Now: A Short Story

NOW

By Joy D. Quarmiley

            Wow. They all care….now. I’ve been wanting someone to care for so long. Look at ‘em…Scurrying around down there. I’m a big deal…now. Hear that world?!? I’M A HUGE FREAKIN’ DEAL NOW!!! I matter…now…But now…You know what…Now…I don’t want to matter. Do I? I mean…Why should I at this point? Let me take a moment to think…to think back…when I wanted to be noticed…to matter.

            I grew up with nothing. Nothing is an understatement…well, it may be an overstatement for some. I know many were just as, if not more, poor than me and my family – if ‘family’ is what you want to call it – but I couldn’t imagine having less than what we had. I grew up in little old Springfield, Ohio, in the Robinson Drive Projects. We, my big brother, Jermaine and my little sister, Rekita (Kita) were made fun of daily for our attire…or lack thereof, and our smell. I always had to wear Jermaine’s old, beat up, run down clothes and shoes, which my mama got from second-hand stores. I used to think I really had it bad having to wear his double-handed-down hand-me-downs, but my kid sister had it worse. She had to wear my triple-handed down hand-me-downs and she was a girl. Sometimes the clothes and shoes were too big for her, but mama would just stuff the shoes with toilet paper and tuck and fold the clothes til they ‘fit’.  As if the clothes weren’t bad enough, we often smelled like mildew because, though we had a washer, we didn’t always have detergent, so we just washed them in water…sometimes, if the gas was on, it would be hot…Most of the time it wasn’t. Then, we didn’t have a dryer and my mama would sometimes forget to hang our clothes after washing them, hence the stench of mildew. When we didn’t reek of mildew, we smelled of cigarette smoke and cat urine…sometimes a combination of all three.

I remember Kita crying about her clothes when she got old enough to care…which was in middle school some time. She begged mama to buy her some new digs. “Even from the second hand store, Mommy! I just can’t wear these boy clothes no more! ” she cried. Mama didn’t care though. She was way more pissed about Kita’s ‘ungratefulness’ than sympathetic. That little outburst caused my sister to be given a breath-taking blow to the chest that day…which was pretty light compared to some of the other beatings we received throughout the years.

Kita’s saving grace was a lady that moved in next door and noticed how Kita dressed. Being that she had a daughter about Kita’s size, she would give Kita clothes her daughter grew out of or didn’t want. Mama didn’t like it, but she was always careful not to burn bridges with those who could be of use to her at some point in time, and that lady had a car, so she became mama’s private taxi. She allowed Kita to keep the clothes, though she would sometimes burn cigarette holes in anything that my sister seemed to take a real liking to, just to let Kita know that she was still in control. My sister learned quick to hide her excitement whenever the neighbor lady gave her anything really nice.

My mama didn’t like any of us much…but her dislike for my sister was on a whole other level. I didn’t know why for a long time, but it later came out that my ‘bum daddy’- as my mama so wretchedly called him- had a baby on her. The mother of that child died in a tragic car accident and my mama, for the undying love of my father, took ‘that baby’ in. We didn’t know nothing about ‘that baby’ til Daddy brought her home after the accident. Rekita was ‘that baby’. Mama referred to her as that whenever her and my dad got into arguments and my mama felt that throwing ‘that baby’ up in my daddy’s face gave her leverage. Well…Kita was not really a baby…She was three when she officially joined our family…again, if ‘family’ is what you want to call it. I think she would’ve stayed a secret had her mama not died. Probably would’ve been better off being a secret.

My father left on Kita’s fourth birthday. Went to pick up the cake and never came back. Should’ve known something was up…Ain’t none of us ever got no cake for our birthdays before then…or after. Kita and I are one year apart so I was five when he left, but I still remember my daddy and everything thing about him. Things were so much better when he was there…before my mama found out about ‘that baby’. She just wouldn’t stay out of his face and when she was drunk, which was almost all the time, the arguing turned violent. She stabbed my daddy three times in 6 months. I figured he couldn’t take the fighting no more – couldn’t take the risk of that bi- woman killing him, so he left. I was mad at him for a while, but later I understood. If I could’ve left, I would’ve. That’s about the time that I really started disliking my mother.
     Mama stopped drinking so much when I was in the fifth grade but that was only because she traded one habit for another. Her addiction to crack cocaine revealed itself that year on Easter Sunday. My mama took the ham the pantry gave us & just disappeared. We ate the little bit of candy that came in our baskets from Salvation Army for dinner that night. Ate it before the roaches claimed it like they did all the food that wasn’t in cans. We wouldn’t have devoured our candy that first night if we knew that would be our last meal for three days. That’s when mama decided to come home. That was the first, of many, crack binges.

Mama favored my older brother the most. He was a spitting image of my father. They had a love/hate relationship…like her and my daddy. She really loved him, sometimes inappropriately, when she was high. Then on the rare occasions where she was sober she was disgusted by the sight of him. Jermaine had an athletic build and could’ve been a good football player. He won all of the games when we played street football with the other neighborhood kids…when they would play with us. Jermaine didn’t get teased once he got into middle school. He left Grayhill Elementary a tall, scrawny kid and showed up after the summer to Clark Middle School as “Maine”, the player and the thug. He had a confidence that seemed to develop overnight. Being his brother didn’t help me out none. He would give me ‘pep’ talks about how to handle my bullies in the privacy of our home, but he didn’t really acknowledge me much in public. It was cool though…I understood…He had a reputation to uphold- as he reminded me in each and every one of our ‘pep’ talks.

