“Biz calms child—till itsa pass.” She said in a hush as if she didn’t want anyone to notice us. “Lets thems acome, accept them. Isa will takes what youz cannot bear but I can’ts be hur alls the time. Ones day yuz will havs to see, and fightin’ thems willz makit worse. Calms yo’self. Itsa wilz pass…it wilz pass.”
A rush of images, most graphic and disturbing hit my mind with a force that almost knocked me over if not for Ms. Blanche’s rock steady body beside me and her hand taking the blows. I can only imagine that it was Addy as a little girl, I saw with spurts and snapshots, vivid and fast, one after another, then inky dark. Not black but dark in a room with no light—a child’s mouth, teeth clinching, an expunged scream, a violent convulsing, and then a bone chilling breakable echo of screams. A scream that went on forever, ripping my eardrums and torturing my soul. My pain—and her pain mixing together like some tragic witches brew we were both forced to drink over and over again till we both choked. Just envisioning it over again made me start to lose it. My legs bounced in panic, overkill, excess. I started to tick forward which is my response, only seconds away from the shadow room, when the energy, the horrible simply vanished—as if it was never there. But it had been there. I was off kilter, dizzy and left with Ms. Blanche’s hand to steady me. It took me a full minute to come back to my wits. Addy was clicking her, “How you doing” self across the beauty shop. She was pretty as you please in her black peep toe heels, her blonde tresses in curls and dabbled with hairspray, her full lips candy apple red, her cheeks blushed and pink, her eyes wide and white, her black skirt wiggle tight and her blouse busty beneath the polka dot scarf around her neck. She was simply Addy. Not the horror of a Dresden, I witnessed a second ago. When I was able to breathe steady, Ms. Blanche gave me a warm towel for my face and turned to greet Addy.
“Why hellos Ms. Addy girl.” She said. “Comes over hur ana let me looky at you. Whoosay girl. Youis som’fierce now, I tell ya. Preetttyyy!”
Addy’s face melted and her eyes sparkled as if she knew the words spoken from a genuine soul were honest and true. Ice bergs melted and the warmth of the room was back.
“Hey there Ms. B. You always say the nicest things.”Addy said skimming across the floor, boobs bouncing, heels clacking while she raised a rampart of eyebrows. Ms. Blanche was like a weather wizard, controlling the atmosphere by her moods, her warm heart and she had a gift for seeing the heart, as if her eyes saw the inner soul, things that others couldn’t see. Is it the same gift I have? The thought was enough to terrify me in the same breath. I mean, after all, Ms. Blanche knew what she was doing. I didn’t. Things are changing so quickly and my visions are getting stronger, and I’m seeing more Dresden’s than I used to, not to mention the emergence of their feelings, their sights, their pains converging with mine. THAT was possibly the worst I’ve ever felt. Ever. It’s enough to make me not want the gift at all. To top it off I witnessed the pure-dee meanness of other folks against someone as nice as Addy. Plus, not to mention the racial nonsense from the biddy crow a few weeks ago. I was about to lose hope in the female population in general. If not for Ms. Blanche, I might. I was gathering my wits about me when a large shadow appeared in front of me holding a Grape soda. Ms. Blanche not wanting to draw attention to herself, bent down quickly so that I was the only one to hear her. I glanced over and Addy was sitting in the wash basin chair with a towel over her face. Over her shoulder I saw the stare of Lena Hart from across the room. She nearly twisted her neck to see what was going on. The only thing that saved me, was the fact, Lena really loved Ms. Blanche. Everybody did for that matter.
“Listens here Child.” She said handing me the soda. “I tells yous thisa much. Itsa gon get strongers—remembeh whatz I says. Accept” and then she patted me on the knee and spoke loud so no one would suspect anything. “Enjoys thatz soda, child. I collects coins ladies left insides the sodapops slotz and yous the lucky one today.”
Since that day, I have kept watchful eyes open and my ears alert to Dresdens and the energy they put off, right before I see them. But at the same time, I pray I will NEVER see them again.
