Krys-Darcelle Dumas Today the road seemed longer; somehow it grew tiring and dusty, too. The ground rose up, onto my skin and into my face, with every shuffle my feet made. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead and into my eye; it burned. Soon I would be home.
Out of the still air, a soft breeze blew through my hair and I smiled. Ricardo sends his love. It was a game we played, a way of hiding. He came years ago to this dry, dusty place with brown, bowing and naked trees. It was not time yet for me to be married, so I let my fancies play. He would promise me forever and a rose and I thought it was beautiful; he was beautiful.
His skin was not as dark as mine nor his nose as flat. We would lie in the grass, he in his clean clothes, never afraid to dirty them. I liked the feel of the sun. We would lie there laughing, mostly at him. I thought he talked funny: 'look at those aunts.' 'No, Ricky' - 'cause that is what I called him - 'ants, not aunts.' He would tickle me then and we would laugh until my breath stopped.
Ricky was gone now; he just came for a while. He said he loved me. My fingers played over the strange leather he gave me. 'Like a pocket' he said. 'To hold my love always.'
It had a hole, though.
'And when the wind blows I'm stealing a kiss.'
I should remember to hide it under the stone by the statue, he said. It had his name on it, 'Ricardo', and 'Beverly Hills' - where he had gone. George must never see it.
On the day I turned 15 my mother told me I was woman now and should see about my affairs. I was already promised. She lent me her house that day to show her all she had taught me. I was to cook for her and the children. The house was to be cleaned and the washing done, all while I hummed to myself.
It was no great task. I walked down to the river, basket balanced on my head, determined to prove myself. As I bent to lay the basket on the grass bank it knocked my comb out of my hair. Ididn't see it; I heard a splash and it was gone. I stood there and cried.
My grandmother had given it to me when I was a child. It was a clear plastic comb, and simple. My grandmother looked at it, then looked at me. She got off her bed and walked to the sewing corner where we had spent so may hours. She pulled two pieces of string out of a dirty, crowded plastic container and wrapped them carefully around the comb. When she was done she smiled and stuck the comb through my hair. I would kiss it sometimes and whisper 'Thank you' or 'I love you'. It was dirty when I lost it, and the blue end had started to unstring.
My mother sent me to George's house not long after that. I hated it there. The house was wooden and unpainted; you could see where the nails had begun to rise. The yard was small and without a blade of grass. That day the door was open but inside was dark. There was no rug on the floor and I could see the dirt gathered in a corner from a hasty sweeping. There was a table, one of its iron legs bent, and three chairs, all different designs. On the shelves, in a corner that I guess was the kitchen, there were dirty dishes with food encrusted on them, a stale half-loaf, and a stench. There was also a drum of sorts on the shelf. It was small, almost like a child's drum, but it was made with real goat skin and had been carved professionally. I picked it up and imagined the skin being ripped off the animal. Goat hide, fresh still, not quite dried properly. It smelt of rotting flesh.
I heard a shuffle on the dusty floors: George was coming. He always walked as if his feet were too heavy to be lifted. He was big, though not fat and not smart, either, nor handsome. He offered me a drink, which I accepted because I had been taught to. The chipped enamel cup smelled of milk and I wondered if it had been washed. I didn't drink any. We talked, about nothing, really, with much effort from him; and he kissed me before I left. He tasted of tobacco. My eyes stayed open and fixed themselves on a picture on the wall, one I had not seen before. I could not see it clearly; it was black and white, and suited the house. I stared at it till he had finished with kissing me. George.
My knees hurt as I stood up from my Ricky stone. I looked up at the statue and wondered why exactly we had chosen it. It stood in a field that marked the last patch of green I would see before my brown life began. No children ever played in the field, but at least it was green. Our names were carved into the base. The statue looked like a chicken, only, it was screaming, one eye tilted to the heavens. Its comb was rustled and it seemed disfigured. It had a tail - two tails, in fact, one up, one down; neither was beautiful.
I could see the house now, just as brown, and much older. I walked the short remaining distance and opened the gate. I kissed my husband George - he still smelled like burnt tobacco - then hitched my skirt up into my underwear to parry the heat inside the house and tinkered among my clean dishes. My eyes went again, as they often did, to the picture. It was of a construction site. Something somewhere was being built, growing bigger than it was now.
