When The Shadows Began To Dance

by Yamaya Cruz

  “Uh, look who just got on the bus.” “What does she have on?” “Something out of a garbage can.”

  “You better shut up before she turns around and pulls a Carrie on your ass.”

  There was laughter. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t believe that there’s actually a pecking order amongst rejects. Unbelievable. I guess I would never catch a break. I ignored them. It was better to pretend that I didn’t hear them, that they didn’t exist. They made fun of me all the time. I was very thin, with knock-knees and kinky curly hair that fell down my back. My hair was hard to manage, especially in the humidity when it frizzed out and looked more like a Diana Ross wig. To make matters worse, I was a late bloomer with a flat chest and ass to boot. Many of the boys at the home often teased me. They couldn’t tell if I was coming or going because both sides looked exactly the same. I couldn’t find any clothes that fit. So I had to cinch my pants with a huge belt that caused the fabric to crease, like the wrinkles on an elephant’s butt. I stole a peek behind me and saw a few kids leaning over the seats. They were talking and cursing loudly. I sat back in my chair and wished that my brother were here to take up for me.

  He never would have let those kids get away with treating me the way that they did. My brother was crazy too, but in a good way. He was the kind of crazy that was feared and admired by other kids. Hey, it wasn’t always like that. He had to earn his title by taking a lot of beatings. In fact, I remember a time when he wasn’t so tough. When he was ten, he used to get chased by the boys in our neighborhood. Man, it was a sight to see. My brother would run like a black man about to be lynched. Meanwhile, a riffraff posse of bandits was steady on his heels. Their faces were masked with anger. They held sharp objects in their hands. There was one odd boy who took the whole thing a little too seriously. He was the one who wore shoe polish as war paint and channeled rounds into his father’s double barrel BB gun.

  Ali would avoid them by taking detours that worked better than a GPS system. Sometimes, he made it home without as much as a scratch. Other times, he came in with a busted lip, a black eye, or other bruises that hurt so badly, the pain showed in his tearsoaked eyes. There was one day that changed his life forever. Maybe he just couldn’t take the beatings anymore, but I think that everyone has their breaking point when they just get tired of being scared. I supposed it was a rite of passage from cowardliness to bravery. It all started when some of the boys were making off-color jokes about our mom. They made obscene sexual gestures with their fingers pulsating in and out of their mouths. We tried to ignore them, but this seemed to make them madder. They threw rocks first and then hard punches. I didn’t know what to do, so I fell to the ground and rested in the fetal position, covering my head. My brother protected me, while the boys kicked, punched and spit at us until they got tired.

  Afterwards, they got up and began walking away, cheerily giving each other high fives and passing out illegal cigarettes to celebrate their victory. With their backs to him, my brother got up to his feet. I noticed a certain level of madness in his eyes. His body appeared to have transformed, like he developed this alter ego, much like a man who was able to mutate into a green, muscle-ripped monster. He howled savagely. He then tackled the biggest guy in the bunch. They tumbled around, until Ali pinned him and began to slam punches into his face.

  I looked around. I was scared. We were all scared. The crowd yelled and screamed for him to get off the boy, but my brother was in a zone. His eyes were glazed over; it was like he was not even himself. Ali’s hands were molded with clots of blood. My stomach was getting queasy. I ran over and jumped on his back and begged and pleaded for him to stop. His arms collapsed by his sides, his chest heaved in and out, more from exhaustion than from my scrawny embrace. The boy was sprawled out on the ground, lying motionless, like road-kill. We went home that day and never talked about Ali’s alter ego. It was best to pretend that it never happened.

