Bootlicker

“Do you have news for us?” Miss Fannie asked.

“Some of it funny.” He turned to Miss Reba. “A Snack?

“If you catch this here.” Miss Reba tossed him a biscuit.

Giovanni caught it and took a bite. “Okay,” he said, chewing. “Last night on my way home I went to check on Sadie. She was standing on the curb. Clayton Lamont was with her.” He glanced in my direction. “We were right, Meta. He lives across the street from Aunt Amelia.”

Miss Fannie pinched her lips and let in a sharp inhale.

Miss Reba squinted a stern look. “What you talking about? That same man who threw his hands ‘round Sadie’s throat?”

“Yep,” Giovanni continued. “Someday, I’m going to own a three-button pinstripe suit like he was wearing. A real beaut. Anyway, I sat on the curb close enough to hear. Sadie caught my eye but didn’t let on she saw me.” He stuffed the remaining biscuit in his mouth, chomping as he stared out the kitchen window.

“I’s could fried green tomatoes in the time it take you to—”

“Get to the point,” Miss Fannie snarled, interrupting Miss Reba.

“Okay, okay.” Giovanni stuck his thumbs behind imaginary lapels and faced his audience. “Lamont said, ‘Miss Dubois’,” Giovanni lowered his voice to base. “’I don’t think we have been properly introduced’. Told her he’d been rude and callous. Sadie stammered out, ‘pleasure to meet you,’ real nervous-like. When she asked why he moved across the street he said, well, what he said is something I’m going to remember if I ever meet a girl I’m smitten with. He said, ‘when a good man needs to apologize for a misdeed, he finds a way.’”

“Bootlicker,” Miss Fannie said.

Daily prompt: Snack

Afraid of differences

 

I was four when I learned of my deformity. Before that, my left hand, different from my right, was still mine. It was part of me until, later, it defined me.

Mom had taken me to the playground. A Sunny day, the air filled with the happy squeals of children playing on the merry-go-round and zooming down slides, or swinging high enough to grab birds by their wings.

Bucket in hand, I chose the sandbox as my first stop. I knew the two girls already playing there were older. I liked playing with older girls. As an only child, my conversations with others were more advanced than my age.

“Want to share my shovel?” I asked the girl with the cinnamon colored hair.

“Okay.” Then, she stared at my left hand. She whispered something to her friend. Both stared.

The pig-tailed girl crinkled her nose. Red hair laughed and held her nose. “Let’s go before that happens to us.”

I looked at Mom sitting on the bench along side the sandbox. She had tears in eyes.

“Why don’t they like me, Mom?”

“Because they’re superficial. They only look at the surface of a person without getting to know them.”

“Mom?”

“See how, on your right hand, all fingers can spread apart?”

“I know.”

“Now look at your left hand.”

“I know.” I spread the fingers I could but my middle and ring fingers are melded together as if one large digit.

“Well, both hands belong to my beautiful Gracie. Your left hand is one of the many things that make you different and special. Everybody’s different one way or the other. But we all have similarities, too.

“They don’t like me because I only have four fingers on this hand,” I say, holding it up.

Mom shrugs. “Some people are afraid of differences. But true friends, people who love you won’t even think about the difference in your left hand. Like Sissy.”

My cousin Sissy has known me her whole life. She held my left hand all the time and didn’t care.

Back then, on that playground, Mom made me feel even more loved, differences and all.

But at age four, even after the pep talk, I didn’t know I’d have to endure the stares, the gasps and ugly comments.

Sunny

Missing Letters

Saturday is family day, if only two people count as a whole family. We’re not a complete three-legged dog family anymore. Without Mama, Daddy and me have turned into a kangaroo that hops on two feet with sorrow poking out of its pouch.

Daddy and me climb into Ol’ Bess. His knuckles are white on the steering Wheel as he drives us into town, and I don’t want to ruin family day by asking questions about Mama.

Every Saturday, Rosie’s Café has roast beef and mashed potatoes. We always split a slice of apple pie three ways. This time, I’ll get more than my fair share, but the thought makes my stomach hurt.

Five minutes of quiet later, we pull up in front to the café on Holly Gap’s main street.

“What in tarnation?” Daddy points. “Wonder what happened.”

One of the workers is sweeping up glass on the sidewalk. Just above his head, there’s a big hole in the front window. Now, instead of saying “Best café in Texas,” it says, “Bes… exas.”

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

Daily photo prompt: Wheel

A last laugh

 

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photo credit

 

 

A last laugh

a traitor

Deceitful, evil

 

An hourglass,

Beautifully molded

Perfect, the glass

 

Coarse grains of sand

now collected

the pediment rests.

 

A finality of time,

hemorrhaged out

like a single bullet creating two holes

A slashing of both wrists.

 

(A poem I wrote for one of my characters)

Cleaning a bigot’s plow

“Now what are you talking about? I know what’s right and wrong. And you hanging out with a colored is not right. What would your parents th …”

Kent’s words hang in the air, his sentence unfinished. He knows what my parents do. He knows we’ve had Mr. Overton, our new Local president of the NAACP, over for dinner. Kent saw him when he dropped by that evening last spring.

I point a finger to his chest and feel like Olvie. “It’s time for you to leave, Kent. You’ll never understand.” I turn to go inside.

He grabs my arm. “You’re full of shit, Grace. All this time I thought you were smart enough to—”

My eyes burn coal. “Let go of me.”

