Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Paint It Black Review of The i Tetralogy Poetry Zoology By Patricia Murphy Framed Gift By Sheila McLaughlin Sikorski Friends 'n' 'at or Ode to Pittsburghatory By Betta Risa In My Father's Shoes By Richard Fein Freedom By Skip Shea Fiction Quitting Time By Barbara Archer Tumbleweed By Thom Brennan Maternal Instincts By Diane Kimbrell You Should Write People Dead By T. M. Warfield Spring Fling By Patricia Murphy About the Contributors © 2007, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Vacant Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch.

Maternal Instincts By Diane Kimbrell Ga-Ga says that “ole Raw Haid and Bloody Bones” hide in attics and watch children through cracks in the floor. According to her, “Raw Haid,” a screaming skull and his partner “Bloody Bones” have been known to rise up in the dead of night to hunt down bad boys and girls. Supposedly, when a house is quiet and if you listen close enough, you can hear Bloody Bones rattle and moan. Although I’ve heard Ga-Ga’s tale of Little Johnny Jones at least a million times, it always makes my teeth chatter. One cold, dark, stormy night, when everybody in the house is asleep, Raw Head and Bloody Bones creep down the stairs, drag little Johnny Jones out of his bed for sassing his Mama and cut off his head. Othermama (my maternal grandmother) insists there is no such thing as a ghost. When our cousin came to visit this past summer, Othermama asked my brother Ben to go to the attic and bring down another bucket for blackberry picking, and he said, “I’m not going up there.” “Big boy like you ought to be ashamed,” she screeched. “As God is my witness, there are no bones in our attic. “Ga-Ga just makes up that nonsense to keep you children in line.” I sure hope Othermama’s right. Life can be scary enough. I’m sorry to say that Saturday nights at our house have been – on occasion – just as terrifying as some of Ga-Ga’s ghost stories. Daddy works half a day on Saturdays; he drinks the other half. Sometimes he gets mean drunk – punches Mama in the face with his fists, threatens to kill us all. His fits usually start over something silly – for example, ketchup. We’re not allowed to talk when Daddy’s at the table so the only noise is the sound of Daddy pounding the bottom of the ketchup bottle with the palm of his hand. When no more comes out, he suddenly starts screaming, “What in the Goddamned Hell do I work for?” He glares at Mama. Everybody at the table freezes. We know better than to answer him. “Shit a fucking brick!” he goes on, “can’t even get a decent Goddamned supper – Goddamn it to Hell.” “D. W.,” Mama begins in a soft, soothing voice. “Awww, shut up!” He screams. With a flick of his wrist, he hurls the bottle across the room. We hear a loud crash as it smashes against the kitchen wall and sends bits of glass and flecks of ketchup flying. Daddy shoves the table away causing even the dishes to jump and stomps out of the kitchen. At first nobody moves. Minutes later we hear the tires squeal as he backs out of the driveway. Because of Daddy, I came to dread Saturdays worse than Black Draught — the nasty medicine Othermama forces me to swallow because I refuse to eat prunes. Sundays could be boring but I didn’t mind much because Saturday was over and we were still alive. For a long time, I dreamed of getting away from Daddy or better yet getting rid of him. But every time I prayed for God to strike him dead, I had to pray for forgiveness too, because the Bible says to “Honor thy father and thy mother...” I not only prayed for myself, I prayed for Mama, Othermama, my sister Rosebud and my brothers Jake and Ben. If God saw fit to set me free, I couldn’t leave them behind. Praying so much wore me out. I’d just about given up on my prayers ever being answered when Rosebud and Ritchie got pregnant. Othermama believes that, “The Lord works in mysterious ways…” and now I believe it, too. Instead of being happy about becoming a father, Rosebud’s husband Ritchie got so mad or as Mama put it, “so scared out of his wits,” he signed up for another year in the Marines and they shipped him to Japan. Rosebud cried like her heart was broken. Meanwhile, Othermama said, “Rosebud, you don’t know how lucky you are to be rid of that rotter.” She didn’t like Ritchie because he drank and cursed and used the Lord’s name in vain. He was also a