My father’s frazzled frame chilled the space even more. He wore a Kangol hat, unfashionably tilted to the back. His skin, the color of cigarette ashes, was dry. The whites of his eyes were a rusted red. His lips held a cigarette pressed between them. His pants, once a sandy beige, were decorated with dark, camouflage-like splotches. He wore a striped shirt, one that used to be too small, which now draped over him like a poncho. He saw Momma sitting in front of the door, straightened, and then pressed one shoulder into the space behind him. He fingered his Kangol, slipped the lip to the front, turned his head to the side, and smiled.
“Hey Lois,” he cooed, as he slunk to her and placed his hands on both arms of the chair, becoming a living cage around Momma. He leaned in, went for a kiss on the lips, even as Momma’s hands were raised and her head pressed into the fabric of the chair. He kissed her anyway, tongued her neck, stuck his hand down her shirt and asked, “Did you miss me?”
When his kisses weren’t returned, he clamped his hands around her wrists, raised her body to his, fixed one hand on the small of her back, and held her other arm in place. They danced. He swung her around the room, as her feet slid in objection across the hardwood floor. She arched her back outward, attempted to bend away at the waist, but his grip was stronger than her opposition. Finally, her body went limp. That, he found less entertaining, so he hustled her back to the chair. Then he found a new partner, Champ, whom he raised over his head and swung around the room. A squelch exited Champ’s mouth. Not finished with the crying that had occupied him minutes before, his body stiffened and tears covered his face. Momma grabbed at my father and jumped to reach her son. Carl laughed, amused by what he deemed her aspirations to rejoin.
He welcomed her back to the dance. The higher she jumped, the higher he held Champ. Eventually, he was holding him with one hand, arm fully extended, over his and Momma’s head. She continued jumping, reaching, afraid Carl would decide to play keep-away even though there was no one on the other side to catch.
The jumping dance continued until his arm cramped. Annoyed with his own amusement, he went to Momma and slapped her across her face. Accustomed to his beatings, she did not cry, so he slapped Champ in the face and pulled tears from her that way. Momma screamed until he lobbed Champ into her arms, rubbed his belly, and asked, “What’s to eat?”
Momma, watching him through the slits of her eyes, saw a shadow of the man she’d loved so briefly, the one who’d courted her at Cradock High despite the fact that she was pregnant, the one who’d spoken to Champ in her belly with a tenderness that made her envious. During the earlier days, when they shared lunch in the school library, where they read poems he’d written, he begged softly for a kiss and promised he’d take care of her.
Less than two years later, he’d grown into a lanky, drunken man who broke everything he touched.
“What’s to eat?” Momma responded. “Where is the money I gave you?”
He did not look at her as he opened and closed the refrigerator door.
“What money?” he said as he checked the cabinets and donned that smile again.
“The last of the money we had.”
“Oh, that money,” he said, this time with a laugh and no smile. “I lost it on the way to the store.”
Momma thought of the fives, tens, and twenties that should have been littering the sidewalks of Portsmouth, Virginia. He’d lost money, time, wedding vows, and memories. More of him was lost than she’d ever found.
“Carl, you know that money was for food. I pray you didn’t drink it up again,” she said.
“Look, girl, I was just having some fun. Ain’t nobody drinking nothing up.” He said this as he slid toward her. “Lois, you so serious, gotta learn to live hard, girl, ’cause when you get old, you gone be soft.” He accented his last sentence with a thrust and a wind of his pelvis.
“This is not funny, Carl,” she said. “We have no food.” She rubbed her belly. “Champ is hungry.” She pointed at him on the floor. “I am tired.” She pulled her hand through her hair. “And I am alone.” With that, her hand went to her face to stop tears she did not want to fall. “All I have is two dollars and that is only enough to buy milk. I can’t take this anymore. I’m sick. The baby’s sick and I can’t even count on you to go to the store.”
“Give me the money,” he said with a grin. “I’ll go to the store.” She initially intended to ask him to go, but once he volunteered, she knew she couldn’t give him her last two dollars. Before she could say “no,” he shot into the bedroom.
They raced to the dresser and squared off.
“I’ll be right back,” he claimed. “I’m just gonna flip it and make more.” Momma wanted to believe him, but his “flipping,” rather than multiplying, had always divided. After so many times, she knew what could be flour, rice, and navy beans would be poured down his throat. He was still playing, laughing, and smiling as he pleaded. But it was not a real smile, not a real laugh. A jagged snigger snaked out of his throat. He pushed her from the drawer. Momma bounced back with each shove. He laughed, as the bounce became part of the game. He finally granted her entry into the drawer. She grabbed the money and clenched it behind her. He reached, pressing his body against hers, rubbing his hands up and down her thighs and around her chest as she cried, “Stop playing, Carl.” But he was not playing anymore. He wanted her, tears and all, on the bed under him.
He pulled her from the dresser, as she caged herself behind her arms. She thrust all of her power against him with her belly. He fell to the bed. She fisted the money, stuffed it under her breast and turned to see his smile, the real one and fake one slathered together in a scowl. She knew then he didn’t want her anymore. He just wanted the money and he wanted her to shut up.
Her heart thumped too heavily in her chest. She felt it in her neck, in her temple, in her belly. Cramps tightened with each beat. The baby inside thrashed violently. I sometimes wonder if LaTanya were gasping for amniotic air or bracing for what was to come. Momma, wailing, ordered him to leave, and warned she’d call his parents, Ms. Mary and Mr. Frank, if he didn’t act right.
An image of his father, green eyes, red whites, slurring words, and his mother’s arms crossed around herself, a hug meant for him holding her together, angered him even more. Hands flailing, he paced the room, stopped, looked at her, pointed, screamed something incomprehensible, and charged toward her, pressing her back into the dresser. He clamped her forearm and began turning, turning, turning, as if he were wringing out a washrag. Momma’s arm remained wrapped around her breasts and her belly. When he released her, his hand impressions were hot against her flat skin. Despite the pain, she held on to the two dollars.
“Lois,” he said her name repeatedly, as if it were a nail he could tap flat.
“I have to feed Champ, Carl,” she said. “I got to get some food for the house.”
“Give me the damn money, Lois,” he snarled. Spittle sprinkled the side of her face. Momma trembled, shut her eyes, moved her lips in a silent prayer. Her closed lids lapped tears eager to carve lines down her cheeks. He shook her and pushed her to the floor. She choreographed a landing on the softest part of her, clutching her stomach, curling into the fetal position.
He snatched the money while she lay twisted on the floor. She scrambled to her feet and chased him to the door, coming away with a fistful of air as she grabbed for his shirt. When she tried again, she connected, grabbed his arm and twirled him around to her. His face held no anger, no sadness, just emptiness, which revealed how far from her he had grown. Momma knew then that he had it in him to hurt her and sprung back. But, it was too
