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| Hush, Child | |
| By beatricelouise | ||||||||||||||||||
| 21 May 2008 | ||||||||||||||||||
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Another story with dialect. Not Irish this time, but American Black. I love these people even more ever since I read Toni Morrison's books: The Bluest Eye, and Beloved. "Mama ... Mama? You here, Mama?" The eight-year-old opened the white screen door, and poked her black knotted-haired head through the slight opening. "Hey, Olivia. What you doin' here?" Celia tossed the tea towel on the black shining slate counter, placed her hands on her hips, and glared at the child." I told you never to come here. You gonna git your Mama fired. Now git." Patting Olivia's bottom, and not waiting for any explanation as to why the visit, she shooed the child away. "Git! Git yourself on home." When Olivia disappeared, Celia returned to the stainless-steel fridge, permitting her frown to flirt with a smile. Her pride and joy required a talking to that evening. Nonetheless, a gleam twinkled in her eye. She didn't know what time she'd arrive home. It depended on the lawyer and the Missus whether they'd go to dinner somewhere. It seemed their last minute plans always managed to ruin hers. She would've loved to spend more time with the children, but work had to take top priority. She knew she ought not to complain. The job kept her children in her hands rather than in the hands of Family Services. Hubert left the scene once the fourth child emerged the colour purple. One slap provoked a chilling scream, generating goose bumps along his spine. The thought of piling lumber one hour longer each day to make ends meet struck him dizzy. He'd already had it with family life. A roving eye, a tongue for liquor, and a lazy streak ran through the man like flesh-eating disease. Once he got home from the hospital, he scrunched some underwear and darned socks into a small canvas bag along side his toiletries, swiped the coins and dollar bills from the pink pig jar on the top shelf of the pantry, and hightailed himself out of town on the first bus that moseyed along. No good-byes. No note of departure. Nothing. In his black-and-white stripe suit so to speak, another state would have to deal with the indolent bum. Celia's pillow, tear-stained and damp, took the brunt of the blows intended for Hubert; however, in the back of her mind, she somehow knew this would eventually happen. The oldest child turned ten and common sense dealed his new position: man of the house. Jake didn't much care to change diapers, but the stink motivated him. Celia snatched the first job within walking distance. Her wage would put food on the table, pay the mortgage, lights and other bills. If she worked overtime, she might even be able to put a little money aside for her children's education. Daily, she strived toward her dream of giving her children the opportunity of becoming future lawyers, doctors or teachers. Anything that would make them respected citizens in society. Not like her! She was uneducated and suffered down-grading sneers because of it. They lived in a three-bedroom bungalow with a fairly large yard, according to the standards of those in the same neighborhood. The house had belonged to her folks, but a ten-year mortgage hung over the building like a black cloud when Celia and Hubert moved in. Celia's Mama died of lung cancer a year earlier, only six months after her Daddy. He died instantly after being struck by lightning at the Western Missouri Correctional Centre. He worked as a guard. Getting stabbed by an inmate seemed more likely to occur. The preacher said that God needed him more than the Correctional Centre. Celia could never figure out what could be more important in heaven than keeping the riff-raff off the streets down here. "Celia? Did I hear the screen door slam? You know how I hate loud, banging noises. It's enough to start another migraine. Now, don't you slam that door any more. Understand?" "Yes. I mean, no ma'am. I won't. You can count on me, ma'am. Can I get you something for that migraine of yours?" "No. I haven't time for a migraine now. I have to meet my friends at the Spa. We're going to work out together, then get a massage, and tan." The Missus ran her fingers through her reddish-blonde hair, white colour shouting from the roots. "Make an appointment for a haircut and color before the week-end. I don't want to be going to Venice like this. You do know about the trip, don't you?" "Yes ma'am. Shore do. You going to have a good time. I just know you is." "Well, I sure hope you're right. I'm so worried about leaving. You are going to take care of the place and get caught up with the flower beds, windows and attic. If you weren't so slow Celia, you could've had a vacation, too. Oh, well! Good help is hard coming by these days." The stab slinked off Celia's crocodile skin. Her great-grandmother grew flesh thick enough to pass down to following generations when she had been sold into slavery. The Missus ended her spiel once glancing at her watch, "Oh. Look at the time. I must be going. By the way, Mr. McCollum called and said we'll be having a dinner party tonight. Just six extra people! Go to the market and pick up ribs, baby potatoes and serve