Yankee. Behind her back but within earshot, Ritchie would call Othermama, “Ole Battleaxe.” Shortly after Ritchie shipped out, Rosebud seriously considered having the marriage annulled. She even called one of her old boyfriends — a successful lawyer – and found out how to go about it. But with morning sickness and her job at the phone company, I guess she was too busy to fill out the papers. She and Ritchie started writing mushy letters to each other again. I read them all. At first Rosebud didn’t gain much weight being pregnant but she slowly began to grow bigger and bigger. She got so big I worried she might pop. When she went on maternity leave from the phone company, the doctor ordered her to walk as much as she could every day. Some days Rosebud and I walked from one end of Quicksand (our home town) to the other. It took a long time because Rosebud would have to sit down every few minutes to rest along the way. One afternoon Ben came along and brought his camera. When Rosebud sat down to rest in Mr. Wooten’s pasture, Ben snapped her picture. Mr. Wooten’s cows were grazing in the background and when the pictures came back, Ben joked that it was hard to pick Rosebud out of the herd. Several days before Rosebud is supposed to give birth, I fill a bucket with hot water, find some rags and begin scrubbing the bedroom that Othermama shared with Rosebud. Othermama walks in, puts her hands on her hips and says, “Niki, just what in the world are you doing?” “Getting ready for the baby to come,” I answer. The oil burned by our floor furnace in the wintertime leaves sticky scum on every wall in our house. In warm weather with the windows open, the dust that blows through Quicksand covers everything and the walls seem to be growing fur. Othermama just stands there so finally I say, “I don’t want the baby to see these dirty walls.” Without another word, Othermama leaves the room. I hear laughing and talking out in the kitchen. I guess they think I can’t hear them. “…washing those nasty walls!” “What a waste of time.” “Poor little thing wants to help.” My face burns. I throw down the rag in my hand and go to the kitchen where Mama, Othermama and Rosebud are sitting around the table stringing beans. “What is so funny?” I demand, “Y’all clean when company’s coming.” Mama says, “Oh, honey, it’s a great idea. Some day you’ll make a good little mother. We just think it’s too big of a job and that you’ll never – ’’ Before she can finish her sentence, I leave the kitchen. I toss the rags in the garbage and pour the dirty water down the bathtub drain. Sometimes Rosebud would grab my hand and hold it against her belly so I could feel the baby kick. I hoped the baby would be a girl—someone I could play with. The baby was born on Mother’s Day in 1956. Rosebud named her “Chanel” after a bottle of perfume Ritchie had given her not long after they met. I thought Chanel was the most beautiful name I’d ever heard and I thought Chanel was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen, even though she spit up stuff that looked like Cream of Wheat. The doctor said she had “Thrush Mouth”—a common condition in newborns—nothing serious. Chanel was more fun than my Tiny Tears doll. She could pee and cry and when we talked to her, she’d try to talk back. She couldn’t say words exactly but she knew who I was. I could tell. To everybody’s surprise and disappointment, when Chanel was eight months old, Rosebud rented a house about five miles away on Sugar Sweet Road. Mama begged her to wait. We knew it was Ritchie’s idea. Rosebud argued that he’d be coming home soon and they needed their own place to live. It was a fairly new brick house. The walls had just been painted. A high redwood fence kept out nosy neighbors. Rosebud returned to supervising the late shift at the phone company and Othermama moved in with her to take care of Chanel. Othermama took me with them so she wouldn’t be by herself in the house at night with the baby. Although my prayer to get away from Daddy had finally been answered, I felt sad to leave Mama and I missed her terribly. I worried about her being alone with him. With no witnesses, Daddy could kill her and call it an accident. We talked on the phone every day and Mama came over as often as she could but I still worried. She insisted everything was okay. I chose to believe her. The arrangement actually worked out fine. Othermama spent