Crave

by Laurie Jean Cannady

  “Laurie,” Old Folk’s voice squeaked.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “Wanna be my girlfriend?”

  I’d imagined it would be more magical than that, like he would have sang or read a poem, but the question was simple, so my response was simple too: “Yeah, if you wanna.”

  Our relationship was nothing like Tricia and Lil Curtis’s, partly because Old Folk owned a crippling shyness that didn’t allow him to look at me for more than two seconds without giggling. We didn’t hold hands or have conversations that ran longer than the initial one we’d had on the phone. In fact, we seemed more like strangers after our declarations of belonging than when we used to rush past each other on Queen Street’s sidewalk. Having a boyfriend wasn’t fun, but I toughed it out, wearing the label of girlfriend without experiencing what I assumed were the perks.

  I wanted someone to catch me when we played hide-and-go-get, someone to look at the stars with me those summer nights as Tricia, Lil’ Curtis, and I sat on the porch. All I got was Old Folk looking at me out of the corner of his eye and snapping his head away when he saw me looking at him. I wondered if he even liked me, if he’d ever liked me. Maybe Lil’ Curtis was telling him how much I liked him in the same way Tricia was telling me. Having a boyfriend that was a non-boyfriend was harder than not having a boyfriend at all—too much worrying with no real return. I shared my dilemma with Tricia.

  “I really don’t like Old Folk and I don’t think he likes me. He never talks.”

  “He’s just shy, Laurie. He talks about you a lot. Just told Lil’ Curtis he wanted to kiss you today.”

  “How can he want to kiss me when he won’t even talk to me?”

  “He does. I can tell.”

  That’s all I needed to hear. If Tricia spoke, it was my gospel, even though doubts were stomping my dreams of a romantic love with any boy, especially Old Folk.

  The next morning I found Tricia, Lil’ Curtis, and Old Folk sitting on the porch waiting for me. Tricia, smiling too hard, met me on the sidewalk. “He wants to kiss you now,” she said.

  Old Folk leaned on the banister, staring intently at his fingernails. He glanced at me, but then resumed the nail staring.

  “He doesn’t look like he wants to kiss me,” I said.

  “Yes, he does. Look at him.” I looked, but all I saw was the curve in his back, the way his chin touched his chest, and I wasn’t convinced he was wanting to be kissed. But he did look cuter. His brown skin was shiny from the sweat born out of the harsh Virginia morning. What I’d once thought were beady beads softened under the kiss of the sun.

  “Well, what does he wanna do?” I asked, poking out my chest and placing my hands on my imaginary hips.

  “Come on,” Tricia said as she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house. She walked me past the living room, past Jaw Baby sitting on the couch, and through the kitchen. We ended in the middle of the backyard on a hill of dirt formed after the removal of a tree stump.

  “Wait right here,” Tricia said as she ran around the side of the house. I waited, surveying the backyard, eyeing the strength of the grass that surrounded me. I envied that grass, the way rain could beat it, feet could stamp it, yet it always found strength to rise again. As I was examining the blades of green steel, I heard Old Folk coming from the side of the house.

  He walked right up and stood in front of me. His chipped tooth disappeared and I marveled at how much taller he seemed standing so close to me. He looked into my eyes and smiled, took my hand into his and pulled me closer to him. I didn’t know where all of the machismo was coming from, but I liked it. My hands began to sweat, and then I was the one who looked away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tricia and Lil’ Curtis together, peering out the window at us. Their giggles joined us in the backyard, but Old Folk must have been deaf to them, because he didn’t turn his head their way. I looked around the yard, at Tricia, then back at the grass. Anywhere was better than looking at Old Folk, the beads of sweat perched on his lips, the way that his jaw seemed larger, stronger than I remembered.

  “You ready?” he whispered. I was not, but I nodded. He leaned down to me and I feared some of his sweat would drip onto my skin, but the beads held fast to his face. Then his lips touched mine. They were warm, soft and salty like taffy. I opened my mouth and he opened his around mine. It was just like in the movies. The world spun as Old Folk rubbed my back. In my mind the kiss went on too long, but I liked being in his arms, liked his skin touching my skin.

