The Kid (40 page)

I need her; she needs him, so we can go shopping. He doesn’t need us, he doesn’t even
want
us.

“I waited every day for it seemed like forever. I was sure she would write me back with good advice. Finally I realized that, just like Santa Claus, she didn’t really exist.”

Whatever it was Snake handed out, it seems like it’s starting to take hold of My Lai, or maybe she’s acting? But she closes her notebook and crawls on her hands and knees into the middle of the circle. She’s holding up her hands as if she has something in them.

“I’m under the big table in the dining room. No one can see me because of the long tablecloth, which is curtains to my house. This is me and Barbie and Ken’s house. My mother is outside on the patio having lunch with her club. I’ve crawled under the table to play Barbie and Ken.” She holds up Barbie and then Ken. “I lay Ken on top of Barbie and move his plastic butt up and down as he sticks his dick in Barbie to make a baby. He’s yelling at her like Daddy does Mommy.

“‘You fine bitch, ohh! You sexy cunt, suck my dick, ohh! Ohh! Ohh!’

“Barbie hisses, ‘Saul, stop. She’ll hear us.’

“‘So what, are we doing something wrong? In France the whole family walks around naked!’

“‘You’ve never been to France.’

“‘So fuckin’ what, you low-class cunt? You trying to make me feel stupid? Anyway, what’d we get this fuckin’ house for anyway? Privacy!’ He answers his own question.

“Ken has all the questions and all the answers.

“‘C’mere, you, get on down there. You’re good for something.’

“‘Wait a minute,’ she says.

“I hear her footsteps walking to the door! I scramble to my feet and run down the hallway away from Mommy and Daddy and the thick smell of sex that had been wafting out the slightly ajar door of their hot room. But I’ve fallen asleep now under the table with Barbie and Ken. I wake up to the sound of my mother’s voice and the sight of a pair of fat feet with stuffed into red pointy-toe shoes that are not my mom’s. I turn my head to my mother’s legs, crossed like a pretzel, her feet in shiny silver flats.

“‘It was a punishment for sure. I was thirty and had had five abortions.
Five.
So I guess the Lord fixed me. I guess he said, “You hate the issue of your womb enough to kill it five times, well, I’ll fix you good.” It was my husband, he’s such a mensch, who said, “Get over it, we can always adopt.” That’s when we got Noël.’

“‘Is it the same?’ Red shoes.

“‘I mean, you walk into a store and they know you’ve adopted. But, you know, as far as it being the same, it is, I think. You feed them, clothe them, love them—you’re all they know. They don’t know they’re not white. Noël fits right in.’

“‘Plus, they’re more intelligent than black kids.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘Well, she doesn’t seem to be so far.’

“‘How so?’ Black Patent Leather Loafers.

“‘All she wants to do is play ballerina. It’s almost autistic or something.’

“‘How old is she?’ Black Loafers has a high nasal voice.

“‘Four and a half.’

“‘Well, for God’s sake, what do you expect? Calculus? Leave her alone and feed her. She’s too thin.’ Red Shoes.

“‘She hates for me to hold her.’

“‘Get a nigger nanny.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘Don’t talk like that!’ My mother.

“‘Don’t be so sanctimonious, Sarah. You know what she meant. Get a good colored girl in here. That flip you got is depressed if I ever saw anyone depressed. You know, they think they’re too good. You know, passing through until they finish cosmetology school or whatever. Get a good girl in here, and she’ll stay put and help you with that kid. I’m telling you they’re good with kids.’ Red Shoes.

“‘Asian kids?’

“‘With
kids,
any kind of kids. What are you talking about,
Asian
kids? She doesn’t know what kind of kid she is! You want her to be more social, you have to
socialize
her. Some of these foreign-born can be mentally ill from being in those orphanages. I read about it in the
New York Times.
’ Red Shoes.

“‘Oh, my God, Eartha, don’t talk like that.’ My mother.

“‘It’s true, they had an article in the
Post
too.’ Hot Pink Heels. ‘Where did you say she’s from?’

