Allegedly

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “Okay,” I sigh. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Notes from Dr. Jin-Yee Deng,

  Psychiatrist at Bellevue Hospital, NY

  When asked about the victim, Alyssa, Mary’s face would simply go blank. She seemed to have no recollection of the events that took place that night. The last thing she remembered was going to sleep. After that, she said her next recollection was standing in her living room, covered in dirt.

  When I’m done, the entire room stares—wide-eyed, mouths gaping. New Girl is pale as a ghost and Terry looks green. Ms. Cora is the first to attempt to talk.

  “I have to . . . I just . . . I mean. Holy shit!”

  “We’re going to get right to work on this,” Ms. Cora says, leading us to the front door.

  “Okay,” I mumble, feeling exhausted from telling my story.

  “Today’s our day off; that’s why we’re a little dressed down, but we’ll be working through the weekend. I know the group home rules. Anything comes up during the week, we’ll visit you there. And if you need anything at all, call me right away.”

  “Here, let me get you a card,” Terry says, running back to his desk. It’s cluttered with mad papers and folders. He lifts some files and I see Alyssa, her picture on the cover of some book. I stop breathing, making my way to where he’s standing. Sliding the book from under the pile, the room freezes around me.

  Alyssa. I haven’t seen her in so long I thought I forgot what she looked like. But she is exactly how I remembered; soft curly brown hair, tiny nose, the littlest fingers and the biggest blue eyes. She is dressed in her red jumper with the white bib that says, I Love My Mommy. I remember when she took this picture. I was standing nearby, being a good helper, holding her bottle like her mommy asked me to.

  I touch the picture, rubbing a thumb down her cheek, wishing she was real. You ever kiss a baby’s cheek before? It’s so soft, you can snuggle to it for days. Tears prick at my eyes, a sob building. I clutch the book to my chest and close my eyes, trying to feel her warmth again. Alyssa. My Alyssa.

  When I open my eyes, Terry is staring. The title of the book, What Happened to Alyssa?, is in big bold white letters above her forehead. There are more books on his desk, one with my name on it: When Children Murder: The Mary B. Addison Trial.

  “It’s a book about me?”

  Terry glances over at Ms. Cora, who steps closer, almost protectively. He clears his throat.

  “Yeah . . . there’re a lot of books about you,” he mumbles.

  The titles of the books stacked on his desk merge together into one. Mary . . . Alyssa . . . Children . . . Murder . . . Trial . . . Alyssa. These books about me, it means the whole world knows what I did. Or thinks they know.

  “But . . . how? How could they write anything about me without . . . or like . . . you know, asking.”

  “That’s a very good observation, Mary,” Ms. Cora says as she and Terry organize his desk, hiding the other books. Something tells me they didn’t want me to see this. But why?

  “And trust me, when all this is over, we’ll be able to file several suits for slander and defamation of character,” she says.

  “And then what happens?”

  “Then you’ll get money, Mary,” New Girl says, cheerful. “You may never have to work for the rest of your life!”

  We all turn to New Girl, standing by the door with a delirious smile. Ms. Cora doesn’t seem too happy about that answer, but she doesn’t disagree.

  “Well, something like that,” Ms. Cora says.

  Terry holds his hand out. I look, but clutch the two books to my chest. I’m not ready to let her go again.

  “Can I borrow these?”

  Terry’s eyes widen and he looks over at Ms. Cora.

  “Uhhhh . . .”

  Ms. Cora sighs then smiles. “Sure, Mary. If you’d like.”

  Interview with Anonymous #2, Inmate at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility

  Everybody seen the news, everybody knew about Mary and what she’d done. I think she was like fourteen or something when they finally let her out the hole. You ever seen one of them war prisoners, them Middle Easterners kept locked in the dark for years?! That’s what she looked like, all skin and bones, pale as a newborn who never seen the sun before. They threw her in the pit with us and she was like Kunta Kinte, wide-eyed, don’t speak a lick of English and scared of her own damn shadow. Every now and then they throw some youngins in with us. The ones who too bad to be in juvie or they get transferred out since them girls can’t stay in there past seventeen. But Mary . . . she was just a kid.

