Crave (11 page)
Authors: Laurie Jean Cannady
The Good Reverend
The Good Reverend
Even as we worked to make Momma comfortable and to help around the house, we were still a rowdy bunch. Dathan, considered the middle of the middle, was the rowdiest of us all. Sandwiched between Champ and me and Mary and Tom-Tom, Dathan was easy to overlook, once, but after you met him, you'd never make that mistake again. He was an ebony boy, with coarse hair shorn close to his head. He was the darkest of Momma's kids, and that we considered a fatal flaw. We referred to him according to his color: Blacky, Darky, Midnight, Spookdust were all names we used in order to call on him.
We'd deemed Dathan the goat or the garbage disposal of the family because he ate anything. If one of us was eating an apple, Dathan happily devoured the core. If we ate chicken for dinner, he'd meticulously pull any remaining meat off the bones we left behind. He'd eat the backs, booties, and innards like they were thick, juicy breasts. Momma praised him, lauding her “Snooky” for willingly accepting what no one else wanted. Dathan basked so heavily in Momma's adulation that he sucked the skin off of the bone, cracked the ribs, licked his hands, and “mmm, mmm, mmmed,” just so Momma could see how grateful he was. For his kissing-up we ridiculed him until he ran into the bedroom, sucking his thumb, or retaliated with a quick swipe of his hand at one of our faces or arms. That was the way it was with Dathan. He was either soft, easily hurt, or hard, easily angered. We had the same father, so I believed that was the Carl in him. If one of us ever got him to the fighting point, we knew he was nothing to play with. Yet, we toyed with him to no avail.
One night before falling asleep, Dathan and I were arguing. Now, I can't even remember what we were arguing about, but it probably had something to do with him touching me, Mary, Tom-Tom, or my stuff. It really didn't matter what the matter was, he
was annoying me and he wouldn't stop. So, we squared off in the middle of the bedroom and began pushing and tussling each other into submission. We bumped chests for a minute, while Champ, Mary, and Tom-Tom egged us on. Suddenly, Dathan cocked his hand back and punched me square in the arm. I could feel the large frog that responded to his punch jump under my T-shirt. I was not having that. I was the big sister and the one who inflicted pain. So, I cocked my arm back, aimed right for Dathan's nose, and put as much power as I had into the wallop he was about to receive.
As I was revving up for a punch that was going to make the children still in Dathan's scrotum flinch, Dathan was ducking. My hand went vaulting past the vacant space Dathan had once inhabited right to the window hiding behind the curtain. There was a large crash as I heard the glass shattering, falling in the windowsill and on the hardwood floor. I looked around and saw Dathan hopping into bed next to Champ, while Mary, Tom-Tom, and Champ's heads snapped back on their pillows. Their eyelids quickly closed as if they'd always been that way.
When Momma entered the room, I stood alone, my fists still clenched, looking as if I had decided to wake up and punch the window while my brothers and sister slept peacefully. Momma didn't say a word. She just turned, went into her bedroom, and got the leather fly. I attempted to make it to the bed, under the cover of blankets, but Mary and Tom-Tom kicked me away, not wanting to be hit by a stray belt slash. Momma came back into the room and pulled me to my feet. “Why did you do this?” she shouted.
Now, there was a code in the Carter household. If you got caught doing something wrong and you were the only one who got caught, you took the hit for that one. This, in turn, limited the amount of beatings we got because every now and again each of us got a pass. I had a decision to make. I could do the noble thing and take my beating like a Carter, but I imagined Dathan under the covers, smiling, waiting to hear my screams sing throughout the room, so I immediately pointed to the lump that was him and said, “Dathan made me do it, Momma.”
Like the beat-out-of-sleep night, Dathan and I danced around the room, attempting to duck and dodge Momma's swings. When the belt connected, there was a sting, which felt like rows of needles running straight to the bone. When Momma missed, she sometimes hit herself, which meant our pummeling lasted longer. Once Momma finished whipping us, we were both in tears. Our previous episodes of bravado were nowhere to be found. Momma made us clean the glass while she watched and then ordered us to bed. The cotton sheets stung against my newly formed welts.
“Now go to sleep,” Momma ordered and charged out. As soon as the door closed, snickers populated the room. While Champ, Mary, and Tom-Tom attempted to contain the laughter inside of them, I lifted my head from the pillow, already wet with my tears and said, “Ain't nothing funny. I hate all of y'all, especially you, Blacky.”
Champ returned my statement with laughter. Dathan spoke with the same tears in his voice, “I hate you too, Bucky,” and then there were more giggles.
Aside from being what we deemed the “certifiable” one in our family, Dathan was also a thief. We always joked God made him dark so he couldn't be seen at night and that he was so bad he even stole from himself. When I was thirteen years old, he stole food stamps Momma intended to use for food. We searched the house trying to find those stamps until Dathan got tired of looking and told us they were behind the water heater. Champ and I took turns trying to reach the stamps while Momma beat Dathan's butt.