For the second day in a row, Mag and I are stuck indoors watching it pour outside. And once again, we succumb to play with city toys. I’d about had enough when I received a startling revelation. I thought for sure Mag had seen the Southern Cross in her sleep or something. A royal conversion—a baby Jesus moment and maybe, just maybe she’d rebuke the royal road of uppity jerk offs and accept our southern sap way of life. And she did—for about ten minutes. In that rare moment I was in awe of my sister. She marked out some of Ken’s teeth, removed his shirt and drew hair on his chest.
“How do I give him a beer belly?” Mag asked.
“If he stays in the south…it won’t take long.” I chugged down an invisible beer and joined Mag in her rebellion. I gave Barbie a complete makeover including a short bowl haircut. It said snazzy, confident, redneck. We threw away their shoes and made them go barefoot to toughen up their feet. Southerners cannot have dainty feet. And most important, they had to be saved and sanctified because everybody knows that Jesus is from the south, so sayeth the Baptist. We filled up Barbie’s plastic swimming pool to perform the ritual. We made them repent, grovel and cry. Then we baptized them head first. “Sin no more.” Mag said in a pulpit preacher voice. Hell and brimstone, rocks and hail.
“Bless the Lord. Amen.” I said in finality, swishing Barbie aka Bertha under the water. Once each of them had confessed their deepest sins in the public eye, and drowned them in the pool water, we dried them off with a towel. And then, of course, just like typical church folks, they joined the steeped in tradition types, those list taking, sin counting, rule riding, do it my way or the highway, only ones going to heaven denomination. There motto is “Getting saved is not enough.” Oh no. We got to help Jesus out they say. We must add to amazing grace by joining the church, paying dues, teaching a class, following detailed regulations and whatnot. They make up a nine thousand page list of rules to follow. Mess up and you’re out. Abolished to the wilderness Heathens. They can’t get enough of paperwork and check marks. In an attempt to quash the rebellion, they establish a committee to talk about how radical the members of the church have become, drinking alcohol, hang with sinners at the bar, and dance or socialize with outcasts. The abominations were long and lengthy. They barter up another rule list straight out of Deuteronomy, cherry picking the important topics of concern, and they blast the congregation on Sunday straight from the pulpit condemning the behavior, and thereby running off every single church member, new ones included. They blame it on the devil and say those members were not really Christians, only the fake ones, who fell away, so they revamp, start another committee, get saved, re-saved and re-born, recruit more members, knock on doors, give away food, hold a city revival and then go home and celebrate with drunkenness, and a side of fornication. Pretty soon, everyone is labeled a backslider and you don’t know the real from the fake so everyone is eyeing everyone.
“Goats.” The preacher calls them loudly and condemning. “They are not the real sheep.” From what the preacher man says, church is only found inside a building where his authority is all in preaching to sheep and goats.
I mean, I ain’t never been so confused in my life. Sheep and goats? Of course, it wasn’t long before Maw Sue left that church, and before she let the door close, she stood out her leg, like a dog hikes up its leg to pee on a tree, and she shook her leg as if something was ahold of it, then did the same thing with the other leg and then the door shut. We never went back. When we got home, Maw Sue sat us down and told us that if the risen Christ, Jesus himself lived inside me, then that was enough. As far as the bible and Jesus was concerned, I AM THE CHURCH. And it sounded good enough to me. I was tired to trying to figure out the sheep and goats story.
And since Mag and I were acted out the remnants of their conversions, I had to get it perfect. So, right after they were saved, sanctified, dipped and reborn, those typical Bap
tist were right on key. It’s as if they did it all themselves, without my help. Ken aka Earl wanted to celebrate with a six-pack and have sex with PJ. Barbie, aka Bertha snapped her fingers like she was suddenly the damn Queen of Sheba and expected a freaking Jesus in a bottle to disperse her a pink Cadillac full of maids at her beckon call.
