by Debra Busman
Taylor heard the front door slam. Too late to make it out the bedroom window, she knew she had made the mistake of lingering too long in her trashcan satisfaction. She heard her mom coming down the hall and knew her room was next.
“Goddammit, girl, how many times do I have to tell you to put shit away? I ran right into those damn trashcans you left lying around and it just about scared me to death.” Her mom balanced against the bedroom door, swaying slightly.
“I’m sorry, Mama.” Taylor took a step back, wondering if she could still make it to the window. Her bag lay by the closet to her mom’s left, just out of reach. She felt tired. A sludgy, familiar mist crept up her back and neck and she knew there was no way out.
“Sorry don’t mean shit, young lady! I’ll show you sorry.” Taylor’s mom took an unsteady step forward. Taylor stood still, ready to catch her if she fell, ready to block a blow.
She watched the cigarette smoke curling out of her mother’s red-smeared mouth. It worried her that she hadn’t seen her mother inhale. She made a quick mental note to pay better attention to the stained left hand holding one of the Pall Mall unfiltereds she bought her mom each week down at Joe’s Liquors. It was the reason she missed the right hand coming up against the side of her head.
“Pay attention when I’m talking to you, goddammit,” her mother yelled, her voice husky and raw.
Taylor cursed the tears that came with a slap even though she refused to cry out. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she said. “Come on—it’s late. Let me put you to bed.” Taylor reached for her mother’s arm.
“You’re not putting me anywhere until you do some explaining,” her mom said, pulling away. Taylor knew “explaining” was a dead-end trick. No, she wouldn’t play that one anymore, though there was little else to play on nights like this. If she cooked dinner and her mom didn’t come home, she was careless and wasteful of food. If she didn’t make dinner, she was lazy, worthless, and ungrateful. If she didn’t clean the house right, she was a no-good freeloader taking advantage of her hardworking mother. If she cleaned it too good, she was trying to shame her mother and pretend to be something better than she was. No, this was not something to be explained. This was just a fire that had to burn.
“Mama, I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll put the cans up right next time, okay? Let’s go to bed.” Taylor tried to make her voice something louder than a mumble, but still soft, calm—an engaged monotone.
The left hand caught her square across her face and she felt the warmth of blood sliding out her nose. Furious that she hadn’t seen that one coming either, the girl raised her arm to block the next unseen blow and accidentally knocked the cigarette out of her mother’s hand. They both stared in shock at the little glow burning into the dirty beige carpet. Neither moved. Then, slowly, Taylor bent down for the cigarette, ready to come back up with another “I’m sorry” when she got hit on the side of her head.
What the fuck! Knocked down onto one knee, Taylor moved quickly into a crouch, body coiled. Stay down, she told herself. Just stay down. She tried to will herself to breathe, calm, take inventory. Her nose was starting to bleed again, and a fresh new cut had opened up by her left eye where her mom’s ring must have hit. She felt no pain, just an irritating tickle of blood dripping down her face, small drops turning brown as they hit the floor. Nothing you can’t handle, she thought, but inside she felt something crack open, a hot burn splintering down her chest and back into her arms. Stay down, she warned, but her body sprang forward, slamming her mom against the wall. From far away she thought she heard someone scream, “Don’t you dare raise your hand to your mother,” but inside she felt a strange quiet and the curious sensation of her hands circling her mother’s neck, raising her effortlessly up against the hallway door. She was only fourteen, but she was taller than her mom, whose body felt surprisingly small and light. Taylor saw her own skinny arms pinning her mom to the door, saw her mom’s feet kicking at the air in slow futility. She felt no anger, just the fullness of hot lava flowing through her body. The terror would come soon, leaving her trembling on the pavement, sobbing on the cold night streets, but for now, the empty cavern in her chest felt full, warm.
