She was waiting for me to respond, to push back, because that’s what we did, Tonya and I. Maybe three or four times a month, we pushed and poked at one another until there was a full meltdown and we end up either slamming doors or throwing harmless slaps or pulling hair and then it would all settle out with the two of us out of breath, trapped in each other’s grip, promising that I’ll let go when you let go. No, you let go first. On three. No, you let go first. It was a strange bonding ritual that seemed violent and cruel on the surface, but, in reality, it’s what kept us from ever stabbing one another in the night.
Cathartic, Mom would call it.
Though she was never given the chance to witness our form of catharsis.
Tonya came to visit me in Danbury only once and she told me that she knew that she had pushed me too far that day, that it was her fault that things reached the point they did. She said that afterwards, when I had retreated to my room and slammed the door, she went to her own room and cried because she never knew until that afternoon what a truly terrible person she could be.
Though, if she really wants to be honest, she would have to admit that she really hasn’t done much to improve herself over the years.
And then it became so much worse.
Naddie never knocked when she crept into my room, but I always knew when she was there because I would see the top of her head and hear the thump of her knees across the floor as she crawled over to my bed. She was nine or ten by this time, much too old to be crawling about, but she knew that this was how it was done. She knew exactly what she had to do. I only wish I had stuck with the ritual.
I told her to go away when her eyes appeared over the edge of my mattress, where I laid curled up, crying. She watched me, her big, brown eyes blinking like some strange creature that could not comprehend. After a moment, those eyes sank from view and remained hidden. I knew that she was smiling to herself, certain in her own ability to make me feel better. After a few more seconds, the same silent, staring eyes reappeared and blinked at me.
I told her to go away again, but this time, I struck out and slapped the top of her head, trying to push her away. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want her to console me. I really wanted her out of my room.
Naddie was shocked, sitting back on her heels and watching me as she tried to figure out what was going on. She then ducked down again and soon her hands appeared like the feet of a chameleon climbing a rock, slowly working there way up as she brought herself gradually onto the bed. So slow that, when she was smaller, she would think that I somehow couldn’t see her. She had seen this trick on a nature show on PBS one time. Probably was a chameleon.
As she came up onto the bed, her next move was to crawl up onto me but before she could, I struck out again, telling her to go away as I pushed. She was in the middle of the slow, balanced movement and the sudden force sent her slipping back over the edge and down to the floor with a thud. I was stunned. I looked to see if she was alright and found her equally stunned, shaking her head even, but otherwise physically okay. Really, I wish I had hurt her, a little, because it might’ve been enough to stop me.
I commanded her to leave my room and she looked up at me, uncertain as to what she was supposed to do next because it never went this way before. For some reason, her inability to listen to what I was telling her, to obey what I was saying, tweaked the shit out of me and I jumped off the bed, lifted her by her arms, and dragged her between my legs towards the door. I told her, again and again, to Get out!
She panicked, wrapping her arms around one thigh and pressing her cheek to my leg as she told me No! I became more angry, having such a hard time moving her, and I kept yelling at her to go, and she kept responding with No! No! No!
I pulled her to the door and then struggled to free myself of her grip. She fought, crying and screaming as she switched from one thigh to the other, to a calf, to my waist, to my wrist, to my shirt. She refused to let go as she pleaded with me without words — only sounds of heart-broken anguish that were coming out as howls as she cried and cried.
Finally, I detached all of her limbs from me long enough to step back and slam the door on her. The scream she gave was so long and painful that I was immediately frightened that I had closed the door on her finger, but after a moment of trying to decide if I should open it again, she turned herself around on the floor and was now stomping the door as she cried.
I screamed at her with great resentment to Go the fuck away!
I’ve hated myself ever since that day and I wish to God I could get the memory of it out of my head, but every facet of it — the sights, the sounds, the emotions — are so etched into my brain with such great detail that it will never happen. The assault is the only event that rivals it in its clarity, to be called up at any moment so that I can relive these nightmares over and over for reasons only God would know.
I can’t understand why he fucks with me like this.
Why? Because I’m unforgivable, is why.
18
St. Julian’s — Msida
My Ma told me that I was the best thing that ever happened to her — once — when I was around five years old. She never said it again, but I lived under the assumption that that sentiment continued to hold true up until the moment when she really showed me how she felt about me.
Actions, as they say, not words.
The Old Man told me that it was an accident, but I’m pretty sure that was mostly his upbringing speaking, his assumption of my below-average intelligence, as with all Blacks and Coloureds. Okay, believe what you like, Old Man, but I’m not stupid. The only thing that was left unanswered with me was why she did it. Why didn’t she simply give me away to someone, or leave me on a doorstep, or drown me in the rain barrel the Old Man kept behind the homestead?
Ma, I love you, but, seriously, Fuck you!