“Mirror” She said. Snap. Snap. “I need a mirror and a brush. My hair is a mess. God! Someone fire the hairdresser! Who did this to my hair? Are you in charge here? Who’s in charge? Someone get me my people at Mattel?” And on and on she rambled. PJ went in a whole ‘nother pious direction. Shenanigans galore. I think getting saved does that to people. Makes them question their morals, their standards of living. The carnal and the spiritual battle it out to see who will win.
“Excuse me.” PJ said tapping Bertha on the shoulders. “Uhh, does this mean I can’t sleep with Deacon Dave anymore or does that seventy times seven thing still work?”
Awww, the perils of pink elephants in Pine Log. Everybody has one.
When Mag and I wasn’t transforming lives for the betterment of humanity, we made room decorations from Wrigley’s spearmint gum wrappers along with a gazillion beer tabs hooked together. It looked like a train track spiraling through the ceiling of our bedroom. It was like a hippie commune which made Lena disgusted to no end. She expected it to be a page out of Better Homes and Gardens. Dad overruled her, saying that all kids need personal space to create. Find themselves. Lena was pinched was months. And since dad drank like a fish, we had an abundance of aluminum tabs. It did cause some rather heated arguments that would never, ever get resolved, which lead to more arguments, which always lead to silence, which Mag and I could have done without. Silence was a weapon, just another way to kill someone, slow, deeply undetected and lethal. They’d fight, Lena would lick stamps or go on a shopping spree. Dad would drink, then Lena would gripe, so dad would drink more, then Lena would look at him with slanted blue eyes of steel. That look said, “Melt you bastard, melt.” Once dad got the look, he’d storm out of the house with a six pack and peel out of the driveway leaving smoke, dust, squealing tires and a trail of child tears while we hid in the closet. This was followed by a solid ten minutes of breaking, slamming and crackling of objects crashing against walls and floors. This always sent Mag and I running out the door and down to the barn, where we hid in the hay stacks.
Late at night, long after the house had turned into a frigid refrigerator of ice popping noises, and Mag and I were tucked under the covers, we’d hear his truck pull in the driveway. The next morning Lena would go stealth mode. This equivocally meant dad was being punished but in reality, all of us were punished. It was silence for days on end, brutal, incapacitated, begging to talk kind of silence which was followed by slamming cabinet doors, snubbed noses, burnt food and cold stares. I wanted to scream. Tell them it was only the Pink Elephant causing trouble but the words were always stuck inside the house inside me, unspoken and kept under lock and guard. After a few weeks, who knows when the ice would melt, they suddenly be back to normal as if nothing ever happened. Mag and I took the beer tabs and the gum wrappers down, just in case.
The Holiday Inn on the corner of Second Street and Washington Avenue had an eating place out of this world. It was the only buffet in town. Doors opened at eleven and it was like a cattle call, people in a stampede for the fried chicken or all you can eat catfish. Pastors declared an all-out biblical war on the establishment because it was open on Sunday. Sinful food, they said. Product of the devil. People tip-toed out of church early to get a good spot in line, first dibs on the daily special. We didn’t go to church much, so we were usually fifth or sixth in line. It was the only time I saw Mag’s face light up. It guess it was a prestigious event for the Hart family in general. We got all gussied up. Dad wore a white starched shirt with pressed blue jeans and a leather brown belt with his cowboy boots. Lena wore her favorite pastel pantsuit in powder blue with a broach, a big yellow daisy pinned to her chest like a flower growing out of her boob. Lena had a peculiar notion for dressing Mag and I like twins even though we were sixteen months apart. I never figured that one out. We had on leaf brown shirts and God awful plaid bell-bottoms in orange and yellow, cinched with a rope belt and a square buckle. Peeking out from the ballooning cuffs was a pair of blistering patent leathers. If pus filled blisters weren’t bad enough—mine came with sound effects. My left shoe squeaked every second step so I walked with a gimp trying to make it stop. Faster, slower…squeak, squeak. My only hope was that I’d grow out of them. While in line, Lena would grill us on the starving children in Africa and how important it was to not waste food. If it got spooned on your plate, then by gosh, it better be gone. “Get your money’s worth” she said, “but eat everything you get.” Sometimes her waste not—want not approaches went to extremes. She’d bring home left over food in her purse and forget it was there until the whole house smelled. On trips out of town, she’d take everything that wasn’t tied down, the notepad stamped with the hotel’s name, the matching pencil, the books of matches, the toilet paper, the soap, the shampoo and so far, four bibles. I’m not sure how many you need to get saved but if Lena keeps at it, the entire family tree will be saved from the apocalypse.
