Allegedly

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  Dawn moved to Brooklyn, New York, with her youngest sister Margaret Cooper. Margaret wanted to pursue a career in the fashion industry and Dawn was worried about her living in a big city alone. Dawn found work as an elderly caretaker. She met her first husband, Marc Addison, at a bus stop on Flatbush Avenue. Although Marc was twenty years her junior, they fell in love and were married within three months. Marc was killed on his way home from work by a drunk driver. Shortly after, Margaret died of HIV-related complications. A devastated Dawn went into hiding.

  Mary Beth Addison was born in October. Dawn testified that she had given birth at home, only bringing Mary to the hospital to get a birth certificate. She was forty-one.

  When describing what happened that day, she stated, “It was a cruel and painful birth. I knew something was wrong with her from day one.”

  “Yo, I can’t believe this dumb shit. There ain’t no trains, no White Castles, no corner stores. Some bullshit!”

  Kisha complains about the group home every single day. She could go out, but chooses to stay inside, combing and straightening her hair every ten minutes like she’s about to see someone new. Momma is like that too. Hair always has to look right, permed and hot-combed perfect. She would get all dressed up in heels to go to the corner store and never left the house without her lipstick, cranberry brown. Smells like crayons.

  “And it fucking stinks in here,” she says, trying to open a window to let out the stench of rotting food. Ms. Reba pokes her head in our room.

  “Mary, your mom’s here.”

  Like clockwork, Momma arrives at 2:35 p.m. every other Sunday, right after church. This has been her commitment to me ever since I was locked up. I’ll always remember what she said in the courtroom. “I’ll come see you every week. Well . . . on second thought, maybe every other week. Every week may be a bit too much for my pressure.”

  And sure enough, every other Sunday, she would be in the visitors’ center at baby jail, cheerful and bright as cotton candy. One of the officers working my cell block said she deserved mother of the year, for all the love she showed a little psychopathic killer like me.

  Mother of the year? Hilarious.

  “Baby!” she squeals in the sitting room, arms extended wide, waiting for her hug. Her hot-pink skirt suit is paired with a matching bag and shoes that could almost blind you. Her cream church hat is centered, a regal crown. Momma is all about appearances.

  I walk into her hug and she wraps her arms around me as tight as she can, kissing my face like always. I pull away, the remnants of her burgundy lipstick burning my cheek. She smells like my childhood: pepper, pomade grease, and laundry detergent mixed with that purple lotion from Victoria’s Secret one of her boyfriends gave her.

  “How’s my baby girl doing?”

  I have to give it to the woman. She puts on a show, through and through. Even when no one’s watching.

  “I’m fine,” I croak out. My voice is scratchy and feels funny from not talking for so long. I can’t keep up the silent treatment with Momma. She’d nag me to death until I spoke at least five words.

  “Well, come on, baby, let’s sit. Talk with your momma for a while.”

  We sit on the old blue couch. Everything in the room is a hand-me-down, thrift store finds. It’s like me and Momma’s first apartment, except warmer. Momma wraps her arm around my shoulder, smiling ear to ear. She was always so happy. All my life, she was the happiest person I’d ever met. Inside her bubble, nothing or no one could get her down. She smiled during evictions, smiled after Ray would beat the shit out of her, smiled when we were dead broke, and even smiled during my manslaughter sentencing (“See, baby, it’s not so bad. At least it’s not murder!”). She’s the most optimistic person on earth. Even when she’s visiting her daughter in a group home.

  “Baby, your hair is getting so long,” she says, looping her finger into my kinky curls, pulling at the ends like a bouncing spring. “You may need a trim soon.”

  “It’s fine,” I snap, shooing her fingers out of my hair.

  She folds her hands in her lap with a closed-mouth smile, glancing around the room, bobbing to some mystery music in her head. She is waiting for me to ask about her. I’m an irrelevant factor to these visits, she’s here to make herself feel good.

  “So . . . Momma, how are you?”

  Her eyes light up and sparkle big like stars, as if she was waiting her whole life for someone to ask her that question.

