Fiction by Jerome Brown
The day before I left for New York was my 20th birthday, in the summer of 1986, and Mama took one last jab at persuading me to change my plans to stay with cousin Sylvia in Brooklyn. Sylvia had told me the previous month, on her 21st birthday, that I was always welcome to stay with her. She said I needed to see the world through my own eyes if I wanted to grow up, and I could only do that if I left home.
Mama’s house felt like a mortuary desperate for repair the sofa and chairs were covered in old torn plastic to protect them from stains. Wherever there was a tear in the plastic, distinct patches of dirt clung to the textile exposed, creating prominent streaks that called to mind the unsightly marks found on soiled underwear. The grime, a mix of earthy browns and darker hues, crept into the rips as if the plastic had been battling indifference for decades.
A plastic runner stretched like a ribbon across a beige carpet, creating a clear pathway from the living room to the kitchen. In stark contrast, the surrounding carpet had not been vacuumed in years; its dull fibers collected dust and had faded in color. It looked as though a suffocating layer of volcanic ash had settled over everything. However, the area protected by the runner was flawless and illuminated even in the soft glow of nighttime, reminiscent of a landing strip guiding airplanes safely to and from their destination.
I often attempted to vacuum, but Mama was usually in the living room and would get annoyed by the sound of the motor. A few times, I tried to vacuum when she was asleep, but she would scream, “What the heck are you trying to do, Nina? Wake the whole neighborhood with all that racket! Turn that thing off and bring me a glass of iced tea now that I’m awake. Damn it, girl!” So, I eventually stopped trying.
The kitchen walls, once a pristine white framing the stove, now conveyed a haunting tale of neglect. Each streak of grease shimmered like amber tears, solidifying into a grim chronicle of abandonment. In the background, the refrigerator loomed like an unwelcome sentinel, its steady hum producing a melancholic melody–a relentless reminder of the profound loneliness echoing throughout the house.
I was on the sofa; as always, Mama was perched in her comfortable chair, watching the news. There was a fold-up dinner tray table stationed to her right. The only items I ever saw displayed on it were the remote for the TV, her Bible, a rotary phone that never rang, and a mason jar, always filled with Jack Daniels. Mama swore it was iced tea. Aunt Irene would occasionally swing by, God only knows why, and she and Mama would sit in the living room like two propped-up corpses positioned in front of the TV and say nothing for hours, except on Sundays, when Mama would invite the pastor and his family over for dinner. Our pastor’s family was at least entertaining to watch. Like clockwork they’d show up every Sunday after service. Observing those ravenous vultures feeding off Mama’s cooking in total silence brought me amusing relief from Mama’s daily monotony. Mama and I were sitting in the living room when she started.
“Nina, spare us both a headache. Not only will you be begging me to return home in a few days, but you’ll be miserable from the unsavory stench of rotting flesh in that summer heat dripping off them nasty fairy boys with AIDS, disrespecting the Lord’s word, acting like a bunch of circus clowns. Not to mention all the drug addicts smoking crack and panhandling on every corner. It’s just not safe, Nina.”
Mama often referred to gays and drug addicts as the devil’s imps. I think she enjoyed the TV news because it seemed to be fixated on drugs, crime, and AIDS in urban neighborhoods, and that made her feel superior as a delivered child of God. I don’t know where else her disdain for gays came from because I didn’t notice many open homosexuals or persons dying from AIDS in Youngstown, Ohio, where we lived. She would frequently chime in, spewing random scriptures from the Bible towards the TV, which seemed to validate her point, at least to her, like the decree that “man must not lie with man.”
“Nina, New York City is nothing but Satan’s playground, where no God-fearing Christian should be without an army of saints to protect them from temptation. Your cousin Sylvia is no child of God that Jezebel is loose, and the Lord only knows what kind of sin she’s wrapped up in living in Brooklyn. You’ve just turned 20 and suddenly think you know everything. Well, heed my word, little lady, you’re walking straight into the belly of the beast!” She concluded.
That was the first time I ever heard Mama acknowledge my birthday. Perhaps it was because she was drinking the Jack Daniels as if it were actually iced tea, and the spirit effect had Mama a little woozy. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but take notice.
I did believe in God. I found 20 dollars under the dining room table when I was twelve. It was on a Sunday evening, and the pastor and his family had left after eating Mama’s food. They had the nerve to take whatever they didn’t eat with them. There it was as I cleaned up the mess after the feeding frenzy. I held on to that money and prayed to God every day for a week so that no one would ask about it, and God answered my prayer; nobody ever did. But I never bought into the God-fearing Christian thing. What I did fear was turning into a God-fearing Christian like Mama. Except for occasional deliveries from the liquor store, she seemed to bask in denying herself any worldly pleasure in preparation for a life after death. I knew what Mama was referring to about Sylvia being loose; apparently, she had shamed the family name by getting caught kissing a girl in public, open mouth no less. The thought of her kissing with her mouth open is just plain nasty, even if she did it in private. But I have to admit, I’ve always admired Sylvia. She was so accessible, unafraid, and free-spirited to do anything she wanted to.
