Like a Woman (13 page)

trapped, quiet, barely breathing, the girl watches her uncle across the table, past the meatloaf, mashed potatoes, limp green bean casserole. smoking. he leans back in his chair, takes a long, slow draw, hollywood style, watching her as he exhales. her older cousin shifts, says, “may i please be excused?” gets up to clear the dishes. the uncle's gaze stays on the younger girl and she knows she will be next
.

tender lungs, sweet pink branches laced with sticky tar; death's stale breath everywhere she turns. surrounded by smoke, the girl hungers for air, dreams of the sky, longs for sweet rough bark, just one pine-cleansed breath. breaking free, she climbs out of smoky rooms, jumps to the street below, takes in giant gulps of grey-brown l.a. air. smog so thick the flies don't even bother coming 'round. level nine alert. warning! stay inside! curtail all physical activity! p.e. classes cancelled. sports events cancelled
.

but never do they cancel the smoke, the exhaustion. never do they cancel the belt, the bottle, the pigs, the perps, the stinking sweaty sheets, all the things a child has to run from each and every grey and sticky day
.

Just Another Way to Bleed

Lisa said her mother slapped her when she first got her period.

“No shit?” Trina asked. “Did ya slug her?”

Lisa laughed. “Nah, it wasn't like that. She was all happy and sappy and teary-eyed. Said now I was a
woman
, like that was some sort of good thing to be.”

“I was eleven,” Jackson said. “Never had anything hurt so bad. Thought my insides were going to rip apart. My mama handed me a brand-new belt and a big ol' pad, then got me a hot water bottle to hold up against my belly.”

“Yeah, my mom used to make me wear one of those fat pads, too,” Francine laughed. “Said only nasty white girls used tampons. Said I better not be puttin'
anything
up
my
cootchie snatcher.” Francine took a long hit on the joint, held it, then exhaled slow, shaking her head. “Like her piece-of-shit boyfriend hadn't already been messing up inside me every night she worked that damn graveyard shift.”

Taylor didn't say anything. She thought about the pool of blood her friend Edeena left on the seat in their sixth-grade homeroom when she started her period. She thought about how everyone laughed at her, laughed at Edeena, ruthless king of the tetherball court, the most feared girl on the playground, tougher even than Taylor. She thought about how the P.E. teachers wouldn't let Edeena play sports when she was on her period, and the look on the warrior girl's face as she sat on the bench, slumped and shamed.

Taylor thought about when she started her own period a year later, how she'd hid it from everyone as long as she could, making pads out of the sixteen-pack crew socks stolen from JCPenney's, each one stuffed with rags or paper towels. She thought about Ryan, the boy next door who got beaten so bad by his mom, how the kids would sneak into the locked closet afterwards and tend to his wounds. She thought about how many years she'd been hiding his bloody rags, washing them when she could, dumping or burying them when she couldn't. She thought about how her blood was sometimes brown and clotted, how Ryan's was always fresh red and flowing. She thought about that desperate morning when Ryan's brothers had discovered their mom's tampons and maxi pads, scrambling through the bathroom cupboard for something to help the bleeding boy, crying in the closet. Mike, the oldest, said to “put that shit back,” but Taylor marveled at how much blood a maxi pad could soak up, how quick a tampon strapped tight up against a wound could stop the bleeding like nothing else. Quickly, she put two and two together and from then on just stole twelve-pack Tampax slenders, forever leaving the awkward pad-between-the-legs waddle behind, again running wild through the streets, slipping a box to Edeena, grinning as the two skinny girls once more dominated the playground, rightfully owned the ball fields and basketball courts.

Trina said her pimp back in El Paso used to make his girls share the same sponge when he wanted to break them down.

Lisa said hers used to tweak her birth control pills so she'd go longer without a period. “Man, that shit messed me up,” she said. “I wouldn't bleed for months and then suddenly start hemorrhaging out like a motherfucker.”

“Fuckin' pimps,” Francine said. “Who needs 'em! That's why we're renegades!”

“Damn straight,” Trina said. “You got that shit right.”

And they all hollered and cheered and high-fived each other, laughing. But inside, they all knew. It was just a matter of time before some asshole would take charge of their corner.

