“I already do,” she cried loudly. “Every word it spoke, I know by heart. And money won’t make it hush, Angel.”
I laughed softly, even as tears dripped down my face. It was a trick I’d seen Momma do so many times. It used to confuse me the way she could sit on our couch and laugh and cry at the same time. But as I sat before that old woman, I finally understood. It wasn’t that Momma was crazy or didn’t know what she really felt. It was that she felt the joke of her life, the hurt and anger over it, all at once. Like me, sitting there before my grandmother, the woman that sold me away. I was angry and sad, too. But the joke wasn’t lost on me, either. About how all the bad things in my life had so perfectly trained me for one thing: how to get More.
“Ain’t been a year since I robbed a dead man. Momma made me, ’cause she thought that dead man owed her. Now you’re the one that owes me. And if I have to, I will wait for you to kill over dead.”
She pulled a checkbook from her pocket. Wrote the right numbers, signed the right name. “We’ll go to the bank tomorrow. It’s too late tonight. Return to your room, and in the morning I’ll help you set up an account for twenty-five thousand dollars. But once you leave here, do not return for more. This twenty-five is my final payment where you are concerned. Do you understand me?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, as I left the library. “You’re finally rid of me for good.”
I returned to my room, sat down on the bed, and stared at the check. I tried my best to feel happy. I let my finger trace the numbers. I let my mind imagine the spending. The clothes. The food. Shiny silver buggies filled to the top with star fruit.
Just an hour earlier, I had been poor. Redneck, too. But as I sat, holding that check and dreaming of all the ways I could spend it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would leave that mountain poorer than when I arrived. I’d lost the hope of you.
I fell across the bed, let my hand drop to the side. I pushed against the mattress in search of that bottle that always brought relief. I held it up before me, tried to find the strength to return it to the mattress. Whiskey was what I needed to escape Momma and Daddy. It was what I needed to feel warm, when night winds were my bedtime blanket. There in that bed, with Momma and Daddy far away and so much money in my hands, I made a promise: I don’t need whiskey anymore…
But I was born a liar. And so I brought that bottle to my mouth, over and over in the dark. Because no matter how safe I was, no matter how rich or warm, whiskey was the only thing that silenced the noise. Of a thousand drunken screams. Of a hundred dishes being broken. Of Janie crying alone somewhere in jail. Of her baby being handed off to strangers, just like I was.
I put that bottle to my lips, found silence, and fell asleep. It was just a quick fix, that quiet whiskey numb. Some new noise would usually reach through the whiskey and startle me awake. Sometimes it was a tractor starting before dawn. Or maybe an animal running through the bacca. Once I woke up to a crashing noise. Heard leaves, just a couple rows over, being stamped down. I hugged my knees to my chest and scooted close to the plants. A baby’s effort to hide. The noise came closer and I cried, thinking a mean stray dog, the kind that would want to look me in the eye, was hunting me down.
But then something leaped, just out of my reach. And then leaped again. Deer. A whole pack of them running through the bacca. Leaping between the rows. It was all over in a couple of seconds. Their speed, their soft brown hides that Daddy liked to rub his car down with, vanished, and I was alone.
I tried to tell Janie about it later. And the only word my baby mind could think to describe it was Fireworks. Because it was beautiful. Because it made me feel hot and scared and happy all at once. Because it was over in a flash.
That night at Red Castle was no different. Something ruined my whiskey quiet. A new noise that didn’t belong in the middle of my night. Like the sound of fingers snapping. And then there was a voice. I sat up in bed and hugged my knees to my chest. I scooted under the covers and hid, like a broke-down dog. I reached for my whiskey, as the echo bounced inside my head.
Click. Click. Click. And then a whisper. About something sad. Like a thousand regrets. Like a hundred apologies. Like a deep sigh and shrug of old shoulders… “For your own good.”
VII
Morning came and I lay in bed, foggy from the night before. I was no longer an employee of Red Castle, and I welcomed the liberty of extra rest. I missed breakfast in the alley. And when it was time for lunch, I didn’t bother dressing in my uniform. I slid on my old cutoffs and sweatshirt. Grabbed my check and prepared to leave.
