by N. Godwin
“Kelly?” Hobie asks from the kitchen. “Are you sure?”
“You mean to tell me we got thirty million Negroes in this country and we get the only one named Kelly?”
“A baby, Jimmy-Sue?” Eunice says impatiently.
“Noooo, we can’t get no exotic Shenoovia or Latandra? Noooo,” Randy sputters. “We get a Kelly.”
Kelly studies the room as the pig snorts surround Randy.
“Man, you people are freaks,” Billy says, refusing to join in.
“What’s your sister’s name?” Hobie asks bringing out an arsenal of goodies to offer to the girls.
“Cecile,” Kelly answers softly.
“Cecile,” we all say and nod, except for Eunice and Billy.
“I dunno, Jimmy-Sue, a baby?”
“Can you dance?” Hobie asks. “I need to learn some better moves.”
“Hobie!”
“That’s not racist, is it?” he asks Cecile.
“A baby?”
“No way can we keep her little sister,” Randy decides as if he were in charge. “And the older one doesn’t look old enough to be here, either.”
I can tell the girls are exhausted and getting agitated. “Behave everyone,” I say. “Can’t you see they’re terrified?”
“I dunno, Jimmy-Sue, a baby?” Eunice says again. “We’ll have to tell HRS about this immediately and we should probably call the police, too. “
At the mention of the word police the girls look back at me quickly and begin to cry. “I’ll take care of everything,” I reassure Eunice and then the girls. “Don’t cry. She didn’t mean the bad police, she meant the good police, but we don’t need to call them. Cross my heart.”
“What about the little sister?” Randy wants to know. “No one’s going let her stay here.”
As everyone starts conspiring at once, the girls cry harder. “No one’s going to turn you and your sister out!” Horst offers.
“We’re magic here!” Hobie soothes.
“You people suck!” Billy hisses.
“She isn’t my sister!” Kelly shouts suddenly in between tears. “Cecile here is my girl. She’s my baby!”
The silence is deafening.
“Bullsh-“ Randy begins but stops before Eunice can dirty-bird him. “How old are you?”
“Dunno,” she shrugs gently rocking Cecile to stop her crying.
“Well, when’s your birthday?”
She shrugs again.
“Everybody’s got a birthday!” Hobie blurts out as Horst nudges him in his ribs. “Well they do!”
“What’s your last name, sweetheart?” I ask.
Kelly couldn’t possibly be older than eleven. Yet, as she strokes the back of Cecile’s head I realize there is something maternal about her touch. I realize this child has a child. Killer and I look away; we look anywhere but at each other.
“Dunno,” she offers, choosing two bags of chips and a pack of peanut M&Ms from Hobie’s out stretched tray.
“Whoa, killer,” Ken says softly as we shake our heads in disbelief.
“I’m Kelly. And this is my girl Cecile. Cecile!”
“She’s mighty pretty,” Horst tells her before the girls can start to cry again.
“Guys, enough,” I say finally, “we’ve got to get them to bed. Look at them. They’re exhausted.”
“Pretty?” Kelly echoes, mouthing the word slowly as if never having heard it before. “Pretty,” she whispers softly.
“Where you planning on putting them, we ain’t got no crib,” Randy says as if this is important to anyone. “Babies need things,” he offers patting Cecile’s head.
“They can stay with me,” I say, “in my room.”
“Wow!” I hear everyone gasp.
“I’ll crash on the floor tonight,” I add.
“I thought your room was a shrine and nobody was allowed to enter?” Randy sneers.
“Your room, Jimmy-Sue? Really?” Hobie asks.
“I don’t know,” Eunice begins again. “HRS would yank our license in a heartbeat.” Eunice and I make eye contact for a moment. “All right,” she says shaking her head and sighing. “But you hide them good. And tell them about the Seven Deadly No-Nos, you hear?”
“Eight,” Randy reminds us. “We can’t say nigger no more neither.”
“Randy!”
“Well we can’t!” he whines.
“Technically it goes under No-No Number 5,” Hobie offers, “so there are still only 7. Agreed everyone?”