all her time fussing over the house and Chanel, which meant she had little time to fuss at me. As for Rosebud, we rarely got into it because she’d gone to work by the time I got home from school. Every afternoon I played with Chanel and after she was put to bed, I did my homework. Most of the time it was peaceful and I came to enjoy the weekends – even Saturdays. When Chanel took a nap, I’d bake a pan of brownies or peanut butter cookies then grab a handful and curl up in bed to read the library books I brought from school. That winter, I read the entire Cherry Ames Student Nurse series. I knew Ritchie would be getting out of service soon and things would change but I tried not to think about it. In his letters that I sneaked and read while Rosebud was at work, he talked about moving to his hometown of Canton, Ohio. Rosebud won’t go, I assured myself. She would never leave us. The Ritchie I remembered was kind of wild and kind of sweet. I had a crush on him. I think Mama did, too. He acted crazy about Rosebud. But after Ritchie went to Japan, he just acted crazy. When Rosebud didn’t receive his monthly allotment check, she called him to find out what was wrong. He promised to look into it, but never did. The present he sent Chanel for Christmas arrived in the middle of March. The box had been mashed but the present didn’t seem broken. Rosebud held it up to get a better look. Red and gold tassels dangled from it. It could’ve been a fancy Japanese ornament to hang on a wall but there was no hook. Or it could’ve been a cage – maybe – but there was nothing in it. At first glance, I thought he’d sent chimes but the ornament made no sound. Othermama stared at it with her arms folded over her large bosom. “I don’t get it,” she said. “If your brother Jake can send your baby a present—a silver spoon no less – all the way from Tacoma, Washington and have the present get here in time for Christmas then why couldn’t your husband, Ritchie?” My big brother Jake had always been Othermama’s idea of the perfect man. Then Othermama laughed and said to Rosebud, “Explain this piece of junk.” Rosebud almost laughed too but she seemed to stop and think better of it. I thought she looked sad. “What does it do?” I asked. Rosebud didn’t answer. Later that night she threw the present in the garbage. I knew life would be different once Ritchie returned from Japan but I had no idea just how hard it would be. Everybody dreaded his return except Rosebud. The sight of beer cans scattered around the couch in the living room and Ritchie’s ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts reminded me of Daddy’s chair at home and made me feel queasy. The wine-colored couch that Rosebud bought second-hand was in good shape. I’d never once put my feet on it. Ritchie and Rosebud both have their feet up on the couch today. The last time I looked, Rosebud was still sitting on his lap. And she was still in her powder pink baby doll pajamas. At least she was wearing a robe. And they were still making goo-goo eyes at each other. To avoid them, I go out in the backyard to play with Rosebud’s cocker spaniel, “No Go.” I ride an old broom around the yard and pretend to be a witch. No Go chases me around and around. It’s a stupid game but I don’t care because no one can see us over the redwood fence. I have to use the bathroom so I put down the broom and go inside. Othermama’s washing dishes at the kitchen sink. “Tiptoe,” she whispers as I pass by. Chanel is taking a nap. I can hear Rosebud and Ritchie still giggling and whispering in the living room. I close the bathroom door and fasten the chain lock. The lock on our bathroom door at Mama’s house has been broken for years so nobody’s safe and to make matters worse, no one ever bothers to knock. I sit down on the toilet and look around. This is my favorite room in the house. Since Ritchie’s return, his belongings are scattered everywhere, but the bathroom still looks the same: White lace curtains hang at the window – a family of pink swans (decals) glide across the glass shower doors and the green tiles on the walls that Rosebud polished to a shine, glisten in the afternoon light. I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been sitting here before I realize I am staring at red splotches. I take a closer look at my panties. It's blood all right – the sight of it always leaves me weak. Did I hurt myself somehow? Had I