Girls Like Us

by Randi Pink

  Missippi couldn’t figure how she’d done it in less than two hours. Evangelist was a single-minded cooking, cleaning, evangelizing machine. Missippi wanted to be impressed and thankful, but all she was was hurt. Evangelist, with all of her do-gooder tendencies, threw daggers at girls who didn’t deserve them. She’d taken one outside look at Missippi and judged. And judge not, lest ye be judged, so says the Lord. Someone who called herself Prophetess Evangelist should know this better than anyone.

  Missippi wanted a mama more than any diamond, but she’d never considered the possibility that having a mama might be worse than not having a mama. She’d never thought that a mama could look into a girl and draw out hurt, maybe just for the sake of hurting. It depended on the mama, Missippi guessed.

  She heard a knock on the door and assumed Evangelist had left something behind. No one ever came knocking on her door without a good solid invite from her papa. He was a good papa.

  Missippi tiptoed to the living room curtains to peek out. Her papa told her never to do that. He said it was tacky and made her look like she didn’t have home training, although he never wanted her to answer the door. In a perfect world, Papa wanted Missippi to curl up real quiet and wait for whoever had the nerve to come by unannounced to leave, but Missippi was entirely too lonely for that level of restraint. She was cooped-up and curious as a cat.

  “Coming!” she said in a chipper voice. “Don’t go nowhere! I’m coming!”

  She heard a man clear his throat. She paused. It was early afternoon. Probably the mailman with a special package or the milkman or the iceman or maybe it was a lost traveler just looking for a little something to eat. Grits on the stove, she thought. More than enough to share with a weary wanderer.

  Maybe he was a powerful man. Not too old, early twenties, just out of school, ready to settle down with a pretty young girl who knows how to dig in the dirt, change a quick tire, and tell a made-up tale of Pecola and the lost middle pages of The Bluest Eye. Or maybe it was a war-weary grunt to take her out of her Pine-Sol-smelling, lonely house, where only a judgmental Evangelist came by every day. She’d show her, Missippi thought. She’d spoken all of that “no man gone touch you” mess over her like her future was set. But a good, strong man at the door would be a sound win for her.

  She made a quick pit stop by the bathroom to scrub the dirt from her palms and break off a comb in her grease-stuck hair. Then she hid The Bluest Eye, because what if he didn’t like smart girls at all? She continued trying to finger the broken comb’s teeth from the roots of her thick hair.

  “Coming!”

  She decided to give up before her miracle left the porch. Skipping toward the heavy wooden door, she visualized a better life. Just like a princess stuck away in a tower, she was. Waiting. Dreaming—awake and sleep. He was finally here.

  The door creaked open, and there he was.

  An inaudible air left her body. She dropped her head in automatic submissiveness to him. She felt like a kicked dog.

  “Hey, sweet thang,” he said before blowing his sour breath into her ear.

  He smelled horrible—half like a dying thing and half like a deadly thing.

  “Hello, Unc” was all she could get through her dry lips. Just respectful enough not to earn a slap, but not too flirty. She was working on a new method—short and respectful.

  The last few methods hadn’t worked. The most recent was guilt. She spent hours in the mirror practicing her most pitiful expression. She thought looking up at him like a very small child might make him want her less. But it was a stupid plan. It only made everything worse.

  Short and respectful wasn’t going to work either, she quickly realized.

  He was already in her bedroom.

  * * *

  The following day, Papa finally made his way back from a long haul, rest weary and delirious. Papa swept through the door like crisp fall air, and Missippi leaped for him, but she could only make out his figure. It was dark outside, and the little light in the living room came from a small lamp on the side table. He hurried to the locked closet where he hid his small television.

  “Papa!”

  “Hey, Sippi! I can’t hardly see you,” he said before lifting her high in the air. “My back! You’re getting heavy, girl.”

  Missippi huffed in response.

  “All in the Family is about to come on,” he said, hurrying to the plug. “I drove in clear from Charleston without stopping to not miss a minute. Come on, Sippi! Let’s watch together.”

  She hurried to his side and sunk into the couch right next to him. He was such a good papa.

