“Okay.”
“Soak the chicken in some salt water to get the blood out and I’ll do the rest when I get home. Ms. Marie gon’ carry me to church.”
My mind drifts to Martin and the other night. The aftertaste of sex colors my cheeks.
Gran catches me. “What you thinking ’bout?”
“Nothing.”
She peers at me again. The corners of her lips frown and then she turns out of my room, humming to the gospel hymn coming from her bedroom. Shame seeps from my skin. I’ve broken my wedding vows, and my family is split at the seams. It’s my fault. Grief weighs down on me like mud. When I hear her lower herself into her chair, I walk down the hall and start the shower. The water runs good and hot before I pull the curtain back and step in. It’s too warm but it seems right to suffer.
As I move the cloth over my belly, I remember Martin’s touch. The way he moved against my body. That man sure knows how to make a woman feel unforgettable. I up the water even hotter and plunge my head under the stream. I’ve crossed the line, and if Preston doesn’t come to his senses soon I’ll be miserably worse.
Martin is leaving after tonight and I’ve promised to see him one last time. It’s wrong, but he said he had something important to tell me. While I’m out shopping for Gran, I’ll buy something cute to wear for our goodbye.
* * *
I spend the late morning doing Gran’s bidding and then stop at the Macy’s on Cottman Avenue in the Northeast. On the sales rack, I find a cute skirt and low-cut top. Satisfied, I drive down Roosevelt Boulevard, the same boulevard that brought me into Philadelphia a few days ago. I’m overwhelmed by an eerie feeling. What if this is it? What if Preston never lets me come back home? What if I’m banished from my family forever?
Then they’ll grow up without a mother just like you and look at how that turned out.
This has to blow over. Preston can’t keep this up much longer. My family needs me.
Of course he can. What’s so special about you? And this is what you wanted. Freedom. Remember?
I turn up the radio and drown the damn voice from my head.
* * *
When I get back to Gran’s, Crystal is asleep on the couch. The floor creaks as I walk into the dining room, and she looks up.
“Thought you was out.”
“I was and now I’m back.”
“Were you with Martin?”
I drop the bags on the floor and turn my body toward her. “No.”
“Well, when you see him, tell that fool he still owes me twenty dollars.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He was supposed to pay me fifty dollars for your number. Only gave me thirty. Tell him I want my twenty.”
“You did what?” I move back into the living room.
She yawns and scratches her nose.
“Crystal, you sold me out for fifty bucks?”
“Girl, stop your whining. I needed the money.”
I am almost stunned. Almost, but it’s Crystal, same old tired-ass, catty, jealous, stupid, stinkin’ Crystal.
“Do you know how fucked up this is?” I’m loud. “My marriage is cracked, he won’t let me see my kids, I’m stuck here with you, and—”
“Just the way it would have been if Mama ain’t choose you over me.”
The front door slides across the living room floor. My knees buckle and I glue my hip to the piano to keep me from snatching out Crystal’s weave and eyeballs.
“Praise the Lord,” Gran says. I’m not sure if she notices the tension, but she starts chatting us up about the sermon. Crystal picks up the remote and turns on the television. My chest heaves in and out.
“You do what I say?” Gran eyes me.
“Yeah, the groceries are right there. I’ll be back,” I tell her.
“You having dinner, aren’t you?”
“I need some air.”
My purse is on my shoulder and I walk out the front door. I can feel my pressure pulsing in my ear, and if I don’t keep moving away from Crystal I will do her damage. I pull away from the curb and speed down Gran’s little street. The Nissan carries me over to West River Drive, where I park and then walk. The weather is hot, but the humidity is low for a Philadelphia summer day. There is a pleasant gust of air coming off the river, making it a perfect day for outside activities. People are jogging, on Rollerblades, riding their bikes, pushing baby carriages, laughing, talking. Across the Schuylkill River, I gaze at boathouse row, which consists of about fifteen boathouses that have been there for more than a century. At night the boathouses are lit and beautiful like a Christmas tree. My father brought me down here once, for the Independence Day Regatta. I remember the cherry water ices and salted pretzels we ate. He let me take pictures with his camera. I still have the picture that a woman offered to snap of us. He had his arm around me and I looked startled by his affection.