  “Didn’t I tell you, Mary? They’re going to fix everything. And they’re going to make you rich!”

  I chuckle as New Girl skips along outside, beaming.

  “Then, once I get emancipated, we could find an apartment together! Maybe we could live in the city!” She stares at the sparkly ground. “Wouldn’t that be so much fun?”

  Guess it would be kind of fun, to be on our own, living in the city, like real grown-ups. Her, Bean . . . and Ted.

  “I’m gonna go somewhere,” I say as soon as we’re at the subway.

  She frowns, eyes blinking fast. “Where?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “Can’t I go with you?” she begs, clutching my arm and I wiggle away.

  “No . . . I’ll just see you back at the house.”

  New Girl jerks a little, as if she was going to stop me, but instead she heads down to the subway. I wait, then try to call Ted. Twice. No answer. Last time we talked was the day after the storm. But now, I have to see him and tell him about the meeting, about the books, and the money. We’re going to be okay, he doesn’t have to worry anymore!

  It’s a long ride to the boys’ group home, the last stop on the train and a bus. But I’m too excited to notice. Ms. Cora is going to fix everything. We’ll be able to keep Bean. And I’ll have money, lots of it. Maybe we can get a babysitter and both go to school.

  The bus lets me off a block from the house. You can just tell it’s a group home; a run-down medical building in the middle of a neighborhood, just like mine except much bigger. The door is battered, like it’s been broken down a few times. Ted said he lived with ten other boys. That seems like too many . . . and dangerous. I think of that story, his story, about the girl being raped, and stop walking, my back muscles tightening. A curtain pulls back; someone is watching me from the second floor. I try calling again. No answer. Something doesn’t feel right. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

  Another bus pulls up and a boy jumps out. He looks about my age, tan skin, fitted hat with a bubble jacket. He stays at the group home, you can see it in his eyes. We all have that same look.

  “Hey,” I say when he passes.

  “Yeah?”

  I point. “You live in that house?”

  He takes a step back and eyes me.

  “Why?”

  “Umm . . . do you know Ted?”

  The boy groans and rolls his eyes. “Not again,” he mumbles. “You one of his girls?”

  One of his girls?

  “Look, y’all can’t keep coming around here. That’s why he got kicked out in the first fucking place. Didn’t he tell y’all that? He got a phone, hit him there!”

  A gun fires from somewhere, blowing a hole right through my chest as big as a soccer ball. The draft breezing through it makes me shiver. I can die right now and not even care.

  “You must be new,” he snickers.

  “I’m his cousin.”

  I don’t know why I said that, but it seems like a good lie. He frowns.

  “Oh. Well, he be at the Tilden Houses with some chick named Leticia sometimes. You can probably find him there.”

  Tilden is in Brownsville, one of the worst projects in Brooklyn. That’s what Ted told me anyway. Said it was really dangerous. Said all kinds of gangs are there, raping girls and robbing old ladies, shoot-outs and drive-bys in broad daylight. So why would he be there?

  “Which wa
y?” I ask.

  “About ten blocks that way.”

  Continued Interview with Anonymous #2, Inmate at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility

  I tried to help her when I could. You know, show her the ropes, tell her what’s what. Who to stay away from and what to buy if she had money on the books, that kind of stuff. She never had much though. Poor child couldn’t even buy soap one month. Her momma come in here looking like the Queen of Sheba, but couldn’t spare a dime for that little girl.

  You can see the buildings from two blocks away, towering in the sky like brown logs with beige stripes painted down the sides, sun fading fast behind them. Crips up is spray painted on a wall across the street like a stop sign. Fear scratches at my skin, but I keep walking through the parking lot, up the gated pathway toward the bright blue front door. People are staring, watching through their tiny windows. Feels just like the first time I walked into baby jail, like I’m out of place and don’t belong.

  The cold wind kicks up leaves and trash around me. Streetlights come on in small orange bursts. It’s getting late. I shouldn’t be caught out here at night. But Ted, where is he and what did that boy mean by “girls”?

  A lady and her little girl walk out the blue door. The woman gives me a stern once-over, then holds the door open. I slide inside and watch them, bundled up in their wool coats, tights, and church shoes. Reminds me of Momma and me, heading to evening service. The thought of Momma makes my stomach tighten. She’d kill me if she found me hanging around some projects.

