God Don’t Like Ugly (12 page)

The schoolday started out typical enough. That morning Lena Cundiff caught up with me, and said, “This is for that toilet thing Rhoda done to me, bitch.” Then she tripped me, and I fell down a flight of stairs and busted my lip.

During lunch I ate most of Rhoda’s food. She kept looking at my bruised lip, but not once did she ask me about it. I had to volunteer the information. I lied and told her I’d tripped over my own two feet. She wiped dried blood from my lip and told me to be more careful. She just about scared me to death when she called me Sugar.

D
uring the study period after lunch, Pee Wee, who worked in the principal’s office, came rushing into the room and whispered something in Mr. Brown’s ear. Mr. Brown was one of the whitest people I had ever seen in my life. When he turned red, he literally turned red. That lasted for a few moments then he turned blue in the face. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. His eyes seemed to sink into his face right before us. Then Pee Wee fainted. Several girls ran to him and started fanning his face as he lay stretched out on his back in the middle of the floor.

“Class, President Kennedy has been shot,” Mr. Brown informed us. Girls gasped, boys cussed. I grabbed my books and ran out of the room. I found Rhoda in a near-catatonic state squatting on the floor outside of her music class.

“He’s goin’ to die,” she moaned. “I just know President Kennedy is goin’ to die.” All the Black people I knew loved Kennedy because he was helping us get equal rights. I embraced Rhoda. Before I could speak, Mr. Rhodes, our principal, came on the loudspeaker. He was all choked up, and it took him what seemed like a real long time to tell us all to go home right away and take Monday off, too.

We didn’t discuss it, but I followed Rhoda to her house. Her pretty mother was watching TV in the living room and crying when we arrived. She had on a pretty pink dress and black high heels. She was wiping her tears with a white-silk handkerchief.

Rhoda hugged her mother and greeted her with a kiss on the hand. “Who did it? Who shot President Kennedy, Muh’Dear?” Rhoda asked quietly, her voice choking.

“They don’t know yet. I just hope it wasn’t one of
us
,” Mrs. Nelson sobbed. She blew her nose and took a long deep breath. Even with her eyes red, she was pretty. Her voice was soft and gentle. “If a colored man is responsible, we’ll be set back fifty years.”

“I bet it was the Russians,” Rhoda said angrily. She motioned for me to follow her to her room, where she turned on her portable TV. Every station was covering the Kennedy shooting. “Do you want a snack or somethin’?”

I shook my head. “I don’t feel like eating,” I replied sadly, my eyes on the TV.

“I guess I don’t either.” She waved me to her bed, where I made myself comfortable, and she curled up next to me. We didn’t talk for several minutes but twice out of the corner of my eye, I saw her wiping away tears. I wanted to cry, but I was too embarrassed to do it in front of her.

“I can’t believe somebody actually shot the president and in the head,” I said, clearing my throat. I had to do that several times to keep from crying.

“Just like my brother David,” she said sadly, not looking at me.

“I hate guns,” I said seriously. I talked out of the side of my mouth, not taking my eyes off the TV screen.

“Me too, and I hate people who hurt other people,” she admitted.

“What did your brother do?”

“Somethin’ about a pregnant girl.”

“He got somebody pregnant?”

“No. He couldn’t have.” Rhoda shrugged.

I sighed and looked away. “Pee Wee warned me not to bring it up. You don’t have to talk about it.”

“This policeman’s daughter got pregnant and blamed my brother.” Rhoda acted like she had not heard me. “The bitch wanted to get married, but he didn’t. He had a fight with her daddy. One thing led to another. One night the police kicked in our front door and came lookin’ for David. He fit the description of a robbery suspect, they said. He was in the bed. I used to sneak in his room to steal candy, so I was there the night it happened.” Rhoda paused. Walter Cronkite, with tears streaming down the sides of his face, informed us that President Kennedy had died. We both gasped and kind of stared off into space. A sudden lump formed in my throat, and it hurt for me to swallow. I returned my attention to Rhoda. Her eyes were back on the television screen. She was blinking real hard and breathing through her mouth.

“My mama didn’t vote for Kennedy,” I said hoarsely, my eyes on the TV screen. “She said a ‘teenager’ like him didn’t know enough to run the most powerful country in the world,” I added with a dry chuckle.

“My folks voted for Nixon. It wasn’t long before they were sayin’ they wished that they had voted for Kennedy.”

‘“I hope they catch the man who shot the president,” I muttered.

We waited for more news, but the announcers kept repeating the same things over and over again.