fallen on the broomstick? No. I didn’t fall. And it can’t be a broken hymen because Mama says I don’t have one. When I asked her what happened to it, she said, “You fell off a swing.” “When? I don’t remember that.” “You were too young too remember.” “How old was I?” “Two, maybe.” “Did I bleed?” “Of course.” “A lot?” “Not so much.” “But why?” “Why what?” “Mama –?” “Niki, you don’t have a hymen so don’t look for one,” she said. So then why would I be bleeding from down there unless –? When Rosebud got pregnant and I started asking what Mama considered to be too many questions, Mama sent off for, “What Every Young Woman Should Know” – a booklet about the facts of life. I read it from cover to cover. I begin to feel dizzy and sweaty. For years I’ve listened to Mama and Othermama gossip about pregnancies and operations. Our neighbor Mrs. Threet swears she was wide-awake during her big operation and saw everything that went on. She says the surgeon didn’t cut out her gall bladder – he yanked it out. When Rosebud had her tonsils removed, she claims to have coughed up clots of blood the size of golf balls. Othermama survived ten major operations for what they called, “adhesions.” The doctors would slice her open like a watermelon, cut her intestines apart and while she lay on the operating table under the knife, oxygen would cause her intestines to slowly grow back together. It was only a matter of time before they’d have to open her up and cut her apart again. For a moment I feel as if I might faint. If only Mama were here – she’d know exactly what to do. I don’t want to call Othermama but I have no choice. She’ll be mad if my calling wakes up Chanel but what else can I do? I‘m bleeding from – down there. I‘d get up and go to her but I’m afraid to move. I open the door a crack and call softly, “Othermama!” I have to call several times. Finally, I know she’s on her way because the whole house shakes when she walks through it. I ease up and unlock the bathroom door so she can come in. “Look.” She stoops over and studies the stains in my panties like a scientist might study a specimen. “Did you hurt yourself?” “No.” Othermama shakes her head. “You’re too young to menstruate,” she says. “Men-stru-ate,” I say, ignoring the rule never to correct her. “I’m thirteen.” Othermama continues to shake her head from side to side. “Oh, Lord. You’re too young for this,” she says. “Are you cramping?” “No.” The expression on Othermama’s face makes me angry. The booklet, “What Every Young Woman Should Know,” describes menstruation as the beginning of womanhood not the end of the world. “Does Rosebud have any of that stuff? You know, Kotex? I think I saw a box on her closet shelf –” “I’ll have to check.” “Othermama,” I whisper, as she backs out the door, “please, don’t tell Rosebud.” Rosebud is a terrible tease and loves nothing more than to see me blush. I can just hear what she’d say, “Niki’s got the pip! Niki’s got the pip!” Othermama’s gone a long time. I can’t imagine why. Is something wrong? Has she forgotten? How can she leave me here like this? I lean up and over towards the door as far as I can without falling off the toilet, straining to hear what’s going on outside but I don’t hear a sound. Surely Othermama knows that either Rosebud or Ritchie might have to use the bathroom soon. What does she expect me to do? At last I hear heavy footsteps. I open the door. “I couldn’t find any;” Othermama says, “You’ll have to use this.” “Is that a pillow case? Are you sure there weren’t any—?” “It’s all I could find.” “How am I supposed to wear this?” I‘m close to tears. “Pin it on.” As Othermama hands me the wad of white cloth and two large safety pins with bright yellow ducks for clasps, I suddenly realize what I’m holding. “You want me to wear – this?” Faces of the most popular girls at school pop into my mind. No cheerleader would ever be caught dead wearing a diaper. I’m crying now. Othermama has no patience with tears. “I have to wear one of Chanel’s –?!” “Just until your Mother comes. I called her. She’s bringing what you need from the drugstore.” “Well, I won’t wear this.” “Then sit here, you little ingrate,” Othermama says. “I’ve done what I can do for you. I have a meal to cook.” The house shakes as she walks back to the kitchen. I open one of the safety pins. I’ve been diapering Chanel ever since Rosebud brought her home from the hospital and I’ve never