by Wiess, Laura
Candy joined her.
I sat frozen and aghast, barely breathing, nose running and tears pouring down my face.
“There she goes again,” Candy said, snickering and jerking a thumb in my direction.
But instead of my mother laughing at me, too, my tears made her mad. Really mad because her face grew hard and her gaze cold and in a low, threatening voice she said, “Stop it right now. I mean it.”
But I couldn’t because the sorrow was too big, and it overwhelmed me. I was just beginning to understand that Grandma Lucy really was dead and nothing would ever be the same again, that the solid, familiar ground had crumbled and fallen away, leaving me in alien terrain, a rough and treacherous landscape with no familiar paths.
“Stop it,” she said angrily. “I’m warning you, Sayre. Stop crying or I swear to God I’ll really give you something to cry about.”
That just scared me more, and sobbing, I moaned, “I want Grandma!”
She crossed the kitchen and had hold of me in a flash, her fingers digging into my arm, yanking me out of the chair with a jerk that snapped my head back and stole my breath, and started spanking me. “What did I just tell you? What did I tell you, huh? You think because my mother never spanked you that I’m not going to? You think you don’t have to listen to me? If you want to cry, I’ll give you a real reason to cry!”
“No, don’t, let me go,” I howled, shocked, twisting and squirming in her grasp, which only made her hit me harder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, ow, Mommy, I’m sorry, I’ll listen, I promise, owww.”
“Then next time I tell you to do something, you’d better do it,” she ground out, releasing me and walking back to the fridge. “Now shut up.”
I collapsed on the floor, gasping, my butt burning and stinging, my hair hanging damp and scraggly in front of my eyes, nose running, and my mind, oh my mind, was like a crazed, panicked animal darting, frantic, in a hundred different directions, wounded and searching desperately for safety.
“There’s nothing to eat in this goddamn house,” my mother said, slamming the fridge door with disgust and glancing at Candy. “Want McDonald’s?”
“Sure,” she said, heading for the stairs. “Give me five minutes to change.”
I lifted my head, breath hitching, and swiped the hair from my face.
“Not you,” my mother said, giving me a look. “I want this mess cleaned up by the time we get back. And don’t you dare cry or you’ll be punished even longer,” she added, and grabbing her purse, she walked out.
I stayed where I was until I heard Candy go, too, and the car leaving the driveway, then burst into a fresh storm of weeping, and ran upstairs. I passed my mother’s room, the guest room where Candy was staying, and my room because the one I really needed to be in was Grandma’s.
I opened the door, intending to throw myself on the bed and beg God to send her back, but the sight stopped me cold.
The room had been ransacked, the bureau drawers emptied on the bed, the jewelry boxes opened, the books pulled from the bookcase. Grandma Lucy’s hope chest was open and all the old, delicate, handmade doilies she’d inherited from her mother were flung aside in piles. Her wedding veil was lying on the floor. The pictures of Grandpa and me on her night table had been turned facedown and instead of the room smelling like her lily of the valley cologne, it smelled like sweat, stale beer, and smoke.
“Oh no, Grandma,” I whispered, sniffling and patting my arm. “Oh no.”
I knew they’d been looking for money because that was all my mother had talked about since Grandma died. The thing was, I knew where Grandma Lucy had hidden some of her dollars because she’d shown me on purpose, and said it was our money, hers and mine only, and never to tell anyone about it, especially my mother.
I wondered if they’d found her secret hiding place.
I was afraid to go in and look, though, afraid they would somehow know I’d been in there, like my footprints would glow, telltale, on the carpet or my fingerprints on the doorknob or even worse, on the old mahogany bedpost knob that secretly unscrewed and had just enough room inside the hollow post to harbor a small roll of cash.
So I never looked, afraid I would somehow give the secret away, and ten days later I came home from school to see two guys with a big box truck carrying the mahogany bed out the door because my mother had sold it, along with the matching bureaus and the dining room set, all antique family heirlooms.
My mother was in the house, drunk and livid, because she’d finished going through Grandma’s desk and had then gone down to the bank, where she’d discovered that Grandpa had lost most of his investments in one of the big banking scandals. The only funds left were a couple of small IRAs, Grandma’s checking and savings accounts, and a savings account she’d started for me when I was born, which my mother promptly withdrew the money from and spent.
Home turned into an angry, scary place.
When Grandma was alive, I drew bright pictures of the two of us and Cricket the parakeet. Wore shiny pink rubber boots with daisies on them when it rained and had Hello Kitty pajamas. I took chewable vitamins every morning with my scrambled eggs and toast, and when I got sick she tucked me in under the prettiest crocheted afghan and fed me ginger ale and chicken noodle soup. I went to Methodist Sunday school and sang “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” played with Mrs. Carroll’s nieces whenever they came to visit, learned my ABCs, and always had bedtime stories. We watched cartoons and took the bus to Radio City Music Hall to see the Rockettes at Christmas. We went to the library every Friday night, then picked up Chinese food, went home, and curled up with our dinner and our exciting new books.
When she died, it wasn’t just her physical presence that ended, but I didn’t understand that at first. I had never gone without food or heat, clean clothes, or a set bedtime before, never even realized those things could stop, so I guess I thought that when my mother came back to the blue house to live, I would still have all those things, just not Grandma.