  “Oh, I am so blessed, baby girl. Just so blessed! I wish you’d been at church today. Boy, pastor had an amazing service for our truly awesome God. Oh, and last week, we had . . .”

  I stop listening and stare, counting the wrinkles on her face, trying to find pieces of myself in her. She has dark skin, small brown eyes, big lips, a wide nose, and a sharp pointy chin. Her black hair never grew past her ears. I have light skin, big hazel eyes, a narrow nose, and a round face. My dark brown hair has always been long and curly, lightened in the sun. She says I’m the spitting image of my father, but I’ve never seen a single picture of him to prove it. And while I rarely do it, when I smile, I see her smile. That has always scared me.

  “. . . And the youth ministry is putting on a play next week for the church’s fiftieth anniversary. Oh, and baby girl, they’re so excited! They asked me to make the refreshments and I told them only if they behave ’cause they just about fought over my banana pudding at the . . .”

  The day after they locked me up, Momma jumped into the deep end of the Baptist church and was born again. “The devil tried to get to me through my daughter and I wouldn’t have it!” The church took pity on her, of course. No good decent woman like her would ever be responsible for raising such a monster. “That devil must have came from her daddy’s side.”

  “So, young lady? Aren’t you gonna ask about Mr. Worthington?”

  Mr. Troy Worthington, my new stepdaddy, owner of a soul food restaurant and apartments in Brooklyn. They met at church of course; he’s one of the deacons. She married this one only six months after my sentencing. They honeymooned in Hawaii. She brought me back a seashell. I’ve never met him and don’t really need to either.

  “So how is—”

  “Sit up straight, baby. You always look better when you sit up straight.”

  “SO MOMMA, how is Troy?”

  “Mr. Worthington. And yes, baby, he’s doing just fine. We went out the other night to this beautiful . . .”

  Momma did it. She finally married rich, so she could be what she has pretended to be for years. Mr. Worthington has money. I know by how Momma dresses. Never in the same outfit twice, diamonds in her ears as big as marbles, shoes in every color. Never been in her car, but I’ve seen the key chain, a BMW. Meanwhile, I’ve been in baby jail for four years, seven months, sixteen days, nine hours, and forty-three minutes before dumped in this group home the past three months. And she has never bought me a single thing. Ever.

  “And then he said, ‘Well, we shouldn’t let good wine go to waste.’ Ha! Lawd, that man is just too much. He so funny and smart . . .”

  She’s still talking about Troy but I know what will shut her up quick.

  “Sounds great, Momma!” I smile and cozy up to her. “Hey, you think I can come to church with you sometime?”

  Her face drops and she wipes it away with a nervous smile.

  “Well, now, baby . . . Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You need permission and it’s—”

  “But we could ask, and Troy could—”

  “Oh baby, I plum forgot,” she says, glancing at the watch she isn’t wearing. “I was supposed to pick up Mr. Worthington’s dry cleaning. You know he needs his suits for his . . . well, the place closes in an hour.”

  She jumps up, straightening her skirt, pulling a marked-up Bible out her purse.

  “And I still need to drop these flyers off for the church picnic next weekend. But before I leave, scripture for you. Ready? It’s from 1 Peter 5:8. It reads, ‘Be sober, be vigilant; because your advers
ary the devil walks around as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour: Whom resist steadfast in the faith, knowing that the same afflictions are accomplished in your brethren that are in the world.’”

  Still trying to cast that devil out of me, I see.

  She smiles and puts her Bible away.

  “Now, I will see you in two weeks. Same time now, okay?”

  She kisses my other cheek, leaving the same war paint mark against my skin before rushing out. And that’s it. Her fifteen minutes is up. Like clockwork.

  “Why the hell did you use my deodorant, you dumb bitch?”

  “I didn’t use anything, you stupid puta!”

  Marisol and Kelly are fighting for blood in the hall again. Almost once a week Kelly is fighting someone. She’s a real monster, with the bluest eyes and the blondest hair. If she stands still and doesn’t talk, she looks like Barbie. I heard she was captain of the cheerleading squad at her high school before she ran into two girls in the school parking lot with her Range Rover, something to do with them missing practice.

