Cinderfella

by Xavier Neal

  “Trying,” I sigh, the Texas late winter sun being hot enough to make me sweat yet not enough to warm up the place. “It seems like everything broke down while I was away today.”

  “Just about,” she giggles, tossing her strawberry blonde feathered hair out of her face. “Something else around here could use a little a fixing…”

  A small smile creeps across my face. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  With her hands tugging at her white sweater sleeves, she slides next to me, allowing me to hover over her at 6’2. After glancing at the children who seem to be enjoying the fresh air, she less than innocently leans in. “Me.”

  My screwdriver almost slides out of my hand, “Really?”

  “And I think the sooner the better,” she sweetly runs a finger down my arm.

  “Ms. McGee if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re hitting on me.”

  “And if I am?” she ponders out loud.

  Thankfully a little girl runs up to her, buying me a minute to regain my composure. “Ms. McGee, Julia screamed at me.”

  With a kind grin, she looks down at her. “And did you tell her you don’t like it when she does that?” For a moment the little girl contemplates if she did it or not and when she realizes she didn’t Kendall sighs, “Why don’t you go talk to her and let her know how you’re feeling. It's always best to let others know how you feel.”

  “Okay!” the little girl screams dramatically and rushes off.

  Finally done fixing the swing, I holler out to the children, “All fixed!”

  “Thank you Mr. Connor!” they scream at the same time they bum rush the swing in front of me.

  Backing up carefully, I head towards the door until Kendall’s small soft hand wraps itself around my tattooed forearm. “Wait.”

  “Yeah?” I glance down at her chipped painted finger nails before I look up to her face. Nothing like the French manicured ones that belong to a girl I can't get out of my head. Damn it. What is my problem?

  “Connor, seriously, I was wondering, if maybe you wanted to…” she tries to let her pale Irish skinned hand finish the sentence.

  “Maybe…” I nervously run my hand over my black buzz cut hair, “but for now I gotta go.”

  Doing her best to smile, unsure if she was rejected or not, she stops me once more before I unlock the door. “Hey Connor, I was curious. What does that symbol on your arm mean?”

  I glance down at the black mark that was one of the only gifts I got for my 18th birthday. It's a circle connected down the middle with something that looks similar to diamonds, with four smaller circle dots connected to the outer circle wall. One at the top, bottom, and both sides. “To have faith. Belief. Assurance. It's Hawaiian.”

  “Because you’re part—”

  “Hawaiian. My father was Hawaiian. Native to the island.”

  “Why'd he leave?”

  “Made the mistake of falling in love with a tourist,” the answer is given with an uneasy smile. Talking about my family, especially not the one person who gave a damn in life, isn't something I enjoy.

  She giggles, “And MaKayla? You're Hawaiian, so she's part Hawaiian and part…”

  “Black. Her mother was black.” I swipe my key card. “I’ll see you around Kendall.”

  “Bye cutie.” She waves her fingers at me and returns to tugging on her sleeves.

  One hot chick is repelled by me, one can't attach herself fast enough. What the hell is wrong with females? Better yet what the hell is wrong with me? The one who would gladly be an asset to my life probably won't pop up in my head again until I see her clocking out for the day. And the other? She won't get out of my head no matter how hard I fucking try.

  **

  A little past 6:30, when the school is officially closed, I slip my tools back in the work closet and rush to the front office where Nelly is sitting with my daughter in her lap, who is playing with stickers.

  “Sorry Nelly, I didn’t mean to hold you up.” I wipe my hands on my jeans.

  “Daddy!” my beautiful daughter, MaKayla, who is almost three years old, rushes into my over worked arms.

  “Hi princess.” I hug her tightly and smother her with kisses. She giggles and wiggles in my arms erasing any of the exhaustion I might've just been feeling. Never fails. Love from your daughter can do that. Pulling away I admire her naturally tanned skin, her long black wavy hair that lands directly in the middle of her back, and her glowing green eyes. My daughter is the most beautiful girl in the entire world. I'm thankful she got more of my looks and coloring than her mothers. Makes the pain of what happened a lot easier to fucking swallowing.

