The Heart is Deceitful above All Things (19 page)

‘Look, it's your momma.' I wave her in my left hand, taunting the baby in my right. ‘You want your momma, don't you?' I spit on the baby coal and smear its lumpy face with my finger. ‘Oh, look at the crying
baby . . . you think you're gonna get what you want by crying?'

I bend down to my hand, tilt my head side to side, and smile in the baby's face. ‘If you didn't cry, I would have put you and your momma back home, but you was a baby, so now see what happens.'

I hold the momma close to the baby. She's trying to scream for help, but I've got her mouth covered with my finger, plus, without fire or my grandfather, none of her family can do anything.

I spit on her. ‘See?' I tell the baby. ‘You even made your momma cry, now she gets punished.' I raise her back above my head, like I'm throwing a pitch, and slam her into the brick-exposed foundation wall next to the coal pile. She splinters apart. I run over, gather up her body parts, take out my red pencil from my back pocket, and hock up phlegm and spit it on her. I wet the lead and press it to the wet goo on her body. I bite my lip in an excited grin as I hold the baby over her cracked body.

‘See!' I shout at it. ‘And it's all your fucking fault.' I shake it hard.

I put my pencil back in my pocket. ‘What?' I ask, raising him to my ear. ‘You wanna go home?' I look at the baby and caress him gently. ‘Hmmm . . . OK, baby, you can go home, it's OK.' I pet his little head. I walk him over to the pile and hold him over it. ‘Uh-oh.' I turn to the baby coal shaking in my hand. ‘Listen to that.' I hold him close. ‘They don't want you.' I put my hand to my ear, like they do in cartoons, to listen.
‘They say you kilt your momma so they don't want you.' I hold him over the pile so he can plead and cry to them. Finally I pull him back. ‘Now all you have is me . . . don't worry, I won't kill you . . . only if you're bad.' I scratch his head, caking his black soot under my nails.

And suddenly the sobbing of my baby coal is drowned by the faint revving of a motorcycle coming toward the house. I'm frozen, my legs like concrete pillars bolted to the foundation. I hear the small explosion of a backfire echoing through the holler; it's Buddy on his Harley. Chester convinced me Buddy is a giant; his head scrapes the ceiling of our house, and he has to duck through the door.

‘One day Buddy is going to grow right through the roof,' Chester said, and laughed, pointing at him.

‘I'm not gonna grow through the roof,' Buddy said in his slow, lumbering way, his mole-covered face squeezing like a lemon as he walked over to me in his thick leather boots, causing the floor to vibrate with each step, and sat down with a boom.

Even though he is a giant and I know his foot will one day be large enough to crush our entire house, I'm not afraid of him. Unlike the others, he doesn't run down to the basement to play with their crystal first thing. He always sits down next to me and watches cartoons. Usually he brings a box of Fiddle Faddle hidden like a flat shoebox under his too tight shirt that pulls up, showing a hairy round belly, little white lint pieces nesting in the black fuzz.

‘Whatcha got there, Buddy?' I would ask, not turning from the cartoon.

‘Me? Don't got nothin'.' He would shake his huge head back and forth.

‘Nothin', huh?' Without looking at him, I would reach sideways and tap the raised rectangle of his stomach.

‘Knock-knock,' I'd say, smiling, still watching the TV.

‘Who's there?'

‘Fiddle.'

‘Fiddle? Fiddle who?' he'd squeal like a little piggy. And I'd jump up quickly in front of him, grab his shirt, and pull it up, exposing the colorful box of caramel corn stuck to his folded-over stomach.

‘Fiddle Faddle all mine!' I'd shout, and grab it off his belly and start to run. He'd always grab a belt loop on my jeans and hold me still while I'd try to escape.

‘You look like Road Runner running in the air, not goin' nowheres,' he'd say, laughing.

‘I'm gonna eat it all,' I'd taunt, and laugh, ripping the box and foil inside and plowing handfuls of Fiddle Faddle into my mouth, as he'd lightly pull me back and I'd push forward. This would go on till Chester or someone'd tell us to shut up and for Buddy to get his slow ass downstairs, or we'd just get distracted by the cartoon, the Smurfs getting in danger, and slowly he'd let go. I'd sit down more or less in his lap, and we'd silently watch the TV, stuffing the sugary, sticky corn into our mouths.

