Jean’s face.

  “You!” I began, all fired up, but then Edna tugged at my skirt with an urgency that nearly snapped the button at my waist.

  “I’m tired, Tangy,” she whined.“I gotta number one.”

  “Me, too. And I’m hungry,” Laura chimed in.

  I glanced down at the heads of my sisters, feeling that they were conspiring against me for having dragged them so far from home. Edna had tucked her dress between her thighs and was dancing about shamelessly. The closest public facility for coloreds was at least a mile back through town at the bus depot, and by the looks of Edna, I did not think we would make it that far.

  Velman, witnessing my dilemma, opened the car door and rolled a window down. He took Judy from my arms and placed her on the front seat.

  “Take ’em to the side of the building,” he said. “Just keep away from the windows, and don’t go near the back. Mr. Nesbitt got some of his buddies up in there.They be opening people’s mail and reading it. He don’t think I know, but I done seen ’em do it plenty of times.”

  “Isn’t that against the law?” I whispered.

  “Must not be in this town, ”Velman said.“He got the law up in there wit’ him.”