No one explained that it wasn’t going to be that way, and so each unhappy shock—and there were dozens—was like a punch in the chest, leaving me aching, bewildered, and lost as to what to do next.
No one did anything for me, with me, or because of me anymore. I would be right in the room and it was like I wasn’t even there. No matter the topic, the conversation wouldn’t change, nor would the activity around me, which was usually my mother, Candy, and a bunch of guys doing stuff I’d never seen before.
I saw Candy grind a cigarette out on my grandmother’s living room rug, take off everything but her thong, and dance on the coffee table, shaking all her lumpy flab and making some pimply guy kiss the mouse tattoo high on the inside of her wobbly thigh. I saw my mother lick the end of a needle before she stuck it in her arm, saw the needle go red with her own blood and then saw her lick the spot on her skin after she pulled it out. I saw screaming fights, naked people having sex on TV, Grandma’s picture torn in half, and Candy slapping my mother, hard, across the face when she had passed out and wouldn’t wake up.
The atmosphere was sharp, driven, and erratic now, and all I could do was swallow my fear and stay quiet in the background because I never knew what would get me in trouble. Sometimes it didn’t take more than just the sight of me to ruin my mother’s good mood and make me feel as sorry that I’d been born as she was. I started taking hot baths when everyone had gone out, not only because I always felt dirty but because the water was soothing and gentle, a place of warmth and peace.
There was no schedule anymore, no one helping me with my homework or making breakfast or even being around in the morning. I was on my own, so I started trying to figure out how to do it all for myself.
I kept going to school, most mornings hungry, sometimes wearing the same clothes as the day before and without brushing my hair or my teeth because I would wake up late, miss the bus, and have to run just to make it
before the late bell. I was always tired, so it was hard to concentrate, and I started getting Ds in everything, even reading and penmanship.
Did anyone notice how badly I was falling apart, that I trudged around disheveled and neglected and lonely, or did they chalk it up to a little girl mourning her grandmother? I don’t know, but some of the teachers seemed kinder and gave me extra help, which was nice because going back to the blue house and being ignored every day was hell.
No one cut the grass, trimmed the hedges, or shoveled the sidewalk when it snowed. No one cooked, cleaned, did laundry, or shopped for food. No one paid the bills until the water and electricity were cut off, and then swearing and furious, my mother would storm down to the local office and throw cash at them, cash she had from selling all the antique furniture and emptying Grandma’s bank accounts. No one answered the phone when it rang because everyone knew it was either bill collectors or local busybodies. All of my mother’s friends had her disposable cell phone number.
No one did much but talk, laugh, drink, fight, get high, get paranoid, hallucinate, sell more of Grandma’s stuff, and have guys sleep over in their bedrooms. I discovered the sleeping-over part for the first time one morning before school when I was in the bathroom peeing, yawning and rubbing the sleep from my eyes when the door swung open and some tall, skinny, naked, hairy guy walked right in on me. I stared at him, frozen and mortified, and he peered back at me sitting there, mumbled, “Yo, sorry,” and backed out again, leaving the door open behind him.
I saw him naked again, at least four more times, because he was Candy’s boyfriend and he had moved into her room with her. His name was Sims and he didn’t work, but Candy did down at the hardware store, and so she paid his rent to my mother, too.
He was always there when I got home from school, sometimes just him and my mother, sometimes them and other stragglers looking to party, and he always smiled and said hi. A couple of times he brought me back food when everyone went out to McDonald’s, and sometimes when I got home from school my mother would be passed out on the couch but he’d be awake, and we’d go sit on the porch and he would ask me things about school and my lack of friends. I would answer, shyly at first but then eagerly because he was doing what Grandma Lucy used to do, sit with me for a while, ask questions, and be interested in whatever I had to say. I was hungry, no, starving for someone to care and he was there with attention, smiles, and an occasional hug.
He talked about himself, too. He said he had a little three-year-old daughter who lived in Utah but her mother was a bitch and so he hardly ever saw her. He said he missed her a lot, and hanging out with me made him feel better. He looked so sad that on impulse I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then he hugged me and told me I was a smart, beautiful girl and if it was up to him, I would live like a princess and have everything I ever wanted.
And that was when Candy came home, screeching her old Ford pickup into the driveway and getting out with a hammer in her hand. My mother appeared, triumphant, beside us, and Sims slid his arm from around my shoulder and leaned away.
My mother called, “See? Didn’t I tell you? They’re out here every day, snuggled up together all cozy, hugging and kissing and telling secrets. . . .”
Candy came storming up the sidewalk with murder in her eyes and the hammer in her fist but she wasn’t looking at him, no, she was looking at me and instinctively I leaned closer to Sims but he stood up fast and went inside, past my mother, who snickered drunkenly, swatted his arm, and drawled, “Busted.”
“You keep your skinny little child ass away from him!” Candy shouted, coming for me, and as adrenaline surged and keen terror carved my senses, I could see everything as if it was all finely drawn in front of me: the crazy light in her pale eyes, the snarl pulling back her lips and exposing those meaty red gums, and the hammer clenched in her freckled, white-knuckled hand.
