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Ordinary Hazards

Page 8

by Nikki Grimmes


  Clark’s son, Ronald,

  came for a Christmas sleepover.

  He was cute,

  but too much older

  to be bothered

  spending time with me.

  I was hyped up

  for the holiday,

  hoping for a two-wheeler.

  On Christmas Eve,

  Mom, acting weirder than usual,

  insisted I go out

  to wash a load of towels,

  which was nuts

  because the linen closet

  was stuffed.

  But she wasn’t in the mood

  for backtalk or excuses

  so out I went,

  in the snow,

  full pout and all.

  I cleaned and folded the lot,

  and trudged back home

  only to find Ronald with Mom and Clark

  locked in their bedroom.

  “What?” Mom sounded annoyed

  when I knocked.

  “I have the clean towels

  you said you needed.”

  “Fine! Just leave them in the hall.”

  What the hell, I thought.

  I tried to force the doorknob,

  but it wouldn’t budge.

  I stomped downstairs

  and waited in the living room.

  A quarter hour later,

  the three joined me.

  Clark’s lips were firmly zipped

  for once,

  and Ronald said nothing.

  Mom placated me by suggesting

  we open one gift apiece

  before going to bed.

  Ronald opened his first,

  a watch with a band

  like woven silver.

  If that’s what Mom got

  her stepson, how much better

  would my gift be?

  Daddy’s gift

  would come late,

  like always,

  but it would come.

  Meanwhile, the only thing

  under the tree

  with my name on it

  was a lone, small box,

  and I tore into the wrapping

  like I was digging for gold.

  Instead I found

  Eau de toilette.

  I looked from Ronald’s watch

  to my cheap bottle of scent

  and understood perfectly

  what it meant

  to feel like

  the stepchild.

  I went to bed early

  and took my sweet time

  coming down the next morning.

  Santa had nothing else

  under that stupid tree

  for me, which is why

  my mouth fell open

  when I found a Schwinn

  parked in the living room.

  “You better read the tag,”

  said Mom, grinning,

  “See who that bike is for.”

  You can guess the rest.

  Notebook

  Clark is staring at me now, all the time. I don’t like it.

  I’d tell Mom, but why bother? She’ll just tell me it’s nothing.

  INTRUDER

  “Come on!” I snapped,

  impatient for the shower water

  to warm. While I waited,

  I checked my reflection in

  the bathroom mirror.

  That big-breasted girl

  was a stranger.

  I hated how my shirts hugged me,

  how I jiggled when I walked,

  how boys looked at me

  like I was an ice-cream cone

  with two scoops.

  I climbed into the tub,

  lathered quickly,

  and stood beneath

  the showerhead

  eyes closed, enjoying

  the feel of wet needles

  pelting me. Then I froze.

  “Who’s there?” I asked,

  sure I’d heard the door open.

  I looked through the steam,

  and made out a shadow.

  “Get out!” I shouted,

  covering my breasts.

  “GET. OUT!”

  The shadow quickly retreated.

  It was Clark, of course.

  I switched off the water,

  reached through the curtain

  and fumbled for a towel.

  Maybe Mom catching Clark

  gawking at me

  while I take a shower

  is what it’s going to take.

  Maybe then she’ll leave him.

  Notebook

  Clark’s taken to blocking my path

  whenever I’m on my way up or down the stairs.

  He forces me to squeeze by. “Oops,” he says, like I’m stupid.

  Like I don’t know what he’s up to. I hate this man.

  I’m getting good at avoiding being in the same room with my mother’s monster. Of course, she’s an expert at pretending not to notice. I’ve stopped expecting anything different.

  GIN RUMMY

  I loved the sparkle

  Mom got in her eye

  whenever she was about to win

  a game of gin rummy.

  What I didn’t like

  was losing.

  Mom would lay down

  her winning hand with a flourish,

  fanning the cards out

  in front of her

  like some show-off.

  I’d slam my own useless

  hand of cards

  on the table, pouting.

  “Aww,” Mom would say.

  “Don’t be like that.”

  Then she’d offer to play

  one more hand.

  “I’ll even let you win.”

  I’d suck my teeth, for show.