Truth is I didn’t know my father well enough to miss him. He spent most of my life out at sea. I used to daydream about him, though. From snatches of overheard grown-up conversation, I’d picture my father on something like a slave ship. In cramped conditions, damp clothing, little to eat, showering for weeks without hot water, worrying over my mother, and writing countless letters that she’d glance at but never take with her to bed.
My parents married quickly, right before he was shipped out to sea with the navy. I was already swollen like a grapefruit in her belly. I heard her tell Aunt Shelly that she only married him for the benefits.
“In case something happened to him at least my daughter would be taken care of for life.”
Their relationship was mostly long-distance, through paper correspondence and a few months out of the year when he was home. After serving for ten years, the navy wouldn’t accept his reenlistment because his behavior had become erratic, and he had been diagnosed with stress-related paranoia. That’s when he became my mother’s problem. They had given him a low-level job at the Philadelphia Shipyard, and he worked early mornings. When he was on his medication he was fine, but when he wasn’t, that’s when the trouble would begin.
His sun rose and set on my mother’s lips, and he couldn’t get over her. He’d come to our apartment on Eighteenth and Susquehanna and throw rocks at the window in the middle of the night to get my mother’s attention, and then he’d sing his love to her in front of the whole neighborhood.
In the beginning, Gran didn’t take my father’s mental illness seriously, and said stuff like he’d come around, he’d get over it, give him some time. But time only made it worse. It wasn’t until the day of “The Incident” that she saw with her own two eyes how bad it was, and by then it was too late. Crystal got caught with his knife trying to protect my mother and I stood watching like a mute.
* * *
I twirl blades of grass between my fingers and try to be soothed by the water and the picturesque view, but that damn girl has ruined my mood. I can’t understand why Crystal has to be so selfish. She has always been envious of me. It started even before I moved in with Gran. When my mother was around she would include Crystal in most things, but it was never enough. I often wondered if Crystal was a little touched, like my father. Not a full bottle missing from the six-pack, but maybe a few sips, because her behavior has always been irrational.
One time when she was in high school, she beat up a girl so badly with a soda bottle that she had to be rushed to the emergency room. Why? Because the girl supposedly rolled her eyes at Crystal. She was expelled from more high schools in the city than I could name, and found trouble without effort. I had my one snag, but for the most part I did things right. I learned my lesson but I pay for that mistake every single day. Just because she can’t see my scars doesn’t mean I don’t have them.
THIRTY-ONE
The Last Dance
On my drive to Martin, I let the window down and the fresh air in. The full moon is radiant against the backdrop of night. My mother used to say that the moon ruled my moods because I am a Cancer.
Who knows if that’s true, but agitation is definitely crawling under my skin. I soothe myself with thoughts of seeing Martin for the last time. I’ve abandoned my plans to be especially cute tonight, because I don’t want to go back to Gran’s and risk running into Crystal, so I’m still wearing jean shorts and the V-neck shirt I slipped on this morning. I stop at Ms. Tootsie’s on South Street and order takeout. There is a vial of perfume in my purse and I dab my throat, ears, and wrist, slap a little gloss on my lips, and fluff my ponytail.
When I tap the door, Martin opens it. He kisses my cheek and then hands me a drink, Jack and ginger ale.
I sip, tasting the extra Jack. “You trying to get me drunk?”
“Just trying to make you happy.”
“I’m a mean drunk.”
“Oh, then give that back,” he teases. “Did you eat?”
“No, but I brought us some fried chicken from Ms. Tootsie’s.” I hold up the bag and then carry it into the kitchen. He follows me.