once stuck her or myself but then I’ve never tried to shove a pin through a diaper folded this thick. My fingers feel stiff and a little shaky. Now that I’m a woman maybe I’m getting arthritis like Othermama. I’m crying so hard the yellow ducks on the safety pins could be swimming in a pond. “What Every Young Woman Should Know,” put swimming on the list of the activities you can do when you have your period but I can’t understand that. Even if I knew how to swim, a bloody sanitary pad could turn the water red as fast as Jesus turned it into wine. Everyone would know I’m having my period. I feel humiliated just thinking about it. I walk slowly and carefully down the hall to the kitchen toward the aroma of Othermama’s fried chicken. With every step, the diaper between my legs rubs against my thighs and I feel a stinging sensation. But I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about how awful it would be if the diaper would fall off. It’s pinned to my panties, but the pins could fly open. I’m wearing jeans but the diaper could fall out a pants leg and land on the floor. I couldn’t help but notice that the blood or my “menstrual flow” as the booklet calls it has an odor. I wonder if other people will be able to smell it. I guess that’s why women need to a take a douche. Maybe I need to take one. Othermama’s standing at the stove as I shuffle past. “Sit down,” she says, “you look pale.” I ease myself down in a chair at the kitchen table. Just as I sit, I think I feel a warm gush from – down there and I’m reminded once more of Rosebud coughing up those blood clots the size of golf balls. I wonder if anyone has ever bled to death during a monthly period. “Sip this,” Othermama says. She pours a Dr. Pepper over a glass of ice cubes. “My head hurts.” “We have aspirin.” “What Every Young Woman Should Know recommends Midol.” “Well, we don’t have any. Take these.” I take two aspirin tablets from Othermama’s palm. Chanel’s awake. I can hear her gurgling and cooing. Any other time I would run to the bedroom and scoop her up out of the crib to play but right now I have no desire to move. Othermama looks at me with a steady gaze. “If I put Chanel down in the playpen, do you think you could sit and watch her for awhile? At least until dinner’s ready?” I nod, returning her steady gaze. Othermama doesn’t trust just anybody to watch Chanel. She’s never trusted Rosebud. She hardly ever lets Rosebud hold her. Sometimes they fight over Chanel. Othermama always wins. Maybe that’s why Chanel doesn’t know Rosebud very well. I wish Rosebud would stand up for herself – not act so helpless around Othermama. Chanel is learning to stand. By holding on to the bars in her crib she can even take a few steps. The playpen was a gift from Mama’s best friend. Rosebud doesn’t have much furniture so the playpen’s set up in the living room across from the couch between the T.V. and the phone table. Chanel’s hardly ever been in it. Most of the time she’s on somebody’s lap. I slip into the bathroom for a quick peak just as Othermama puts Chanel down in the playpen. I can hardly believe it. Not one drop of blood is on my diaper. I’m relieved but also a little disappointed. I sit down on my knees on the floor close to the playpen and put back the rubber crow that Chanel tosses out. She tosses it out again. Just then, I think I feel another warm gush between my legs. Ritchie is telling Rosebud about Geisha girls in Japan. “Four of them – scrubbing and rubbing while I’m on my back.” Now that I’m in the room, he starts talking to me, too. I look at Ritchie but only pretend to listen. Ritchie thinks I like him but I don’t like him any more. He doesn’t even look the same. When he left he had curly blond hair not a crew cut. Othermama would never approve of women bathing men. She wouldn’t approve of Ritchie talking about it either and Rosebud knows that. So far, Othermama and Ritchie have stayed out of each other’s way. I’d like to interrupt and say, “Hey, Ritchie what was that dumb thing you sent to Chanel for Christmas?” but I don’t dare. When Ritchie stops talking to light another cigarette, I point to a tiny deck of cards with Japanese lettering, “What’s that for?” “Poker,” Ritchie says. “I’ll teach you how to play.” The last thing in the whole world I would ever want to do is play Poker. Othermama says it’s a sin. The cards look nasty like they’ve been held in a lot of