I turned for a last look. At that bed, that beautiful bed, with its lace and handmade quilt. At the carving above my door, which I’d never be able to understand, never be able to own. I reminded myself of the new treasure in my pocket. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I reached for the door.
But then something happened. Something that made me fall back and look nervously around the room. That made the old fears of my childhood swarm over me. Fears about monsters waiting. About feet that need to run and can’t.
Daddy had come across Janie in the fields. She had a picnic spread for a farmhand date. But all the food was Daddy’s. The pimento cheese he loved. The baloney and crackers he craved. The coke that we all preferred to drink flat before we’d drink the limestone-filled water.
He didn’t say anything when he found them. But when he went home he opened the fridge and saw that she had left him nothing. Except the stale cornflakes Momma liked, and the potted meat and canned sausages that we pretended was ham. He remembered the way he caught her feeding his crackers to that dirty farmhand. He ran to his bed, looked under the overturned bucket that served as a nightstand. It was where he hid his collection. Some men, like Mr. Swarm, collected silver. Other men collected pocket knives. Daddy collected sugar. Pieces of hard candy, flavored like cherries or limes. Half-eaten candy bars, because, unlike Momma, he knew to savor luxury. To draw it out a bit, make it last as long as it could.
That day after finding Janie in the field, he turned the bucket over. She was too smart to take it all. But even I knew that he counted his sweets. He stood over the little pile humming out numbers, stopped and growled lowly. Picked up the bucket and threw it against the trailer wall. Janie had stolen four bits of Daddy’s best prize.
The next day, when we got off the bus, her dog was laying in the road. A bullet in his head. Black blood pooling under him on the ground. The dog wasn’t really hers, in the way it would have been if she had bought it or raised it or even fed it. It was hers because it picked her. Out of everybody else on that farm, that dog stayed by Janie. It’d run to meet her when we got off the bus. It’d wait outside the trailer for her in the mornings.
She named him Underfoot. Because that’s what Momma always cussed when she saw the dog run toward Janie. “That girl’s always got that damned dog underfoot.” There wasn’t spare food to feed him, and we guessed he lived off farm rats. There wasn’t room in the trailer for him, either. He slept under it most nights. But Janie loved him. Loved that out of everyone else, that dog said she was best. Never before, with her dead-flower-smelling, trailer-trash ways, had anyone called Janie the Best.
When we found him that day, Janie started sobbing and shaking. My baby mind couldn’t decide what to do, couldn’t understand what had happened. Until Daddy’s voice called from the bacca.
“Figured you’d prefer dog like them gooks taught you. So I got you a fresh one. Now you and your farm trash can eat him instead. And you can leave my pimentuh cheese and cherry suckers be.”
Janie walked over to Daddy, standing there in the bacca, and she hit him harder than I ever dreamed a skinny girl could. It knocked him back, he lost his balance and fell down. I remember thinking, Do it again! I remember thinking, Do it harder! But she just stood there. Amazed, like me, at how strong she really was. She had knocked our daddy down. The big man of Black Snake trailer was laying flat in the bacca. With a cut lip, a gash an inch long streaming blo
od.
Soon, though, I stood there by that dead dog and knew fear I’d never imagined. Because Daddy was on his feet again. Daddy was moving again. And this time, it was Janie that fell to the ground.
They were real fighters, the two of them. They didn’t just share the same blood, they shared rage. The difference was this: Daddy was used to being strong. He was used to standing over skinny girls with bloody lips. He didn’t hold back, dumbfounded, amazed by his strength like Janie did. He didn’t give Janie a chance to find her feet. A chance to take another swing.