  “Daddy!” she kisses me again and fiddles with the collar of my shirt. “I miss you!”

  “I missed you too.” With a wide smile I ask, “Were you being good for Mrs. Nelly?”

  She nods sweetly and greets me with the sparkling smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. “I had a great day daddy!”

  “Did you?” I grab her backpack from Nelly and slide it over my shoulder.

  “I did! I finger painted and made you pretty pictures,” her small pitched voice squeaks. “In my backpack…I put 'em in my backpack!”

  “We’ll take them out and put them up in our room when we get home okay?”

  “Okay daddy.” She drops her head on my shoulder.

  I place a kiss on her forehead and whisper to her, “Can you be a good girl and tell Mrs. Nelly goodbye?”

  “Bye Mrs. Nelly!” She waves enthusiastically.

  “Bye Mak. I’ll see you tomorrow okay?” Nelly pushes her fallen blonde strands from her pony tail out of her face, rubs her belly, and smiles.

  “Thanks again Nelly for the hand me downs.” I try to adjust my daughter on my hip. “They really helped. And the toys...and the--”

  She holds up a hand to stop me. “No thanks needed. Glad they are being put to good use rather than collecting dust on my shelf. Can you believe this one is a boy?”

  With a slight chuckle, I shrug, “After three girls, I thought you'd be relieved.”

  “That's one word for it,” she lightly jokes. “You two get home. Have a good night.”

  “You too Nelly.”

  On our way to the car, Mak squirms around and giggles, clapping her hands while she sings a song I assume she learned today in her preschool class. Loving the sound of her laughter I smile back at her as I unlock my vehicle.

  I slide her in the car seat as she continues to sing the song now louder. “You really like that song huh?”

  “Love it Daddy!” She claps again, her hair falling into her face. A kiss from her lands on my cheek before she asks, “Can I have baba please?”

  “Of course.” I unzip her backpack from next to her and slide her fluffy light brown bear into her hands, which she immediately hugs tightly. With a ruffle of her hair I sigh, “Love you Mak.”

  Mak squeals in return, “Love you!”

  I shut the door and climb into the front seat. With another heavy exhale, fatigue taking over again, I start the car I was lucky to get at the price I did. Damn near cost me everything I had saved when Mak was born, but I try not to complain. The college kid whose parents bought him a brand new car, couldn't seem to get rid of it fast enough. Insurance is cheap enough that I don't feel like I have to break the damn law every time I have to drive her. Pulling out of the parking lot, we head towards home, her favorite princess sing along CD playing. At the first stop light I glance at the clock wondering just how late I’m going to be up tonight doing my calculus homework, writing my English paper and devising a plan to convince Ms. Flores to switch my partner to someone with a more flexible attitude. Though the girl has a pair of very flexible legs. At least they look flexible. In fact I wouldn't mind if they—Mak's voice hits a note so far off key from the song it breaks that train of thought. Damn it, if I stay up too late Mak wants to stay up with me, which makes it harder for her to get to school on time, which makes it harder for me to get to school on time. Whil
e a few of my teachers understand the situation and cut me some slack, it doesn't change the dickhead feeling I get for arriving late sometimes.

  The drive home takes twice as long as the drive to work does for the simple fact I live nowhere near the school. In fact I live twenty minutes from the school that I started attending once MaKayla was born. Distance between me and the school I met her mother at seemed best.

  We pull into the rundown apartment complex, where the wood looks damp and moldy, the roofs are peeling off, and the metal looks rusty. If those factors aren’t appealing enough, then the weeds attacking the parked cars, the overflowing dumpster, and the drug deals possibly being made right out in the open are. Taking the path around to the right, I slowly go over the speed bumps because Mak likes to pretend they are some sort of roller coaster ride, like the ones she's seen on commercials. She always tosses her hands in the air and screams, which breaks my heart. Every time. Saddest part isn't even that I've never been able to take her to any of the places she points out on the T.V., it's the fact that I’ll probably never be able to afford to. At least not while she's young. When it matters. The memories I get to make with her are typically at free things, like the park on the better side of town. The same park where parents raise their eyebrows, judging me on my age as a parent just as much as they do on my wardrobe. Just like Gianna did. Ugh. Fuck. Not that girl again. I pull into the space directly in front of my complex, thankfully, and rush to get Mak out due to the cold and random rain that’s starting.