  * * *

  Missippi woke from a violent nightmare that she couldn’t fully recall. All she ever remembered was a foul-smelling man, her tiny twin bed, and so much pain. She wanted to go back to sleep, but she was afraid the nightmare might pick up where it left off, so she sat up.

  The sound of Papa’s snoring in the next room made her smile. She loved the sound of someone else in the house—creaking floors in the night, sink water running, even urine streams and flushing toilets. All the things other girls her age took for granted about their families were the things she longed for. As he snored, she smiled, visualizing his chest rising and falling. Then she rose from her bed and began dancing to the sound of his slow, steady snores. Twirling figure eights in her flowing nightgown. She felt light and full of fresh, lovely summer air—young, innocent, untouched.

  The sun peeked through the pines like a spy trying to catch a glimpse of something pure. Her bedroom warmed quickly, wrapping her in amber and shards of orange. She began to sing as she twirled.

  “Wipe up, cook, dust, sweep, scrub, wipe up, cook, dust, sweep, scrub, wipe up, cook, sweep, dust, scrub,” she sang. “Wipe up, cook, dust, sweep, scrub, wipe up, cook, dust, sweep, scrub, wipe up, cook, sweep, dust, scrub, milk for free…”

  Milk for free, she thought. Her gaze fell on her belly, and she realized it had nearly doubled overnight. She hurried to the bathroom mirror and balanced on the lip of the tub to get a full view of her swollen tummy. A few short months ago, her frame was straight up and down like a cut tree trunk. Now she was lumpy like a badly stirred tapioca pudding. She huffed at her reflection. There was really nothing to be done. On the way back to her bedroom, she thought of Evangelist. Wipe up, cook, dust, sweep, scrub, wipe up, cook, dust, sweep, scrub, wipe up, cook, sweep, dust, scrub. She could do that.

  “Wipe up,” she said to herself.

  Evangelist had left an extra-large bottle of Pine-Sol under the kitchen sink. Missippi poured small pools onto the countertops, floors, and stove just like she’d seen Evangelist do. Then she began edging away at them until they left the house gleaming.

  “Cook.”

  When she opened the kitchen cabinet, she found vinegar, vanilla extract, cornmeal, maple syrup, flour, salt, baking soda, black pepper, seasoned salt, garlic powder, shortening, paprika, nutmeg, and a wooden rolling pin.

  The smell of vanilla extract and paprika turned her stomach. She pushed them to the very back of the bunch and pretended they weren’t there. Basil and garlic-powder shakers had never even been opened, so she pushed them to the back, too. The vinegar was long expired. She’d forgotten it was there, but when she caught a whiff, she craved the burn in the back of her throat. She shot back a capful and another and a third until she coughed. She really had no idea what to cook. Frustrated, Missippi put up everything except the flour, shortening, and maple syrup. She only knew how to make one thing.

  “Two-step biscuits,” she said. “One step flour, two step shortening.”

  She lit a torn-off edge of the Sunday newspaper to spark on the pilot light and turn on the gas oven. An invisible cloud of toxic stink whipped her square in the face and hissed like a bothered snake. Then she poured a mound of flour into the shape of an ant bed on the counter and spooned a dollop of shortening into the center like a volcano. With her spidery fingers, she kneaded the mixture until it felt like Play-Doh. Then she rolled the ingredi
ents into a thin, flat sheet. The lid of an old mayonnaise jar cut out twelve perfect circles. She set the timer to twenty-five minutes.

  “Dust.”

  She didn’t own a duster. A too-small pair of stockings would have to work. Starting in the living room, she climbed on the tip-top of the couch and dusted the thick, wooly blanket from the top of the box fan in the window. Each blade held years of dead skin and hair and miscellaneous muck. Missippi had never noticed it before. She would’ve felt bad about it, but no other soul had ever told her to feel bad about that type of thing. Until Evangelist, that is. While dusting, she thought of Evangelist and Izella and Ola. Then: “Sweep.”

  The dust that had fallen on the floor was so thick that it swept up easily. Sweeping was her favorite of the chores. Quick, easy, over.