Sylvia’s mother, Aunt Irene, threatened to send her to the Christian Academy of All Saints for juvenile delinquents. Mama and Aunt Irene called it boot camp for Jesus. Though Silvia may have had a wandering tongue, she was no juvenile delinquent, unlike her brother Ronald, who was caught up in all kinds of messes before he was even 14. He would break into people’s houses across town with a group of boys he used to hang out with, steal the TVs and other electronics, and pawn them. He was even caught stealing money from the collection plate in church. Aunt Irene sent him to that Christian Academy; his mind hadn’t been right since he left. He won’t talk to anyone except himself, and nothing he says makes sense. Mama says he’s talking to The Lord in a foreign tongue.
Sylvia was a straight-A student, and we both nurtured a passion for becoming interior designers. As children, every time Mama entrusted us with the task of tidying up, we transformed her home into a creative sanctuary. Instead of simply cleaning, we immersed ourselves in a world of imagination, rearranging the dusty old furniture and trinkets Mama had salvaged from Woolworths or repurposed from church fundraisers. Each piece carried its own story, often steeped in religious significance, chosen primarily for its affordability–a value Mama always appreciated.
However, when Mama and Aunt Irene came home from their all-consuming Bible studies or missionary work, their critical gaze fell upon our artistic efforts. Rather than celebrating our creativity, they confronted us with stern scriptural admonitions, warning us of the dangers of vanity and stifling our lively expressions. So, rather than being lobotomized at 19, Sylvia had the sense to leave for New York. There, she juggled her job as a catering waiter with classes at the Pratt Institute, immersing herself in a world filled with creativity and possibility.
Mama glanced in my direction as my silence, I’m sure, was deafening to her. “You’re awfully quiet over there, little lassie; what are you thinking about, Nina? You know the Lord doesn’t like any secrets, young lady. I’ll bet the holy spirit is working on your mind right now. Speak to her, Lord Father God.” Truthfully, I felt compelled to ask Mama why she never allowed me to ask about my daddy, and nobody ever mentioned anything about him. She had some nerve to lecture me about keeping secrets. I was ready to excuse myself when Mama asked me to fill her jar with more iced tea, which I always did discreetly in the kitchen.
“Mama, perhaps you’ve had enough for now.” Her venom came swift,
“Girl, if you sass me again . . .just because you’ve turned 20 doesn’t mean anything in this house! You better show me some respect, young lady! I raised you all by myself, you ungrateful sow. Is this how you repay me, by talking back!? I knew you would be trouble the first time I saw you.”
At that moment, Mama gave me all the courage I needed. It would be my last day in her house, and I had nothing to lose by speaking honestly. Instinctively, I led myself into the kitchen and returned with the bottle of Jack Daniels and a glass for myself. I poured a generous shot and almost choked when I gulped it down defiantly in front of her. I poured another shot for myself and set the bottle on Mama’s dinner table, wedged between her empty Mason jar and the Bible, before I returned to the sofa.
“You’re right, Mama. Why should it mean anything to you because it’s my 20th birthday today? You’ve never acknowledged my birthday before, so why bring it up now? And why did you raise me all by yourself? Why don’t you ever talk about my daddy? Who is he?” The room descended into an eerie silence, and I became acutely aware of the soft scuffling of a curious rodent. The stillness felt electrified, as if the air was bracing for what was to come next. Mama’s intense gaze pierced through me, and her body was tense, poised to spring into action, as she slowly began to fill her mason jar.
“Well, I suppose you’re ready for a little heart-to-heart now that you’re acting grown in my house, woman!” Her glare was enough to scare off a dog if it dared to confront her but I was undeterred. I’d been waiting my entire life to converse with Mama about anything other than Heaven or Hell, but I didn’t anticipate her dialogue straying far from the Lord’s word.
Mama sipped her iced tea, and a sense of foreboding unexpectedly stirred within me as she turned off the TV. Settling back in her chair, her legs firmly planted on the floor, she called out, “Alvin.” Then, tilting her head back to rest against the worn plastic of the chair, I felt she was searching for the right words to say. As I waited, my impatience grew, and I began to predict what Mama might be contemplating. Alvin was the love of her life and may have died tragically in the army overseas before I was born. Mama obviously could not bring herself to love another man after him. That’s why she lived in solitude and entertained life after death. She wanted to be with Alvin. She suddenly shook her head and shrugged as she emerged from her meditative state.
