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Run Gyal Run!
She dashed past Raymond s auto shop, skidded on the trail of gravel that lined the narrow road and fell flat on her behind. She sat there for a moment, dazed. Feeling the sharp stones painfully press into her posterior. Then she heard it; the clanging sound of heavy chains dragging on the cracked road, the slobbery breathing and the heavy hurried footfall of the untamed pit bull.
With wide eyes, she turned to face the huge dog, now bearing its sharp teeth. Folding back a mouth, wet with anticipation, it lowered its large body like a lion preparing to pounce.
“Oh come on,” she cried, choking back a self pitying sob.
She shot to her feet, skidding on the gravel before she found her footing and dashed off again. Using her fear to propel her forward as she pelted down the narrow side street that ran through her small neighbourhood, flanked by leaning galvanized sheds, shops and dilapidated houses.
She hurried through Mr. Bruno’s large yard, passed his chicken coups, the field of water grass that was once the drain and the old rusting fridge, with vines crawling out of it like veins. It was here that two mangy dogs, made of skin, bone and teeth joined the chase, adding their high pitched bark to the hungry growl of the mixed breed pit bull thing, gaining on her at a slow, steady pace, like a heartbeat. She shot pass the wooden shop, with the wire mesh for windows and telephone wire reels for tables. A place that never had enough of the essentials but was always stocked with enough bottles of intoxicating liquor, to supply the neighbourhood with enough abuse and cutlass wars to keep newcomers away.
It was only three in the evening and the regulars were already too drunk to find the chase anything but entertaining.
“Whoo hooo, run gyal run!” they called gaily, waving their bottles and shot glasses as she shot by, as though being chased by blood thirsty animals, was some sort of sport these days.
Alex was tired now, she could feel the burn in her calves, the ache in her untrained ankles, but she couldn’t stop. She’d heard the story of how her neighbour’s ankle had to be removed from the frothing dog’s jaw. It was still attached of course, but still quite disturbing to think about presently.
She was closer to home now and that gave her some comfort. Despite their boldness and rage, dogs always knew their boundaries. She glanced over her shoulder as she turned into the dirt road that led to her house, and seeing no sign of them stopped and bent forward, holding her knees with her hands, trying to catch her breath.
Life is like that sometimes. You spend an eternity running from something that has always been capable of outrunning you, and when your strength is all spent, you depend on laws and boundaries to save you. But what happens when, laws and boundaries are completely disregarded, when what is expected isn’t what happens at all? The moment when you breathe a sigh of relief, thinking you’re finally safe, and then you feel the breath of your pursuer on the back of your calves poised and ready for the final assault. Alex swore, her breathing, now short gasps. She shut her eyes, waiting for the dreaded moment when the cruel canine would sink its sharp teeth into her tender calves.
But instead of the sound of teeth gnawing flesh, she heard a struggle, a loud thud, wounded yelp and opened her eyes to a cloud of dust. As the dust dissipated, she noticed her rescuer; a tall, dark and slender stranger with his hands shoved into his pockets.
He stood erect, looking down at her. His cap was pulled so low over his eyes, that all she could see was his bland frown and the crooked tip of his nose with a scar over the bridge of it. She could swear she’d seen him before, but the location and occasion evaded her at the moment, and she could only stare.
“Hi,” he said.
Alex pursed her lips then extended a hand toward him, “thanks.”
He reached out and took her hand gently in his large calloused one, and lifted his head so that she could see his eyes; dark shaded pools, framed by a strong forehead and bushy dark eye brows, peered boldly into her own eyes.
“Angel Moore?” he said, his voice was at that same levelled growl.
Frowning, she withdrew her hand; “actually everyone calls me Al...” she started.
“I’ll see you Angel,” he interrupted, smiling; a quick curving of tight lips, before he turned and hurried back onto the main road.
Once the stranger disappeared Alex turned and hurried toward her house, how did he know her name? Her house was the only painted wall structure among the cluster that made up the dirt road posse. The drivable road ended a couple yards away from the last house, and the narrow dirt road trickled down into a track that led to the capital.
As she made her way toward the house, the neighbour’s curtain shifted slightly and she spied a spectacled eye peering out at her; this was Grenada, you didn’t balk at an inquisitive neighbour, you said hello. She continued walking. She’d lived here all of her life and up until eight years ago, it was probably her most favourite place in the world. Not that there weren’t snooping neighbours, brawls and the smell of marijuana drifting into her window every night then, it was just that her father was there, he made everything just right, back then she was Angel. Now she just lived here, hating every moment of what her life had become; now she was just Alex, Sherry Moore’s last daughter.