There seemed no real reason for her to release rather than squeeze but that is what she did, and she watched as her mother fell in a heap to the floor. The girl turned and picked up the bag she kept packed with boots, jeans, her three favorite t-shirts, and her Levi jacket. She took the heavy, scuffed boots out of her bag and pulled them on. She looked at the four books sitting in the bag. The clothes stayed the same, but every night Taylor argued amicably with herself about what books to bring. Constant were Charlotte’s Web and The Yearling, her two all-time favorites. She was looking at the two new ones she had just stolen, Soul on Ice and a book by Gandhi on nonviolence, when she heard the heap begin to cry.
“Baby, what are you doing? Where you going? You’re not going to leave me. You know you’re my best thing. You’re the only one who understands me. Come here, baby. You know I love you the best. I’m sorry you got such a mess of a mama. Come on, help me to bed, okay?” Her mother reached out her arms, pleading.
Taylor looked over at the crumpled pile. Her mom’s legs were folded at an awkward angle; the cigarette continued to burn on the floor. Taylor watched the blackened circle spread on the worn brown carpet for a moment before rubbing it out with her boot. She bent to pick her mother up, then carried her to the bed. Her mom’s head rolled against her shoulder and Taylor fought off nausea as her mom’s hair touched her cheek. Laying her gently down on the bed, Taylor put a blanket over the trembling form, still amazed at how small her mother seemed. She pulled off her mother’s shoes, turned out the lights, picked up the bag with all four books in it, and climbed out the window into the streets below.
PART TWO
Steal Away
Telling Stories
“Whatcha doin’?” Taylor called out, popping her head into the back of the camper. She saw Jackson sitting in her usual spot, writing. “Why don’t you put that shit down for a while and come get high with me,” she said. “You’ve had your head buried in that journal all damn day.” Pulling out a freshly rolled fatty, she waved it in front of her girlfriend. “I think you’re gonna like this.” She grinned.
Jackson sat curled up on the floor, the coolest afternoon spot in the camper, her journal balanced between her knees. “I tell you what, girl,” she said, leaning back. “I’ll give you half of what you want. I’ll get high with you and then I’ll go back to writing.”
“Ah, shit,” Taylor groaned. “You’re working the best end of that deal. As usual.” She climbed inside, put her gear down, and pulled off her boots. “What you writing, anyway?” she asked. “Another letter to your mom?”
“Nah,” Jackson said. “Actually, I’m writing a story. Come on.” She patted the floor beside her. “Let’s fire that nasty thing up.”
Taylor lit the joint and gave Jackson the first serious hit. Jackson held it for a moment and then leaned over and kissed her, blowing the smoke deep into her lungs. “Umm,” Taylor sighed, exhaling. “Now isn’t this way better than writing?” She passed the joint to Jackson. “What’s your story about, anyway?”
Jackson took a long hit, holding it in as long as she could. She exhaled slowly, smiling. “It’s about us,” she said. “The first time we met.”
“Serious?” Taylor said, sitting up. “You’re writing a fucking story about us? Can I read it?”
Jackson laughed. “Oh, now all of a sudden girl’s interested in my writing,” she teased.
“No, I’m serious,” Taylor said. “Let me read it.”
Jackson took another hit before passing the joint back to Taylor. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll let you read my story on one condition.” She laughed as Taylor groaned. “First, you have to write your own damn story and then you can hear mine. Instead of giving me so much shit about my writing, I think you should write something. Then we’ll swap. Come on, girl.
Just try it.”
“I don’t know how to write a story,” Taylor complained. “You know I never passed a damn English class in my life.” She was just starting to get a nice buzz and now things were getting complicated. All she wanted was to get high and hang out for a while, not to have to work for it.
“That shit doesn’t matter,” Jackson argued. “You read all the fucking time and can’t shut up when you start telling your damn stealing stories. Girl, I know you can write.”
“What do I write about?” Taylor asked, sullen, giving up.
Jackson pushed her and laughed. “Ah, baby. Don’t go getting all attitudinal on me now. Just write about the same thing. Write about how we met. Just tell a story. Hell, I know you can do that.”