“Thanks, but that’s not what I crave, Young Sister.” Martin pushes his hips into me, and the drama of my day evaporates. The kitchen is small, barely enough room for two. His hands kindle me. I am pinned between the countertop and his manhood. He talks shit into my hair.
“You like that?”
I don’t answer. It’s our game. Martin has always known what brings me pleasure, and before I know it his hand is inside my shorts. One finger stretches my thong as the others go to work on softening me. With his free hand, he unzips his pants, and his belt buckle clunks against the linoleum floor. I can’t help it, and the sound heightens my anticipation. He shoves me onto the counter. My head bobs against the cheap cabinet. Martin smells like freshly chopped wood, and it’s heady as he plays my body with his fingers, touching each note until the pleasure rips through me.
I cry out.
“That-a girl.”
My foot is on his shoulder, and when he rams into me it takes my breath away. We find our rhythm and flow. I rest my hands behind me and let him do all the work. This is why our tryst works. Martin has allowed me to just receive, when I’m used to giving it all. With him I don’t think, prepare, plan. I just take and it makes me float. When I finally come down, it’s hard and heavy and we are soaked in my bliss.
* * *
Martin rolls the condom off and steps out of his pants. He lifts me and carries me to the bed, where we spoon. This is all I want, peace from the drama of my real life. A freshly lit cigarette passes between us.
“Young Sister.” He says my pet name with such care, I curl catlike into his arms. I feel beautiful and strong. Goddess-like. His fingers move lower and start making circles on the small of my back.
“I need a favor.”
I breathe heavily.
“My youngest child, Antwan, is sick.” His voice trips. “Really sick. He needs a kidney transplant.”
I turn to face him. Annoyed that he has reminded me of his life outside of me when I would prefer to stay in our little bubble.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. How old is he?”
“Thirteen, and he has been dealing with this for a while.”
I slide my hips away from him. “What do you need?” I’m sure as hell not about to give up a kidney.
Martin runs his fingers through his wavy hair. “I need to find our child. I need to see if their kidneys match.”
I sit up in bed. So this is the something important he wanted to discuss with me.
“We’ve tried everything. He’s been put on the national list, but his kidney is different than most. It’s a genetic thing called PKD. We’ve been through everyone in the family. Our child is the only hope left.”
He tries to punctuate his news by looking deep into my eyes, but he can’t because I’m gazing over his head at the tiny bedroom window that faces the alleyway. I’m remembering my gas range at home. When I turn the knob to ignite the flame, I’d hear that tick, tick, tick, tick sound until the fire caught. Then in a split second, the ember would spark bright orange and yellow with a tint of white at the tip, ready to lick anything that comes into its wake.
Martin dropped that feel-sorry-for-me bullshit into my lap, and now I am the stove. I ticked, ticked, ticked. Swirled and sweltered until my skin felt balmy. The bedcovers absorbed my heat until they felt like they were cooking my sweat.
“So that’s what all of this is about?” My words entered the room softly. “All of this fucking, and ‘Faye, you mean so damn much to me’?”
“No, you do.” He starts to plead, but I kick the covers to the floor and detach myself from the bed. The combustion surged through my body, and my brain added more wood to the fire.
“You want to talk about our child? Where were you? Huh, Martin? I was fifteen and pregnant and you let me go off and have the baby by my damn self. You never checked for me.”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“Bullshit. I saw you.”
He looks at me.
“I came to your house. To tell you I was pregnant. To ask for your help. You walked right by me, pretended not to see me. Like I was disposable. Like I didn’t matter. You left me to deal with it by myself.”
I see a quick blink in his eyes that lets me know he remembers. He opens his mouth. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Bullshit.”
“Faye, please calm down.”
“After I had the baby I went to the same high school that you used to pick me up from when you wanted some ass, but you never came.”
“They would have thrown me in jail.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you stole my virginity in the back of a damn car.”
He moves to stand, but my internal thermometer has reached three alarms. My look is like a dragon shooting flames, and it makes Martin stumble. All of the sudden he seems embarrassed to be naked and reaches for his pants. He lights a cigarette.