Despite what we considered his flaws, Dathan had such a good heart. When he stole Momma's jar of fifty-cent pieces, he didn't do what I would have done, which was buy Banana Now and Laters and eat them in front of my brothers and sister. He took the fifty-cent pieces and gave them to the children in his class. When he stole Momma's boyfriend's watch one morning before school, he didn't walk around school, perpetrating like he was hot stuff. He gave it to a teacher who'd been nice to him.
Even though most everyone in his life treated him like an outcast, Dathan longed to be accepted. We returned his longing with relentless badgering, teasing that often left him alone, hurt, and then angry. But, there were times we appreciated Dathan and his goodness. Whenever we needed entertainment, he was always happy to oblige as he morphed into Reverend Carter.
In the summer, when Momma went to work, we'd pull her chest of drawers from the wall and put a chair behind it for “the Reverend” to stand on. Dathan would hover above us on his makeshift pulpit. Then, the fun would begin.
“Hallelujah,” Dathan would yell with his hands outstretched in the air.
“Hail glory,” I'd reply.
“God is good. God is good,” his voice becoming coarse with his words.
“Preach, brother,” Champ added.
Dathan would then erupt into a sermon, chastising us all for succumbing to sin, healing us of whatever ailments we could dream up, and rebuking our evil thoughts in the name of Jesus. He'd pray for us with such sincerity, laying hands on us as if he were a weathered holy man.
We sat on Momma's bed with our heads upturned to Dathan, Reverend Carter, our preacher. Mary and Tom-Tom, our designated shouters, jumped and gyrated after the Holy Ghost got into them. Dathan was more than willing to give our sermons whenever we got bored. He was the “crookedest” preacher we had ever seen in our lives, but he did give a good sermon. As we sat on Momma's bed, with our eyes staring at him in admiration, he must have felt normal, like just another kid playing with his brothers and sisters. Those were some of the only times we weren't berating and torturing him. It was then we allowed Dathan to be one of us and not the outsider we made him.
Academy Park was definitely a step up for our family. Our little white home could never aspire to be what others referred to as a “house,” but it was more of a house than the apartment on Victory Boulevard had been. And we lived in it hard, running patches of dirt into the once greened-over backyard. We dirtied the walls with our grimy hands. In turn, Momma made us wash them each weekend. We lived in every part of that house and, at times, often used the outside as our living space. On warm summer mornings, Momma let us drape a sheet over the clothesline and make our very own tents. We'd imagine we were campers and try to start fires with sticks and stones. Momma supplied us with cherry pies she made with flour and canned cherries. We stayed under the sheet, under our tents until we were covered in red stickiness and filled with the abandon only childhood brings.
The autumn after my eighth birthday, Mary was starting school and I was more excited than anyone else. At first, I adored Mary and all of her cuteness, but the truth of the matter was she looked a lot like Momma, more like her than I ever could with my yellow skin, red hair, and brown eyes. Anytime someone came to visit, I was reminded of how much they looked alike. Visitors showered her with compliments, “Girl, you're the spitting image of your Momma,” and “You're just as pretty as Pretty. You should be Lil' Pretty.” Then, there was always the traditional, “You're cute too, Laurie, but Mary is just so pretty.” Soon, I resented Mary and her prettiness.
When I was seven, we began the battle over Momma's affection. Skirmishes included debates over who got to sleep next to Momma and which daughter she loved more. Those fights usually ended with Momma appeasing Mary because she was the “baby” and quick to cry. Despite our sibling rivalry, Mary and I were as close as sisters could be. With her puffy round cheeks and deep dark eyes, I adored my baby sister, even as I battled her for Momma's affection.
One day, Mary and I were playing in Momma's bedroom, trying on her earrings and combing our hair. Momma was at work, so we had free rein over her room. I began combing Mary's hair, which was much nicer than my dry knots, which crunched like potato chips when Momma attempted to pull a comb through. I protested in pain whenever Momma did my hair, so she kept it in little plaits that lay on my head like worms, struggling to be free.
In contrast, Mary's locks were black silk. Momma could sit a comb in Mary's hair and it would slide through on its own. Mary never cried like I did when Momma did her hair. She'd sit quietly and comb her doll's hair, leaning lazily on Momma's leg as if she were getting a scalp massage.
That morning, I was combing Mary's hair and admiring the way her curls slipped easily through the comb. As I began styling her mane into a ponytail and bang, I wanted so badly to have hair that thin and soft. I gathered her strands into a ball and used a rubber band to hold them taut against her scalp. After I finished, I stood proudly admiring the majestic ponytail that sat on top of her head, not a strand out of place. I wanted to put a little heat on her bang with curlers and end with a nice swirl, but Mary was afraid I'd burn her forehead, so I improvised. I took the comb, ran it to the end of her hair, and began rolling it in the teeth of the comb. I let it sit like that for a minute, believing the bend I was creating would take shape inside of the comb.