“‘She’s Asian.’

“‘I know that, I’m not developmentally disabled as they say now.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘Is that what they say?’ Black Loafers.

“‘What country is she from?’ Red Shoes.

“‘China?’ Black Loafers.

“‘I don’t think so.’

“‘What do you mean, you don’t
think
so? Don’t you even know where she’s from?’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘She’s a domestic adoption. She came from here.’

“By now the words are crawling over me:
Asian, adoption, nigger nanny, that flip, colored, cosmetology school.

“‘Shit, excuse my French, she could be anything.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘You don’t say? Domestic. I never knew an immigrant to give up a kid—’ Red Shoes.

“‘Yeah, kill ’em or ritually abuse ’em. Did you read that article in the
Post
—’

“‘Please.’ My mother cuts Hot Pink Heels off. ‘Not now, Vera.’

“‘It was in all the papers. Sarah, you can’t just put your head in the sand. But back to what Eartha was saying. I didn’t know you could get South American or Oriental kids through domestic adoptions. You know each child they have is another dollar on their welfare check. They call the kids anchors, because you drop ’em and they help you stay put. I guess they can’t deport ’em or whatever.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘So they come illegally, pop out a few babies, anchors, and they’re set for life.’ Red Shoes.

“‘I don’t know if working sixteen hours a day as a dishwasher is exactly set for life.’ Black Loafers.

“‘Oh, quit the liberal shit.’ Hot Pink Heels. ‘You know what my husband calls them? He’s a parasitologist.’

“‘Well, OK already, what does he call them?’ Red Shoes.

“‘Chagas.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘What the hell is that?’ Black Loafers.

“‘A bloodsucking parasite that attacks your heart. It’s from Mexico. Once you get it, you can never get rid of it. Bloodsuckers!’ Hot Pink Heels again.

“‘Are you projecting, Vera?’ Loafers.

“‘Projecting? What’s that supposed to mean? What the devil are you talking about? Why would I be doing any damn projecting? What are you, Freud or something?’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘What’s going on here? What’s this, the Ladies’ Fight Club? We’re supposed to be raising money, gals, not squabbling.’ My mother.

“Chagas? Fight Club? Bloodsuckers? What’s projecting? All these big feet. I have to pee bad, real bad. I can’t come out; she’ll get mad. I’m going to lay down and go to sleep. Some people die when they go to sleep. I’m going to die. She’ll be sorry—

“‘I smell something.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘Stop, Vera.’ Red Shoes.

“‘Yes, it’s coming from under the table.’ Hot Pink Heels.

“‘Oh, my God! Noël! Noël! She’s asleep!’ Mommy.

“I open my eyes, feigning grogginess and confusion.

“‘Come on, wake up, come to Mommy.’

“I crawled out from under the table, my child cotton drawers sagging and soaked with urine, my head swimming with new words—and nightmares of talking feet for years to come.”

My Lai, who had until a few seconds ago been three or four years old and “under the table” on her hands and knees talking in a voice I had never heard before, turns back into now.

“I didn’t understand most of what my mother said, except one thing I understood and was sure she’d made a mistake on—I wasn’t ‘playing’ anything, I
was
a ballerina!” She laughs, sitting back in the circle with her notebook in her lap. She turns to look at me, “Yeah, but other than a ballerina, what
was
I?” Her eyes still on me, “At least you
knew.
”

Oh, so now she’s had it harder than me? I don’t respond. I don’t want to get in her shit. I feel a crackling in my brain, a noise, a clak-clak-bang-bang. I haven’t felt this way in a long time, so angry I could spit.
At least you knew,
I mock her in my mind. But I’m not going to be dragged into this shit in front of everybody. She knows how I feel since “the incident.”

We were rolling a couple of weeks ago, and she comes up with this wack shit. I’ll never forget it. She’s trying to live it down now, play high and all that. Fuck it for now. Let me hear this out, and I’ll think on that later.

