by Jim Grimsley
She stood perfectly still and listened. When she heard the tap a second time, she picked up a knife from the dish drainer. There was no phone to call the police with, and no place to go for help except outside. The tapping went on for a long time, traveling from window to window. Later she said she thought she would lose her mind before Papa’s truck drove into the yard and the sound stopped.
The noise of the truck woke you, the clanging of chains against the truck gate and the creaking door opening and closing. Papa whistled, walking to the house. You knew from the way he whistled he had been drinking. He found Mama in the kitchen with the knife in her hands, embracing her own arms for warmth. Later she said she wanted nothing in the world but to run to Papa and tell him about the sound at the window, and let him hold her close and make her feel safe. Then she saw he was drunk.
She accused him of tapping on the windows himself, to frighten her.
He shook his head. That night he had come home happy, and answered Mama’s accusations in a voice sweet to the brim. “No honey, I’ve been down to the pool hall with Joe and Fish playing some pool and listening to the juke box. Is something wrong?”
She told him what had happened and she walked to the kitchen window, his heavy footsteps resounding through all the rooms. All the happiness drained out of his voice. “That goddamn fat son of a bitch. Did you let him in this house?”
“I don’t know who it was, Bobjay, it was just a tapping.”
He slammed his fist on the sink, rattling cups and saucers. “What business does he have messing around this house at night?”
Mama said, “I don’t know who it was, Bobjay, I didn’t see him. Nobody asked him to come over here tapping on windows.”
“Nobody didn’t let him in the house every morning for the last month? Fix this here Mr. Rejenkins, fix that there Mr. Rejenkins, all nice and pretty.”
“The house had to have some work done on it.”
“Some work must have got done on it, all right. Oh I can see how the land lays between him and you. How many times has he been over to see you when I won’t home at night? What did he do that made you pull a knife on him?”
“Bobjay, don’t talk so stupid! I wouldn’t have anything to do with that fat ugly thing. You talk like I’m a whore.”
The shouting woke Amy Kay and Allen soon. They sat with blankets heaped across their knees. Amy whispered, “Here we go again.”
“I want to go back to sleep,” Allen said.
Amy answered, “Tell Papa to be quiet because he’s keeping you awake and see what you get.”
They hushed as the argument swelled, Papa’s voice ringing against the walls. “You better not be lying to me, you bitch.”
“Somebody was tapping on the window, Bobjay. If I was going to let him in why would he bother to do that?”
“Maybe it was a signal. Maybe you had it all planned so he would know I won’t home.”
“All he had to do was look for your truck to know you weren’t home. Whoever it was tapped a few times on one window, and then tapped a few times on another one. I don’t know who it was.”
“Slack-bellied fat-assed wall-eyed yellow-toothed mangy stinking son of a bitch,” Papa said.
“It could of been a tramp walked here from the highway for all I know,” Mama said. “It could have been somebody who walked here from the back roads. Anybody around here knows I’m alone with the younguns almost every night. Anybody could see your truck won’t in the yard. This house is built so flimsy.”
“You wouldn’t have cared who it was, would you?” Papa said. “You wouldn’t have minded if it wasn’t old Mr. Rejenkins, would you?”
“You talk about me like I’m the lowest trash on earth.”
“You nearbout are, baby,” Papa said. “Like the rest of your family.”
Mama said, “I’m your wife.”
Papa said, “Maybe not for long.”
“What does that mean?” Mama asked softly.
“Maybe you better wait and see.”
“Go ask him, he’s probably been in bed next to his wife the whole time.”
Papa said flatly, “I’ll find out everything I need to know from that fat son of a bitch.”
Mama’s voice rose in pitch. “What are you going in that drawer for?”
“You got a knife. Why can’t I have one?”
“Please Bobjay, don’t do that. Put that knife down. I told you the truth, what makes you so sure—”
“You been giving him a show ever since we moved in this house. Well, he’s had the last show he’s going to get from my wife.”