sweaty hands. Chanel tosses the crow out again. She seems fussy—she’s tired of this game. She likes to squeal and today she seems to be squealing more than usual. Every time she squeals Ritchie raises his voice and talks louder. I wish he would shut up. I don’t remember him talking so much. Except for an occasional “hmmm,” Rosebud mostly listens. It’s hard to get a word in edge-wise. I wonder if she’s interested in what he’s saying or if she’s just being polite. With Rosebud it’s hard to tell. Neither one of them is paying any attention to Chanel. Rosebud did wave to her and say, “Hi pumpkin!” but Ritchie hasn’t looked her way. I want to get up and go check to see if I’m bleeding but I know I have to stay with Chanel. Suddenly, Chanel’s lower lip begins to quiver. “Look!” I say. I squeeze the crow to make it squeak. But she doesn’t care. Chanel wants out of the playpen. Her eyes fill up with tears and she begins to whimper. “Hush,” Ritchie says. “She just wants out,” I say. Rosebud looks at me. “She’s not coming out,” he says. “She’s got to learn discipline.” The way he pronounces the word causes my stomach muscles to tighten. “She’s only a year old,” I say, trying to make it a joke. “She’s got to learn who’s boss,” Ritchie says. I glance at Rosebud but she looks away. Chanel pulls herself to her feet and silently pleads with her eyes for me to pick her up. “Mary had a little lamb, a little lamb, a little lamb; Mary had a little lamb…” Sing, I urge Chanel. “Mary had a little lamb—little lamb—little lamb…” Sometimes Chanel babbles along when I sing but today she’s not in the mood. She just wants out of the playpen. Nothing I do seems to hold her attention. “Patty cake, patty cake,” I begin. Chanel lets out a howl. “Shut up!” Ritchie yells. He opens another can of Schlitz. He’s been drinking all morning. Rosebud looks at me as if she expects me to do something. I wish Rosebud would get up off that couch and put some clothes on. Help Othermama in the kitchen—take care of Chanel—do something. “Let me take her out,” I say, standing up. I’ve forgotten about my condition. For a moment Chanel is silent. She looks at me hopefully. “Goddamn it, leave her be,” Ritchie says. I glance at Rosebud hoping that she’ll speak up. I wonder if she’s drunk. Still standing I say, “I’m taking her out for just a minute.” “Sit down,” Ritchie says. Reluctantly, I obey. “Please don’t cry,” I beg Chanel silently. “Please don’t cry.” As I sit back on my knees, I experience another warm sensation between my legs. If only Mama would get here. Maybe she can’t come. Daddy just might be too drunk to drive her over. Chanel is crying real tears now and Othermama’s going to be mad at me. Ritchie jumps up from the couch and comes to the playpen. For a moment I’m relieved. I think he’s going to pick up Chanel and play with her. Just as Othermama walks to the living room door to see what’s going on, Ritchie jerks Chanel up by her arm and for several seconds, she dangles in mid air. He grips her with one hand and swats her bottom hard with the other. The smack of his open hand is so loud it echoes through the room. He drops Chanel back in the playpen with a thud. For a moment there is complete silence. The surprise of the blow has caused Chanel to lose her breath. I feel as if I’ve lost mine, too. Rosebud starts to get up but Ritchie grabs her arm. “Sit,” he says, like he’s training a dog. “God almighty. What did you do? What have you done?” Othermama demands reaching down into the playpen. “Leave her alone,” Ritchie yells. Chanel gets her breath and lets out a wail. Ignoring Ritchie, Othermama lifts Chanel, cradles her over her shoulder and huffs out of the room. “She’s going to learn discipline,” Ritchie says. He takes a noisy swig of beer. I’m afraid to look at him or Rosebud. Paralyzed, I stare at the floor and wish Mama would come. The next thing I remember is Othermama’s standing in the doorway holding Chanel. She has taken Chanel’s diaper off. “Look at this child’s behind,” Othermama says in a trembling voice. “Rosebud, look what your husband has done.” Then she says to Ritchie, “May God forgive you for hitting this innocent child.” Ritchie’s huge handprint across Chanel’s butt is bright red. It hurts to look at it. Certain she’s made her point, Othermama stalks out. “She’ll live,” Ritchie laughs. I wish Rosebud would say something. How can she just sit there like a dummy