| WORLD VOICES DANCING FOR MY MOTHER
BY DUFF BRENNA |
Contents World
Voices Home |
Come
summer. A
little sideswipe: Your parents leave you and your sister with a man who
has a
cabin in the mountains. Maybe your parents just need to get away. Maybe
it’s
their honeymoon. In any case, this man, whose name now floats in the
Lethe
River, takes Carol Marie and you target shooting. You climb a hill and
shoot at
a tree with a bull’s-eye nailed to it. The man has put the barrel of
the rifle
on a log and shaped your body to lie behind it, your legs forming a Y.
The butt
of the rifle is under your armpit. Your head leaning at an angle, so
you can
line up the sights. There, now squeeze the trigger, he says, don’t pull
it
hard. Ease it. You like squeezing the trigger, hearing the bang and
seeing the
target ripple. You load up and fire bullet after bullet. The rifle has
very
little kick to it. You really like killing the target. It is breaking
into
pieces, chips falling, whirling like snowflakes the wind carries away.
At one
point you look behind to see if the man is smiling with admiration at
what a
sharpshooter you are. What you see is Carol Marie sitting in his lap,
his hand
rubbing her hip as she stares into space. Her round eyes puzzled. A
little
fearful. That night when you’re in bed the man comes again. He sits on
the edge
of the mattress and plays with Carol Marie’s privates. She keeps her
eyes
closed. She pretends to sleep. When it is over and the man is gone, she
looks
at you, her eyes a pair of question marks. I knew he would come, she
says. (Men are
mysteries.
Women too. You have no idea why they do what they do. You and your
sister have
already learned not to trust them. In her 60’s in San Diego and very
experienced Carol Marie will still ask why?
Why do men do that to innocent little girls who haven’t a clue what the
fuck is
going on? What’s wrong with them, Duffy?) Daily
lives
wandering by as they do, until something definitive disrupts the
timetable:
first day of grade school stops the forward motion. Rewinds it. Again,
sister
leads you. This is your school as well as hers now. At some point she
leaves
you and you don’t know where to go. Panicked and frightened you begin
blubbering. You’re standing in a hall. There are many doors to choose
from, but
you haven’t a clue which one is yours. Sister probably told you, but
you’ve
already forgotten. So you stand there and bawl. It must be September
and that
means you are five years old and still a crybaby. You’re short and
skinny, so
thin you’re nearly transparent. You’re shy and everything scares you.
You watch
children rushing by. Doors open. Doors close. You can’t remember how to
get
back home. You don’t know the way to the kindergarten school or you’d
go there.
What do you know? You know a minor miracle occurs. A beautiful lady in
high
heels, shiny dress, blond hair fluffy falling to her shoulders is
leading a
little boy by the hand and she stops to ask if you are lost. Uh-huh,
you tell
her, and she says sweetly, Let’s find out where you belong. She wipes
your
tears away with a hanky, takes your hand, leads you and the other boy
to an office,
where she is told which door is yours. She leads you there, kisses her
son,
hugs him. Tells him to be good. You would love to have a kiss from her
too, but
she doesn’t offer one. She pats you on the head and says, You’ll be all
right
now. You don’t think to thank her. You watch her walk away, a vision
branding
your brain. A pretty moment the day you were lost. Not yet lost. And then
this
lesson in diction when the principal comes to the classroom to talk to
your
teacher. Your bladder is full to bursting and can’t wait for recess. So
up to
the desk you shyly shuffle and timidly interrupt them with - I hafa go
pee pee.
The principal says, It’s not pee pee! It’s I have to go to the
lavatory!
Teacher says, Now, now, he’s just a baby. Principal shakes her head.
Not that
much of a baby! Quick lesson learned, I hafa go to the lavatory. 6
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