“Where’s the child, Faye?” Back to smooth. He has recaptured his composure.
“Fuck you.”
I move around the bed and he cuts me off at the doorway. His fingers are on my shoulders.
“Where is the child, Faye?” His eyes are desperate. “Answer me.”
“Our baby died.” The syntax comes from a place so deep I don’t recognize my voice. A piece that had been anchoring me just flew from my throat, and now I’m off balance.
I stagger out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen for my clothes, snatching articles off the floor. And this time, when I can’t find my panties I dress without them. I’m at the front door when he recovers from his shock and calls my name.
“Faye, I’m sorry. How? How did it happen?”
“Like you care.”
“Don’t leave like this. Come.” He holds out his hand to me but this time I don’t go toward him. I run like hell.
* * *
When I crash open the glass door of the apartment building, I am a disheveled sight. I skid out of the parking space and drive to the corner of Forty-Eighth and Market Street. At the red light, the heavy tears stream. I can’t see the car in front of me so I turn the corner, pull into the Wawa parking lot and kill the ignition. My body convulses, and the sorrow secretes from the countless Band-Aids I’ve stitched on. It’s the first time I have even thought of that baby as being my child. Like Rory, like Twyla, like my little sweet Liv.
When I was in it, I was so filled with guilt and shame that the baby dying was a relief. I moved on like it never happened because it released me of the agony of making such a costly mistake. A baby would have chained me to Philadelphia, and I would have ended up like Crystal—baby daddies, dead-end jobs, manipulating the system, living off of Gran. Or like Shayla, chasing that street hustle, fast money, always having to stay one step ahead of the game before the rules changed. The baby’s death was my ticket out, my second chance. I took it and didn’t look back.
THIRTY-TWO
The Low and Lonely
I am a lump in the bed, tig
htly curled into the fetal position with my back against the wall. A woman who abandons her own child is crud. Rory, Twyla, and Liv deserve better; that’s why Preston took them away from me. I am not worthy of being called a mother.
Ghetto trash. Always have been, even when you were pretending to be more.
The voice is right. She has always been right.
Damn skippy, I’m right.
Gran pulls back the covers.
“Gal, get up. Ain’t you gon’ eat something?”
I hear but I don’t answer her. My voice no longer lives in my throat. It left me for someone more suitable. I pull the sheets back over my head.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She waits for me to respond, and when I don’t, I feel drops of wet on me through the covers, probably holy water. Then she wobbles away. Rain has been falling, and the bedroom is gray. I don’t even need pills to sleep; sadness makes me sleep, and I welcome the black cocoon. It feels delicious. It feels like death. It feels like I have sailed over the brink and capsized.
* * *
The hours puddle into days, and the days spill into each other. I’m not sure if it’s Tuesday or Friday when the vivid dreams start happening. I see slaughtered cows in bathroom stalls. I’m peeing on a lion cub in the toilet. Panic starts building and I realize that the cub is growing underneath me in the toilet bowl, rising out of the commode. I run from the stall but I can’t move as fast as I would like because I haven’t pulled up my pants. When I reach for the bathroom door handle, the cub is now a fully grown lion and it is on my heels. I make it out of the bathroom and then push the door closed behind me and hold it with all of my might in place. The beast is contained. It doesn’t catch me.
Gran is back. “Here, sit up and drink this, girl. You need some strength.”
I shake my head no.
Please let me suffer, Gran. Just let me die like this.
“You want me to call an ambulance?”
I nod no.
She shuffles off and I can hear her praying all the way down the stairs and into the dining room. Then I hear a cat meow in the alley and another respond. Sirens whine as they race through the streets, but I can’t remember if it’s police, ambulance, or fire engine sirens. I went to St. Martin de Porres School until eighth grade. Whenever the nuns heard the sirens of an ambulance, and they could always tell the difference, we had to stop what we were doing and pray that the passenger arrived safely and stayed alive. Maybe I should pray.
Second House from the Corner Page 18