Everyone except Eunice and Billy agree. As if on cue we take candles from nearby tables and begin leading the girls out of the restaurant through the back door. We stick close to the building weaving ourselves around the covered sidewalk, avoiding the rain. As we lead them toward the bunkhouse the dudes have surrounded us like a procession of pagans celebrating the equinox.
“Really,” Randy says after a moment’s blissful silence, “I thought your room was where Elvis was holed up? Really, ‘cuz God knows he’d never be seen there.”
I ignore him and begin in rote. “Okay, Kelly. We have rules here called the Seven Deadly No-Nos. You have to follow these rules or else--”
“Or else Eunice will throw you out on your butt,” Randy says.
“Jesus, Randy!” The dudes all say at once then quickly assure the girls that life and the No-Nos are easy here, that we have fun and eat like royalty.
“Don’t worry, you’ll like our rhythm here,” Killer consoles them without muttering killer even once. “It’s liberating.”
“No-No Number 1 is the most important. Absolutely no swearing,” I say. “That’s saying bad words. Eunice will tolerate no profanity.”
“Actually, Eunice was brainwashed by Jimmy-Sue over that one,” Randy says. “Don’t want to hurt them virgin ears of hers!”
“Only an idiot resorts to profanity,” the dudes say.
“Hardest friggin’ No-No though,” Randy says, “takes a while to master.”
“However,” Hobie recites, “once you stop swearing, you’re forced to find the root of your anger and learn to express yourself more constructively.” He stops to consider Kelly’s face as we huddle closer together from a gust of rain. “You must have a lot of anger inside, huh? Being oppressed by the white man and your own kind?”
“Hobie!” the dudes sigh.
“I never oppressed anyone!” Randy insists. “Don’t you go feeding them that bogus oppression BS!”
“A victim mentality is never a good thing,” Horst offers. “It’s stunting and counterproductive to--”
“But you’ve got to remember history!” Hobie interjects. “It’s how we learn from our mistakes. What are your thoughts on that, Kelly?” All the dudes look at the emaciated and exhausted little girl who is shielding her bewildered baby tightly against her.
“Seriously, guys?” Can we debate this later?” I sigh and look back at the girls. “No-No Number 2 is absolutely no heavy metal or rap music. Eunice hates heavy metal,” I begin.
“Yeah, kill somebody but don’t listen to no rap,” Randy laughs.
“Aw, they’ve got to be able to listen to rap,” Hobie interrupts. “It’s part of their cultural heritage. Huh, Kelly?”
“Makes sense,” Horst agrees, “provided it’s not riddled with misogyny, sex and profanity.”
“Is that even possible?” Randy asks.
“Under review,” Killer and Hobie agree shaking their heads.
“Enough debating for tonight, boys,” I sigh in exasperation and try to talk over the rain, “Chill. Now, Kelly, No-No Number 3 is absolutely no drugs what so ever.” We pause in front of the storage closet and I open the door and pull out linens and pillows, a bar of soap, two toothbrushes and grab two extra small t-shirts and underwear for the girls (which are too big for Kelly let alone Cecile).
“No-No Number 4,” Randy chimes in, “is absolutely no fighting except with your wit, because we believe you can avoid any confrontation if you’re clever enough. Get out of my way, yo
u little worm,” Randy tells Hobie, tripping him as we head up the creaky stairs to my room over the bunkhouse. He laughs when Hobie slides down two steps. “If you’re smart enough or, as in Jimmy-Sue’s case, if you’re pretty enough so nobody notices how stupid you really are.” He taps his index finger against his temple. “One brick shy of a load, if you know what I mean.”
“Kelly and Cecile, this is Randy. He hates us all equally,” I sigh.
“Eighty percent of anything he says is moronic,” Hobie agrees.
“Only eighty percent?” Horst asks doubtfully.
“They all hate me ‘cuz I say things everybody else just thinks,” Randy assures them, blocking our path upstairs, “just like Socrates. I’m the resident philosophizer.”
“Anyone got any hemlock?” Killer laughs and pushes into Randy.