and let him do that? I wonder. I want to kill Ritchie. Bash his brains out. I want to kill Rosebud, too. It’s all I can do to keep the way I feel from showing on my face. But I have to. If Ritchie knew how much I hate him right now, no doubt he’d punish me by never allowing me near Chanel. What could be keeping Mama? Damn it! Maybe if she’d been here none of this would’ve happened. I don’t feel like moving my body but I force myself to get up. I’m sure Rosebud and Ritchie are watching so I move as if everything’s fine. It has occurred to me that I should check again to see how much I’ve bled but I can’t bring myself to look. Othermama is sitting on the side of the bed in Rosebud’s room holding Chanel. Othermama looks old and tired. “Would you like for me to watch her so you can finish in the kitchen?” “Do you feel up to it?” I hold out my arms to Chanel. She leans towards me and Othermama hands her over like she’s passing a tray of fine china. I rest her on my hip. Chanel snuggles up against me. My nose itches. Sometimes baby powder makes me sneeze. Othermama goes back to the kitchen. I’m worried that Chanel might start crying again so like Nancy Drew-girl-detective solving one of her cases, I begin to think of a plan. It’s simple but it just might work. Every minute counts. There’s no time to rehearse it. With Chanel on my hip I walk out to the living room, smile at Ritchie like I’ve seen Rosebud do and say, in my sweetest voice, “I’m going to take Chanel for a walk until dinner’s ready. It’s nice out. OK?” I know he hears me but he doesn’t answer. He must be very drunk. Ritchie winks at Rosebud, shrugs, opens two new cans of beer and hands one to her as if nothing’s ever happened. I leave the room as fast as I can to get my jacket and a sweater for Chanel. “Button her sweater,” Othermama says, as we slip out the back door. My spine tingles as if I’m being watched. I can’t believe I have Chanel. I could run away with her. But without any money, where could we go? Chanel’s head rests on my shoulder. I can feel her small heart beating against my chest. She seems tired but I know she can’t be. She had a nap. Maybe she’s in shock. Nobody ever hit her before. Maybe her behind hurts, too. “I love you,” I say. I move slowly around to the front yard, and walk down the driveway to get away from the house. I want to get beyond the range of the picture window in the living room so Ritchie can’t see us. It hurts to walk because my thighs have been rubbed raw but I don’t want Chanel to know I’m in pain. Othermama always says, “You have to rise above adversity – set an example for others.” Mr. Drake and his mother live across the street from us. He has the prettiest lawn I’ve ever seen – water oak trees, rose bushes, and a birdbath. Rosebud swears he’s a Peeping Tom. I don’t know what makes her think that. I’ve watched his windows for hours at a time and never once have I caught him looking back. “Chanel, see the trees in Mr. Drake’s yard?” I say, in a loud voice as if everything is fine. “Don’t they look like soldiers standing guard?” Chanel sighs, lifts her head from my shoulder. “Mam-Mam and Paw-Paw should be driving up soon,” I tell her. Then remembering that Daddy’s probably been drinking, I silently ask God to keep Mama safe. Ben believes Daddy’s car drives itself home when Daddy’s had too much to drink. But I doubt Daddy’s car knows its way to Rosebud’s. When we reach the end of the driveway, I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one has followed us. “Chanel,” I whisper, barely moving my lips like a ventriloquist, “listen. Somehow. You and me. We’re going to get away from here.” Chanel points her finger in the direction of the oak trees. “Buh,” she says. “Yes,” I say in a loud voice – “that’s a tree.” If I knew Mr. Drake and his mother well enough, I’d knock on their door, ask to use the phone and call the police. But then they’d hear me and pretty soon people in the neighborhood would know our business. Mama would be furious. Not that we know the neighbors here. Rosebud is never home to meet people and Othermama is always too busy. Since the day we moved in, no one has ever come to visit or to borrow a cup of sugar. “I think the police can help us,” I explain to Chanel. They stopped Daddy from shooting Rosebud. Mama called and they showed up right away. Although they turned off their sirens so as not to tip Daddy off, I