  My mommy’s behavior didn’t help much. In fact, I think she was the one who kinda caused Ali to get ass whippings in the first place. Anyway, he went from zero to hero in a matter of years. Me, I was still a reject. I didn’t earn the title of being schizophrenic until I was well into my teens. However, my mommy was doing a fantastic job of being the most hated, sluttiest person in town. My mother’s “condition” was our worst kept secret. We never told anyone about it, but somehow everyone knew. The last thing that I wanted was to have people over to my house, and the last thing they wanted was to be invited. It seemed that all the kids got the lecture from their parents. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t do drugs, and don’t under any circumstances go the Reyes’s house. Even my teachers were afraid to visit.

  I hated the way my mom acted. It was embarrassing. I used to wish that night would never come, because then I was forced to watch strange men pull into our driveway. They stumbled into our home in a drunken stupor where my mom greeted them with open legs. I hated these men. I fought back sleep, dosing off and nodding like a dope fiend. I felt powerless when I was asleep, like Freddie Krueger would invade my dreams and kill everyone on my street.

  I got really scared. I stayed up and watched my mom like a starving hound dog. She patted me on the head and casually dismissed me. When I refused to go away, she offered me sweets if I agreed to go to sleep. I would eat my treat and sulk as I listened to them fucking. It made me sick to my stomach. The next morning, I woke up and peaked into my mom’s room to see if her male visitor had left for the day. I would be overtaken by a dark rage when I saw their bodies intertwined and limp from a restless night of hot sex.

  The worst part of it all is that my mom used to hear voices. She was smart; she never told anyone, at least not a shrink. I guess she didn’t want to be confined to a mental institution for the rest of her life. I suppose that in the end she chose the alternative, to live with the voices until they killed her. I am not sure if I can do that. You know, a certain part of me wants to fight, and a small part of me believes that there might be hope for me. She used to say that the voices used to put evil and wicked thoughts into her head, that they made her do awful things. I didn’t believe her, until I started to hear the voices myself.

  Whenever she started to mumble to herself, throwing her head back and forth as if she was trying to get the voices out, I knew that there would be hell to pay. I knew that in a matter of seconds she would go into one of her tangents and her sweet, loving personality would become violent. Her anger erupted like a cold, dark storm. Her screams were loud like thunder. I remembered Ali squinting and covering his ears. Me, I prayed that the thunderstorm would just hurry up and pass us by.

  But it got worse before it got better. It turned dangerous. My mom lashed out at us like bolts of lightning. Her fist worked like hammers pounding on flesh. Like any storm my brother and I would long for it to end. We would hope for the worst part to be over so we could recover from our wounds. We would find refuge in a dark corner of the house and sit silently as the storm regressed. For some reason, Ali never fought back. I suppose that he believed that our mom’s tangents hurt her more than us. Afterwards, she locked herself in her room, for days. We knocked on her door to check up on her. She shooed us away, telling us that she was dangerous and evil and didn’t deserve to live. Later, she would emerge, walking around our apartment, mumbling to herself.

  My mom made desperate attempts to get better. She even tried going to church. It was a complete nightmare. I never understood why drunks, crazies, and losers thought that attending a few Sunday masses would change their lives forever. Maybe it was an illusion. Or maybe it was a get well quick scheme. You know a solution that’s fast and easy. Personally, I think that a lot of people went to church because they had a guilty conscious. They could smoke crack on Tuesday, cheat on their wives on Friday, and beat up their kids on Saturday, and, if they went to church on Sunday, all of the misdeeds that happened throughout the week would be absolved. What a bunch of bullshit. I guess everyone needs to believe in something.

  We
ll anyway, I hated church. I am crazy so I am allowed to say that. In fact, I can pretty much say and do whatever I damn well please. Ha! Who would have thought that being crazy would be this much fun? Church was brutal because my mom forced me to wear outdated dresses that were ill fitting and overly embellished with ruffles and rhinestones. I had to squeeze my feet into black Mary Jane shoes, and my hair was styled into two bushy pigtails. And my mom always insisted that I wear my fake rabbit fur coat for warmth.