Not only was Rhoda’s house frighteningly quiet, I couldn’t hear a thing outside. No cars, no kids, no dogs barking. It seemed like the world had come to a standstill because of the assassination. I had written an essay on Abraham Lincoln and his assassin’s background and motive a week earlier. Mrs. Windland, my English teacher, cried when I read it out loud in front of the class. She told the whole class that none of us would probably experience the pain of a presidential assassination in our lifetime. Even though I was holding back my tears, a sad smile appeared on my face. I turned away so Rhoda wouldn’t see it. I was glad when she started talking again.

“Anyway, about my brother, the police came in his bedroom with guns. I was six and real little, so I could hide easy. Nobody knew I was even there ’cause I was all the way up under the covers bunched up with the pillows. Even if they had, I wouldn’t have been scared for myself. I am not afraid of anythin’.” Rhoda paused, and I looked her over with great admiration. She swallowed hard as she continued talking. “Do you think I’m normal?”

“What?”

“Me not bein’ scared of anythin’?”

“Well, no. I wish I could be more like you,” I said firmly. “I never knew another girl like you. Not even in any of my books. And I read a lot of fairy tales and science fiction.”

“OK.” Rhoda smiled dryly. “Anyway, there I was, hidin’ under my brother’s blankets. It happened so fast. It was late, but I was still awake. He was, too. They kicked open the door and started hollerin’ at David. He never said a word. The next thing I knew, the one policeman started shootin’. I threw back the covers and jumped down on the floor with my brother. There were five cops in the room. Just one was black. He was the one who had done the shootin’.” Rhoda stumbled over her words, but she continued, with her eyes staring straight ahead.

“You remember all that?”

She nodded. “As long as I live I’ll never forget that night and that man and what he did to my family,” she said through clenched teeth. “Anyway, my brother’s blood splashed all over that room. He was still alive when I grabbed him and hugged him. Strangest thing is, he smiled at me for about a second. Then…he died.”

“I feel sorry for your family,” I muttered. I attempted to put my arm around Rhoda, but she held up her hand and shook her head.

“My whole family had nightmares for years. Uncle Johnny had just accepted his Black relatives, and David was his favorite.” Rhoda paused and wiped tears from her face with the tail of her dress. We still had our jackets on. “My granny was so afraid that Uncle Johnny was goin’ to go kill that po’liceman ’cause he kept sayin’ he was as soon as he saw him on the street. He was carryin’ a gun around and everythin’. Uncle Johnny has not run into that bastard yet after all these years. What’s so messed up is, I see that motherfucker all the time—at the carwash, the shoppin’ center, in restaurants. The funny things is, it’s never any of the times I’m with Uncle Johnny.” Rhoda let out her breath and shook her head sadly.

“I’m really sorry about your brother,” I moaned. I didn’t know what else to say. I just listened as she continued.

“My mama was so overcome, we had to put her in the hospital for a few days. Aunt Lola scrubbed and scrubbed the carpet tryin’ to wash away David’s blood, but those stains wouldn’t go away. She pulled up the carpet and blood had seeped through to the wood floor. She scrubbed the wood floor and even painted it.”

“What does the floor look like now?” I asked.

“Not only can you still see David’s blood, you can smell it. As least I can.”

“You can still smell it after all this time?”

Rhoda nodded. “When it started smellin’, Daddy said leave it be. Somethin’ about that must be some kind of sign from David. Like he’s tellin’ us he’ll always be here.” She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her blue-leather jacket, and I pretended not to notice that she was upset. Her hands were trembling.

Hearing about what happened to Rhoda’s brother was depressing me more, and I was already depressed beyond belief over the president. I didn’t want to hear all the details surrounding her brother’s death, but I let her keep talking about it. It took my mind off the assassination somewhat. “What happened to that policeman?”

She looked at me and narrowed her eyes to where they looked like slits.

“He got off,” she replied. “That Black bastard got away with murder! He claimed he
thought
my brother was reachin’ for a weapon. The closest thin’ to a weapon in the room that night was a empty pop bottle on the nightstand. They did this half-ass investigation and decided that the shootin’ was justifiable. The other cops backed that motherfucker, and nobody wanted to hear anythin’ I had to say. Some old social worker had the nerve to come to our house to tell Daddy to get me some counselin’! Daddy took David’s death real, real hard. One night I heard him talkin’ to Uncle Carmine about how he wanted to take care of the po’liceman and my uncle said somethin’ about ‘his people’ would have it taken care of if Daddy wanted him to. I figured between Uncle Johnny and Uncle Carmine, there’d be some justice.”