She entered the house, cautiously casting furtive glances over her shoulder, before she closed the door, despite the fact that Antonio’s truck wasn’t parked out front; she’d been fooled like that before. Michael, her older brother, was sprawled on the couch, one leg thrown over one chair arm, the other resting on the floor, and his head resting on the other arm of the couch. His shoulder length locks, thrown over the knitted throw pillows, as he stuffed greasy potato chips into his mouth, his eyes glued to the blaring Television screen.
“I thought you went to work,” she said as she dropped her school bag at the foot of the chair and sat down with a sigh.
Wiping his hands on his torn jeans, Michael glanced over at her.
“Don’t have to go today,” he said and turned back to the T.V. Alex reached for the shiny yellow bag in his hand and he snatched it from her angrily.
“Not my chips!” he warned.
“Oh come on Mike!”
He shook his head and drew the bag to his chest protectively, “didn’t you cook this morning?”
“And wha’ happen to you skirt?” he asked.
“Mrs. Dawn’s ugly pit bull, chased me again,” she said, trying to shake the dust from it.
Michael snorted, spewing bits of wet chips onto the floor and centre table, before he erupted in laughter.
“Classic!” he spat.
Alex narrowed her eyes at him, “it wouldn’t be so funny if I had come home in shreds,” she mumbled.
“Please,” he said, “that’s not a pit bull, just a well fed mixed breed pot hung.”
Alex rolled her eyes.
The kitchen was in the exact condition as she’d left it that morning to go to school. The breakfast dishes were piled into one side of the double basin stainless steel sink, over which flies were now gleefully bouncing. While the partially opened pipe, tapped out a very untimely tune. It seemed to tap out tauntingly, just... for... you… left it ... just... for you.
She reached out and took the stiff head, grunting as she tightened it, until the dripping stopped, then she turned to survey the state of the kitchen. The counter was littered with dustings of powdered milk from which two annoyed flies arose, brushing her nose as they flew past her. There were two cups standing side by side, one with a drain of milk, the other with two pieces of re-used spice bark.
She undid her tie, tossed it on the rickety dining chair, and started to pack away the dried dishes into the overhead cupboards. It only had two saucers, a cup – Alex and her sister’s breakfast dishes – and a red flick knife. It was the one she’d dug up the other night from Antonio’s acquired store room, at some cost to her unfortunately. Her stomach heaved at the thought. She picked up the knife and turned it ov
er; it was a faded red with the initial D.R engraved on its handle. She shook it out but it didn’t budge, so she dripped a bit of cooking oil into it and tried to open it again. This time, a surprisingly shiny blade emerged. Smiling, she flicked it closed and opened it again, then put it down on the counter, and turned back to the dishes.
Alex was hunched over the sink, humming the hymn she’d learned at school as she laboured over a blackened pot, when the side door swung was opened and a gust of cool evening wind, forced itself into the warm kitchen.
She turned slowly, and the colour drained from her cheeks at the sight of the thin figure standing in the door way, with the pink, flaming orange of dusk as his halo.
“Antonio,” her voice quivered as the hated name rolled off her tongue, “I didn’t hear you come up.”
“I was in the shed,” he replied, in a voice as oily as the paint he mixed for a living, “left early today, hoping we could have some time together. You know, me and you, get to know each other better...” he wiggled is thick, black eye brows.
Alex swallowed hard, feeling her knees weaken with fear as Antonio made his way toward her, slinking like a snake, eyeing her like a wolf eyes its prey.
“Your mother, she’s not home yet, nuh?”
Alex could feel the heat rising to her face, as her heart thumped out the red alert code.
“Michael’s home!” she replied, with a clarity that contradicted her current emotional state, and she took a step backward.
“Michael? He will not distract us.”
It scared her to know that he was right. With that T.V on so loud; that bag of chips and a comfortable position, it was unlikely that Michael would come to her rescue. What exactly did he have in mind? Her mind was racing.
“I don’t understand, what do you want from me?” Alex blurted, gripping the counter edge like a life line.
He looked at her with a confused frown, and then he smiled. His brown, weather beaten face seemed to crack up like parched land in the dry season.
“Don’t be confused it is very natural for a man to be… liking a woman” he crooned, easing toward her again as she sidled away from him against the counter edge.
Antonio smiled playfully and made a funny face at her. Alex frowned, was this some kind of game to him? Why couldn’t she have a typical day? A typical life?
“Antonio, I can’t deal with this. You have to stop messing with me like this. I’m not interested.” she pleaded.
He lifted his hand to her face, and the smell of kerosene and wood drifted to her already scrunched up nose. She turned away and her gaze fell on the red handled flick knife, resting on the side of the plastic wares rack, mere inches from her fingers.
“Relax sweet heart, there are things that you need to learn, things that I can teach you, you’ll thank me…” he was saying.