Jermaine was killed when he was 18. He dropped out of high school in his sophomore year and with nothing else to do with his free time, he started robbing folks. One of his dope boy victims saw him talking to a girl outside her house. He ran up on my brother and shot him. That was when I really became a non-factor in life. My mama would say things directed at me, but look through me…as if I wasn’t there. When she asked me to do something and I didn’t do it to her standards, it was “Your brother” this and “Your brother” that. She even told me a few times, “It shoulda been you. You ain’t good for nothin’!” Didn’t matter how many times she told me that…the first time broke me.

When my brother died, my mother became evil. I mean, she was no angel before, but after Jermaine was killed she focused all of her heartlessness on me and my sister. I don’t care to go into detail, but I will say that’s when the dislike I had for her changed to hate. At times, I wished she would die from one of her numerous overdoses. My sister despised her too…she told me a few times. I think the only thing that kept Kita from killing my mother was her undying hope for a good future. I ain’t never had much hope. I don’t even know how Kita kept hers alive in that hope-stifling house. I envied that about her. I envy her now. She had the courage to walk away and never look back. My mama had some kind of hold on me. I guess I felt if I stayed, she would change and love me. I was an idiot for even having hope for that.

She despised Kita for being an everyday reminder of my father’s infidelity and she showed it. Not just by hitting on her or making her clean the house from top to bottom all the time, but sometimes mama let our ‘uncles’ that she would bring home from local bars have sex with Kita. Kita was about seven when that started happening. Mama would get paid for it and she, too, would 'serve' these men. That’s how mama fed her habits. Prostituting herself and my half sister…and me…but I don’t want to talk about that. That lasted til Kita was thirteen. She started her period and didn’t know. One of the tricks seen it and freaked out. My sister got beat bad that night for messing up my mama’s money with her ‘triflin’ ass’- mama’s words - not mine. That period was kind of really like a period, you know, at the end of a sentence because it marked the end of those days of her being pimped out by my mother. My mama was an addict but she wasn’t stupid. She knew that if my sister ended up pregnant, her dirty little secrets might rear their ugly heads and land her in jail for a long time. She kept whoring, kept pimping me but left my sister out of it. I wanted a period. 
     She didn’t like me because I was just the middle child…least that’s what I figured. Nothing special about me. I got good grades for awhile til I realized nobody cared. Kita’s teachers seemed to care for her a lot and she always got good grades, did so through high school and ended up getting a scholarship to a good university out North somewhere. I got a job right out of high school working at a tire shop. I didn’t leave my mama’s house though. I thought Kita needed me…so I stuck around…only for her to up and leave a month or so after she graduated. I should’ve known she wasn’t coming back by the way she wouldn’t…or couldn’t look at me when she and her friend packed up all her belongings into that Chevy. She hugged me though. Held onto me for a very long time. I should’ve taken that as a hint too. We had never embraced like that. That was her way of saying “Goodbye forever.” I guess. I wanted to tell her I was proud of her, but I couldn’t get the words past the lump in my throat. As the Chevy made its way down the street and around the corner, I watched it…watched it til I couldn’t see it no more. When I turned around, mama was standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette, with a scowl on her face…She mumbled, “Good riddens, homewreckin’ whore,” flicked the butt of her Newport into the unkempt flowerbed, turned and slammed the door. I wish I would’ve told Kita I was proud of her. I wish I would’ve told her I loved her. Maybe that would have made her feel valid. Maybe she would’ve validated my life by keeping in touch. Some of the most important things are left unsaid…and that’s a shame. She put us on a shelf in her past and never so much as came by to dust that shelf off. She was a runner too…just like our father.

Mama got sick not long after Kita left. She had gotten HIV from one of her many partners. Of course, she wasn’t big on her health being that she was a crackhead so by the time she ended up in the emergency room due to a bout with what we thought was the flu, she had full-blown AIDS. Once again, I felt obligated to stick around and ignore my needs and wants. I nursed my mother for a year and a half until she died...finally. You would think that her illness would’ve made her nicer. You would’ve thought she would desire to ‘make things right’ before she met her demise. Not my mother…She stayed true to form up until she took her last miserable breath. She died with her eyes open…staring at me…dark and cold. I tried to give her credit…I wanted to think her wickedness was drug and alcohol induced. She disappointed me. Her soul was evil and she made sure I was damaged real good before she left this Earth. I didn’t shed a tear.

I had a few failed relationships. I didn’t respect women…all because I hated my mother. I did get seriously involved with a young woman prior to mama’s death. She was beautiful and intelligent. She reminded me a little of my estranged sister. I was envious of her… my girl…What I hated about her, I loved about her at the same time. I was blinded by jealousy, so I brought her down to my level. Killed her confidence with my words and my heavy fists. Her beauty deteriorated behind my abuse. I even started her on heroin…that wasn’t meant to sound prideful…but it is what it is. That was my drug of choice. Started using after Kita left to cope with mama. Heroin became my friend and me and my friend had threesomes with my girl.

She’s dead now. My girl. Died about 3 hours ago in our apartment during one of our threesomes. Overdose. What would never claim my mama’s wretched life all those years that she used, took the life of the only one that ever made me almost feel like I mattered- within a year. Maybe I should’ve introduced mama to heroin. Anyway…she’s still there. Laying cold in our apartment. They’ll find her. She deserves a proper burial. She mattered to a lot of people. I made sure she distanced herself from those people during our relationship though. I hate myself for that. But that’s who life molded me to be. A hateful, unloved nobody. Some get dealt a good hand in life, but for some of us the cards don’t even get taken out of the box. We start with nothing and end with nothing. I’m not feeling sorry for myself neither…I’m just saying- it is what it is. Hey…Thanks for listening…All this thinking and for once I’m clear on what I should do. For once, I’m going to put what I want first. It’s my turn now…It’s my turn! Thinking about myself… since no one else is… or was… until now… Now. Now - when it’s too late.