  “Come on,” she’d coo.

  “Just one more hand.

  Pretty please?”

  The scripted scene

  at its end, I’d cave.

  “Fine. Just one.”

  Mom would giggle

  and hand me the deck to shuffle.

  On cue, Clark would bellow

  from the living room,

  “I’m out of beer!”

  “Check the fridge,”

  Mom would say.

  Clark would grunt.

  “Well, it’s not doing me

  any good in there, now is it?”

  Mom would sigh and

  leave the table.

  “Be right back,” she’d say.

  “When you’re done shuffling the deck,

  go ahead and deal.”

  Then she’d go and do

  Clark’s bidding.

  I’d be thinking,

  You’re killing me.

  Why can’t the bum

  get his own beer?

  Are his legs broken?

  When Mom returned,

  she’d mumble something about

  Clark being a little grouchy

  because he lost his job.

  “Lost,” I said once.

  “You mean getting up and quitting.

  Like he did the last time,

  and the time before that,

  and the time—”

  “Never mind,” Mom said.

  And we went on playing,

  but the sparkle in Mom’s eye

  was long gone.

  Game over.

  Notebook

  Clark is driving my mom batshit crazy. He won’t keep a job for more than a minute, w
hich means she’s got to work insane amounts of overtime to make up the difference, which is stressing her out, which is all the excuse she needs to dive into a bottle every chance she gets, even though she knows she’s an alcoholic. And what does he do? Runs up a tab at the corner liquor store! God, do something! Please!

  ESCAPE

  I took to running

  to Prospect Park and back

  after school,

  anything to get away.

  Sometimes, Peter would join me.

  “Race you,” he’d say,

  and every single time,

  I’d beat him.

  Guess I had more

  chasing me

  than he did.

  REPORT CARD

  Back from my run one evening,

  I found Clark sprawled out on the sofa

  per usual, doing lots of nothing

  in front of the TV.

  “Is Mom home yet?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “I’m watching the game.”

  He didn’t even deign

  to look up.

  I checked the dining room,

  the kitchen,

  saved the bedroom for last.

  I knocked but didn’t wait

  for an invitation,

  just stepped into

  the dimly lit room.

  Once my eyes adjusted,

  I spotted an empty bottle

  on Mom’s nightstand,

  spotted the glass in her hand

  before she tried to hide it

  behind a stack of books.

  “It’s not what you think,” she said.

  Why do people always say that?

  I glared at her, silent.

  “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

  She slurred her words.

  “I just need—”

  “Something to relax,” I finished her sentence.

  I’d heard it enough times.

  “Yes. Well…” Mom’s voice trailed off.

  “I need you to sign my report card,”

  I said, turning it over.

  I watched to see if her hand

  had started to shake

  the way it always did

  at the tail end of

  a drinking binge.

  She scrambled for a pen—

  Not yet, I thought. But soon—

  and quickly scribbled her name,

  so she could hurry back to

  sneaking her booze.

  She was acting like

  everything was A-okay,

  like she wasn’t halfway

  to crazytown.

  Again.

  BROKEN

  That night,

  after Mom passed out drunk,

  it happened.

  I woke from a deep sleep

  to find my legs parted

  and Clark’s tongue exploring

  where no tongue

  had ever been.

  I tried to kick and wrestle,

  but he had me muscled into place.

  He kept licking and nibbling me,

  and I screamed.

  God, close your eyes.

  I don’t want you

  seeing me like this.

  Clark came up for air

  long enough to laugh.

  “Scream all you want,” he said.

  “Ain’t nothing gonna wake

  your mama.”

  Just to make sure,

  he clamped his hand

  over my mouth,

  and that’s when the tears came,

  and I let them.

  When he was good and done,

  he got up, slung his robe

  over his shoulder, and

  sauntered from the room.

  I gathered my strength and rose,

  pushed all my furniture

  up against the door,

  and swore that bastard

  would never

  touch me again.

  AFTERWARD

  Breathe. Breathe,

  I told myself. But I couldn’t.

  I ripped off my pajamas

  and put on clean ones,

  but what I really wanted

  was to peel away my skin

  because it was on fire,

  like every inch of me

  that he had touched

  was scalded, and

  it wouldn’t stop throbbing.