  My legs are weak from the long walk, Bean weighing me down, and I rest against the wall of mailboxes. The lobby smells like old beer cans, like the ones Ray used to drink. There is music playing from somewhere, echoing in the halls, shaking the floor with a violent beat. Someone’s having a party. Is that where Ted is? Does he listen to that kind of music? I don’t know. It’s like I know nothing about him now. This is stupid! I have no idea where I’m going. There’s a million apartments; how am I supposed to find Ted in here? But I’ve come too far to turn around now.

  There is an elevator next to a stairwell in the far corner and I press the button. I should start from the top floor and work my way down. Maybe I can . . .

  “Don’t get in that elevator,” a voice snaps behind me. I jump and spin around. A girl walks in, the door slamming shut behind her like a sledgehammer.

  “Unless you wanna get stuck in there,” she says, smirking.

  Either her jeans are too tight or she was too thick to fit in them. She has on makeup like the ladies at the MAC counter, dark skin with a long ponytail that touches her big butt. She smacks on her gum, fixing her giant earrings, giving me a once-over as I squirm away. I don’t trust anyone after baby jail, especially other girls. She laughs and disappears down the hall. The elevator closes, screeching like nails on a chalkboard, as I hear her knock on a door.

  “It’s me!” she says.

  A muffled voice answers. “Me who?”

  “Leticia, open the door, stop playing.”

  Leticia!

  CLICK CLICK. CLICK. The sound of bolts unlocking echoes and I run in her direction, flying around a corner, almost slamming right into her. She jumps back.

  “Yo! What the fuck?”

  Leticia opens the door at that very moment, looking just like Marisol. Long hair, lots of makeup, big breasts. She stands there, a halo of smoke around her, smelling sweet like the weed the COs in my cellblock used to smoke, fried chicken popping in the kitchen behind her. She looks at me, then at Big Booty.

  “Who’s this?” Leticia asks.

  “I don’t know!” Big Booty says, throwing her hands up. “The crazy bitch just ran over here.”

  “Leticia?” I blurt out and her eyes narrow.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Leticia barks at me.

  “Yo, what the fuck is going on?”

  All the air sucks out of me the moment I hear his voice. I change my mind. I don’t want to know what he is doing here. I don’t want to know anything at all.

  “What y’all hanging at the door for,” he says.

  He swings the door open wider, slapping Leticia’s ass in the same motion with a smirk. But as soon as he sees me . . .

  “MARY!”

  Ted. Shirtless with jeans, standing behind another girl. Another me. The sight a punch to the chest and I cough up a gasp.

  “Mary . . . what are you doing here?” he asks.

  My tongue turns to sandpaper. Leticia and Big Booty share a confused glance.

  “Uhhh . . . Teddy, who’s this?” Leticia snaps.

  Ted reaches for me and I back into a wall. As if one touch would burn all the skin off me. I’m dead anyways. Dead to him. Tears come up in a hiccup and I take off running.

  “Mary!”

  He catches me by the lobby door, pulling me back in. I slap, push, and kick, trying to fight, but he is everywhere. The hands and arms that I once loved holding me are now hurting me. It’s like fighting the orderlies in the crazy house, the COs in baby jail. They won’t let me leave.

  “Mary, please! Stop!”

  Leticia and Big Booty are with us now, watching.

  “Teddy, what the fuck you doing?” Leticia asks. “Who is this bitch?”

  Ted pins me to his chest, my back to him.

  “Baby, please, let me explain,” he whispers in my ear.

  No, I don’t want to know! I hate him! I hate him! I . . . turn and bite his arm as hard as I can.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  Free, I run out the door and into the night air. My legs feel heavy in the cold. I make it down the pathway before he catches me again, wrapping his bare arms around me like a straitjacket.

  “Yo, calm down! Stop it!”

  “Help!” I scream but it comes out gurgled.

  “Chill! I’m not letting you go home alone like this!”

  As if on cue, a cop car pulls up and we quickly step away from each other. We both have priors, neither one of us wants the attention. He claps a hand over the bite on his arm, now oozing with blood, and I walk away like he didn’t just shatter my entire world.