  With her back pack over one shoulder, mine over the other, her in my arms and the keys in my hand, I hurry up the flight of stairs to the apartment on the right.

  “Daddy our number is falling…” Mak points to the 4602 that’s dangling for the second time this month. “Fix it.”

  “Later Mak.”

  “Now daddy,” she whines.

  “No ma'am,” I scold her finally getting the keys in the lock.

  “But--”

  “Daddy said no Mak,” I repeat and she starts to pout, which is the last thing I need right now.

  As soon as we’re inside, I let Mak down and lock all three locks cringing at the idea of having to chase thieves off again.

  “Grandma!” Mak screams running towards the couch where my mother is blatantly passed out.

  “No, leave grandma alone baby,” I instruct after looking at the empty bottle of Vodka on the coffee table in front of her. “You’ll see her in the morning.”

  “But daddy,” she begins to pout once more, her flawless skin scrunching into tear mode.

  “But nothing. You’ll see her in the morning.”

  The whining gets louder, “I wanna see her now.”

  “Mak, please take your backpack to your room and play with your dolls while I make dinner okay?” My deep sigh is followed by me leaning on the wall beside the front door.

  After much hesitation and useless poking at my mother she does as she’s asked and drags her backpack to our bedroom. Slipping out of my beat up black shoes, I head across the food and paint stained once white carpet and stare at my mother disappointedly. Like it's not enough she reeks of booze and cigarettes, her legs are wide open leaving that part of her body on display and her head is lifelessly draped off the edge of the couch.

  Shaking my head at the image, I’m taken off guard when an unexpected male strolls in the room. Confused, I fold my arms across my broad chest allowing my biceps to bulge in my shirt. Girls think I hit the gym on a regular with some weird goal of looking like a fitness model or something. Fact of the matter is, the work out I get is from work and chasing off scum that tries to stick to my mother.

  “And who the fuck are you?” my voice growls.

  “Tommy. Who the hell are you?” He pulls his gray shirt over his overly tatted body. Dad had a policy about only getting tattoos that signified something important. Hints to why I have just the one.

  “Her son,” I answer. “What are you doing here?”

  “Her,” his laugh creates a familiar knot in my stomach.

  My eyes skim over his frail 5’10 structure, his washed out skin, and short shaggy light brown hair. I notice the needle marks in his arm, which never fails to make my skin crawl. Clearing away the anxiety it creates I state, “Well now that you’re done, you can go.”

  “What’s that?” He makes a movement towards me in what I'm sure he feels is an intimidating gesture. I've run off drug dealers. Thieves. Crooked landlords. Hundreds of men bigger and more powerful than the wiry guy in front of me, who almost looks like he's going to ask me for chemistry notes.

  “I said…” My hands unlocks the door while still making eye contact with him. “You. Can. Go.” When I fling the door open I say, “Which means get your shit and get out.”

  He hesitates at first assuming I’m all talk and no action until he takes note of my defensive stance, which has yet to waiver. I watch as he grabs his brown coat and scuffed up shoes only to quickly exit my apartment, not giving me or my mother a second glance.

  Once he disappears, I re-lock the door, swoop all 120 pounds of my mother into my arms and carry her into her bedroom. Kicking a few more beer bottles out of my way, I gently lay her on the bed. Before covering her up with a light purple blanket, one of the only mementos she kept from my father. I make sure to remove her car keys, placing them back in the living room by her purse for work in the morning. The moment I hear a faint snore coming from her, I turn and leave to deal with the other chores that are waiting.