  Ali had it much worse than me. There seemed to be a limited selection of boy’s clothing at the local Goodwill store, so he had to wear fashions that reached their peak ten years ago. Even the most devoted Catholic would laugh upon seeing a young boy in awkwardly stitched clothing that was normally made of polyester or some other form of itchy and uncomfortable fabric. He walked into the church with his head down, looking like he wanted to drop through the floor. Instead, he was forced to walk a long corridor and pass dozens of aisles of people who snickered at his checkered pants and teal shirt.

  My brother and I sat in the crowd, holding on tightly to the small amount of money our mom had given us. The collection plate would be passed around a total of twelve times throughout the two-hour ceremony. And each time we were reluctant to add to it. Whenever the collections plate came our way, we would be weighed down with stares from other church members. Their eyes would be filled with so much cynicism. No matter how much money we donated, it was never enough.

  Candles of assorted colors were lit everywhere. There were altars that were put together to worship biblical saints. At first, I had no idea who these saints were. Then, I regretted the fact that I was initially curious about them. Their names and accolades were thrown at me from every direction. It was always depressing to see the picture of Francis of Assisi. It was frameless and pinned up against the far corner of the wall.

  The thing was creepy and it always left me with an eerie feeling. He was clad in a grey tunic and a biblical cloak. His eyes looked pleading and sorrowful as they looked up at a sky that was dark and dreary. One of his hands appeared to be misshapen as he clutched his aching heart, while the other hand held on tight to a cross bone and skull.

  Then, the words of our pastor echoed in my mind. Francis of Assisi was a man trapped in a world of darkness, crying out to the Lord to find inner peace. A slow chill traveled down my spine as I thought to myself. Who could survive in a world of torment? Of darkness? Then, we would all turn to read from Luke, 16. Saint Lazarus. A sharp image of a poor man in tattered clothing and a drooping spine flashed through my mind. I could imagine him, limping around the streets on a wooden cane, holding out his hands, begging for money and meager scraps of food. He would plead with his eyes, as strangers walked by and piteously dropped loose change into his palms. They were always careful not to make contact with his skin, out of fear that they would catch his infectious disease and contagious misfortune. I looked over and stared at a picture of Saint Peter. His blue eyes sank into me as he teasingly dangled the keys to the kingdom of heaven.

  I would glare back at him as I thought to myself. Why don’t you help him? You have the keys, go on and let them in to heaven so they can stop suffering for goodness sake. He ignored me. In fact, almost all of my prayers were ignored. I was frustrated. Church made it seem like it was okay to suffer. I didn’t want that, didn’t want to be in pain. I just wanted to have a happy and normal family just like other kids. Was that really too much to ask? My mom seemed to be giving up too. A lot of Sundays rolled by, and we didn’t see much improvement in our lives. In fact, things kinda got worse. Bills kept arriving in the mail, and the phone rang incessantly. My mom never answered the phone, and she never let my brother and I answer it either. It was just as well, because it wasn’t long before the damn thing got cut off.

  I wanted to go back to the church and demand that we get our money back. What kind of scam were they pulling anyway? My mommy had given them everything, and we got nothing in return. One day, I came home and saw that my mommy was packing. Instantly, I was concerned.

  “Mom, where are we going?”

  She looked at me and forced a smile. “We have to leave here, sweetie; we just can’t afford the rent anymore.”

  “What?” My mind was moving a hundred miles per hour. I just didn’t get it. Here we were trying to live our lives straight and everything was falling apart. It seemed that things were better for us when my mom was selling her ass for cash. It wasn’t fair. Life just wasn’t fair.

  “Go ahead and pack a small suitcase, but just bring the things you need, like your toothbrush and underwear.”

  What? She had to be kidding me. I couldn’t leave behind my bike, my toys, and my clothes. I started to get lightheaded.

  “Mommy, I don’t want to go; this is our home.”

  “Sweetie, there’s nothing else that I can do. We just can’t stay here anymore.”

