ANONYMOUS

SEPTEMBER 1986

MINDEN, LA

I carry the crying baby in my arms, past the kitchen, down the dim hallway, out to the porch. It has stopped raining, and a cool mist has settled in the morning air. His mother’s strangled screams echo in the house from the basement, but I try to shut out her threats. The words and names that she calls me stabs like a knife, even more so than when she spat into my face. I need to let her be for a few moments. Me only being there seems to escalate her further; I don’t want to do that.

A bird lands on a branch and begins to sing.

When she is calmer, and hopefully a lot more kinder, she will maybe not see me as such a monster. I understand that this will take time; as a city is not built within a day. Neither is trust. Maybe we will be friends, before we can truly become family. If she spits or hits at me again, she will have to return to where she was before. I cannot have her act in such a way around her own child. What if she upsets him? My face is still deeply stinging from the impact as I settle down on a lopsided chair and gaze upon the bundle of life in my arms.

Nobody loves me.

But one person in this world does. By default. He is in front of me. His mind is a fresh slate, unpolluted by ideologies or opinions or influences. His mother will teach him to despise me, for sure, if she does not want to be part of this family. I know that she will attempt to demonize me every way she can as when he gets older, so I must take preventative measures. He is a precious gift that I have waited and hoped for all these years.

He is tiny.

So very tiny.

From the tips of his fingernails to his scrunched up nose, he begins to fuss, his little mouth opening and closing. His large eyes are a deep brown, gazing up at me as I gently begin to bounce him up and down. A small smile forms across my cracked lips. I haven’t smiled in years. I didn’t even know I was capable of it. I can’t remember the last time I had. Decades, perhaps. His big, round eyes get a little crossed before he releases an enormous sneeze, startling himself. I chuckle as a large, round snot bubble swells from his left nostril. After using a clean corner of my mostly filthy sweatshirt to wipe it away, a realization falls upon me.

I haven’t given this beautiful child a name yet.

He suddenly begins to cry, and I wonder if he’s cold. I will keep him warm. The outside world is far too overwhelming; it’s the sights and smells that are crashing over him all at once. I need to give him a bath. The stuff from the afterbirth is still clinging to his skin and hair, and it’s starting to dry and peel off. That cannot be comfortable for anyone.

As carefully as I can, I scoop the newborn up in my arms. I carry him back inside the kitchen, this time heading upstairs. The sun is starting to seep through the house, and his mother’s shrieks are louder than ever from the basement. Curse words flying, bouncing off the walls, but I hardly bat an eye. I don’t even look there. I reach the baby’s new room. I’ve managed to clean everything out; especially all those boxes his mother had left. I have swept and dusted everywhere. She ought to know better, that it attracts dust, which brings in respiratory problems. And due to his size, his lungs are definitely underdeveloped.

Once I have a shallow basin of warm water ready, I sit down on the floor. The baby is wailing on the top of his lungs now—his pink gums bared. They are both calling to each other—him and his mother cries echo in the house. I know they are, and I know I have no right to keep them apart. I bear the weight of their voices; I know I am a great hindrance. It was not an easy choice. But this child is my own. And I intend to protect him the best way I can. I will protect him far better than my own mother ever did for me, so he too, one day, will love me.

And no one is to get into my way.

He is wailing louder now, kicking his little legs.

“I know, I know. It’s cold. I’ll have you warmed in a jiffy. It’ll be quick, little guy. It’s alright.”

He sniffles.

“Shhh,” I say in a soothing tone, testing the temperature of the water with my hand to make sure that it is not too hot. Once I remove the stained swaddling cloth Juno had hastily wrapped around him and carefully lower him into the basin, he immediately stops crying. I squeeze a good bit of soap on a cloth, and, once I get a nice lather going, I see how his tiny feet are splashing up the water. He’s only a couple hours old at this point, but it seems to calm him. I am gently removing all the stuff caked upon his skin—no doubt the source of his irritation. It’s coming off in thick chunks that plop in the browning water below. I apply more soap to the rag. “This been bothering’ you for a while, ain’t it? It’s enough to get anyone worked up.”

I don’t know why I’m talking so much. I’ve hardly spoken more than a couple of words in the past month. He’s taken my silence from me. He crams his fingers in his mouth, before smiling at the thick suds spilling out of the sides of the basin.

“You are going to be nice and warm and dry, and you are going to sleep in this lovely room. I’d get you all the toys you’ll ever want. Board games. Crayons. I’ll teach you how to draw,” I murmur. The faint scent of lavender fill the air as I wash his hair—thick black curls. “You are so well behaved. I know you gonna make your mama proud one day.”

There’s not a whole lot of blood, but a reasonable amount. He could fit between the palms of both of my hands. He is much too small, but resilient. He is the apple of my eye.

”Almost done, little one. Almost.”

He fusses as I support the back of his head and finish cleaning him up. He places his tiny fingers in his mouth and looks around in the room, his room. His first night here out of many. Bubbles rise in the air, and the small suds are clinging to my wrists. He seems to like them, and they distract him from the cold for a moment. His dark eyes look at me again as I rinse him off. He loves kicking up the water, rushing and splashing it all up all over the floor, leaving a puddle, and I smile and hold him close to me.

It’s like he’s in a hurry no matter what I do.

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A name pops in my mind. Rush.

There’s a thud against the basement door.

“Not so bad for your first bath, ain’t it, buddy?” I whisper. I’m careful to keep it short, since I know babies get cold easy. The last thing I want for him is to catch a chill. The good news is that his mother has brought plenty of brand new clothes for him—I know where to find them. After rummaging around and getting him into a clean diaper and shirt, I swaddle him up in thick, warm cloths. He’s starting to doze off once more. When he wakes up, I will have a bottle ready. I ought to start a fireplace out in the backyard, get some of the formula heated for him to have.