  Our bite-sized kitchen is directly across from my mother’s bedroom. Sure, the tiny apartment isn't the ideal space except for maybe someone who lives alone, but I've learned to make do. I've learned to cope. As long as Mak has a roof over her head, even if it occasionally leaks, that's all that matters. Crossing towards the direction of the sink, I cringe at the sick remains from what I only hope was food on the floor. Fuck I pray that's food. I drag myself past the sink of overflowing dirty dishes to the fridge and pantry that sit side by side next to the window. Digging through the bare cupboard to see the remains of what can only be described as a food raid, I rub the back of my heavily tensing neck. Frustrated, I quickly move over to admire what’s left in the fridge, which ultimately evokes a panged groan out of me. Now when I get paid on Friday I not only have to attempt to pay MaKayla’s tuition in full, the light bill, and store away gas money, but restock the kitchen with food that should have lasted another couple of weeks. Looks like God's not about balance, so much as giving me the tiniest light of hope to laugh when I realize it was just a trick.

  I rub my tattoo while staring into the basically barren fridge. Faith. Belief. Assurance. Three things that my father would expect me to keep close to me because he did it. Three things that are getting harder to hold onto along-side his principles and fading memory.

  I decide to make macaroni and cheese, green beans, and lemon chicken, items obviously no one wants when they have the munchies because it requires too much effort. Slowly, I get everything started at the same time I get the dishes washed. Swinging back by our room, I creak the door open to grab our laundry basket, at the same time Mak is brushing one of her princess dolls’ hair. Not being noticed I grab the hamper, so I can begin washing clothes, knowing tomorrow is ‘I wanna wear the pink and green polka dot shirt you lied and told me mommy bought last year’ Wednesday. I'm just thankful that she only has the one shirt that matters so much to her and that accidents in her underwear are damn near non-existent. Potty training her early saved money I really couldn't waste on pull-ups. Those things are fucking expensive.

  As soon as the laundry is going, I return to the living room around the corner to pick up after my mother. For the most part I consider her my other child. At first I take a glance around at the blood smeared wall, the torn apart maroon recliner which has a pile of clean laundry in it, and the wobbly coffee table I have to fix three times a week due to its excessive use for my mother’s sexcapades and my daughters frequent coloring. Amazed that no matter
how many times I try to tidy the place up, it still manages to appear this way. I take on my cleaning routine again.

  The collection of beer bottles and cigarette butts are not only disgusting, but dangerous for Mak to be around. I once saw her lips pressed against an empty bottle because she said she liked the whistling sound it made. Ever since that moment she has never been allowed to play where I haven’t cleaned and looked over. Sometimes I wonder if my mother just forgets she’s got a baby granddaughter around the place or just doesn’t care, but either way someone has to be responsible for the place and it makes the most sense it’s me. After throwing away the large amount of drug excess, I do an extra sweep between the couch cushions remembering the one time I found a bottle of pills there. My eyes scan the room once more spotting an empty needle underneath the coffee table. Not sure if I should be more terrified that Mak could have come across this while she was poking at my mother or more pissed off my mother had the nerve to leave it in the living room where Mak could have access to it. I transfer it to the kitchen, put it in a plastic container, and dispose of it in the house trash where I make a mental note to take it to the dumpster the minute MaKayla has fallen asleep.

  I vacuum, give the surfaces I know Mak can touch another wipe down, and drag my homework out from my backpack. I spread it out on the floor beside the coffee table so that my daughter may enjoy her coloring session before bed.

  “MaKayla,” I call to her only to be greeted by her attendance instantly. “Do you wanna watch your favorite movie while we eat dinner?”

  “Yes please!” She squeals crawling on the couch behind where I’m sitting, flopping herself and her bear down.

  Popping it in the DVD player, which I scored from a garage sale a couple years back, along with the movie, I let her watch the previews she’s seen a million times as she giggles helplessly. That sound makes all this shit worth it. The cleaning. The long hours of work. Barely sleeping because of homework. All that is worth it for just one second of that sound.

  I return to the kitchen to stir the macaroni around a little bit more just as the chicken has finished baking. With a heartfelt smile on my face, hearing the movie start I grab her princess plate and matching cup along with an adult plate for me. The amazing balancing act I do to carry the plates and her drink into the living room receives another giggle right before she starts to sing along with the first song in the movie. I place the plates down on the coffee table, set up her mini chair so that she may eat at the coffee table, and plop her down in it. Not even really caring she’s got dinner in front of her she picks up her fork and begins fighting with the green beans to stay on it while continuing to sing along.