Sunday secrets

FICTION by E. Starbright Bilyck

My mother and I have to walk down the hill to do laundry. She carries a big green army bag her father used during some war. He lives far away from California. She ran away after he disowned her, or whatever it's called when your family won't talk to you anymore. Momma said it's because she had me, and they don't like black people. But her mother still sends us Christmas presents every year. Gold and red wrapping paper with fancy bows that sit under our tiny tree with cards signed Love, Nana. It's a secret though, Grandpa don't know. He probably don't know that momma fills his bag with our laundry either. She packs it tight as a clothes sausage and swings it over her shoulder like she's going on a long trip. But really we're just going down the hill to the laundromat. JR calls it the wash house. Usually I say whatever my mom does, especially since JR ain't my real daddy. It's a secret. My sister don't know yet.

My mom woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me. This was last Thanksgiving after they got into a big fight and momma had to wear a cast on her arm. She told me not to worry because JR wasn't my real father and he wasn't coming back. But there he was sitting in the livingroom when I woke up Christmas morning. I didn't know what to do, and when I looked at my mom, she was just singing about Santa Claus and passing out presents. JR got me a book called: Daddy Is a Monster Sometimes. He pulled me right onto his lap to read it while momma made breakfast. At the end of the story he gave me one of his yucky kisses in my ear and said he didn't mean to be a monster. He's been back ever since.

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I'm not sure if my sister knows what really happened at her birthday party last night. It was only her first, so maybe she don't know the way they're supposed to go. There was music and balloons, just like my parties. People were drinking wine, dancing and laughing. But then JR's monster showed up, fast as a dragon. I heard it growl before, but I'd never seen it attack. My sister saw everything up close, close enough to smell it. Momma grabbed her and held on tight, screaming for help with blood in her mouth. White police came into the house with guns. I sat at the kitchen table as she told them what happened while staring at the birthday cake, her black tears falling onto my sister's tiny face. The police-man asked me my name like he wanted to give me candy. The one writing everything down thought I was a little boy. What's your name son? It's because of my frizzy afro and my voice. It's deep for a girl, like there's a whale singing in my throat. Plus I like to climb trees so people think I'm a boy sometimes for that too. Instead of answering him, I just pretended that he called me sun. I love the sun. My momma told me it's really rainbow light. When I didn't believe her, she hung crystals in the windows and I saw sun rainbows dancing on a white wall with my own eyes. My momma can make magic. Sometimes.

It's morning now and she ain't mentioned nothin about nothin. We're just walking down the hill like we do every Sunday. That brown house on the corner caught on fire last Christmas and a little boy died. Someone fell asleep with a cigarette. My mom used to smoke but not anymore, JR don't allow it. Over there is where old man Kovich lives with that flag he flies outside his door every day. Mr. Kovich don't like me and my friends playing on his steps. He yells at us and calls us mean names, but we play there anyway cuz he only has one leg and can't chase us. Momma don't like flags too much. They remind her of her father. He told her that it stood for real Americans-the red of their blood, the white of their skin, and the blue of their eyes. My momma's eyes are brown. So are mine but I wish they were green. Avocado green like the bag she carries.

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Momma's walking quiet. She still hasn't talked about the monster. Usually we sing songs or search the sky for butterflies, but today she's staring at the ground, watching every step. So I watch the sidewalk too, checking the cracks for dandelions. I like to blow on them and make wishes. Butterflies are better though. My mom calls them angel fairies. They land on my arms like branches, brown and frail. Some have yellow wings the same color as my mom's hair; others are orange or white. Most of them like to sit and rest for a while, but three have up and died right on my shoulder. My mom wrapped them in scotch tape and cut off the edges. They live in the windowsill above my bed. I learned to pray to them, mostly about JR. I tell them all of my secrets, nibbling with my lips, pretending that they're butterfly cookies. They keep watch for me while I sleep.