You heard the kitchen door close. A moment later you heard him laughing across the yard.
In the other room Mama paced and whispered. You could not tell if she were praying or crying or singing, but you wanted to go to her and maybe you would have, except a moment later she came into your room wiping her eyes. All of you gathered at her side quick as lightning. Her gaze swept you. In her hand she held a grocery bag. “Get dressed,” she said. “Amy, when you’re done get you and the boys one change of clothes each and put them in this bag.”
Amy nodded, wide-eyed, and slid through the shadows of the room to find her clothes. She was dressed and stuffing shirts and socks into the brown bag before you had even pulled on your pants. Allen dressed himself except his shoelaces, which you tied for him. Mama smoothed Duck’s soft hair and whispered in his ear. Even then, in the dark, Duck had Papa’s face. She let him stand next to her, clutching her skirt while she counted the money in her wallet and found the ignition key on her key ring. “Is Papa going to hurt Mr. Rejenkins?” Allen asked.
“Your Papa is too scared to hurt anybody but us,” Mama said. “Get your coats on and get in the car.”
Amy Kay carried the bag to the door, giving you a tight-lipped smile. You took Allen’s hand and followed after. Mama carried Duck, not looking at his face or at any of the rest of you, only watching the windows. In the living room she shut off the gas heater. You and Allen followed Amy down the porch steps into the night. In the back yard the car shone in moonlight. Frost veined the hood and the windows. Mama scraped the windshield clear with quick strokes and slid behind the steering wheel, Duck draped calmly against her shoulder eating his thumb. Once in the car Amy took him, slipping a pacifier in his mouth and wiping his thumb dry on a towel from the grocery bag. Mama said, “Lock your doors.”
Four locks clicked down, cold to the touch.
Mama turned the car key. The engine coughed, tried to speak, and died. She pinched her lips and tried again. The engine turned over and over. Mama pumped the accelerator once with her foot. The engine groaned and strained until Mama’s taut fingers let go of the key. She sat back against the seat and took a deep breath. Amy said, “He’s fixed the car so it won’t run.”
Mama said nothing. Allen leaned against you and you whispered, “It’s going to be all right, it just got cold, it’ll start in a minute.” In the starlight you watched the glistening pattern of frost. Mama laid her head against the cold steering wheel, whispering, “Oh Lord please, let it start this time. Please.”
Amy sat up straight and leaned toward the windshield. “I see Papa next to the barn,” she said.
She pointed out where he stood, a lighter shadow than the rest. As you watched transfixed he lit a cigarette, flinging the bright match into the dirt. In his hand metal glinted. He walked away from the barn, pausing in the clearing to face the car directly, legs spread apart. Mama gripped the steering wheel, her lips a taut white line. She tried to start the car again, not frantic, every motion calm and quick. The engine merely groaned. Papa ducked under the clothesline, kicking Allen’s plastic tractor out of the way. Allen whispered soft and high, “My toy,” and slid against your side. Papa came closer and closer. Mama turned the steering wheel back and forth, hissing, “Start! Why don’t you start!”
Papa tapped the butcher knife on the hood of the car. “What’s the matter honey?” His voice, muffled by the windshield, oo
zed concern. “Is this old car giving my baby some trouble? If you get out I’ll start it for you.”
Mama dropped her hands to the seat, as if the steering wheel had become too hot to touch.
Papa said, “Come on out, honey. I’ll get it started for you and let you back in as soon as I’m done. Then you can go and see your Mama. Ain’t that where you’re going, to see your old fat-ass Mama?”
Mama shook her head slowly, clutching handfuls of her own dark curls. “You younguns make sure these doors are locked.”
“It’ll be so quick to finish,” Papa said, flipping the knife on the car hood. “You won’t even have a chance to get cold.”
“He can’t hurt us, can he, Mama?” Allen whispered.
Mama shook her head. “No, son. Just sit still.”