Alex looked at him sharply, and then at the red, bruised knife beckoning to her. She drew her lips into a thin line of determination. Antonio was slowly leaning toward her now, his eyes trained intently on her face as he lifted his hand to stroke her cheek, this was probably her first and only window of opportunity.
“Are you willing to learn?”
He was mere inches away from her, when she quickly reached behind her, in an instant it all flashed before her. She didn’t just think of Antonio’s pathetic attempt to hurt her, but every other heartless monstrosity her mother chose to bring into this house.
Other than their much appreciated material bounty, these men all brought with them an expe2rience for the young girl who grew up between them like a weed forcing itself through the crack in a stone pavement. Curiously reaching up to the sunshine they all worshipped. There was the hardware store clerk, who had traumatized her with his perversion; the grumpy carpenter who hated children and loved to hear the sound of her cries at the mercy of his leather belt. He was the one who’d left her with a crooked finger and corrupt impression of men and then Antonio, the Cuban house painter. It had started slowly, with tiny gifts and warm smiles across the dinner table and gradually grew into inappropriate conversations and beady eyed stares. On several unnerving occasions, Alex had gotten up to find him looking down at her with that hungry, depraved expression on his brown face.
She remembered the numerous nights she went to sleep with dread, curling up behind her sister.
She thought of the tumultuous thoughts that plagued her during her favourite classes, how poems of oppression and fear during literature chilled her to the bones, how equations and abrasive mixtures gave her vengeful, murderous thoughts.
She shook her head, her eyes bright with determination, and without allowing reason to disrupt the swift motion of her arms, lifted the blade above her head and drew it down the length of his weathered face. His agonized scream, tore through her thoughts and she jerked involuntarily, looking down at him in awe as he sunk to his knees, wailing as he gripped the bleeding gash on his face.
Antonio’s smile dropped from his face, his desert cracks fading.
“Alex! What you doing?”
Her sister Nicole was standing at the arch separating the living room from the kitchen, with her mouth agape in shock. She imagined that when Nicole had walked into the room, the last thing she’d expected to see was her younger sister holding a bloody flick knife over a wailing man.
“Quick Nicole help me. The child gone mad!” Antonio called; his eyes wide and convincingly moist with tears of fear and surprise.
“Don’t even think about lying to her,” she growled.
“She’s right, don’t bother,” Nicole said as she made her way toward them.
“Alright Alex, I know and am here, there’s no need for that. Give me the knife.”
Michael came charging in, “what the hell?”
He looked over at Alex questioningly, then at the bleeding man on the ground, “what you do dey?” he asked; his voice unusually high.
“Just gave him a taste of his own medicine, scarred him for life. Mom wasn’t gonna do anything about it, and I sure wasn’t gonna let him have his way in this house, not with me.”
She was unbelievably calm, save for the slight tremor in her voice. Michael frowned, shook his head, then reached for Antonio and jerked him to his feet.
“You know what, I think your license has expired,” he pulled him toward him then shoved him back.
Antonio staggered then stopped, he glared at the three of them, “you people are crazy! All of you, a bunch of bastards and I can see why.”
As he turned to the door, it swung open and Sherry-Ann Moore stepped in. Dressed in jeans and a floral blouse she looked amazing as always, a tall, slender and confident woman, with cocoa skin, sloe eyes, heavy with eyeliner and shadowed red, her perfectly puckered lips, red and shiny above a defiant chin.
She regarded the scene silently, and her children watched as it came together in her mind. They could see the storm cloud forming in her dark eyes. She looked over at Antonio and frowned. He stood immobile, still holding onto his face, the blood that had seeped between his fingers now drying in the shape of veins.
“What going on here?” she asked.
“He was just leaving,” Michael replied.
His sisters glanced over at him proudly; they knew the amount of guts it took to talk to Sherry like that. Sherry only looked at Antonio, the corner of her lips slowly curling with scorn, as the man looked up at her with pleading eyes.
“Your children...” he started.
Sherry lifted a freshly manicured hand; she turned to Alex and held the chilled gaze of the child who truly believed she’d betrayed her.
“Clean up this mess!” she growled, “and Antonio, get out of me house.”
When she disappeared behind her bedroom door, Michael looked back at Alex and Nicole and laughed.
“Oh man, best break up ever!” but they didn’t share his humour; they looked back at him like stoic statues.
Alex look
ed at Nicole, “She didn’t even ask me what happened.”
Nicole patted her on the shoulder and smiled, “it don’t matter, we took care of it, ain’t it?”
Alex shrugged turning over the blade in her hand, the sliver of blood on its edge already drying, “Don’t we always.”
Twist of Faith Page 2