I can tell by the backfires it's Buddy on his beat-up,
loud-as-hell cycle, and I wish I were an Indian so I could put my ear to the ground and tell by the sound if he's got someone on the backseat. Another loud bang echoes down the stairwell. My body moves automatically, and I toss handfuls of coal on the pile, but it only seems to cause more to roll down. Now the coal is getting its revenge on me. I can hear their throaty, dusky chuckling. I squat down to throw as many off the floor and onto my T-shirt as I can. The roar of the bike surrounds the house, and I scramble under a table, gathering up the coal, trying to escape.

‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,' I tell them as I chuck them onto my shirt. But suddenly I realize past my panting, the silence has closed in again, no engine rev, no nothing. On my hands and knees I quiet my breath. Maybe it wasn't Buddy, just a joyrider going to ride out the ramps and bridges past the house.

I strain to listen. I turn my head back to the stairwell, just dusted lights and particles twisting and turning as if in a slow-moving blender. I look back at the coal scattered beneath me, and there, staring up at me, is the mother, crushed and bloody.

The footstep on the porch is heavy and almost sounds like the foot broke straight through to the ground. Then there's more up to the front door, and the rusted screen door screeching open makes me twist my head back to the stairs like a rabbit, hypnotized and paralyzed by the sound of its stalker creeping up.

I can feel the loud boot in my chest stomping into the
house. I can't tell if there's a lighter step beneath it. I look up to the cellar ceiling and can see the indents on the wood boards as Buddy walks into the living room toward my TV.

‘Hey, where are you?' Buddy calls. I watch the depression move around the living room above my head.

‘You hiding?' I see only his steps, no one else's. I slowly stand up.

‘You by your lonesome, Buddy?' I call up, my voice wobbly.

‘Where you at? Quit hidin'.' He stomps to the kitchen, closer to the cellar door.

I gather up the coal in my T-shirt, make it into a bundle, and carry it over to the stairs.

‘I'm down here, Buddy.'

‘Where at?' But his voice is louder, and his steps head toward me. I step into the light shaft and squint at the brightness of it. At the top of the stairs his huge outline appears, blocking the sun like a gigantic redwood.

‘Down here, Buddy,' I say softly. I hear his lumbering thud as he climbs down the groaning steps. He stops and ducks through the doorway and stares at me, his large pink lips hanging open.

‘You ain't supposed to be down here, I don't think.' He swallows loud, and his mouth flaps open again.

‘I needed coal, Buddy, I was out.' I squint up at him to see his face.

‘Chester's gonna be mad at you.'

‘He's not with you, right?' I lean against the stairwell.

‘Nope, coming, though. You really ain't supposed to be down here. You break in?'

‘The door was left open, Buddy. I don't got no superpowers.' His stomach heaves a big sigh. The rectangular box stuck under his shirt rattles its contents with every breath.

‘He's gonna whoop you bad.' He shakes his head, making the dust whirl around him like a cyclone.

‘We don't have to tell, Buddy, we can just watch our cartoons and not say nothin'. If you tell, he'll take my TV and we can't watch no more.' Buddy stares at me a while, then rolls his giant eyes side to side and grunts.

‘Chester'll find out.'

‘Please, Buddy, he won't. I swear, Buddy, I didn't do nothin', just got coal. I was gonna do us Jiffy Pop.'

‘You don't got that!' His head shakes hard.

‘Look in the refrigerator down here.' I point to it behind me. ‘I swear, Buddy, I was gonna, but I got no coal and I wanted to surprise you, so it's your fault I'm down here!'

He rubs his face. ‘For real?' He shifts his weight.

‘Check and see and nail me up as a liar if it ain't, Buddy.' I wave him down, and he follows into the cellar to the fridge, his head hitting the hanging light bulbs.

‘Why's the coal all over?'

‘Just fell out when I taked some.' I bend over and pick up a few. ‘Buddy, Chester coming now?' I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

‘Said he'd meet up here with me.' He opens the fridge
door and leans inside. He spins around. ‘Jiffy Pop's in here!' he half shouts.

‘See, I told ya!'

‘Yes, you did.'

‘Ain't no liar to ya, Buddy.'

‘No, no, you ain't that at all.' He smiles widely.