After a minute, I attempted to unravel Mary's hair from the comb. With each turn, her hair tangled even more. I soon realized her bang had become a twisted mass of plastic and hair strands. I panicked. If Momma found Mary's hair in that condition, I'd soon be having an intimate discussion with the leather fly. Then, I had an idea. If I cut the comb out, maybe Momma wouldn't notice.
I left Mary staring in the mirror with the comb hanging from her hair and I went into the bathroom to look for scissors. There were none to be found. I ran into the kitchen and went to the knife drawer, searching for the perfect tool. A butter knife wouldn't be sharp enough, so I grabbed the sharpest knife I saw, a serrated steak
knife. I ran back into Momma's room where Mary stifled tears she'd cried while I left her alone. “I'm sorry, Mary,” I said. “I'll fix it.”
“Okay,” she sniffled. I commenced to sawing off Mary's bang in as straight a line as I could. Once the sawing was done, Mary sat with the most beautiful ponytail and in the front was a bang that looked like the stubble of a man's beard. I almost fainted. Mary exploded into more tears as she looked in the mirror.
“I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean it.”
“I know,” she continued crying.
“It'll grow back,” I promised.
“I know.”
“You mad at me?”
“No,” she said. I began to get a little hopeful. If she didn't get mad, then maybe Momma wouldn't be mad. I prayed under my breath. When Mary walked out of the room with her tear-stained cheeks, Dathan and Champ pointed and sang, “Oh, you gonna get it.” I went into our bedroom and got in bed, dreading the punishment I was going to get. And get it I did. I had a lengthy discussion with the leather fly that night and Momma didn't stop scowling at me until Mary's hair grew back. But, what bothered me most about the “hair thing” was Momma thought I had done it on purpose. She kept saying, “I know you wanted to cut Mary's hair, Laurie.” I was so troubled by this. True, I'd always been a little jealous of Mary's hair and true, I was somewhat delighted beard stubble took her down a step or two on the cuteness meter, but I hadn't intended to hurt my sister. I said that over and over again in hopes I would believe it myself.
One wonderful thing about life at Academy Park was that the youngest, Tom-Tom, had never known hunger in the way Champ, Dathan, Mary, and I had. He'd had real milk and had never needed to suck on Momma's dry breasts. When Tom-Tom was born, he had perfect auburn color, with red hair that framed his round face. Even as he grew taller and less round, there was an innocence about him that made me need to protect him. It's true I loved all of my brothers and sister, but Tom-Tom was the only one I feared hurting. I believed he was the most fragile of dolls and just looking at him in anger would have cracked him beyond repair.
My love for Tom-Tom couldn't shield him from our daily “jokefests.” We joked on Champ's round nose, which we proclaimed looked like a ripened prune. We joked about my duck feet and how they looked as if they were running from each other whenever I walked. We joked on Mary's “bootie-nose” and the fact that she bit her toenails daily. And we joked about Dathan's thieving ways and the thumb he sucked, which we all avoided. So, we had to have something to joke on Tom-Tom about and that was the size of his head. His body was always smaller than our own and we had no problems with that; but his head was as big as Champ's, and Champ was six years older than him. So, we joked his head was the size of a beach ball, a car tire, and a full moon.
Whenever we joked on Tom-Tom, the first sign of a tear meant the jokes needed to stop. If his heart was breaking, our hearts were breaking too. We'd turn on each other like strangers if one of us attacked the baby of the family. And this is how we functioned those first years in Academy Parkâas fast friends on some days and even quicker enemies on others.
But there were also days we were just kids needing a release, needing to relax, and Tom-Tom provided us with the simplest of pleasures: the gift of music. When Momma was at work and we
got bored with joking, we'd set aside time for Tom-Tom to give us a “concert.” Champ would sit in the big armchair and hold Tom-Tom on his lap. Dathan, Mary, and I sat on the floor in a semi-circle and gazed up at him like adoring fans. We leaned in as Tom-Tom, only three, squeaked inaudible sounds directly into Champ's ear.
“Hunuh, Hunuh, Hunununuhuh. Hunuuuh . . .”
Each song had the same words, but they all had different rhythms. Sometimes the songs were slow ballads. “Hunuh, Hunuh, Hunununuhuh. Hunuuuh . . .” Other times they were fast dance tunes. “Hunuh, Hunuh, Hunununuhuh. Hunuuuh . . .” It didn't matter how fast or slow the song was; they were all filled with “Hunuh,” and they were all softly sung. While he sang, we didn't see the hand-me-downs we had to wear. We didn't have to accept Momma was always at work and we were always missing her. Daddies had never disappeared and there was always enough. Our pasts were not our pasts, as the future rode on the melody of our baby brother's voice.