  “Scrub.”

  She dipped the steel wool from under the bathroom sink into the Pine-Sol and set to scrubbing the tub. Definitely her least favorite of the chores. The stubborn tub ring held on for dear life—deep dirt, dead skin, God only knows what. Whenever she broke the tub ring, instead of wiping away easily, it dispersed into gooey brown smears. And then when she went to wipe at the smear, it, too, dispersed. Smears caught like cooties.

  As she finally got the tub gleaming, the ding of the timer sounded, and the smell of two-step biscuits filled her small house from crawl space to attic.

  * * *

  Missippi’s papa woke up grinning at the smell.

  “Hey, Sippi,” he said in a slow drawl, wiping at his eyes. “Stayed gone too long this time, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, sir, you did.”

  He looked around. “You’ve got this place looking mighty nice.”

  “Yes, sir,” Missippi said to him, bouncing on the back of her feet. “I made biscuits and syrup for you, and they ready.”

  “I’d love some,” he replied, a new concern all over his face. “Bring it to my chair if you don’t mind.”

  Missippi jumped to it, proud and happy for someone to feed. She stood in the middle of the clean kitchen and breathed deep to take it all in. She then stacked four of the biggest biscuits on a plain white plate and drizzled perfect rows of syrup overtop, then gathered ten ice cubes in both hands and dropped them into a tall glass of water one by one.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten,” she chirped. “I hope you’re hungry!”

  Missippi’s smile melted away when she saw her father sitting back in his chair with worry all over his face. “What’s wrong, Papa?”

  “Sit down here, Sippi.” He patted the empty love seat to his left. She sat and he continued. “I stayed gone too long.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not a good papa.”

  “You’re the best papa in the world!” she told him, shocked at the sadness in his voice. He had a plate of fresh biscuits steaming in front of him. The floor was shining, and his glass of water was sweating cold. “What is it?”

  Papa pointed at Missippi’s big belly. “Who did this to you, Sippi? That boy across the way? Or Mr. Turner’s child with the white lightning on his breath?” Her papa’s head fell forward into his large hands. “Who would do this to a baby?”

  “Can’t say who, Papa,” she said, concerned for her father. “He said I can’t tell nobody. Not you most of all, Papa.”

  “Mississippi,” he said in a shaky but stern voice. “You tell me right now who did this to you.”

  She shook her head until she gave herself a headache. The rules were clear. Don’t. Tell. Your. Papa. He was a good papa—kind, calm, loving. She felt sorry for him. All alone on the road all the time with nobody to talk to. Her papa didn’t deserve to die, and Unc said he’d kill him if he knew what was what. Papa could ask a million, gajillion times, but she wouldn’t open her mouth.

  “You haven’t touched your two-steps, Papa.”

  “You ain’t gone tell me, are you?” Papa asked. “I can see it all over you that you ain’t gone tell me.”

  She shook her head and smiled wide. “No, sir.”

  “You can’t tell who? I won’t ask who. I’ll ask other questions.”

  Missippi began to bounce in her seat. “Like a game?”

  “That’s it,” he said, forcing a tight grin. “A game.”

  “Go!”

  “Does he come here to this house sometimes?” he asked, clenching his fists into giant balls. “When I’m away?”

  “Two questions, Papa!” she said in a high pitch. “You cheat.”

  “Does he come here when I’m away?” he snapped, and then softened. “See, I made it into one.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said before stuffing one of his untouched biscuits into her mouth. “Only when your rig is gone.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “You know everybody, Papa.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know,” she said before taking another big bite. “Few months. No! I know! First time was just after my thirteenth birthday down at the church, remember? You got Mrs. Minni to make me a cake, and you lit a candle on it.”

  “He go to church with us?” her papa asked with a tremor in his cheek.

  “Yes, sir,” she told him. “But sometimes he plays hooky from Sunday school.”

  “Is it Mr. Yancy’s boy?”

  “Yuck! No, sir!”

  “Mrs. Oliver’s son?”

  “Papa!” she hollered. “His head is big as a melon!”