“What did they do?”

“NOTHIN’! The fucker is still walkin’ around alive. He did move a few blocks away though. His wife died, and that lyin’ whore daughter of his ran off with some woman’s husband. The rest of his folks live in Detroit, and he doesn’t have any friends. He had the nerve to come to our church the first few months after it happened, tryin’ to get saved. Most of the congregation was so cold to him, he stopped comin’. He retired, and now all he does is get drunk and go fishin’.” Rhoda tossed her jacket on a chair by the TV and stretched out on her bed and propped herself up with her elbow.

“So, do you think your daddy’s friend would have really killed that policeman?” I wanted to know. I sat down with such a thud the bed squeaked and shook so hard, Rhoda lost her balance.

She swung her legs around and sat up on the side of the bed next to me. “Yeah. But Daddy must have told him to let it go because he’s still alive after all these years.” Rhoda wiped tears from her eyes. “That motherfucker shot my brother and got away with it. I hate guns and anybody that fools around with them.”

“I know somebody like that,” I told her in a quiet controlled voice. At first, she said nothing. She just seemed deep in thought. Then I repeated myself.

“You know somebody like what?” she asked.

“Somebody who messes with a gun.”

Rhoda shrugged. “I’d stay out of his way if I were you,” she warned. We watched the TV for another five minutes before I continued.

“Remember that time I told you about this girl and rape and stuff by some grown person?”

“Yeah. And I asked if it was you. You finally goin’ to tell me?”

“Well, there is this real old man and…”

“And what?”

“He um…makes me do things with him.” I couldn’t face her. I couldn’t believe I was finally telling somebody about what Mr. Boatwright was doing to me. For a split second I thought I would go no further. But Rhoda looked at me in such a way I knew I had to tell the whole story.

“What things?”

“You know…” I could not look in her face. I knew that she was angry from the tone of her voice.

“You mean like sex?” Her lips snapped brutally over each word.

“Uh-huh,” I muttered. I looked at her for a moment and saw that same look I saw on her face the day she attacked Lena in the locker room. The devil.

“For real? Who?”

“Mr. Boatwright rapes me.” I was amazed at how easy the words seemed to slide out of my mouth.

“Mr. Boatwright? That one-legged old man who always sits in the back of the church and falls asleep? A man like that can’t—”

“He can and he did. He’s been doing it to me since I was seven,” I said flatly.

Rhoda gave me an incredulous look, then her eyes shifted from side to side for a few seconds. She shook her head. “That nice old man?”

“He’s not a nice old man, he’s a dirty old man,” I insisted.

“The man’s got a peg leg. And—I don’t believe you!” Rhoda stood up and stood over me with her arms folded.

“Why not?” I wailed. “Why would I lie about something like this?” I stood up and got so close up in her face I could smell her hot breath. Our eyes locked. She was the first to look away.

“Why—he must be a hundred and three years old!” Rhoda managed, returning to the bed.

Sitting back down next to her, I said, “Old men can still do
it.
”

Rhoda let out a long sigh and looked toward the wall in stunned disbelief, then she looked at me.

“I know I’m ugly and boys don’t fight over me, but girls like me still get raped, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said firmly.

“I wasn’t thinkin’ anything like that. I know anybody can get raped, even guys. It’s just that…well, I can’t believe a man like Mr. Boatwright is the type.” Though we all went to the same church, Rhoda had never met Mr. Boatwright because she always slipped out of church early if she came at all or he was tied up talking to the preacher or somebody else. “Why do you let him do it?”

“He…he makes me.” I shrugged.

Rhoda blinked hard, then narrowed her eyes to look at me better. The disbelief in her eyes had intensified. “And you don’t tell on him?”

“He’s got a gun. He puts it up against my head and tells me how he is going to shoot my brains out and stuff like that.”

“What about his peg leg? Doesn’t it get in the way?”

“Sometimes we take it off, sometimes it falls off.”

Again, Rhoda stared at me incredulously with her eyebrows raised. “Do you think he would really do somethin’ crazy? Do you really think he would shoot you?”

“I don’t want to find out,” I replied.

Rhoda let out her breath and touched my hand. “Well, he can’t keep doin’ what he’s doin’ to you!” I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me before I could get a word out. “I know what we can do.” She held up her hand and gave me a critical look. “We can tell a teacher. Miss Tripp, the music teacher. Last year a white girl told Miss Tripp about her daddy molestin’ her, and Miss Tripp called the po’lice.” Rhoda was excited, almost hysterical. All on my account.