  Later that night,

  I moved the furniture

  from the door and snuck out

  to the bathroom.

  Three turns in the shower

  and I discovered the limits of water.

  There was no getting clean,

  and I couldn’t, for the life of me,

  write the pain away.

  I couldn’t write about

  any of it,

  at all.

  PROSPECT PARK SHOWDOWN

  The next morning,

  I slipped a butcher knife

  from the kitchen drawer

  and planted it underneath

  my mattress, handle sticking out

  far enough for easy reach.

  Then I went on my usual run,

  no jacket required.

  I had enough rage to warm me.

  When I was done tearing

  through the park,

  three gum-smacking girls

  from the Sixth Street Gang

  blocked my exit.

  For years, I’d refused

  to join a gang, even though

  there was one on every street.

  That made me fresh meat.

  No surprise these girls wanted a bite.

  Anyone who dared stand alone

  elicited fear and hate,

  each siphoning strength

  from the other.

  The gang’s lead girl

  drew a knife.

  I caught the glint of a bottle

  in the steel trash can.

  I lunged for it, cracked the neck

  against the can,

  raised the jagged weapon high.

  “Girls, you picked

  the wrong damn day,”

  I warned. But did they listen?

  The three rushed me,

  leaving a nasty six-inch gash

  along one arm. The blood

  ran freely, but I felt no pain.

  I was still alive, for one thing,

  and I wasn’t the only one

  left hurting.

  When Mom asked what happened,

  I gave her the lie she wanted.

  “I bumped into a door with

  a rusty nail.”

  Long ago, she’d let me know

  she didn’t want to hear

  anything scary about

  her neighborhood of choice.

  “We’d better get you

  a tetanus shot,”

  was all she said.

  “Grab a towel,” snapped Clark.

  “I don’t want you bleeding

  in my car.” I withered him

  with one look and said,

  “Blood in your ratty old car

  would be an improvement,”

  which shut him up.

  On the way to the hospital,

  he switched on the radio.

  “Talk that Talk”

  by Jackie Wilson was playing.

  I said, “How about you let

  Jackie do all the talking?”

  Mom looked at me funny,

 
since I’d never given Clark

  much lip.

  My scowl let her know

  I was just getting started.

  Notebook

  Mom told me to start packing. Since Mr. Useless can’t seem to hold a job, we can’t afford this neighborhood anymore. She found a cheaper place in another part of Brooklyn. Perfect. So does the new address come with a less screwed-up family?

  I keep thinking of Carol today, the strange way she left.

  For a moment, I close my eyes, and I can see

  the smirk Clark wore as Sis went out the door.

  Did he touch her, too? Is that what she wants to tell me?

  She’s not welcome here. Mom has certainly made that clear.

  I haven’t seen my sister in months.

  If Clark hurt Sis, she’d have gone straight to Mom and—

  of course! Mom didn’t believe her, probably called her a liar.

  Why else would she show Carol the door?

  Mom only sees what she wants and—God knows why—

  she wants Clark in her life, or in her bed, at least.

  Did Carol and I both pay the price?

  JUST

  Just arrived on a new street.

  Just another midterm move.

  Just another blur.

  WHAT TIME FORGOT

  Schools

  and street names

  are gone.

  Blame it on

  the Mad Hatter,

  or the madness

  of my every day.

  Either way,

  the specifics

  climbed a horse

  and rode out of town

  long ago.

  Notebook

  Gin bottles are turning up again.

  And we’re off!

  Next stop, paranoia.

  Shit.

  Still having trouble sleeping, and I refuse to cry.

  I pack my tears away.

  Tears belong to people who are weak,

  something I swear to never be again.

  THANK GOD FOR CHUBBY CHECKER

  Music wafted through the window,

  the lyrics stealing

  straight into my heart.

  “I’m just about at

  the end of my rope.”

  The August heat

  added to the fire

  in my bones,

  and no amount of

  ice cold pop

  could cool

  the seething inside me.

  The annual block party

  brought mournful strains of

  Garnet Mimms

  & The Enchanters’ “Cry Baby.”

  I took one look at

 

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