I don't sleep too good now that he's back. And I hate it if he's home during bath time. Standing there with a towel and some lotion. I'll be seven in four months, I don't need no help drying off. And I sure don't need lotion everywhere he wants to put it. When his fingers get to rubbing, I hold my breath and jump. Momma ain't never nowhere around. Sometimes she's in the kitchen doing dishes or busy in her room with the door closed, making pretend that the monster is my father. Any other Sunday morning they would've woke me up with their voices. My mother sounding like she's crying, but she's really not. When the air goes quiet I can hear his footsteps coming. He walks naked through my room and into the bathroom. I pretend that I'm sleeping but I always peek. His shiny snake drips milk onto the wood floor. I put the butterflies in my mouth and pray that he'll go back to bed. They always listen.

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The laundromat is right next door to the house with all the motorcycles out front. I don't like that house, there's no sunlight and the wind blows cold, picking up old newspapers and leaves. There are no women in that house. The men play loud scary music and their eyes tell me that they'll eat me. My mom doesn't hear it, but I do. I shake the purple change purse I'm carrying and I can't wait to open it. It's heavy with quarters, lipstick, and mints. I like the way it smells when I unlock it. I'm in charge of counting - three quarters for the washer, five for the detergent, six for the dryer, and two for my orangina. It's time to load the clothes now. Momma says that in order to get everything clean we have to separate the colors from the whites, otherwise they'll bleed. She lets me pour in the detergent and line up the quarters in each slot. I push hard to slide them in and yell Charge it. It makes her smile, even today. Right now is when I'd usually buy my orangina, but today my mom won't let me. She says she needs the change for something else. When I ask what for, she just yells at me and tells me to leave her alone so she can think.

My favorite place to sit and wait is on the folding table against the first window; it catches all the sunbeams. If I had my orangina bottle, I'd turn it upside down to watch the orange dust swim in the light. Any other time my mom would be looking at magazines - showing me everything she would buy if we were rich. But today's she's just staring out the window across the street at St. Kevin's. My best friend had her First Communion at that church. Inside there's a Jesus with nails in his feet and blood on his face. I was so scared that he was gonna move his eyes, I wanted to scream. They said that God came here and the po-lice killed him, or something like that.

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There's a man outside that looks just like the one inside, I call him Jesus too. He has the same brown skin and long hair. He's kinda cute without all the blood. This Jesus sits on the church steps all day, drinking from a bottle in a bag, holding still while the shadows move. Buses stop to open their doors for him, but one nod sends them on their way. There goes Jesus, I say. Today my mom acts like she don't hear me. I wanna tell her that we should wait across the street when we're finished. Take the rest of our quarters, pack up her daddy's bag, and get on the next bus. But then who would protect my baby sister from the monster? I decide not to say anything, I just watch her with one eye through my magic telescope. I see her pretending that she is alone, looking like all the other women in here with sad eyes, waiting for everything to come clean.

The dryer has stopped again and my mom still hasn't brought up the birthday party. I help her unload both machines, reaching for clothes even though it burns when my fingers graze the hot iron. I look behind me as I unlock the round door, its hot breath heats my face like the glass. Deep as an open mouth, I worry that my mother might push me in, lock the door, and drop her quarters. I don't know why I think this. Today I wonder if she would stand there and watch me tumble or turn and walk away. Maybe she'd go into the church and light a candle for me, wash her face in holy water and then get on the bus with Jesus. Instead she pours the clothes on top of my head like she always does, burying me beneath the rough heat of underwear, jeans, and socks. I am a princess sleeping inside a volcano, but then it cools and it's time to fold.

Any other Sunday JR would be in the livingroom watching baseball, and we'd be tiptoeing in the house hoping he ain't in too mean a mood. Except today my momma's got a black eye, and he's sitting in jail for hitting a white woman. I don't know if she's gonna open up for him when he comes knocking like the Big Bad Wolf. I don't think she will this time, at least that's what I heard her say on the phone. But I still glance behind me anyway.

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I'm watching her as we start to walk back up the hill toward home. She came out the corner store wearing her sunglasses even though they hurt her face. She's singing her favorite song, "Ooh, ooh, child, things are gonna get easier/Ooh, ooh, child, things'll get brighter ..." I join in on the parts I know, but mostly I'm watching the sky for more angel wings. My mom switches her heavy bag from one shoulder to the other and pulls out a box of matches from her pocket. Shhh, she says, slipping a cigarette between her bruised smile. It's a secret.