I wanted to get away. But I couldn’t leave Janie. And of all the things I saw that day, the one thing I can’t forget is her feet. I don’t remember the way her face looked after. The tooth that must have been laying somewhere in the dirt. I can’t even remember what Underfoot really looked like, whether he was an old yellow dog or a red hound. But I’ll never forget her feet. The way her shoes, old scuffed red pumps that she liked to wear with cutoffs, went sailing through the air as she kicked. Her feet were working hard. Like she thought she was still standing. Like she thought she could actually get away. They were kicking and shaking and rolling from side to side while Daddy stood over her. They were trying to do everything my baby mouth was screaming, The bacca, run!
But then they slowed down. Covered in the red mud of that dirt road. And then they were still. Only moving with the rest of her body, by the force of Daddy’s blows. I’d been scared before, when I first saw Daddy stand back up and walk out of the bacca. But that day Daddy taught me a new lesson. Even when I think things are as bad as they can be, I’m wrong. Things can always get worse. Especially if you need to run, like Janie did, but can’t.
“Daddy!” I screamed. “I’ll git you some food!”
He didn’t stop.
“How ’bout biscuits, Daddy? You want some chicken? Pie?”
I was crying so hard, screaming and slurring my words as my mind worked to build a king’s menu.
He slowed down and I begged, “Please, Daddy. Anything you want I can steal for you. Swarm fridge is full to bustin’ with stuff and I can git it if you’ll just stop killin’ Janie. I’m the best thief you’ll ever meet, I swear. I can git you anything you want in the whole wide world, Daddy. Just stop killin’ Janie.”
When he disappeared into the bacca, me and Momma dragged Janie home and laid her in bed. I waited under the sycamore that night. Yelled at the top of my lungs for Mrs. Swarm to come out. When she did I cried that Janie had fell into a pit of old barbwire and was cut up real bad.
“Let’s get her to a doctor, sweetheart,” Mrs. Swarm said.
“No,” I whispered, remembering what Momma had promised would happen if anybody ever found out. “We just need some medicine. For bad cuts. Some bandages and ointments. Any aspirin if you got it.”
She nodded. “Wait here. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Three weeks later, Janie seemed almost better. But she never went back to school, even though I begged her. Even though I knew she missed the hot lunch and the swapping kisses for cigarettes.
“I’m too scared to,” she finally admitted.
“There’s nothin’ to be scared of at school. Why, that’s where you’re safest,” I insisted.
She shook her head and I saw her wince with the pain of moving her neck muscles. “I’m scared of what might be waitin’ for me when I git off that bus. How I might be expectin’ love to come, like the way Underfoot used to, and git a monster instead.”
It was Janie’s words that returned to me, like a warning, when I tried to leave my room at Red Castle and couldn’t. Her voice was there with me in the room. She reminded me it was dangerous to hope on love, to look for love, because you never know when a monster’s waiting.
I pulled the knob again and again, and knew for certain that it was too tight to turn. I banged my fists on the door and screamed for help, as I remembered Daddy’s good lesson. Even when my mother is dead, even when I know I’ll never find her, things can always get worse. Especially if I need to run and can’t.
VIII
There is a fire that burns hotter than a steamy Tennessee sun. Angrier then a tin box trailer in the middle of a July drought. And painful as one of Daddy’s whippings. Like something the old woman would warn me about, that fire’s name was Want. Its cure? Whiskey.
I was sick. Locked in that room for three days without a drop to soothe me. It had been years since I had gone so long. I lay on my stomach across the floor and watched the crack under my door, waiting for shadows to pass by. They never did, except in the morning, when a tray of food for the day slid through the slot in the door. I lost my voice screaming for whoever dropped it off. “Let me out!”
But soon, I couldn’t hold still long enough to keep watch. And I was so tired that I only wanted to lay in bed. Wrapped in layers of tea-stained covers, my eyes squinted shut as I tried to force sleep. But instead of sleeping, I shook. Kicked my legs from one side of the bed to the other. I bolted up, paced the floor to try and work the trembling from my body.
“Room service,” someone called. The voice sounded happy and warm. I started to cry, covered my mouth with my hand. A tray slid through the slot in the door.