Ever so often I would look through the open window in front of me: George in the yard, doing his chores, with beyond him the hills. The grass on the hills was brown, but for one or two patches that were black from recent fires. The hills surrounded us.
I felt smaller that day. I thought the hills strange. At times they would be warm; then their contours could not be seen clearly, and they would make me feel safe. Now there was no safety: the hills were walls, trapping me in this barren place, and trapping me with George. There were houses scattered on the hills and I wondered who lived in them. How did they get all the way up there, above the dust and the dead life we lived in this valley? There were no roads I could see. How did they get there? They were closer to God on their hill; they must be.
I started going to church a year ago. I would walk there, and afterwards walk back home, more slowly. The sun would beat on my head, burning through the recently parted plaits. I would run my hands over the brush whenever I passed the school yard; it was just before the church. The brush was shorter than my waist. The leaves, always green, would feel like a fine cloth in the palm of my hand. I had never been inside this school to read like the other children. I was the eldest girl.
The trees at the front of the church were dying. They died a pretty death. Pink flowers seemed to glow as the sunlight shone through them. They coated the almost bare branches, till they fell, brown and crushed, to the ground, becoming part of this dead dirt holding us. Walking, I tried to not look down.
The people at church liked me. I was grateful for that. It was the only time I was allowed to go out - sometimes. George never came. The people would smile and shake my hand. 'How are you today, Mrs. Johnson?' The name wrenched my stomach a little, but I would smile back and nod. I never did like the idea of being married at 19.
Tomorrow is Sunday and I will go to church.
I called George inside. He was cutting logs for the fire: I could hear the regular thunk of the axe against the wood. I liked that sound. Sometimes I imagined it was not George who was cutting. Sometimes it was Ricky who was chopping the wood, pausing to lift his head and smile at me. One time I saw me chopping George.
My husband walked into the kitchen, pitching the logs into the corner. He knocked over the pail of skins, spilling them on to the floor, and went and sat at the table. 'When's your mother comin'?'
'Tomorrow.'
He sucked his food off his spoon, making a slurping sound, trying to cool it with breaths through his teeth. Leaving the used dish on the table, he went into the room and washed up. His coat was hanging by the door; he took it on his way out. He'd started drinking a year ago.
George wanted a son. He would clamber on top of me, his weight pressing my legs apart. He would push my underwear out of his way and enter me. I would be dry and it would hurt. Most times he would be drunk. I never reacted but he didn't seem to notice. He would roll off of me afterwards, and I would feel like bathing, but his heavy hand would be draped over my stomach, so I could not move. I tried to think of other things, other places, other faces; Ricky. I waited for the night to melt into morning.
George kept trying. I endured his efforts. I did not get pregnant.
I pushed the broom across the
floor, not caring about the gaps in the wood. The rug would be beaten out over the line later. I had tidied the house, which left only the washing to be done.
The track to the river was not long but the weight of the basin was almost unbearable. The dust from the path danced around my feet, making them another shade of brown. It was night by the time I'd finished the washing.
The fish had just finished frying when the front door banged open. George came to where I stood and looked over my shoulder into the pan. I could smell the whiskey I supposed was already seeping through his pores. His breaths came fast and uneven on my neck. I turned to look at him; his fist was already in the air. The breath was knocked out of me.
The next blow was to my stomach. I think I screamed but I could not hear myself. I fell and felt a splinter run up into my hand. I am not sure how long I was there on the floor, or how many times he hit me. I stayed down, curled up, trying not to vex him further.
'Fish again!' And then he was gone.
George was on top of me again that night. My whole body ached. Everywhere he touched me it hurt more. I tried not to whimper from the pain.
Morning faded in through the window and into my unsleeping eyes. I prepared eggs and bread, and pure cocoa, and left for church.
The service seemed to last longer than usual, and the pastor kept me back afterwards in a 20-minute greeting that was also a sly inquiring.
When I got home, my mother was sitting in the couch; the couch needed a new cover. Shelooked at me and her eyes bulged and her mouth fell open before she lifted a hand, knuckles worn smooth, to cover it.
I walked to the kitchen to start preparing lunch for my husband, humming.
- Krys-Darcelle Dumas