  We waited another hour for Ali to get home from football practice. When my mom told him the news, he nearly broke down and cried in front of us. He had much more to lose than me. He had friends and a reputation that he had worked hard to build. He knew that leaving meant that he would have to start all over again.

  We left our house and didn’t look back. I don’t think that my mom had enough money for a bus ticket because we walked for most of the day. I asked my mom where we were, and she told me that we were still in Newark. The houses were huge with manicured lawns. People stared at us. I am sure that we were a sight to see. We didn’t have enough suitcases, so we threw the bulk of our stuff in black trash bags. There were times when I found myself dragging the bag on the ground, which wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Panties and soiled socks fell through the rips, and one little boy even chased us down to give us a pair of Ali’s boxer shorts. It was so embarrassing.

  I couldn’t bring myself to think about what was going to happen to the rest of our stuff. I’m sure that it wouldn’t be long before squatters moved into our house and started plucking away at our things like vultures. I shook my head. I just couldn’t believe that we were going through this, again. We walked for most of the day, only stopping to drink water or eat food.

  Finally, we came up to an old duplex. I stood outside and watched my mom walk up to the door. The wind played in my hair.

  Brown and green leaves were blowing everywhere. There were gapping puddles in the lawn, filled from yesterday’s rain. I tried to shift my feet, but the mud had glued them to the ground. The house was kinda big and well kept with a bunch of tiny rocks that covered the driveway. My mom banged on the door.

  “Alijondro, open the door. I know you’re in there. I got your kids out here, and we’re cold and hungry.”

  I could have sworn I saw someone peeking out of the window shade from the second floor. I thought that my eyes were playing tricks on me, but five minutes later, the door opened. My mom slid her way inside, and I looked at Ali. He looked back and shrugged his shoulders. We stood outside for almost twenty minutes. The rims of my ears were burning, my skin began to prickle, and my toes felt numb. My mom opened the door and waved for us to come in. Warily, we both entered the house.

  We walked into the living room and saw my father sitting on the sofa. He was wearing a sweat-stained, wife beater shirt and a pair of cut off jeans. Mommy always told me that he used to be very handsome.

  “It was love at first sight.,” she would say, smiling and dancing around like she was Cinderella.

  It seemed that my mother was most happy when she was talking about our father. It was like she needed fuel from the past to be able to function in the future. She would bounce up and down like a schoolgirl and giggle about how our father rushed home from work when both my brother and I were born. I was a little surprised. I thought that our father hated us. My mother would nod her head in disagreement.

  “No, it was different then.”

  I squinted and looked at him; he had changed so much. His once jet-black mane of hair was now sprinkled with grey, and he now had a
kangaroo pouch for a belly. I found it hard to believe that this man was once handsome. He forced a big grin and opened his arms out for me to run into them. I hesitated. Why? I don’t really know. I looked at my mom. She nodded and signaled that it was okay. I slowly made my way over to him and let him wrap his arms around me. I wedged my elbow into his bulging belly and turned my face sharply to the right to avoid a wet kiss. My mother sent me an odd look. I felt weird.

  My father let us stay with him. We were more like strangers than a family. My mom insisted that we treat our father like royalty and wait on his every beck and call. He carried himself with a hint of arrogance and acted like he was a direct descendant of the Spanish Crown. His voice was smooth and baritone, and he could charm anyone just by rolling his Rs. Whenever he came home from work, I would jump on his back and beg and plead for him to play horsy with me. Like a gentleman, he would oblige. His good mood and our playtime would be on an automatic timer. After just five minutes, he would tire and invent some lousy excuse as to why he could not play with me. I felt like there was a barricade blocking his flow of emotions. I had this feeling deep in my gut that he thought that I was ugly. People said that my brother and I had inherited the bad side of our family genes. Our dark skin and kinky unkempt hair made us the least attractive and butt ugly compared to the fairer-skinned beauties we saw on television.