Taylor didn't say anything. She thought about the johns who didn't want to fuck a girl on the rag, but how mostly they were clueless. She thought about the blowjobs, hand jobs, sponges, distractions, all the tricks the girls had to just keep on working through. She thought about the jerk in the grey Pontiac, the guy who only wanted to fuck girls who were bleeding, the creep who loved the blood and who, after he was done, wanted you to spank him and tell him what a bad boy he had been. Taylor felt the bile rise up in her throat.
How the fuck do you ever get used to this shit
, she wondered.

“I used to love getting my period when I was a kid,” Trina said. “For one, it meant I wasn't pregnant. And, two, it meant I had me a full week, ten days if I was lucky, when that useless clown of a wannabe, cover my closeted lezzie ass boyfriend, didn't want to have sex.”

Lisa laughed. “I remember how we used to fake our periods to get out of P.E.,” she said. “Strap on a rag and those blond Nazi coaches had to let you sit out.”

“Yeah, I used to sometimes fake my cramps,” Jackson said. “Pretend they were hurtin' me worse than they were and my mama would let me stay home from school, tuck me all up in a warm, cozy bed, bring me that hot water bottle and a cup of chamomile tea.”

She turned to Taylor. “Hey girl,” she said, reaching for her hand. “You're awful quiet, today. Whatchu got to say about all this?”

Taylor looked away. “Guess I ain't got nothing to say,” she said. “Guess I just don't see what the big fuckin' deal is anyway. All this talk about periods, cramps and shit. You ask me, it all ain't nothin' more than just another goddamn way to bleed in this world.”

fear is the hole

fear is not made of any fabric i know how to touch. i can't just find a thread and follow it to its source. run my fingers along rough yarn leading one way to the tightly woven pattern now unraveling in my hands, nor the other way toward the soft grey ball gathering into itself and say, yes, this is it, this is my fear. this is where my fear has come. this is where my fear will lead. because, even as i sit both weaving and unraveling the meaning of my life, i know, fear is not the fabric, fear is the hole. fear is the hole in the sweater. the tear in the cloth. the missing sleeve. and though there is terror at the edges, frayed and gaping into the hole. and though there is pain in the worn, severed pieces, snipped and fallen to the floor, still, fear is not the fabric. fear is in the holes. fear is what gets left in the vacuum of a young girl's chest when faith is sucked and smothered, spit out in the toilet bowl. fear is the chasm of waiting. fear is the fall. fear is the hole left in the night sky when all the screams have stopped
.

tracks

As soon as Taylor crossed the railroad tracks, she knew something was wrong. Throat tight, she broke into a jog, cresting up out of the last dusty ravine. Behind her, the August sun was setting, turning the smog crimson. Below, inside the wrecking yard she called home, red lights and police radios. The torn section of chain-link fencing that was the girls' private entrance gaped open, unsecured.

She heard a soft voice call her name and turned to see Jackson, sitting crouched up against a boulder, waiting.

“What the fuck happened?” she asked, looking around. “What the fuck is all this?”

Jackson got up and walked over to her. “It's over, baby. The pigs got Jimmy. We gotta get out of here.”

“What do you mean the pigs got Jimmy?” Taylor asked, confused. “Jimmy's clean.”

Jackson glared at her, disgusted. “Girl, you've been around enough to know that doesn't mean shit. Of course Jimmy's clean. Mama says a successful black man is the biggest threat of all, way more dangerous than the thugs and the junkies. You see how it is. Mama says they take the good brothers down, give the rest guns and the white man's drugs, and sit back and watch the fun.” She spit on the ground and slowly kicked dry dirt over it with her boot. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. They got Jimmy, the place is crawling with pigs, and we can't go back.”

Taylor felt like she was going to be sick. She thought of Jimmy, letting them stay for free in the yard, teaching her how to strip down a car for parts. She thought about how last week he let her rig up the cherry picker and pull an engine out of a wrecked Chevy all by herself. She thought about how happy he was working at the new free breakfast program the Panthers had set up down at the church. Rage rose like bile in her throat as she thought about him in the hands of the police. She wished she could reach over to Jackson, pull her in close, hold her tight up against her heart, but she knew there was no way her lover would let herself be touched right now. “Well,” she said. “Guess we gotta go get our shit out of the fuckin' camper, and then find a place to stay tonight.”