  Frozen stiff, I walk into the house three minutes before curfew. Everything hurts, from my head to my toes and every body part inside. Ms. Stein comes limping from the TV room and I wipe the snot and tears off my face.

  “Good. You’re home. You can wash the dishes and scrub those damn pots. No food left, should’ve been on time for dinner. And here, what you were looking for.”

  She shoves a folded piece of paper in my hands and limps off.

  I unravel it with a gasp of relief. My birth certificate, from the New York City Department of Health. I study it hard, the excitement swallowing the cold. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, exactly. Maybe just proof that I belonged to someone other than Momma.

  Name: Mary Beth Addison

  Date of Birth: October 13

  Sex: Female

  Mother’s Name: Dawn Marie Cooper-Addison

  Father’s Name: N/A

  Wait, “Father’s Name: N/A”?

  I read it over ten times, making sure I’m not seeing things again, before sliding onto the floor, my body giving up. A fat cockroach crawls by my hand, its wings and legs as long as toothpicks. I want to smash it, but that would make me a killer.

  How could he, the other half of what makes me me, be non-applicable, like he doesn’t exist at all? Or does it mean not available?

  No, he was at the hospital, I’m sure of it. He had to have seen me come into the world, he wouldn’t have missed it. He is real, he has a name, he loves me, he wanted me. He wanted to be there.

  Unless Momma told him not to come.

  Notes from Dr. Jin-Yee Deng, Psychiatrist at Bellevue Hospital, NY

  During our four-hour conversation, Mary was very adamant that her father was going to come and collect her sometime in the near future. She described him in great detail, though admittedly, had never met him. It was clear that she was under the misguided impression her father was still
alive, and that her mother never told her otherwise.

  “Want to talk about it?” New Girl asks from the other side of the room, watching me like a quiet and thoughtful dog.

  “Not really,” I mumble.

  “You haven’t said a word since you got back,” she says. “Boy stuff?”

  “Everything.”

  She shrugs and changes for bed.

  I can still taste Ted’s arm in my mouth, salty with sweat and blood. Salty from Leticia. If I was really angry, I would’ve taken a piece of his arm with me. But I’m only the weakest part of angry; I’m hurt. Hurt makes you want to lay in the middle of the street, dead on the ground, muscles gone limp. It’s an SAT word I think: lethargic.

  “Sarah?” Her real name feels a little weird to say.

  She looks over, tense and uncertain.

  “Yeah?”

  I clutch the book with my picture on the cover so hard that the paper cuts leave speckles of blood on the pages like raindrops.

  “They think I’m a monster.”

  Excerpt from When Children Murder: The Mary B. Addison Trial

  by Jordan Millon (pg. 181)

  When you speak about Mary, you need to understand the definition of a psychopath and how it applies to her. Psychopaths are completely detached from their emotions. They feel no remorse or guilt from their actions, no concern with the ideologies of right and wrong. They do not see victims, they only see the means to an end. This is what makes psychopaths most dangerous.

  No matter what witnesses may say, Mary’s dissociation from her victim, a three-month-old baby, is a sign of her true self. If circumstances were different, if she had merely dropped the infant by accident, a lighter diagnosis could be made. But Mary inexplicably and without warning beat a baby to death and has yet to shed one tear for it. She stood by while paramedics tried to revive the child. One report mentions she was smiling. Smiling? You have to ask yourself, what kind of child would do such a thing? I’ll tell you what type, an evil one.

  chapter nine

  When I turned old enough to be unrecognizable, I got my first period. I was in the library, chained to a metal seat with an encyclopedia, reading about Neptune and neurons when the pain first started. Cramps beating against my stomach with bats wrapped in barbed wire. I prayed whatever it was would kill me. But it kept going, for hours, until a CO came to bring me to my cell, and found me sitting in a pool of my own blood. This is the end, I’d thought, hoping I would bleed to death. I was ready to die, ready to see Alyssa again. Instead, they brought me to the nurse’s office and gave me a pack of itchy cotton pads. Nothing is more painful than believing you’re close to glory, only to find out you’re still in hell. It was the only time I’d ever thought about killing myself.