Papa said, “You know I’ll come in there if you don’t come out here.”
“He can’t get in here, can he?” Allen asked.
Amy said, “Be quiet, Allen.”
Papa smiled. “All right baby. You had your chance.”
He climbed onto the hood, the car bucking with his weight. Mama made a strangled sound. With his raw fist Papa pounded the windshield, Mama watching motionless, pulling the handfuls of hair tighter and tighter. Papa cussed and lifted the knife, slamming it butt-first against the glass.
When the first starlike cracks shot through the glass Mama began to moan, turning the ignition key again and again, pounding the accelerator. The windshield sagged inward over her face. She watched it descending as if she did not know what it was. But at last she said, “Open your doors and run. Now.”
Four locks clicked up, four doors opened. Mama gathered Duck to her breast.
She ran toward the fields, where the darkness might hide her. Allen ran another way, toward the barn where Papa had stood; and Amy Kay took yet another direction, back to the house, scooting quick as a cockroach under the back porch, hiding behind one of the brick underpinnings. You ran too, Danny, a wild circling path around the outhouse and the rusted tractor, something beating down on your brain like the thuds of a hammer. Across the yard you saw Mama, her white coat shining, stopped beside a ditch too wide to jump across. She held Duck tight to her bosom, but didn’t look down at him—she watched the stars, and as Papa approached her she cried a pure tearing cry that rose out of the black earth and rushed straight through her. Papa walked toward her, laughing, seeing she was too frightened now even to think of running. He swung the knife carelessly. You ran toward her hollering for him to leave her alone, and across the wide yard Allen did the same. You could hear his small voice crying for his Mama to get away. You stretched every bone in you to run faster, across frosted grass you could hardly see for the wetness the wind stung from your eyes. Even then you heard some voice telling you to be careful, not to run in the dark where you couldn’t see the places your feet were falling.
You felt the fall when it began and knew perfectly what it was. You saw the ground burst toward you, feeling nothing but calm surprise. The jolt ran through your whole body. Your mouth, open, slammed shut. Your teeth gouged your tongue.
A warm lightness filled your mouth. You lifted your hands to catch what was still falling: a film of wetness dropping dark over your hands, thick and warm. You closed your eyes as if to listen to the bleeding.
Only a few feet away you saw Papa still walking toward Mama, Mama still crying, Papa pouring out words you couldn’t quite hear, and lifting the silver knife. Mama turned to the side to shield Duck, who watched the knife rise. You couldn’t see them clearly but you ran toward them after that, lifting your darkened hands, shaking the wetness off and feeling the spread of heat on your chin and neck.
You circled them and stepped between them. You turned to Mama and said, in a voice altered by the blood, “Something happened on the grass—”
She screamed something and Papa spun you around by the shoulder, the bright knife flashing close to your ear. The sight of the blood already on your face seeped slowly into him, shifting anger toward confusion. He shuddered, stepped back, and threw the knife to the ground. By then Mama had seen it too.
She took a deep breath that seemed to calm the very air. Wordlessly she handed Duck to Papa, who took the child without protest. She knelt in front of you and said calmly, “There’s blood all over your good shirt. Did your Papa do this?”
“I slipped on the grass,” you said. “I bit my tongue.”
For a moment she simply stared at the blood. Then she gave your Papa one look full of disgust. She took you to the house. In the kitchen she laid you on the couch, bringing wet towels to catch the blood. You heard her call the others from the kitchen door. You watched the ceiling, where a pattern of brown spots formed a good man’s face, warm and kind. When Mama came back you tried to say you were sorry, but she motioned for you not to talk. She paced the kitchen, hugging herself.
After that you heard voices and studied the face in the ceiling. Amy Kay leaned over you and asked, “Did Papa do that? Mama won’t tell anybody what happened and I’m about to lose my mind.”