“So that’s what happened: My mother listened to her friends and got me a black nanny. It was like a lot of stuff in my life, one of the best things that happened to me precisely because it was a total disaster. After my father got this Haitian woman—who barely spoke any English to them—pregnant, we were in real trouble.

“I was in my house under the table with Barbie and Ken one morning when they were talking about Eruzulie.

“‘I’ll tell,’ she said.

“‘Tell what, you stupid cunt?’ my father snarled.

“‘Eruzulie says you raped her.’

“‘Fuck that nigger.’

“‘No, fuck you, you bastard. You want her to press charges?’

“‘She’s lying.’

“‘Have you ever heard of a paternity test, Saul?’

“‘You’re in it with that nigger.’

“‘Saul, that
nigger
is going to have your kid, how do you like that?’

“‘I like it fine, bitch. And don’t try to blackmail me, you—’

“‘I’m not trying to blackmail you. I’m trying to get you to act like a human being and take responsibility.’

“‘Like hell you are. Arf-arf, dog-ass bitch. I’m not giving you one more dime.’

“‘Yes you are. And you’re going to marry me too. I have enough to put you away for the rest of your life.’

“‘And I’ll put you six feet under.’

“‘No you won’t!’

“‘Try me, bitch.’

“‘I’m not trying shit, Saul. We get married or I go with Eruzulie to the police.’

“‘You
are
crazy,’ he hissed.

“‘That’s not all I know, Alondra, the flip, her daughter, Saul! Her
daughter
—’

“His fat bare white hippopotamus feet flew across the floor and stepped in to her.

“WHAM! He slapped her.

“‘I love you, Saul!’ she screamed.

“I shot out from under the table as he punched her hard.

“‘I love you, Saul!’ I screamed. Is that what he wanted? Is that why she said it? Would it make him stop beating her? I would say it too.

“‘I LOVE YOU, SAUL!’ I screamed.

“‘Jesus Christ.’ He groaned like he was the one being hit.

“‘Would you stop with the Jesus!’ my mother screamed.

“‘Would you shut up!’ he said, and slapped her again. ‘My mother’s Catholic, I’m half Catholic, bitch.’

“‘JEEZUS CHRISE JEEZUS CHRISE!’ I screamed over and over, my head turned up to the chandelier’s light glittering from the ceiling. He lurched toward me and grabbed me up by my braids.

“‘I’ll cut off your feet, you little monkey-ass chink. See how much dancing you do then,’ he sneered.

“My eyes grew wide, wide enough to take in my whole little world and me in it with no feet. I could feel the hairs on my head separating from their roots as I swung from my braids in the grip of his big hands. His piss-smelling sweat was running down his arm onto me.

“‘Put her down, Saul,’ my mother begged.

“‘I love you, Saul,’ I croaked.

“When he dropped me, I collapsed on the floor, praying, ‘Jesus please don’t let him cut off my feet Jesus please don’t let him cut off my feet.’”

 

 

“WE WENT TO BED
that night, battered, me wrapped in her arms that seemed like warm clouds around me. But I knew that, like the clouds, they wouldn’t protect me, and as I drifted off to sleep, I knew that she knew it too.

“In the morning clumps of my hair fell to the floor as I sat between my mother’s legs on the pink carpet in my bedroom. I could feel hot tears on my back and shoulders. I felt cold toward her.

“A pungent smell told me she had opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I flinched.

“‘Come on, be brave.’

“I screamed when the cold alcohol-soaked cotton singed my scalp. I wrenched my body away from her. My scalp burned where she had touched it. She still had a firm grip on my arm.

“‘Mommy’s going to wipe this all away and make it well. Don’t say anything to anybody about Saul. He really loves us, OK?
OK?
I’m not going to brush your hair, but I have to pull it together to cover these spots, OK? We’re a family, and all families have problems. No need to go blabbing to a bunch of people who can’t help you. Mommy’s gonna help you.’

“So she’s trying to blackmail Saul into playing nice family or she’ll send him to jail. He’s calling her bluff and threatening to kick us out.”