“No-No Number 5 (a) is absolutely no cruelty or prejudice allowed against people for just being how God intended. That’s where no more N word finally figures in,” Hobie is quick to tell the girls. “No-No Number 5 (b) is no lazy bunnies. You’ve got to learn to work the restaurant to earn your keep without being impatient or rude to all the various personalities you encounter here and without resorting to No-Nos Numbers 1 or 5 (a).”
“Get to keep your own tips though.” Horst says.
“Made seventy seven dollars even tonight, killer, huh?”
“You don’t got no switchblade in that purse do you?” Randy says pointing to the crinkled, pink, vinyl purse Kelly keeps close by her side. “Black chicks always carry blades, you know. You need to be careful about that, Jimmy-Sue.”
Kelly pulls the purse in even closer as the dudes make more pig snorts at Randy. As we arrive at the top of the stairs, I push our way through the dudes and turn to address them. They’re all standing around as if they expect me to invite them in for a slumber party.
“Shoo, guys. Go away.”
They look surprised by this. I know they are pumped over the girls’ arrival, too. I can tell by the concerned expressions on Ken’s and Horst Gunther’s face that the two of them will spend the night on my little landing camped outside my door without letting on their doing it.
“They’ll be here in the morning,” I assure them with a smile.
“Your phone charged?”
“Yes.”
“You got enough--”
“Yes and yes,” I say softly. “Goodnight.”
“You sure you--”
“Shoo!”
“Goodnight,” they say in their best bedtime voices as they head down the stairs.
“As if we ain’t got enough problems,” Randy tells them.
“Hey, you don’t think it’d be racist if I ask Kelly how to cook collard greens?” Hobie wants to know as they pig-snort at him this time. “Hey, that’s not racist. I’m totally not prejudice. Not an ounce of me. Honest!”
“Everybody’s prejudice one way or another,” Randy says. “We all think only ours is worth protecting.”
“Yeah, well Cecile and Kelly are one of us now so start your protecting,” Horst says.
“I may be prejudice but by God at least I’m overtly prejudiced. Know what I think boys? I think you’re a bunch of lily-liver coverts!”
“Did we learn a new word this week, Randy?” A rash of laughter follows as I lead the girls inside and close the door behind us.
“No-No Number 6 is no illiteracy. That means you have to learn to read and write. Ken’s great at that,” I say lighting my candles, busying myself, “he can have you reading in three months time. Of course, then you’ll have to go to school in the fall.”
“Three months?” Kelly asks quickly. Her voice is wary but her tone hopeful. “We can stay here three months?”
“Of course, technically speaking they say you can only stay till you’re eighteen, but Killer Ken’s stayed on and--”
“What is this place?” she asks as she and Cecile look around.
I notice them summing up my room; pretty meager really, just basic comforts, my twin bed, dresser and desk, the television set Mama gave me for graduation still in its box, my rocking chair and mounds of books.
“What is this place?” she asks again, her voice hushed in reverence.
“It’s… my room.”
“You stay here, too?”
“Well, it is my room.”
“I mean downstairs. What’s downstairs?”
“You mean the café? It’s the DemiMond. We’re a shelter for runaways. Didn’t you know that?”
She just shakes her head back and forth. We stare at one another and I contemplate fate. Who are these pitiful children and the beasts that tormented them? Where have they come from and why? And why have they shown up here and why now at this precise moment in time? I can’t believe I offered up the sanctity of my own room! What does all this mean, I wonder? And why do I already feel so connected to them, as if they are a missing piece of a puzzle and meant to be here?
The only thing I know for certain is that God sent them here to me for a reason, and I bite my bottom lip as I sigh.
“What’s No-No Number 7?”
“Oh,” I say, a little surprised at her having paid such close attention. “Whatever you do don’t talk to Eunice. She’s still recovering from whatever.”
“Whatever?” she asks.
“Whatever.” I shrug.
“Who’s that?” she asks pointing out the oil painting Daddy gave me for my 10th birthday.
“That’s Jesus with his lambs.”
They’re both staring at me and I feel odd, almost like a stranger in my own room. I have no idea how far their needs go. I busy myself and walk over to the window and carefully twist my perpetually opened blinds closed against the storm and then begin setting out basic toiletries for the girls.