Taylor grabbed a pen and some paper and climbed up into the overhead sleeping bunk, ignoring the heat, taking the joint with her. She lay down on her back, stretched her legs out the full length of the bed, and sighed. She thought about the first time she had seen Jackson, how the girl had always caught her eye but they’d never talked. She thought about how she’d secretly wished it had been Jackson who’d cut up that trick who’d harassed her, but hadn’t known for sure. She thought about the first time they’d actually met, how she’d seen Jackson cornered in an ally without her knife. Okay, she thought. I can tell that story. She relit the joint and began to write.
A half hour later, she heard Jackson get up and come over to the bunk.
“Okay,” Jackson said. “I’ve been hearing some scribbling going on up there. Plus, you’ve been seriously bogarting that joint. Come on. Let me see what you’ve got.” She climbed up on the bed and curled against Taylor, reaching for the paper. Snuggling in, her head on Taylor’s shoulder, she read:
I jumped before I thought. Came around the corner, seen one brother slug her, the other pull his blade. Seen her head snap back, hit hard against the wall. Seen her knife slide away, outta reach, glistening like a tease under the sticky green dumpster. I seen her knees buckle, high heel boots crumple, pink tube top doubling over a black vinyl miniskirt. I knew right away who it was. Yeah, I been watching that one real close. Tough skinny black girl. Tall, wiry, nothin’ extra, nothin’ wasted. Just enough.
“Damn, girl,” Jackson laughed. “That’s a trip. You write just the way you talk.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Taylor asked. “How am I supposed to write?”
“It’s cool, baby,” Jackson said. She reached over and put her hand on Taylor’s belly. “It’s your style. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. You just jump right in and get right down to business, that’s all. Sometimes writers just get, I don’t know, maybe a little more literary about it, that’s all.”
Taylor snatched the piece of paper back. “Literary,” she frowned. “What the fuck. Besides, this ain’t how I talk.” She read through her story, then pointed to a line. “Look at this,” she said. “Your knife was ‘glistening like a tease under the sticky green dumpster.’ Damn,” she laughed, putting the paper down and pulling Jackson on top of her. “If that’s not fucking literary, I don’t know what is.”
The girls lay together for a while, enjoying the buzz, enjoying the desire that flowed between them, the August air too hot for them to do anything about it until later that night. “I like that new smoke,” Jackson finally said. “Got a nice, sweet taste. How much did you get?”
“Enough,” Taylor grinned. She thought about the kilo she had stashed up under the wheel well of the ’62 Pontiac outside, about how many dime bags it would bring, how many days of not having to work the streets. “I thought you’d like it,” she said, knowing how much Jackson loved the new Mexican weed coming into town. “There’s still a good-size roach laying around here somewhere.”
Jackson reached over to pick up the remains of the joint, clipped it, and took a long hit while Taylor held the match. “Glistening like a tease,” she laughed, coughing on the exhale. “Girl, you are too fucking much.”
Jackson
I jumped before I thought. Came around the corner, seen one brother slug her, the other pull his blade. Seen her head snap back, hit hard against the wall. Seen her knife slide away, outta reach, glistening like a tease under the sticky green dumpster. I seen her knees buckle, high heel boots crumple, pink tube top doubling over a black vinyl miniskirt. I knew right away who it was. Yeah, I been watching that one real close. Tough skinny black girl. Small, wiry, nothin’ extra, nothin’ wasted. Baby dreads sneaking all wild outta her cap, eyes sparking flint, a mouth could sneer your ass clear outta town or jump you so hard with a smile you forgot you had business to attend to. And that knife. Fancy pearl black handle with a mean six-inch blade. She was the quickest thing I’d ever seen with a knife that size. Some said she cut her pimp’s ear off in a fight. Some said she’d Bobbitted the guy. Some said she was the one that sliced up the behind of the trick what tried to rape me my first night working in this damn town.