She was crazy, as crazy as my mother was when she started digging at the invisible bugs she felt crawling around under her skin, or accusing me of making her coffee with turpentine or taping sheets over the closet doors so Homeland Security couldn’t send an airborne team in to steal the tinfoil she kept under the couch.
They were crazy. Both of them.
Candy charged the porch steps, and I dove off the side as the hammer came down, scrambled up, and took off running across Mrs. Carroll’s yard and down the street with Candy huffing, puffing, and cursing behind me, and my mother yelling, “You get your ass back here right now, Sayre! I didn’t say you could leave this property!”
But I didn’t stop running for a long time, bulleting down side streets and dodging cars until finally, chest heaving and legs burning like liquid fire, I sank down on a curb behind the library and drew great sobbing, whooping breaths until I could breathe normally again.
I sat there as dusk fell.
Sat there as happy little kids came prancing out with armloads of books and watched as their mothers and fathers carefully strapped them into car seats and drove away.
Sat there as groups of junior high girls came out giggling and talking loud about going down to Sal’s Pizza Place and glancing flirtatiously back over their shoulders at the group of junior high boys pushing and shoving and slouching along behind them.
Sat there as the inside lights went off and one by one the librarians got into their cars and left.
And when the moon was high and I was shivering with cold and exhaustion, a police car pulled up. An officer got out, shined the flashlight in my face, and said, “Are you Sayre Bellavia?”
I nodded, tears blurring my vision, and huddled even smaller because I knew what he was going to do, he was going to take me home and then I would be in for a world of hurt, that’s what my mother and Candy always called it whenever they had to hit me, and that made me start crying in earnest.
“Shh, it’s all right, come on,” he said, and when I rose he opened the back door of the police car. I climbed in, and he shut the door gently, not like he was mad, and that made me brave enough to stammer, “Am I in t . . . t . . . trouble?”
“You?” he said, sliding into the front seat and glancing at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were brown, kind, and maybe sad, too. “No, you’re not in trouble.” He pulled a small pad from his shirt pocket and glanced at it. “We’ve been looking for you. Your neighbor Mrs. Carroll called us earlier and said she saw a woman with a hammer in her hand chasing you down the street.”
“That was Candy,” I said, swiping a hand across my damp eyes. “She thought I was trying to steal her boyfriend.”
His brows rose. “What?” He pulled out a pen and made a note on the pad.
I took that as disbelief and hurriedly said, “I wasn’t, I swear, but she didn’t let me say it. Me and Sims only talk and sometimes he gives me McDonald’s and hugs me when I’m sad.” My eyes welled up again. “I know he’s Candy’s boyfriend because he lives with us, but he’s the only one who talks to me since Grandma Lucy died.” I sniffled, and twisted my hands together in my lap. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”
“Sims Pozorowicz?” the officer said, pausing in his writing and swiveling to face me over the seat.
I nodded. “Yup.”
“He lives in the same house you do?” he said, and now his voice was different, harder and not as friendly. He made another note, then touched the little walkie-talkie pinned to the front of his shirt and talked into it. I heard my name, and Sims’s, too.
“Uh-huh, since August,” I said and then, “He sleeps in Candy’s room.”
“I see.” He turned back to me. “Has he ever done or said anything that makes you feel funny, like uncomfortable?”
“No,” I said, and then squirming a little because it felt like lying, “well, he curses a lot and sometimes he calls Candy a fat skank when she’s not there . . .” I frowned, and thought harder. “Oh! And he has this really gross foot fungus and he
always scratches himself here,” I wrinkled my nose and pointed to my crotch, “. . . and sometimes he comes into the bathroom naked when I’m in there peeing, but he never means to, he just forgets because the door doesn’t lock and he’s drunk, and him and Candy are . . .” I stopped, blushing, because I’d never told anyone any of the things I’d seen and heard. I wouldn’t even have known how to begin. “You know. Doing it.”
“Sayre, how old are you?” he said after a long moment.
“I just turned eight.” My stomach rumbled and I clapped a hand over it.
“Eight,” he repeated softly. “The same age as my daughter. Tell me, did you have supper tonight?”
“Nope,” I said. “No lunch, either.”
“Why not?” he said and his eyes were kindly again.
“Because the only food we have is mustard, and I hate that,” I said as my stomach grumbled even louder.
“All right, first let’s get you something to eat,” he said, facing front, pulling his door closed and glancing at me again in the rearview mirror. “McDonald’s sound good?”
“Uh,” I made a face, “could I have pizza instead?”
“Sure,” he said. “I kind of like Sal’s pies myself.”
And when we went into Sal’s I found out that he was the policeman’s uncle, and they laughed and joked and looked really happy to see each other, and that made me feel kind of left out because it had been so long since anybody was that happy to see me.
“And who is this lovely young lady?” Sal asked, peering over the counter and waggling his bushy gray eyebrows.
“Sayre Bellavia,” I mumbled, tracing the tile pattern on the floor with my toe.
“Ah, bella via,” Sal said, nodding. “Where I’m from it means beautiful way, did you know that?”
