by Mary Monroe
The scene of the crime was a two-story white stucco with a two-car garage and a wraparound front porch that was often cluttered with toys and neighborhood kids like me. The front lawn was spacious and well cared for. A bright white picket fence surrounded the entire front lawn like a hounds-tooth necklace. Behind the house, as with all the other houses on the block, was a high, dark fence that hid the backyard, as well as Valerie’s crime.
Miss Naomi’s house looked like one of those family friendly homes on those unrealistic television sitcoms. But because of Valerie’s stepfather’s frequent violence, the house was anything but family friendly. He had turned it into a war zone over the years. Valerie’s baby brother, Binkie, referred to it as Beirut because Mr. Zeke attacked every member of the family on a regular basis, including Valerie’s decrepit grandfather, Paw Paw, and even one-eyed Pete, the family dog.
Even though there was blood in every room in that house, that didn’t stop me from making it my second home. Over the years I had learned how to get out of the “line of fire” in time to avoid injury whenever Mr. Zeke broke loose.
That night, I had innocently walked into the house and witnessed Valerie’s crime. As soon as I realized what was happening, I threw up all over the pale pink dress that had cost me a month’s worth of my earnings. I continued to vomit as I watched Valerie and her long-suffering mother drag the body across the kitchen floor to the backyard so casually you’d have thought it was a mop.
Before they reached the gaping hole in the ground that had several mounds of dirt piled up around it like little pyramids, they stumbled and dropped the corpse. There was a thud and then a weak, hissing sound from the body that made me think of a dying serpent. Somebody let out a long, loud, rhythmic fart. I could smell it from where I stood in the door like a prison guard. And it was fiercely potent. I couldn’t tell if it had come from Valerie, her mother, or if it was the last gas to ooze from the asshole of the dead man. It could have even been from me, but I was such a wreck, I couldn’t tell. I squeezed my nostrils and then I froze from my face to the soles of my feet.
I held my breath as Valerie stumbled and fell on top of one of the mounds of dirt. Miss Naomi, breathing hard and loud, fell on top of Mr. Zeke’s corpse. One of us screamed. I didn’t realize it was me until Valerie scolded me. “Dolores, shut the fuck up and help us.” Why, I didn’t know. With the tall dark fence protecting the backyard like a fort, none of our neighbors could see her. “We need to get him in this hole now,” she said, huffing and puffing. I couldn’t believe that this was the same girl that Reverend Carter had baptized less than a week ago, in the church across the street from the scene of her crime.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2006 by Mary Monroe
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-5793-2