  I wonder if we’re doing it right, I thought to myself. Maybe I should start calling him Patrick and not Old Folk, was another notion running through my mind. Finally, he dropped his arms, stopped his lips from moving, and stepped away. I was proud of myself, proud of the womanly thing I’d done. I imagined we’d hold hands often after that and kissing would be our new pastime. But, soon after the kiss, Old Folk and I didn’t talk again and I got word through Tricia he didn’t want to be my boyfriend anymore. But she assured me I’d done everything right and that it looked to be one of the best kisses she’d ever seen. So, I tried to believe nothing was wrong with me and Old Folk was just a dummy, as most boys were dummies, because he couldn’t see the silver shadow glowing inside of me.

  Blind Spot

  Kissing Old Folk may not have ended with the fairytale I imagined, but it did make me aware of the control I had over my body and the boys that liked to watch it. I was no longer preoccupied with boys I liked, which usually happened to be the ones that didn’t like me. For the first time in my life, I began to understand the compromises I’d have to make in order to be loved. I’d seen Momma settle in the same way with Mr. Todd and Mr. Tony as she overlooked their obvious flaws.

  Although I spent time with my new boyfriends, I never lost sight of my true role on Queen Street, protecting Tricia. One afternoon I found Tricia in her bedroom, crying violently and cursing. I assumed Jaw Baby had already struck and I was too late, but these were different tears. They heaved out of her chest and caused her to clutch her stomach in pain.

  “What’s wrong, Tricia?” I asked.

  “I can’t stand Ma. She makes me sick.”

  “What’d she do?” I asked.

  “She won’t let me see Lil’ Curtis anymore. She put me under punishment and said I can’t go out of the house while she’s at work. I just can’t stand it, Laurie.” Tricia never said it, but I knew there was more to fear than not seeing Lil’ Curtis. Punishment meant double punishment, confinement in her room and easy access for Jaw Baby. My heart beat quickly and I felt the sweat dripping from my armpits. I imagined what the next week held for Tricia as if it were mine to live.

  “I’m gonna run away.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Now,” Tricia said. She got up from the bed and began putting on her shoes.

  “Where you gonna go?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going from here.”

  “What about the Towel Man? What if he gets you?” I timidly asked.

  The Towel Man was a reality that had plagued my existence since I’d lived in Academy Park. Today, I’m not sure of whether he was a myth or a real killer. Past reports described him as a serial killer and rapist that either wrapped a towel around his head or the heads of his victims while he assaulted them. Whenever I overheard Momma talking about him, I was filled with crippling fear and imagined his dark eyes choosing his victims carefully. I often worried as I walked from Constitution to Queen Street that I would be the next one. When Tricia announced she was running away, all I could see was her lifeless body being found on the tracks that ran behind Harry Hunt Junior High. I imagined the Towel Man grabbing her, wrapping the towel around her head and neck, squeezing the life out of her. That’s when I realized there were some things worse than punishment, worse than what Jaw Baby was doing. I didn’t want Tricia to die, so I decided I was going with her.

  As we walked the tracks toward downtown Portsmouth, I tried to keep up, but my thoughts tugged at me like shack
les chained around my legs. I thought about Momma and how worried she would be when I didn’t go home that night or call saying I was with Tricia. I hoped she would understand I was trying to save Tricia and I’d be safe. I hoped that information would save me from a beating.

  We walked the railroad, tripping over rocks that jutted between the rails. The sun hung heavily in the sky and a light breeze ran across my skin. I felt as if God were caressing me, letting me know my sacrifice would be rewarded. Tricia barely talked, but the crunch of her shoes against rocks and the way that her hands swung like pendulums alongside her hips said she was tired and she wasn’t taking it anymore.