  “Ay, coño! Quítate de encima, stupid! I didn’t touch your shit!”

  The tussling blond and black ball of hair ram into the wall, dust flying. Another hole, another doorway for the mice. That’s fifteen on the second floor alone with ten downstairs.

  “Yes, you did! Get her, Kelly!” That’s Joi, Kelly’s shadow. She is the gossiper, knows everything about everybody’s business. Skinny as a straw, her nappy hair can’t grow past an inch with bald patches where the perm burned her. Joi pushed a girl into a moving train for talking to her boyfriend. Except he wasn’t really her boyfriend.

  “I didn’t use it,” Marisol says in her thick Dominican accent. “The new girl did!”

  Uh-oh. Poor New Girl. Not even six hours in the house and is already being blamed for something. Kelly lets go of Marisol’s hair and storms into the bedroom, looking for New Girl.

  “Where is the little bitch?”

  Kelly drags New Girl off the top bunk and into the hallway while she screams. I watch from the safety of my own top bunk.

  “No, please! NO!”

  “Shut up, you little cunt!”

  “Get her, Kelly!”

  She drags her down the hall by her hair, the others cheering like it’s a football game. I go back to my book. Mind your business and you won’t get hurt. That has always been my motto.

  “What’s going on?” Ms. Reba screams from the bottom of the stairs. That’s the kind of “enforcer” she is, always a good ten minutes late to the party. Just like in baby jail, the COs were never around when I needed them.

  Ms. Reba breaks up the fight (or the pummeling, however you want to look at it), and brings New Girl down to the kitchen to get fixed up. Ice for the black eye, Band-Aid for the cut forehead, aspirin for the pain.

  An hour later Ms. Reba returns New Girl to her room, next to mine. Hearing her cry into her blanket through the walls reminds me of my first night in the group home.

  Except I didn’t cry. I never do.

  chapter two

  Excerpt from What Happened to Alyssa?

  by Star Davis (pg. 34)

  The New York juvenile court retained jurisdiction, despite intense public pressure to try her as an adult in hopes of a death sentence. Mary was held in the children’s psychiatric ward at Bellevue Hospital under close surveillance.

  With the circumstantial evidence mounting, as well as inconclusive testimony from three separate child psychologists, Judge Maggie Brenner allowed a plea bargain, sentencing Mary to a period of up to ten years in an adult state correctional facility, where she would be kept in isolation as opposed to a lesser restrictive private treatment program. Ms. Cooper-Addison was, willingly, stripped of her parental rights, making Mary a ward of the state until she comes of age.

  The institution of choice was kept a closely guarded secret, given her age and the multiple death threats that have accompanied this case. Brenner ordered state officials to devise a long-term, comprehensive treatment program.

  Even as her future was being determined around her, Mary never said a word.

  “Ayyy, he so beautiful! Have you ever seen someone so beautiful in your ’ole entire life?”

  Marisol flips back her long silky black hair, staring up at the pictures and posters of Trey Songz surrounding her bed like wallpaper. He stares down at her, lust in his eyes, even while she sleeps. He stares down at me now, on the floor by her bed waiting for Ms. Carmen, our social worker, to finish room inspection. Short, skin roasted by a Spanish sun, she goes through my stuff like one of those sniffing police dogs.

  “He’s gonna be on 106 & Park tomorrow. I want to go, but I can’t skip work.”

  Trey Songz. That’s all she ever talks about. His CD is on repeat again, singing about sex. That’s all he ever sings about, like he knows nothing else.

  “Ayyyy, but if I was there . . . all he need to do is take one look at all this and it’d be a wrap, yo. I’d have his baby. His son!”

  She pushes her chest at his picture with a kiss and he sings back. Marisol is so gorgeous that she may be right. He may take one look at her thick ass and huge tits and be sprung. If he were smart though, he’d stay clear. She’s only seventeen and is always in love. That’s how she ended up in here; in love, doing stupid things for stupid boys.