“You two can sleep on the bed. I’ll take the floor. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow. Would you prefer a bath or a shower? I’ll run it for you,” I say turning to face them.
They’re both already in bed curled up tightly together like little kittens insinuated into a small box, as if afraid of taking up too much space. I walk over to the bed amazed because Kelly is already asleep, holding on to her baby for dear life.
I realize I have two strangers, the products of evil I can’t begin to fathom, and it frightens me for a moment because I have come to expect the unexpected from any situation. My eyes fall on the vinyl purse, pink and cracked; a dime store variety that looks older than Kelly. And I think about Randy’s warning and wonder for a moment if maybe, just maybe, black girls really do carry switchblades like white girls carry lipstick.
I study the purse then lean down and open it, looking inside just to make certain. Inside are a Baby Ruth wrapper and a tattered white Barbie with no arms. I wonder if the Barbie belongs to Kelly or Cecile.
I look up to find Cecile staring at me with her one good eye, her head laying against her mother’s chest as she studies me. I can tell by the look on her little face, a face already old and world-weary, that she knows what I have done, and I feel my cheeks burn in shame.
“Here,” I offer gently handing her the Barbie.
Cecile pulls the Barbie into her chest and snuggles down with her mother. I pull my rocking chair over from across the room and sit down in front of them. I rock and watch as Cecile closes her eye and sleeps. I watch them breathe and I realize I am crying. I gently reach for them and begin to softly sing their prayer in a foreign language I do not understand.
The DemiMonde
“Yooooou touched her,” Hobie sing-songs over my shoulder and into my ear from behind as I impatiently tap my foot under the table watching Fat-Sandy sitting on her two chairs just across the table from me as she hesitantly discard her king of hearts.
“Who?” I ask with a shrug as I take the king and lay all my cards down on the table. “Gin,” I say while Eunice and Fat-Sandy groan.
“You know who,” he chuckles as we both look over at the girls who are sitting two tables over, coloring and watching ev
ery move Hobie or I make, much to Hobie’s delight.
Although underneath her left eye socket is still slightly bruised, Cecile’s wounded eye is open and she is studying her new world with open wonder. The emaciated toddler has graced us with at least two hundred smiles by mid afternoon, after they had, more or less, helped me bake six dozen of my oatmeal and toffee cookies (Hobie’s, Horst’s and Ken’s favorite) and 12 chocolate cakes (a favorite of Fat-Sandy and our three-wise-fishermen- Bud, Otis, and Bubba, and most of our patrons), while they’d colored and played games under Hobie’s exuberant guidance. Ken and Horst aren’t here this afternoon because after the lunch rush I had put them in charge of the shopping and the errands for today, and they have been gone over two hours now so it’s just me and Hobie taking turns entertaining the far too-quiet girls.
We have gotten smiles galore from Cecile but not one solitary sound, not one, not even a giggle. Her constant grip around her mother’s neck has lessened a little and her occasional explorations have become more frequent and gotten longer and further away from Kelly’s side as Cecile has, one by one, sought us out individually and stared us up and down for an indeterminate amount of time, and then smiled. Even Randy passed the smile inspection. Eunice has yet to be approached.
Even though it’s been almost two full days since they’d arrived, you can tell Kelly’s new surroundings are still more than a little alien to her, and it is taking her longer to warm to us. She fears attention and seems most relaxed when she and Cecile are alone in my company, especially when the three of us are silently together in my room listening to the Beatles or Bach. Like Cecile, words come hard for Kelly. Kelly is afraid of her own voice.
I’ve noticed that it’s not so much the words themselves that seem to trouble her but the actual sound they make. She barely uttered a word her first twenty-four hours with us but as of this morning Kelly has begun asking us soft questions about many random observant things, which we all take as a good sign. She doesn’t seem to care about when her birthday might be or what her last name is, but she simply had to know why the delivery man she and Cecile had met only moments before, the tall black one with all those freckles, was sitting outside in his beer truck crying like a baby, or why the tired young family in the broke-down Dodge Caravan got to eat their lunch for free.