Allen, timid, touched your chin where the warm blood pooled. Papa, a benevolent smile on his face, leaned over you still holding Duck, who pushed at his chest with baby fists. “You lay still and you’ll be all right,” Papa said. “Hold real still. That’ll make it stop. Okay?”
Mama laughed in the background. “Like you can make it happen by saying so. He bit his tongue almost in two.”
Papa watched the loose sleeve dangling over the piece of arm. “What are we going to do?”
Mama said quietly, “First you’re going to give me that baby. Then you’re going to bed and you’re going to sleep until I wake you up. You’ve finished all the yelling you’re going to do for one night.”
“You’re riding high and mighty now, ain’t you, Miss Priss.”
“He won’t stop bleeding laying on that couch, Bobjay. He may have to go to the hospital.”
You could hear Duck beginning to cry somewhere, and then Mama talking softly in his ear. To Papa she said, “Go to sleep. If it don’t stop in a little while, I’ll call.”
“Don’t you want me to stay here?”
She turned to the sink. “Right now I can hardly stand the sight of you.”
Papa shuffled out of the room, the loose sleeve dangling back and forth. Mama took a deep breath and wet another towel.
Soon after, she put the others to bed too, and turned off all the lights except the one in the next room that overflowed the doorway into the kitchen, pale and soft. Mama tiptoed through the rooms, hardly breathing. She changed red towels for white ones. “I think it’s slowed some,” she said, wringing the towels into an enameled pan. She brought more pillows to prop your head, saying, “Let the blood run into the towels Danny, don’t try to swallow it. Blood will make you sick.” She touched your forehead with smooth, cool hands. “It’s the devil,” she said, smiling. “The devil makes the blood run out even when you lay as still as you can. You can’t help it. Don’t lay there worrying.”
You slept for a while, or dozed. At the end of it someone touched you, and for a moment before you opened your eyes you dreamed it was a new face, something you thought you should recognize. You woke to Mama’s warm smile, her gentle fingers on your lips. You rose up and tried to tell her the dream, but your lips felt sticky and wet. “Hold still,” she said.
Papa sat at the kitchen table, picking his teeth with a broom straw, staring vacantly into the black windows and the faceless night. He wore his good coat with the sleeve Mama had hemmed. As Mama turned he said, “I don’t want to owe no favors to Mr. Rejenkins. I’ll carry the youngun on my back before I’ll ask that son of a bitch for anything.”
“That’s fine for talk,” Mama said, “but your son is bleeding real blood, and we have to do something to get him to a doctor.”
“Why can’t he ride in my truck?”
“He needs to lay down. It slows the bleeding.”
“He can lay his head on your lap.�
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“That’s fine for his head, but where is the rest of him going to lay? The seat’s full of tools. You want to move them?”
“You got to have things luxurious even to carry a youngun to the hospital.” The straw trembled in his fingers. “You beat all I ever seen.”
Mama walked to the window, pushing aside the plastic curtains. Moonlight shone along her arms. “I guess you’re ashamed to tell anybody you busted out the windshield of your own car and can’t drive your boy to the hospital.”
Papa stood, slamming the chair under the table. “Have you already forgot the tapping you were so damn scared of? You think it was really some nigger heard the fame of your beauty and walked here all the way from the backstreets to see you? And now you want me to ask that bastard for his car?”
Mama flushed red to her ears. “I haven’t forgot a thing. But I look over on that couch and see my youngun’s blood falling into a towel and I understand I haven’t got time to worry about a fool who wants to look at somebody in a window or the fool that caused him to fall in the grass, either one.”
“The youngun ain’t dead yet. The bleeding could stop any minute.”
Mama glared at him. “You know what his blood is. It doesn’t stop bleeding. He was born that way, he can’t help it.”
“Whose fault is it he was born that way?”
She came to the couch and looked down at you for a long time. Presently she said, “I’ve got to change your clothes, Danny. We’re going to ride to the doctor.”
“You ain’t got no answer to that, have you? You know whose fault it is.”