  “You like boys?”

  I shrug.

  “Me neither. I like men. REAL men. Real men take care of you.”

  Ms. Carmen stops to look at her and says something in Spanish. Marisol rolls her eyes.

  “Mary,” Ms. Carmen snaps at me. “Why do all your underwear have holes in them?”

  I shrug and flick a clump of dirt off my sneaker. She curses under her breath and calls Ms. Stein as Trey Songz sings “Panty Droppa” in the background. Marisol laughs.

  “Judy, have you been giving Mary her allowance? All her panties have holes in them.”

  Ms. Stein holds up a pair, sticking her fat fingers through the rips and glares at me.

  “Why haven’t you bought some underwear? What did you do with all your money?”

  I shrug.

  “Who cares?” Marisol says. “Not like she has a MAN to see them.”

  Ms. Carmen nips at her in Spanish again.

  “Damn it, Mary,” Ms. Stein flusters. “You can’t walk around with holey underwear. Now, don’t you feel stupid?”

  Not really. It only bothers me a little when Ted sees them.

  “Make sure she buys underwear next week,” Ms. Carmen says. “If someone sees these, they’ll say we’re mistreating her or something.”

  They leave the room, complaining about how stupid I am. As soon as they’re out the door, Marisol shoves me away from her bed.

  “Disgusting puta! You smell like pussy through your holey panties.”

  I straighten my side, then put my money, cell phone, and pocketknife back in their hiding spot.

  There is a lot that goes into reforming a teen felon. I’m reminded of this every morning when I look at my weekly schedule. As part of our parole program, we have fitness on Mondays and Wednesdays, and group therapy on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays, we’re given our weekly allowance of thirty dollars, which goes toward any personal items, like tampons, underwear, MetroCards, and lunch during the week whenever we’re not at the home. Sundays are for educational field trips that we never go on and visitations. Our only day of freedom is Saturdays, after we finish our chores, but we still need approval to leave before checkout.

  I also have to prepare for the GED, pick a trade, and go to vocational school. It’s Ms. Carmen’s job to advise me on my options. I think she is my eighth social worker, but I’m not sure. I’ve lost count. The other social workers I’ve had stopped by baby jail once a month, if they could remember, dropping off animal coloring books, reading and math work sheets, and crossword puzzles. I’d eat through them like air. They’d also leave board games and cards, but for what? There was no one else like me. There was no one f
or me to play with. Baby jail was what they called my cell block, but I was the only baby there.

  “So, Mary,” Ms. Carmen asked in a dead voice during my first week at the group home, fiddling with her rosary like a candy necklace. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  At first, this gave me hope. No one had asked me what I really wanted to do in years, but I knew the answer: I wanted to be a teacher. When I was little, I used to line my toys up in front of an imaginary chalkboard and give reading lessons. I’d even sit Alyssa on my lap and teach her the ABCs. Momma would say, “She’s too little, baby. She can’t even talk yet.” But I didn’t care. Alyssa was going to be smart. I was going to see to that.

  When I wrote Teacher on a piece of paper and showed it to Ms. Carmen, she’d chuckled but wasn’t actually amused.

  “Well . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Ms. Carmen is one of the names on a long list of people who don’t really like me. Which seems ass-backward, since she’s responsible for my well-being. I think it’s because she is super Catholic and I killed a baby or something.

  Allegedly.

  She made it very clear I would never work with children, that no baby killer would ever be able to work with children. Ever. I’d scratched out Teacher then wrote Nurse.

  “Welllll . . .”

  Oh right. The pills. Can’t touch those either.

  After an hour of discussing what is left to do with my life at the ripe old age of fifteen, it was then determined that the safest career path for a psychopathic baby killer is cosmetology. That is what she chose for me. Another brilliant decision made by a government official. So I sit in GED class for two hours pretending to know nothing, then learn about perms and curling irons for another four hours.

  Checkout is a pain in the ass. Ms. Reba has to write down the date and time we leave, where we’re going, and a description of the clothes we’re wearing. But she writes slow as shit and can’t spell worth a damn.