We had a set of World Books on the bottom shelf of the bookshelf in the hall that was midway between mine and my sisters’ room. They were old — the boys all had crewcuts and the girls all wore poofy-bottomed dresses — but I was unable to read English and they also had pictures on every page, so I would flip through them almost every day after school, randomly selecting one based solely on my particular fancy for book thickness at the time. I would sit on the floor with my back to the balusters that overlooked the front foyer until my butt became numb and my legs fell asleep.
I came across the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World for the first time in those books and, looking at the pictures, carefully studying the words, I imagined how wonderful it would be to travel the world and discover these things for myself. It became a goal of mine, once I was old enough, to disappear for years and then return with fabulous tales of the Wonders of the Ancient World.
Has anyone, anywhere, ever followed through with a dream like that?
The Portomaso Tower of St. Julian’s reminds me of the old lithograph of the Lighthouse of Alexandria that I had seen as a child. Not an actual lithograph, but the picture of one in the World Book. As we draw closer, though, it’s clear that the Tower isn’t ancient at all. In fact, it’s quite modern, with mirrored glass. And with the way the sky and clouds reflect off of it in the morning light, it seems to vanish on occasion, leaving only its pale orange frame behind. It’s not ancient, but it’s still rather wonderful.
I ask Mia if she had ever seen any of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and she glances over at me quickly while trying to navigate the red Renault convertible through the late morning traffic that snakes its way along the road that follows the coastline. She laughs, though not unkindly. She’s just surprised by the non-sequitur nature of the question.
She had seen the Pyramids, in Giza, but tells me that all the others no longer exist.
That really sucks.
Did they still exist when I was looking at them in the old World Books? I mean, those books were pretty old — from 1968 or something. I don’t ask, though, because I figure asking will only make me sound like an idiot.
There’s only one other person with us in the elevator. A tall man in a suit who looks Germanic or Scandinavian, with hair that was probably once blonde but is now a dignified silver. He’s tanned, very well tanned, made more so by the lightness of his grey suit that’s almost a silver itself. I can see that he’s not native to the island but he’s been here for some time. He listens to our short conversation with passing interest.
I note the floor where Mia steps off and she lets the man, who had gestured her out first, to pass her quickly and turn down the hall. She’s watching him, though he’s already out of my view, and after I guess he’s no longer visible, she tells me to go back to the car, get the planner, and ask for her at the front desk that’s beyond the doors at the end of the hall around the corner. I glance out of the elevator, see the name — Kellergin Financial Holdings, AG — in large, brushed metal letters embedded within a polished black stone wall. I head back down.
Part of me wonders if she had left it behind intentionally, because she never forgets that planner.
Two S-Class sedans pull up in front of the building and its passengers emerge as I come out of the lobby. They’re all in suits, and rather severe looking, but what really catches my attention is that two of the guys, the ones in the blandest of suits and the darkest of shades, are carrying — one under his arm and the other on his hip. Discreet, but given my training, not discreet enough. Still, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
I call to leave a message with Getting as soon as I’m out of sight of the building and he must’ve been listening the entire time because as soon as I give the name — Kellergin Financial Holdings — he breaks in.
What time is it in Boston? Four? Five in the morning?
He tells me that I need to be there, in that meeting, and that I must get the names of every person in attendance. I guess Getting just found out that he’s being royally screwed by some of his golf buddies or something. He keeps going on as I break into a jog to the car, retrieve the planner, and start back. (Thank you, Mia, for your insistence on proper footwear.) Finally, I have to tell him to quit talking because if he really wants me there, I can’t run and listen at the same time. He’s in the middle of his apology when I close the phone on him.
Damn! I missed out on the sound of David Getting apologizing to me!
By the time I reach the floor and find the desk beyond the doors at the end of the hall, the woman behind the desk tells me that Mia has already left, a few moments ago — we must’ve passed in the elevators. When I walk back out into the hall, two men are standing there, talking, blocking my way, and as I slip past, I recognize the German-Scandinavian at the same moment that he recognizes me. He puts up a hand to his partner to bring their conversation to a sudden stop. The other guy glances back at me, puzzled, while the German-Scandinavian watches me. I can feel his gaze follow me until I disappear around the corner.
As I wait in front of the elevators, impatient for a car to arrive, the two begin speaking again and though they’re whispering, it’s so clear that I look around because I’m certain that they’re suddenly standing right there beside me — it’s that clear. I instinctively step back and the voices become indistinguishable, so I start to think that I’m imagining things but when I step forward again, it’s, once more, as though they’re only inches away.
The shape of the corridor, the shape of the room, the materials the walls are made of, even the timbre of the voice are all working together to converge their conversation upon the focal point where I stand. It amuses me, for a second.
They’re talking about a person that they’re needing to deal with, and it doesn’t sound like they mean to deal with this person by overwhelming him, or her, with an abundance of kindness.
I shove through the fire exit and take the steps two at a time, racing around the tight spiral of the split-level stairs faster and faster until I’m leaping three, four, and finally every one of the steps, bounding landing to landing. Holy shit, I must be making a racket, my feet slamming down on the floor like underpowered gunshots, over and over, until I finally hit the lobby. I’m surprised that I didn’t kill myself.