Mag was mortified when Lena started asking for freebies. She said it was kin to being homeless and begging. Maybe that’s why Mag loved the luxury of the buffet and being waited on hand and foot. It was the only time she identified with her family of origin that I can remember. She appreciated the extra attention, waiters filling glasses and asking, “May I get you anything? Can I take this plate? Do you need a more ice?” Apparently it also turned her southern accent British.
“Yesssss, I wooould.” Mag said in her best snob nosed accent. “Don’t mind if I do.” She stirred her tea with the correct spoon and tapped the edges of the glass as if she expected a jester to arrive on the red carpet to entertain her with jokes.
She smiled at the waiter and said, “Why thank you kindly, sir.” She batted her eyelashes and giggled till I thought I might puke. She took the white starched napkin and gently wiped her petite mouth. She was acting as polished and shiny as the silverware. Afterward, she sat up straight in the chair, uplifted on her knees, looking down on us as if she was the God damned queen of the buffet and we were nothing but vagabonds she found on the side of road. It irked me something terrible but I could do nothing about it. It was her gift. Who was I to talk about another’s namesake? Mag loved the table display decked out in fine china, crystal goblets, one with water, one with tea, two forks, two spoons, one butter knife, one steak knife, one bread plate, one dessert plate and God forbid anyone to use the same plate to get a second helping. NO. It was like an alarm went off inside the waiters ears, cutting you off at the pass to take your dirty plate and replace it with a clean platter. How ridiculous. I bet the dishwasher is one pissed off mofo.
“How many forks does a person need?” I said rolling my eyes and throwing down the fork.
“You have no regard for the art of fine dining.” Mag said in her Brit-southern accent. “Maybe you should come out of the barn more often Willodean. Stop eating with your hands.”
I picked up a bread roll with my carnivorous hands and threw it at her. It landed remarkably like a statue on top of her mashed potatoes, which were meticulously splattered an inch away from the chicken fried steak, which was one inch from the fried okra. Mag would not allow her food to touch. It was her way of keeping things under control or some nonsense, I wasn’t exactly sure of. To instigate and agitate, I mixed all my food up like a wild animal, and it drove her nuts. Right before it could escalate into a food fight, Lena Hart shut us both down by launching the eyebrow of doom and sharp steely blues. For the rest of the meal, Mag and I shot incriminating eye glances at each other. When we got home it dawned on me that Mag had a pink elephant too. It was hiding in plain sight. She was atypically ashamed of her own family tree. Green as the pine thicket ashamed. No matter how many times I cut her—she was a d
iamond that refused to bleed the southern sap of her upbringing.
FAITH AND 500
The number 500 popped inside my head. Again. I still hadn’t the faintest idea why or where it came from or what it meant. I tried to dismiss it but it simply sat there. So I ignored it and finished getting dressed. Makeup, hair, clothing, the whole works, something I hadn’t done in months. Progress. I sat on the side of the bed and put my hippy sandals on when I noticed the classified section of the newspaper folded on the night stand. I faintly remember dad bringing it in with him, one day weeks ago, or months, I don’t remember. It was when the shadows had taken over my room and he stood unaware, in the midst of them. I watched his sullen face turn distraught when he stared into the corpse I had become, mindless and damaged, no longer the daughter he knew. I remember him throwing the newspaper down and walking out, helpless. I picked up the newspaper, glanced over the contents and instantly, dots connected in my mind as if thoughts constructed themselves out of thin air, a realm beyond me.
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 12