I lifted the lid and saw perfect-circle pancakes. A little puddle of whipped butter that melted slowly across them. I took a bite, but it sat heavy in my mouth and my tongue didn’t remember what to do. Neither did my jaws. I couldn’t chew or swallow, so I gagged.
Heat swarmed me. It crawled over my skin and out of my pores until I peeled off all my clothes. Until I ran to a cold shower. Until I knelt and vomited into the drain. I crawled back to bed, naked and shivering but still hot.
I cried Whiskey to an empty room. Hell answered. Hell whispered across my skin. Made me tremble and shake and moan, until I gagged and then vomited in my bed. Until I rolled away from the mess onto the floor, hit my head on the corner of the nightstand, and blacked out.
When I woke up, it was dark. I was weak, and my head throbbed. But the fire seemed cooler. I stayed put on the floor. That hard pressure supporting my body felt good. Felt strong.
“Angel, are you awake?” the old woman called through the door.
I lifted my head as high as I could, but laid it down again with exhaustion.
“Help me,” I cried.
“I am.”
“I’m gonna die if you don’t let me out.”
“Did you think I didn’t know about the whiskey? That I didn’t see all the empty bottles that you hid in the trash cans outside?”
I sobbed, but covered my mouth so she wouldn’t hear me.
“You’re going to be so much stronger, so much clearer. You’re going to be who you were meant to be all along.”
“Let me go,” I begged.
“Never. I let you go once because of the trouble I thought you brought. God’s given me a second chance. Brought you back to me. And this time, I will never let you go. Not like this.”
I spent the night on the floor. The throb in my head from falling turned out to be mercy. The pain of it distracted me just enough from my craving to help me rest a bit. To help me stop gagging. To help me drag my body to the slot in the door and wait and watch for shadows.
When morning came—my fourth day without whiskey—I saw black filling the space where there should have been light. I heard the clatter of a plastic tray being slid through the door. I moved quicker than I had in days. Maybe ever. I grabbed the cold hand on the other side, held on tight, and wouldn’t let go.
“Tabby,” I called, and knew how my voice sounded. Scary and sick.
“Angel, you’re gonna get me so fired.”
“Help me.”
“Can’t do it, honey. I got the good deal. Old woman’s closed the hotel for the season. Sent away the workers with nice bonus checks. She only let me and Shari stay. Only I can come up here every day to bring you your tray.”
“She’s keepin’ me prisoner. Some kind of sick game… You gotta help me git out.”
“Help me, Tabby—”
“This is the best deal I’ll ever git, Angel. And it ain’t like you have it so bad. She’s orderin’ Shari to cook the best food she can dream up for you. In a few days I’ll be deliverin’ you some fresh clothes. An’ she told me I could pick out somethin’ nice and young. Modest, she said, but pretty, too. Not like these old black skirts.”
“She’s killin’ me… Walk away and my blood’s on your hands.”
“I gotta go,” she said, as she tried to pull her hand back.
“Wait, Tabby. I got somethin’ to trade…”
She paused, let her hand rest easy in mine. “I ain’t lettin’ you out, but I’m always open to a good bargain. I know you’ve got the need for strong drink. I’ll help you if it’s worth it to me.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Tabby laughed. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“I’m her kin. She done give me a check for twenty-five thousand. And I’ll sign it over to you. But for as long as I’m in here, you bring me whiskey. Start with three bottles.”
“You’ve really got twenty-five—”
“Yes. But I’d rather have whiskey.”
We shook hands between the slot in the door. And the next day I opened my tray to find the food was gone. Only a few crumbs were left from where the tray had once been loaded down. Instead, beautiful like surprise flowers in the middle of the plate, were three perfect bottles.
It had been days since I slept. And when I tried to stand up to drink, I couldn’t. I sank to my knees and used my teeth to twist the cap off. Hot whiskey poured into my mouth. I turned the bottle up high until it ran out of the corners of my mouth and down my neck. Already I felt stronger. I felt the peace of being still, as my muscles relaxed and the tremble disappeared. I closed the bottle and set it on my nightstand.
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