Shoving the door open, letting it slap the wall, I take a moment to figure out where I am. Beyond the glass of the entrance, Mia is walking beside one of those guys I had seen earlier emerge from the Mercedes, wearing the bland suit. It looks like he’s leading her and there’s no one else with them, only the two of them. As I run across the lobby, making that squeaking sound with my shoes and yelling for people to get out of my way, he takes hold of Mia’s upper arm and leads her down the steps. I can’t see Mia’s expression, can’t tell how she feels about all this, but something inside is telling me that this is wrong. I could do nothing, hope that everything’s fine, but then I’d have to live with myself if things go bad.
There’s no planning this shit.
“Hey!”
They both turn in my direction as I come through the glass door. They’re astonished when I’m suddenly sailing through the air, having leapt from the top of the marble steps, and come down on his wrist with my elbow, breaking his grip. I almost fly ass-over-end but am able to grab a hold of his suit coat as I go by and it swings me around so that I’m now facing him from a couple of steps down.
Don’t think. Do as you’re trained. Go for the easy targets. Put ‘im down!
I assail the guy’s groin with uppercuts that immediately knock the wind out of him, keeping him from catching his breath. It doesn’t put him down, though, and he stands there, almost doubled over on top of me, while I hit again and again, unwilling to stop until I’m certain that Mia is safe.
One thing that you learn in both the Army and the FBI is the importance of letting your partner know your situation — where you are and if you’re safe. Mia never had this training. Actually, I’m still not sure if she’s ever really had a partner before, so I really can’t blame her, but that doesn’t preclude me from still getting seriously pissed. All I know is that she was behind me moments ago, and now…what? Where?
Where the fuck are you, Mia?
She’s behind me, somewhere, but I don’t know if she’s taken off running, stepped back, or is standing right there beside me. There’s no way to know and keep this up, so I keep punching as I try to figure out what I’m going to do next. I don’t have the breath in me to call out her name — throwing a rapid succession of uppercuts is really a hard thing to do. After a while, I’m certain that my arm is about to break off and fall to the ground.
I glance and I immediately miss my target, smacking my little fist into the solid mass of this guy’s thigh. He’s much better trained than me, so that’s all he needs. Within a fraction of a second, his fist comes smashing down on the top of my head and I see the marble steps fly up into my face, followed by this bizarre, awful, hollow clunk.
I dated a guy when I was in the Bureau. Not to say that I dated only one bu-man in my life. There was more than one. Well, two, actually, but he’s the one I always seem to think about whenever I end up in the hospital. Joseph Temples, though he went by Jonesy because…. Well, actually, I never found out why. Or I knew, but I’ve since forgotten. Either way, Jonesy worked a desk a few desks down from mine when I was in Baltimore and we ended up dating because, like most marriages in the Bureau, it seemed that his marriage had kind of hit the rocks. He was much older than me, in his forties, with a little touch of gray on the temples that made you look twice and listen always, because you knew this was a guy who knew his shit. I was just reaching my thirties.
His wife, Belinda, knew that Jonesy and I were seeing one another but she never made a fuss about
it because she liked the fact that he was spending his time with me, about as black of a woman as we had in our office at the time, rather than some pow-wow (professional white woman) looking for a little bit of that jungle fever. Besides, she knew of my Mom by name and held her in high regard, so, of course, her daughter couldn’t be so bad. She even invited us to dinner a couple of times, so he could eat with his children and they could begin the process of reconciling while I was sitting there in the room. This might sound strange, but their two boys — wouldn’t Dad like to trade with him — Andres and Daran, just thought I was some friend of the family, a coworker of their father’s, because their mom seemed more interested in speaking with me than he did. Yes, I guess it was strange in a way, but I kind of liked it. I had the chance to hang out with a very sophisticated man and be appreciated by his wife because of my willingness to protect what was hers. I only had him out on loan for a time.
No, my parents knew nothing about this, other than I was seeing someone nice and polite and black and respectful of women. That’s all they asked.
Our relationship lasted about four to six months. It’s hard to say for certain because at some point, he simply slipped back over to Belinda and my invitations to their dinners slowly came to an end. He eventually moved back home and though I missed him, and it hurt, I guess in terms of break-ups, this one wasn’t so bad. I wondered if Jonesy and Belinda were going to last, or was there some possibility that he might come dashing back to me, taking me into his arms and telling me I was wrong! I’ve been a fool! It’s you I’ve wanted all along.
Well, I never did find out how it would end because shortly after he told me that he was going to start spending more time with Belle (wish I could’ve called her that) and the boys, we were down at the range and the guy Jonesy partnered with, a young twerp named Steves (not sure if that was his last name or some dip-shit way of saying his first name), held out his Glock to show Jonesy his latest modifications and placed a round squarely into the space right behind Jonesy’s chin, sending his head spraying out over five of us.
Zwerfster Chic Page 17