  Twenty minutes after we began our journey, we approached Harry Hunt Junior High. By the route Tricia was taking, I had an idea we were going to the house of one of her older sisters, Tedren. She lived in Brighton, and I knew she’d get me home once Tricia arrived safely. We’d just come from behind Harry Hunt and were walking on the sidewalk when a car hit the curb like an eight ball gliding into the corner pocket. Aunt Vonne, with her curly hair, brown skin, and steely eyes, stepped out of the car and screamed, “Get your asses over here.”

  I didn’t know whether to run or obey. I hadn’t done anything wrong and I didn’t want to start in that moment, so I slipped into the backseat of the car and began praying for my cousin. Tricia tried to run, but Aunt Vonne caught her by the arm and pushed her next to me in the car. Aunt Vonne sat in the front seat, but she may as well have been in the back with us, because she cussed and yelled in our faces all the way to Queen Street.

  I couldn’t make out most of her words, but I knew when a sentence ended because Aunt Vonne punctuated it with a slap to Tricia’s face. I remained quiet, crying inside for each blow Tricia received. I must not have been quiet enough or maybe my presence was too loud, but in the middle of threatening Tricia with the worst beating she’d ever gotten in life, Aunt Vonne turned to me and said, “After I finish beating Tricia, I’m gonna whip your ass too.” Her lips curled into a snarl and her eyes squinted into a death stare. I wanted my momma. That was until Aunt Vonne continued, “and after I finish beating your ass, your momma’s gonna beat you too.”

  Then the tears I’d cried inside for Tricia began to pour for me. I wanted to tell Aunt Vonne it wasn’t my fault, that I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I feared speaking. When we got back to Queen Street there were switches to be harvested. I want to say Aunt Vonne made us pick the switches, but I’m certain if I’d had the choice of which sticks would connect with my skin, they would have been short, brittle, and they would have shattered on contact. The switches Aunt Vonne used were long, about twice as long as her arm, and they were fresh, not baby limbs, but mature switches that looked as if they’d refuse to break even if folded into themselves.

  Cataclysmic sobs escaped me as soon as Aunt Vonne stood in front of us brandishing them like a flag girl standing at attention. Tricia cried quietly. In the midst of my tears, I grew proud of her strength. I wished I were as brave.

  “Come on,” Aunt Vonne said as she pointed the cluster of limbs toward me. I looked at Tricia, wishing she was the superhero I’d always imagined her to be so she could fly us both out of there before one switch touched our bodies. She just looked at me with eyes as dark as night sandwiched between stars. I imagined she was saying she was sorry, that she was sending a sign that would make the slashing of skin and the stinging of wood against flesh less painful.

  After being led to Tricia’s room, Aunt Vonne’s voice boomed, “Get on the bed, and take off your clothes.” It was worse than I’d imagined. Momma had never beat me without clothes. Clothes were protection. A sleeve or a pant leg often tangled with a switch before connecting with skin. No clothes meant no interference. It would just be my flesh and the nakedness of the limb. I took my place on the middle of the bed, searching for a sheet or a pillow that could be used as a shield. There was nothing for me to grab. Only the wall behind me offered support.

  Aunt Vonne raised her arm over her head. Her hands were clamped around the long stick. She swung. I ducked. Connections felt like waves of electricity being transferred from the tip of the switch to my spine. She swung again. I ducked again and again and again. The battery burned like hot wax splashing against skin. We continued that dance until my yellow legs were covered with Aunt Vonne’s red engravings. My arms wore the same tattoos and even my back wore those markings. Aunt Vonne’s mouth was moving, but I only heard my shrieks. I listened to them as if they weren’t my own, as if there were some other girl in the world, on another bed, using the flesh of arms to protect the flesh of legs. Finally, the arm stopped rising and falling, the mouth stopped moving, and the shrieking slowed to a labored whimper. “Get your clothes on and get downstairs,” Aunt Vonne panted as she ordered me out of her sight, “and send Tricia upstairs when you get down there.”

  The air outside of the room was much thinner than what had moments before wrapped around the bed, the switch, Aunt Vonne, and me. I tried to breathe in, but phlegm had already begun to nestle against the walls of my lungs. I walked, but I did not feel the walking. When I saw Tricia, I talked, but I did not hear the talking. My whole being was focused on the welts that coiled themselves around my skin like barbed wire pulsing in a python-like grip.