So, I knew better, but when I seen those punks forcing her back down the alley, her without her knife and all, I couldn’t just do nothin’. So I snuck around beside the dumpster, grabbed her knife, picked up a brick, hurled it at the head of the guy who slugged her, and said something stupid like, “Hey, motherfuckers, what y’all say we make this fight a little more fair?” Well, I never seen a fight yet come down like they do in the movies, but I did manage to split open the guy’s head with the brick and get that girl back her knife before something slammed across my face and I hit the pavement. When I woke up, the guys were gone, my nostrils were caked with blood and that girl was leaning over me, holding her fancy-ass knife hard against my throat.
“Well, I’m glad you finally decided to wake your sorry self up, white girl, ‘cause I got some things to say to you ’bout messing round where you don’t belong, messing in other people’s business where you got no right to be.”
I squinted up at her. “Damn,” I muttered. “You’re welcome.”
My head hurt so bad I thought, hell, she might as well just cut if off right now and put it in that dumpster. My tongue rolled thickly around each tooth, pushing, taking inventory.
“Where’d you learn to talk so fast?” I asked.
“Shut up.” She pushed the knife up under my chin. “What you think you’re doing coming round here, anyway, bitch? Dragging your sorry white ass where it don’t belong, riding in here like some goddamn honkey-ass cowgirl social worker, getting in the way of my personal affairs.”
“Personal affairs?” I had to laugh. “Those motherfuckers were gonna do you, girl.”
“Yeah, and what you think they gonna do to me now? Besides, I had it under control.” She looked away, picking at her thumbnail with her knife.
“Yeah. Well, darlin’, I’d hate to be around when you don’t got it under control,” I said. I tried not to grin and noticed her mouth fighting it, too, so I sat up real slow and easy and reached out my hand. “My name’s Taylor,” I said. “I’m kinda new in town.”
“I know who you are,” she said, putting down her knife to shake my hand. “Who do you think it was saved your sorry white ass from that motherfuckin’ trick last month?”
“Damn, I knew that was you what cut that fool up so bad. I’d say he’s the one with the truly sorry white ass, though,” I laughed.
She smiled. “Yeah, well, let’s just say I gave him a little something to think about. Like every time he tries to sit down, for example. Or take something he ain’t paid for.”
We stayed for a few more moments, laughing at the image of the john explaining his sliced-up behind to his doctor, his wife. Then I moved to get up. “Well, I better be going,” I said.
My nose was starting to bleed again. I had no idea where I was gonna sleep that night. I figured by now all the good boxes would be taken out behind Montgomery Wards.
She looked away quick. “Hey, bitch. I’m serious about not wanting to see your white butt around this part of town again,” she said, her voice all tough and tight.
“Yeah, wh
atever.” I felt too tired to argue anymore and started walking away.
“But that don’t mean I might not be wanting to see it in some other part of town,” she called out, pausing. “If you know what I mean.”
I turned around to see her standing there grinning at me under the streetlight, looking way too fine for someone who just got beat up. “I think I just might,” I smiled, feeling my stomach flip over, hit down by my boots, and bounce back up around my chest again.
“Good,” she said. “My name’s Jackson.”
we are the tiny chewed nails
we are the tiny chewed nails of a small child’s hands. we always grow, give willingly to the hunger, though we are never enough to fill. and sometimes we bleed, but never enough to be bandaged. we never scratch, and have never hurt a woman or a child.
if you want to know more, go ask the mouth why she is so damn hungry.
Too damn easy
Taylor let go of the hammer and smiled at the way the rough leather holder caught it snug and easy. One day she’d have herself a real tool belt, but for now her old cut-up Lone Ranger cowboy holster was working just fine. She liked how the hammer felt bumping against her leg, perfectly within reach, leaving her hands free to do whatever they needed. Right now they rested squarely on bony adolescent hips as she surveyed her work, head cocked, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “Damn, you’re getting good, girl!” she said out loud. Busy checking out the smooth lines of the sheetrock patch she had just fit into the side of the garage where her mom’s old Chevy had landed the night before, she didn’t notice Jackson walking into the garage, shaking her head.