  “Sippi,” he said calmly. “Is this something you wanted to do? I mean, liked to do with a boyfriend?” He looked away so she couldn’t see his eyes filling with large, involuntary tears.

  “Ew, no.” Missippi shuddered. “He old.”

  “Is he old as me?” he shouted, tears instantly dried.

  Missippi chuckled. “How old you, Papa?”

  “Mississippi!” He dropped his facade at the immediate realization that his daughter was not simply playing around with a boy her age. “Stop this game. Does this man look as old as me?”

  “No, sir.” Missippi squinted at her father’s face. “Older.”

  “Older!”

  Missippi was startled by her father’s anger. She hadn’t expected it. Unc told her what he was doing was all right. To her, it felt nasty, but he was older than her papa. And older folks supposed to know what’s what in the world.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much older is he than me?”

  “I,” she said, hesitant to speak or smile or move or breathe, “can’t say, because I don’t know how old you are, Papa.”

  “Forty-three!”

  “I … Papa,” she started. “You ain’t gone gray. He’s salt-and-pepper gray in the beard and chest.”

  Papa picked up the remaining plate of two-step biscuits and threw them at the newly scrubbed box fan, shattering all of it.

  * * *

  “Bags packed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Missippi replied to her father. “Ready!”

  He’d given her a week to pack up, but it only took a half day. She didn’t have much—four outfits for in, and four outfits for out. A brush, a soap bar, two slices of green from the aloe plant, a picture of her mama, and the half-empty bottle of Pine-Sol, just in case she needed to clean up where she was going. Papa hadn’t told her where he was taking her or for how long she’d be gone. He hadn’t said much of nothing since he threw the biscuits. He just paced back and forth and back and forth again, mumbling the names of salt-and-pepper-gray men at church. Missippi hadn’t realized how many there were.

  Missippi had never seen her papa angry before. Usually, he was full of calm like a pigeon on a line. But no matter what Missippi cooked, Papa wouldn’t sit or even sleep. He walked new holes in his socks, racking his brain. He kept asking Missippi who. She kept shaking her head. He never got angry at her, though. Kind, sweet, calm Papa. He was a good papa after all.

  Missippi was excited to leave the tiny house behind. She longed for adventure and new faces, but she’d
miss her little kitchen with the tricky gas stove, and the creaking spot in the hallway hardwoods, and even the pesky ring around the tub. She’d miss the mailman and the milkman and the iceman. But most of all, she’d miss watching Izella and Ola walking back and forth, skipping cracks, and twirling.

  “Sippi,” Papa said with pity in his sleepy eyes. “Time to go.”

  “Hold on, Papa,” she told him before jogging to her room. “I have to say my good-byes! Bye, bed. Bye, side table. Bye, window. Bye, bathroom mirror. Bye, you ole nasty tub ring. Bye, stove. Bye, sink. Bye, icebox. Bye, couch. Bye, Pecola … No, Pecola, you’re coming with me!”

  She tucked the paperback novel into her skirt and leaped to her papa’s side. “Now I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Missippi had expected an adventure. She was excited to ride in the eighteen-wheeler with her papa, talking into the evening, sipping orange juice, and eating salt-and-vinegar potato chips. But the rig was just as lonely as the house. Papa had made her a sleeping slab in the back with the shelves and shifting boxes, and the only light was small enough to fit in her palm. His boss wouldn’t allow another soul along on his long hauls, so Missippi couldn’t even see him, let alone speak to him.

  The trip took two full days, and the motion of the rig left her belly spinning around and around. By the time they made it to where they were going, her whole body ached—swollen feet to swirling mind.

  Papa lifted the rolling door, and the wind hit her like a slap.

  “We here, Sippi,” said Papa through a small grin. “Come on out.”

  Missippi rubbed at her eyes while they adjusted to the light. The wind was high and strange like in The Wizard of Oz.

  A small-framed woman with hot-combed, shoulder-length hair covered in a silver scarf tied under her chin appeared next to Papa. Her expression was one of caution, almost fear, but not quite. She wore dark brown layers underneath a heavy wool coat. It was too hot for layers, Missippi thought. Such a strange and blanketed woman.