could see the red bubble lights flashing outside the bedroom window. They took the rifle away, handcuffed Daddy and marched him out the door. “Chanel,” I say, “if we can just get to the police station, we won’t have to use a phone and nobody will have to know.” I begin walking down the road in the direction of the highway. Mama always tells me not to talk to strangers or ever get in a car with anyone. She’d have a stroke if she thought I hitchhiked anywhere and she’d drop dead for sure if she found out I took Chanel with me. But what am I supposed to do? She’s not here. I don’t know when she will get here and Chanel and I don’t dare go home. Since I’m a woman, I have to make decisions. The police station is at least six miles away in downtown Charlotte so to get there, I’ll have to hitch a ride. This road isn’t very busy but cars do pass – often using it as a short cut to the Interstate. Before I can shift Chanel to free my right arm, a red pick-up truck whizzes past. “We’ll get the next one,” I say. Chanel is getting restless. She might be hungry. Suddenly, I see another car coming. I stretch out my right arm and stick up my thumb. The driver, a man wearing a baseball cap, never even sees us. Two more cars pass but those drivers don’t seem to see us either and quite frankly, I’m glad. A crazy person could offer us a ride and Chanel and I could end up in a ditch somewhere – chopped into little pieces. Mama would never forgive me. And where the Hell is Mama? I feel a lump rising in my throat. In the distance, I see another car moving towards us. Reluctantly, I extend my arm again and wait. It’s moving so slowly an eternity passes before the car gets close enough for me to recognize the dusty, blue, four-door Chevy with a big dent in the front fender. “Chanel, it’s Mam Mam and Paw Paw!” I shout. Mama, a thin, gray-haired, fading beauty sits in the passenger seat; Daddy sits hunched over the wheel with his glasses dangling cock-eyed over his nose. He pulls the car over and stops. Mama rolls down her window. “Going my way?” she asks. Daddy leans over her. He has a big grin on his face. “Hey Doll (Doll is his nickname for me)! Get in!” he yells, as if we’re all deaf. Daddy suffers a hearing loss in his left ear. With his hand, he motions for me to climb in the back seat. The car reeks of stale cigarettes and beer. “What are you two doing way out here? Mama asks, “You know this road’s a death trap.” She turns in her seat and reaches for Chanel’s hand. Mama always looks worried but I can tell that she knows something’s up. “We were just walking.” I focus my eyes on the road ahead as if I’m driving. It’s a narrow road and the car is weaving slightly. At times, the car is dangerously close to crossing over into the other lane. While Mama makes over Chanel, I silently pray. We’re almost there, Heavenly Father, please don’t let us die in a head-on collision. At last Daddy makes an unsteady right turn and pulls up in Rosebud’s driveway, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I know better than to ever tell Daddy anything for fear of setting off his temper so I lean forward and whisper, “Mama, I’m so glad you’re here. It’s awful – Ritchie hit Chanel. His handprint – ” Mama shakes her head, indicating that I’m not to say another word. “Honey, you look pale,” Mama says. Then in a louder voice she adds, “Don’t worry, now. I’ve got everything you need. I even brought you some ice cream – your favorite – buttered pecan.” “But Mama – ” “I heard you,” Mama says calmly. “Let’s go inside. You get the grocery bag – it’s not heavy. I’ll take this precious baby from you.” Mama reaches out and folds Chanel into her arms. Chanel begins to gurgle and coo and I begin to breathe normally again. “Who you got there? Who is that?” Daddy laughs. Sometimes, he plays with Chanel. But it’s always the same. Daddy drops Mama off for a visit at Rosebud’s while he goes to his favorite hang out – Hattie’s Grill – to shoot pool and tank up on beer. From the looks of him, he’s been there already. As I reach for the bag on the front seat, I feel Daddy’s eyes on me. I can’t say for sure, but I suspect he wants me to say something nice like “Hi Daddy” or at least give him a smile. I suppose it’s out of guilt that I say, “Bye Daddy” over my shoulder. I follow Mama up the steps feeling shaky but relieved. As long as she’s here – everything will be OK – at least for tonight.