“Problem, Chicken Coop?” The familiar voice sounds protective.

Isaac saunters up the walkway and up to the front porch. He’s about the same height as Kent, but thinner. Yet his presence towers over Kent a hundred times over. When he looks at Kent, his eyes don’t shift, don’t blink.

“What are you looking at, colored boy?” Kent says, but his wobbly voice betrays him.

“Not much,” Isaac says.

Kent pulls back a fist then launches it toward Isaac’s face. Isaac catches it somewhere in mid air. Kent opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You see, Massa,” Isaac says. “I ain’t s’posed to fight with white folk. So, my Daddy and my Mammy both taughts me to be quick on these here feet. Ya know, to’s protect m’self from de harms dat be.”

“You stupid, nigg—”

“Nigerian, you were about to say.” Isaac says losing his accent. “Right, Kent? Because when a white person says that other word, it means they are ignorant about walking in the footsteps of humanity. I highly suggest you leave Mrs. Monroe’s porch and bike it to that theater. You show good movies there.”

Kent’s mouth opens. His chin drops. He can’t quite manage the puffing out of his chest. His posture deflates until he reaches the curb. Kent straddles his bike and points to Isaac. “Your plow needs cleaning, boy.”

As he rides off, Isaac yells, “Ain’t got one no mo’. Done sold it to my Massa.”

I turn to Isaac. “I didn’t know you were such a tough guy.”

Excerpt from WIP, Bare Bones of Justice (working title), set in 1963

Daily word prompt: Local

Not Invited

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Madam Fannie Porter

There he stood, the man whose cleft chin always reminded me of a bare ass. “Well, well, well, Mayor Marshall Hicks. What can I do for you?”

“May I come in?”

I hesitated, my eyes scouring him from head to toe. “What do you need Mayor? I’ve paid my dues.”

“It’s about Sadie.”

“What about her? She’s upstairs sleeping.”

A thunderbolt cracked. The puffed rooster Cringed. “Can I come in?”

“For a minute. I have things to do.”

I opened the door wide enough for him to squeeze through. Too wide would seem like an invitation and asking him to sit a spell was out of the question.

He removed his hat and hung his rain jacket on the hook by the door. Now inside, he took an uninvited seat in the parlor—the same chair William Pinkerton sat on when asking about the Wild Bunch. Not a good omen.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

Daily word prompt: Cringe

Fear

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photo credit

I blamed my restless sleep on the killer who remained a mere Illusion lurking in the dark.

Never in my life had I been so scared. Last night the waves of maelstrom pulled me under and made it hard to breathe. Seeing Sadie bloodied on Mrs. Carver’s porch was bad enough. Thinking of Aunt Amelia in danger ripped ribbons of terror throughout my limbs. When I knew she was unharmed, and nausea had passed, I had asked my waiting driver to summon Sheriff Tobin. He arrived fifteen minutes later at the crime scene but after that, he never came to the bordello. I wondered why.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

Daily photo prompt: Illusion

 

My kidnapped baby sister

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Cono, age four

My insides feel shaky. I know all this nose blowing is my fault. I run to my room and get Tiger Stick and run back outside to sit in the dirt. Tiger and me dig around and around in that dry soil, hoping we’ll dig deep enough to find Delma. Then I fill the hole with the water from my own eyes.

I go back in and see Aunt Nolie loading up her coffee with more sugar. She clinks her spoon round and round the coffee cup just like I did with Tiger in the front yard. Her eyes stare inside the cup like they’re waiting for an answer to jump out and into the saucer.

“Let’s call up Cleave Barnes,” says Aunt Nolie. “If anybody can help, it’ll be Cleave.”

“Why Cleave?” asks Mother, lighting another cigarette.

“Cleave’s earned his money robbin’ banks.” She turns to me and says, “Cono, he doesn’t do it all the time and never around Ranger.” She back to talking to me again.

Then back to Mother she says, “Remember, he’s the one who taught Wayne how to use a gun.”

Aunt Nolie turns to me again and says, “He hardly ever took it with him on a robbery ‘cause he never wanted to hurt nobody. He jes’t needed the money s’all.” She keeps on.

“But he learned how to be real smart in his scoutin’ and escapin’ from the law. So, if someone’s gonna Commit a crime, all Cleave has te do is think like a criminal.”

Mother goes straight to the phone and calls Cleave. A few more cups of coffee later there’s a knock on the door, a sound more like a present than the banging of knuckles on a wooden door.

Mother opens the door fast, like she’s trying to shoo out a family of rats before they run back into the walls. Cleave walks in and gives her a little pat on the back. He didn’t look at all like the wild animal with scary eyes and holding on to scars fitting for a robber’s badge. He’s shorter than my Dad’s five foot eleven inches. His arms are skinny of muscle too. I can’t see how he’s gonna help at all. Dad could whup him faster than a heart beats at the first sign of trouble.

Cleave gives a hat’s off greeting and sits at the table taking the cup of coffee that Aunt Nolie gives him. He offers Mother another cigarette before lighting his own.

After listening to the kidnapping story, he makes one short click on the left side of his cheek like Ike does when he’s pondering something. I like that. I like that a lot. He might be good at finding my baby sister after all.

Finally, he says, “Don’t you worry none, Elnora. If he’s anywhere nearby, we’ll find him, and we’ll get yer baby back.”

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Daily word prompt: Commit