Jackson pointed to the small pile she had gathered by the boulder. “I got our stash, all my journals and some clothes, and grabbed what I could of yours.”

Taylor picked up the pillowcase, bulky, heavier than she expected. Reaching inside, she rummaged through the books and dirty clothes, felt some plastic crinkling and pulled out the pack of new boxer briefs Jackson had just bought her. She laughed. “What the fuck. Shit's going down and you grab my fuckin' skivvies?”

Jackson smiled. “Yeah. It's like that thing where they say your house is on fire and you've only got sixty seconds to get out everything that matters. So, yeah, I grabbed your dope, books, and boxers.” She looked suddenly shy, and sad. “Besides,” she said. “You didn't really have much to grab.”

“It's cool,” Taylor said, risking a grin. “I'm glad you grabbed my shorts. So, where do you want to stay tonight? I don't really want to hit the boxes. We could try Randi, see if he's working tonight, maybe get us a car. Or see if we could crash in Trina's room, except we'd probably have to wait until three or four in the morning, whenever they're done tricking.”

“Taylor,” Jackson interrupted softly, touching her cheek. “I'm not going with you.”

“What do you mean?” Taylor asked. “What are you saying? You said we couldn't stay here anymore. That's pretty obvious. So, we gotta find another place to crash.”

“I mean I gotta really get out of here. Here,” she gestured. “This whole fuckin' place. L.A. The strip. Tricking. The hustle. The whole damn thing. I'm not like you. I just can't take it anymore.”

Taylor grabbed her arm, turning the girl toward her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Shit. Can't none of us take it. You just do it anyway. You taught me that. Come on. I'll figure something out for us. We'll be okay.”

Jackson leaned back into her lover's arms. “Nah, baby. I gotta get out of here. I've been sitting up on this rock waiting for you, thinking shit through. I can't do it anymore. I just gotta leave this place.” Anticipating Taylor's response, she added, “Alone.”

Taylor held on, forcing herself to breathe. “So where you gonna go?”

“I've got an auntie down in San Diego, once told me I could live with her if I cleaned up and went to school. Said there's a community college I could get into and she'd help me out. Mama says I should do it and I'm thinking maybe she's right.”

Taylor turned and started walking down the trail to the torn fence.

“Taylor,” Jackson called out. “Where are you going? You can't go back in there.”

Taylor kept walking. “I'm going in to get J. Edgar,” she said. “Jimmy's gone. You're gone. Somebody's got to take care of the damn dog.”

“Taylor, stop!” Jackson ran to catch up. “Listen to me—you can't go in there. There's pigs everywhere.”

“I don't care about the fuckin' pigs,” Taylor said. “I'm going to get J. Edgar.”

“Goddamnit, Taylor. Stop.” Jackson grabbed her arm. “Will you just fucking stop and listen to me? You can't go back in and get J. Edgar because J. Edgar is dead.”

Taylor stopped and turned back, her voice hard and low. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that J. Edgar is dead. The pigs shot him.” Jackson started to cry. “He was trying to protect Jimmy and the fuckin' cops just fuckin' shot him. He's dead, girl. I saw it all.”

Taylor spun back around, glaring down at the yard where the police cars flashed red blue, red blue, and bright white strobes lit up the back shed Jimmy had made home. Hot rage punched through her chest and she saw herself flying down the hill like a dust devil tornado, crashing through the cyclone fence, kicking out car windows, slugging cops.
Just shoot me, you motherfuckin' pigs! Why you gotta shoot J. Edgar? Come on, you piece of shit coward-ass punks. Just fuckin' shoot me!

But up on the hill there was nothing to slug, no sheetrock to ram her fist through, no tail lights to kick in, no drunken johns to take down. Taylor heard Jackson softly crying behind her, heard the crackle of police radios in the yard below and the whir of a police helicopter approaching from the south. When she saw the chopper crest the ridge, Taylor turned back to Jackson. “Come on,” she said. “Let's get outta here.”

The two girls gathered up their bundles and walked the two miles to the Greyhound station in silence. As they said goodbye, Jackson asked softly, “So what are you gonna do now, baby?”