a couple of nice salads. You know the ones he likes?" Mrs. McCollum handed Celia a hundred dollar bill and a couple of twenties. "Now, go along." Celia, in the process of cleaning out the fridge before the Missus entered, returned everything to its place. Removing her apron, she headed out the door with change-purse in hand and fingering her hair in place. Standing in line at the market, Celia overheard a conversation between two women. "...found youngster lying in water." The statement reached her ears fragmented. "Small child ... maybe seven, eight year-old." "Do they know who done it?" "Nope. So far they've not been able to even identify the child. Just said she was beaten terribly bad. Some gang member maybe, or ... a dirty old man. They can be ...." "Don't say that. Who'd be that sick?" The woman searched for a tissue tucked under her sleeve while shaking her head in disgust. Celia didn't have time to ask questions. She hurried along, knowing she had to get those ribs ready for the barbecue, make an appointment for the Missus, get salads tossed together, pick up the dry cleaning and .... Once she returned to the house, Celia placed the receipt and change on the Missus' desk. Her main concern was not to forget and have the Missus accuse her of stealing. To the kitchen she rushed. Scrubbed her hands and prepared the ribs for the barbecue grill. She scrubbed her hands again as though the Missus' eyes could see through the walls making sure her black hands were scrubbed nearly white before she started on the salads. All the ingredients and the recipe book assembled before her. Within three-quarters of an hour, three different salads rested in the fridge chilling for the evening meal. Celia prepared her children's meal the night before. Jake would heat a serving for the three of them in the microwave. Tonight, they'd be having meatloaf, scalloped potatoes and broccoli. Olivia's chore was to help with clean up. The baby still slept a great deal. A formula every four hours, a hearty burp, and a clean bottom still satisfied her. The three-year-old kept the two children especially busy. He slept for a couple of hours in the afternoon, but the rest of the time wore the legs off the two. Once school would commence in late August, Celia would have to take the two younger ones to nursery school before she continued on to work. It's a worry either way, thought Celia while she proceeded with the potato scrubbing. Jake and Olivia is so young to be carin' for those little ones. They don't even have time to be childrin'. So much responsibility hangin' on them young shoulders. Hubert! You such a loser! I hate you! You bastard! Leavin' your own childrin so's you kin suck on some beer bottle. and nuzzle up to some cheap set of tits. Celia entered the dining room balancing a tray over her shoulder. Sparkling white wine fizzed like Cola in crystal long-stemmed glasses. The four couples exchanged bits of side-splitting gossip while sipping slowly on their beverages. Celia waited patiently for the now we are ready signal, but another glass and then another was summoned. Finally, the uh-hmm indication to serve the first of a three course meal became apparent. The guests politely thanked her, but the lawyer and the Missus...well; they seemed indifferent to the service. Embarrassing her and being firm was how Mrs. McCollum kept Celia in her place. Her notion of blacks being equal to whites hadn't developed in her head as of yet; however, Celia's efficient and accommodating method amazed them as the evening progressed. That evening they began to acknowledge the pearl in their midst. "What if one of these women considered to offer Celia a job while we're off to Venice? I'd be lost," she whispered to her lawyer husband. Finally, nine chimes struck as Celia's day ended. Fourteen hours on her feet. Now she must walk home, speak with Olivia about the morning incident, and get the bottles washed, sterilized and filled with the fresh formula for the following day. Celia fumbled with the key, then turned the doorknob and crept in quiet as a moth. "Mama? Where's Olivia?" Jake startled Celia as he sat up on the couch. "Where's Olivia? What you mean, where's Olivia?" "She went off this mornin' to see you Mama." "She came along all right , but I chased her back on home." The evening cooled somewhat, but Celia swam in sweat. "You mean to say, Olivia didn't return home?" "No, Mama. All's this time, I supposed she with you." "I know I told you never to call at the McCollums, but this is different. You should have let me know, boy." Celia grabbed the phone and dialed 911. Her heart pulsed painfully, knees about to collapse. "I want to report a missing child. Just got home from work and my baby's not bin seen since mornin'. Please, help me find my baby." Celia choked. "I'll send an officer, as soon as I can, Ma'am. Give me your name, address, and phone number." Celia could hardly manage to release the information requested before she dropped the receiver. So far they've not been able to identify the child. 'Bout maybe seven, eight year old. Said she was beaten terribly bad. "Oh, my God." Her face scrunched and writhed in pain. Terror gripped her entire being. "Not Olivia, please God. Not O...livia."
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