‘But if I get whipped, we won't get to pop it, Buddy.'

‘Won't we?' His smile fades.

‘No, Buddy, no cartoons either.' I shake my head and listen in the silence for Chester's car.

He stomps his foot on the concrete. ‘I wanna watch TV with ya.'

‘Well, Buddy, you can fix it for me.'

‘The Jiffy Pop?' He turns to open the fridge to get it.

‘No, no, Buddy!' I take hold of the fridge door and close it. ‘If you can clean up the coal, say you were down here . . .'

‘I don't got the key.' He shrugs, and his shadow looks like giant mountains collapsing.

‘Tell Chester it was open, he won't whip you, Buddy.'

‘That's lyin', though.' He shakes his head.

‘Buddy, it's not lying 'cause you're down here now. Right?' He nods. ‘And I came down here to pop our corn just for you, right?' He nods again. ‘So all you have to do is leave out the part of me bein' down here, too, and there ain't no part of any lie.'

Buddy stands there thinking for a minute and laughs out loud.

‘You're a smart one,' he says, and pats my back with his oversize hand.

‘So are you, Buddy.' I smile up at him, and I knock at the box still under his shirt. ‘When you are all about done we'll eat this right down, okay?'

‘OK.' He nods fast.

‘So I never was down here no matter what Chester or my mom says.'

‘OK, that's right.' He nods even faster.

‘OK, I better get upstairs, just put the coal back.' I point to the pile. ‘I'll take this so we never run out.' I point to my T-shirt bundle. ‘Bye, Buddy.' I lift it against my naked chest and start up the stairs.

‘See you soon.'

I look over my shoulder and watch him picking up coal one at a time and placing it gently on the pile. I sprint up the stairs with my bundle and run out and hide it under the house just as my mom and Chester drive up.

I turn on my TV but keep the sound off to hear Chester yell, ‘Why was Buddy down there?' and my mom screaming about the coal spilled all over. Finally Chester shouts at my mom to shut up about the coal, which only makes her yell louder. Buddy comes creeping out finally and sits next to me to watch TV with the sound turned down. Silently he pulls out the Fiddle Faddle, opens it, and hands the box to me. It's wet from his stomach sweat. I dig in quietly and eat and listen to my mom let out a horrific scream.

‘The coal's bleeding! It's bleeding!'

I reach out for the sound knob and drown my mother out.

The retching returns with an unbelievable force, like a facial tick that just won't stop. My whole body gathers up and jousts forward as if every limb and organ were trying to collapse itself and be born again up through my stomach, throat, and mouth. There is nothing coming out but watery spit. I picture myself a swimmer only allowed brief turns to come up for air, and I try to take breaths between heaves, but my racing panic and the cold make it impossible.

I sit in the driver's seat clutching the wheel, throwing up on my chest and down between my legs. I lift my head between gags, and I see her entering Burger King. My mother's dyed black hair is swept over her face, reflecting almost a rainbow in the morning light. The black metallic raincoat is clutched too tightly around her, and her rubber boots covering her bare feet instead of shoes almost fall off with each step.

It's her. I push the car door open and run, my stomach rising into my throat. I pull open the glass Burger King doors and run in half-speed, past the children in cardboard crowns staring with their parents, as I run toward the woman in black at the counter. I hear her order two French Toast Sticks.

‘It's poison! It's poison!' I gasp between retches. I grab her coat, somehow no longer black in the fluorescent
light, and I fall down onto the tile floor as her coat comes off her shoulders into my hand.

A face I don't recognize clouds what should be my mother's face leaning above me, calling for help. She kneels down and puts the jacket under my head. I raise my hand and hit her again and again, like hitting a TV to make the picture stop jumping, to stop her face from changing like it was doing. Someone grabs my hand and holds it still. Faces spin above me, and I fall into the comfort of nothingness.

Chester never did find out I got into the cellar; Buddy told him he'd gotten the coal for me and that's why it'd fallen all over the floor.

My mom never felt easy about having the big pile down there to begin with. It had come with the house. As long as the pile was covered and stayed in its place, well, she could ignore it; but it had moved and even bled. No one could explain that one. Chester said she was seeing things, trick of the light, but my mom knew. She'd seen a piece come apart and bleed from its evil red heart.