“I never wanted children, and I sure wasn’t going to get married. My mission has always been to dedicate my life to the Lord, just like Mother Teresa. That good-for-nothing man just messed up everything. Irene warned me that he was charming; the devil is a charmer, too. That’s how he gets your soul, Nina. I can’t have nothing to do with anybody that doesn’t love the Lord, and he didn’t know nothing about the goodness of the Lord.” She concluded. I thought to myself, how could anybody be so miserable and talk about goodness or the Lord to validate it? Her story needed to be more consistent with what I envisioned. Alvin probably charmed her, leading to a brief but passionate affair. She became pregnant, and then he likely grew weary of her constant nagging and preaching, so he decided to leave her. I don’t blame him; any sensible person might have done the same. As disappointed as I expected to be, I felt compelled to hear more.
“And?” I prompted, gesturing for her to continue.
“He said he played baseball, or maybe it was basketball, I can’t remember. I just know he was never around much. He invited me to watch him play whatever it was several times, but I never went. All that fool ever talked about was himself, playing sports and talking foolishness about love. I met him through Irene; I don’t know why she pushed him my way. He was drooling all over her. I was so glad when the Lord finally got a hold of her and straightened her out. She was a cheerleader, Nina, shaking her tail like some barroom floozy in them cheap outfits that barely covered her behind.” I excitedly interrupted her, “He played basketball, mama! He must have played basketball because there are no cheerleaders for baseball.”
Again, my thoughts wandered as I conjured fantasies about Mama’s story. He was possibly a professional basketball player, tall and good-looking. Aunt Irene must have nudged Alvin in Mama’s direction because she was too busy doing all kinds of things with the other guys on the basketball team. And she had the nerve to look down at Sylvia, her own flesh and blood, for doing half of what she did. She’s no better than a charlatan. I gulped down what was left of the Jack Daniels in my glass and instinctively went for a refill. Mama’s liquor–I mean to say, her “iced tea”–had me feeling pretty good. Eagerly, I waited for her to continue the story, but she was clearly annoyed with my interruptions.
“You want to tell my story since you know so much about it, Nina! And what the devil are you doing drinking from my stuff without permission? You didn’t pay for anything in this house. Have you lost what little bit of good judgment God gave you?”
I couldn’t suppress a laugh when Mama accused me of indulging in her “stuff,” genuinely convinced that I seized some hidden secret stash. The absurdity of the situation struck me like a lightning bolt as I pictured her false teeth careening into her drink, turning the entire display into a comedic spectacle. But Mama had never been known for her sense of humor, and her inability to embrace laughter seemed to send even her most loyal Christian friends running for the hills, abandoning any thought of visiting or even calling. The mischievous smirk on my face and the bubbling giddiness rising from my core must have pushed Mama to her breaking point, because the pitiless, irate glare in her eyes instantly wiped the smile off my face and brought me back to reality. She grabbed her Bible, pointed it in my direction and shouted vile discord I’ll never forget.
“Stand behind me, daughter of Satan! Yes, that beast is your daddy, Nina! I hated every second of the day I carried you inside me. I felt tainted and wicked, watching my belly grow with sin in it. He knew I was weak in the Lord, and he hunted me like a serpent from Hell, tempting me with all kinds of lies and sending flowers and cards almost every week. I can’t tell you how many times he made me miss prayer meetings on Wednesday night, all because he wanted to talk! He never had anything important to say. How could he talk about love and not know the Lord? I let my guard down and felt sorry for that fool. I never should have listened to his nonsense.” She rested the Bible on the tray table, lifted the Mason jar, took a sip, and pointed the jar towards me.
“I drank this stuff the entire time I carried you, hoping to flush you out. Instead, the Lord has sentenced me to live with my sin for the rest of my life here on earth. I did my best to raise you right in the Lord’s eyes. But I knew this day would come, you sitting over there laughing at me in my face.”
My lower lip trembled uncontrollably; I could taste the dribble from my nose as it ran into my mouth. I felt the tears run down my cheeks, numb and cold while dangling beneath my chin, preparing to jump. Similar to that of bodies falling from a high-rise thumping concrete, I heard the tears splatter onto the plastic covering of the sofa. I just wanted to fly away from the evil I felt in that house, but Mama’s words had erased the sky and replaced it with a ball and chain that kept me on the sofa because I loved her. I buried my face in my hands to hide the anxiety of my nakedness while I sobbed in fear like a child at the mercy of a demon. I became aware of the uncomfortable reality that I had to let go of Mama entirely to be free. Or I would only be dragging a chain with me, linked to the pain that had stripped Mama of her freedom.
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