  I sat on the couch with care, making sure not to put too much weight on the slashes that burned against the fabric of my skin. Then there were screams, violent thrashing, crashing, but I did not hear them. They were vibrations in my abdomen each time a body connected with the floor, the wall, and the bed. Something in me exploded with them, just as if I were a kernel of popcorn being slung around a blazing pan. Yet, I felt nothing. I was no longer there. I had left the girl I was in that bedroom, maybe in the cracks of the wall, maybe wrapped in the fitted sheet that had offered no protection. Maybe in the corner of the windowsill, where flies, last autumn’s leaves, and dried dirt waited for rain to begin the process of forcing what had been dead back to the moving, living world. I hoped I was there, able to be moved, because I wanted to be anywhere other than in that living room, listening to Tricia fight for a life separate from her momma’s.

  Soon after the thumping stopped, I heard the stairs bowing under the weight of Aunt Vonne’s anger. She emerged with three switches in her hand. I feared she was coming for me again, that our conversation was not over and she’d been reminded more slashes belonged to me. “Get your ass up,” her voice boomed within the walls of the room as I shot to the position of attention. “I’m taking you home so your momma can finish the job.” I prayed I’d faint right there and be rushed to the hospital. The needles with which they’d prick my arms would have been less painful than Momma whipping the already raised skin on my legs.

  As we made our way from Queen Street to Constitution, I contemplated running away again, this time for myself. I was no longer afraid of the train tracks or the Towel Man. Death on the tracks was not as certain as the never-ending sting of wood on broken flesh. I must have slowed as I pondered my escape because Aunt Vonne floated behind and landed a cutting swipe across the back of my thighs. I felt like a horse being whipped toward final destination.

  As we approached my house, I looked for a sign that Momma, my brothers, and sister had moved. Even if they would have left me alone in the world forever, I believe in that moment I would have been grateful. But Mr. Tony’s blue Celica sat where it always sat and light radiated from the house as if it were a sun and I was forced to walk into its fire.

  Momma opened the door before Aunt Vonne had an opportunity to knock. She looked just as I’d feared, ready to rip the rest of the skin off of me. I couldn’t contain my emotions anymore. The separation of self I’d relied on while Tricia was being beaten could not work for me on my own porch. “I’m sorry, Momma,” I began.

  Aunt Vonne cut through my words with her tongue. “Shut up,” she commanded, and I complied. Momma turned her attention to Aunt Vonne. I was thankful the scowl on her face was no longer pointed at me.

 
; “Thanks for bringing her home, Vonne. Where was she? What happened?”

  “Her and that damned Tricia ran away from home and I picked them up and whipped both of their asses.” The last word hissed out of Aunt Vonne’s mouth as her lips curled around it. I stood, waiting for Momma to grab the switches out of Aunt Vonne’s hand and finish what Aunt Vonne had started.

  “Hold on a minute,” Momma said. “Why did you beat her? Laurie didn’t have any reason to run away.” Momma glared at me then, “Why’d you run away, girl?” I looked from Momma to Aunt Vonne, afraid to answer without permission. I wasn’t sure of who was in control at that moment. “Why’d you run away, Laurie?” Momma asked again.

  “Because Tricia was running and I didn’t want the Towel Man to get her and kill her.” The words rushed out of me all in one breath.

  Momma then turned to Aunt Vonne. With a rage I’d never seen, not even when Mr. Todd had choked her and not when I told her what Pee Wee had done to me, she said, “You beat her for trying to help your daughter?”

  Initially, Aunt Vonne had no reply, but I could see something burning within her as well. She clenched the switches she had earlier been ready to hand over to Momma and put her hand on her hip. “She needed her ass beat just like Tricia did.”

  “You don’t decide when my daughter needs to be beat,” Momma said as her voice crescendoed to unrecognizable levels.

  “You just better be happy I brought her ass home,” Aunt Vonne said as she began walking down the stairs away from the house.