Too bad the stove doesn’t work anymore. But maybe I can scrape enough money to buy a new one, install it in the kitchen. Then we can have meals every night. Especially board game nights. The idea of a nice bowl of chicken soup and good old fashioned checkers is enough to make me heavily sigh.

Rush releases an enormous yawn, once more revealing his pink gums. I am amused by the sight of it. I am excited to see where his first tooth comes in—will it be at the top or bottom jaw? Then he will say his first word—

”Go to hell!”

My smile fades. At first his mother’s cold words catch me off guard, snap me out of my thoughts. I suddenly remember where I am; what I have done. They float up the stairs and bite into my skin like fire ants and wasps. My hands slightly shake. Hell. Doesn’t she know I’ve spent all my life there? It’s hard to fear what you already know.

“I’ll kill you.” Juno’s screams echo down the hall. “I’ll kill you, you hear? I’ll kill you.”

Bang, bang, bang-

Holding Rush carefully in my arms, I begin my descent down the stairs, my bare feet barely making a sound against the treads. My eyes focus on the door that is taking the brunt of the impact down the hallway. She had gotten up, somehow found her way behind the door. This sort of behavior is not appropriate in our family, our home. My chest is rising and falling. I know I can’t keep Rush away from his mother—it would kill him, and it is a burden that I am unwilling to bear. I keep telling her that I won’t hurt her or her son. Why won’t she listen? If only she listened.

But then again, no one in my life ever has listened to me. I ought to be used to it.

I ain’t.

Something slammed against the door.

“GIVE HIM BACK.”

”I will,” I quietly say, but it’s drowned out by a slew of curse words. There’s another crashing sound against the locked door, which is rattling heavier than ever. Bang, bang, bang. She’s going to try to break it down, most likely by throwing something at it. There is already a crack at the edge of the doorframe.

”LET ME OUTTTTTT!!!!!!!”

I am impressed—never knew she could put a dent into it. When I was four, I remember my father slamming his fist against the surface, narrowly missing Mama’s head. I remember the sound of his bones being smashed. It was music to my ears. He had to go to the hospital and get stitches for it. Couldn’t work for a month. Of course, the wood had weakened a great deal over time. But it’s still a three to four inch crack. I must repair that sometime.

She then proceeds to calls me a female dog.

I swallow hard.

If she keeps this up, she won’t be able to yell or scream much at all. I want to remove her tongue. She is lucky that I have not taped her mouth shut, but that is what I may have to start doing. I don’t want to, but I will if she keeps making all this racket. I can’t have her upsetting the baby. And I don’t think she realizes how fortunate she is, to have a family who loves and cares for her. I love her as much as Mama. And I know that she is capable of loving, too. But then again, I am nothing but a stranger to her, and she doesn’t really know me yet. My introducing myself to her has failed in the past. And I want her to like me. Badly. I have seen her in her tender moments too, when she is calm and carefree.

When she is at peace.

I want her to look at me the same way she did at her son when she saw him for the first time. I want her to see me as part of her, too. After all, she has rescued me from my loneliness. Now, I must tame the beast within her.

If someone comes by and takes her away, I know that the dark, lonely days will return.

I cradle Rush in my arms, where he is now sleeping peacefully, snuggled in my arms. He is such an easy baby. The banging has subsided, and as I slowly approach the basement door, I can make out sobbing in the other side. She has worn herself out. If she stays calm, I will bring him down to her. I know she misses him. I can’t imagine what it’s like, to have something so close to you for months until it is ripped away. I know that she senses his presence, as well as mine. She is exhausted. Her breasts are full of milk.

Her baby needs her.

”Do not cry,” I whisper. “I am here.”

There is a hiccup. She is calming down.

“I’ll bring him to you.” I pause. “I promise.” And that’s when I realized that she hadn’t eaten much of anything since she’s been back home, and that is not good. It’s a shame that I haven’t noticed. A good bowl of gumbo is what she needs. I can make wicked jambalaya, blackened fish, and some crawfish boil. Maybe fish fry with some red beans. I’ve learned from the cookbooks I have. I’d love to teach her one day, too.

She’d think better with a full stomach. Everyone is always cranky when they’re hungry.

”You hungry, ain’t ya? You like food, right?”

Bang.

”Look, if I open this door, you can’t be swingin’ and hittin’ me like you was earlier,” I gently continue. “It’s impolite, and in this household, we treat each other with respect. The moment you start doing that again, we go back down in the basement. You don’t like the basement. I don’t like the basement. That’s something we can agree on. So you won’t do none of that no more. We got a deal?”

Bang, bang, bang.

I exhale. “Come on, you gotta work with me. And you’ve got to talk to me at some point. You can’t ignore me forever. We under the same roof, you and I.”

There’s another thump against the door, perhaps a foot. So I say real soft, ”If you don’t fight me when I come back in there, I’ll bring your boy to you. I swear.”

I don’t ever break my promises; I keep them to the end. There is more silence. But at least she is listening to me. I can tell. That is a milestone in it of itself. A smile crosses my face. We are closer to becoming friends already. I just know it. I haven’t told her yet that I’ve already named the baby, but I will. I hope she likes it. It is a good name.

Silence.

“I bring him to you now,” I whisper.

She sniffs. She doesn’t say anything.

That’s it, baby girl. Relax.

I wish she would talk to me, besides screaming insults at my face, as she had done for the last forty-eight hours. She is far too pretty for all of that. We’ve never really had a conversation before, but I’m hoping that it is possible. I look down for a moment, before placing a palm against the cracked surface and leaning my head sideways against it. I can hear her breathing heavily again. Maybe she is thinking of staying? I cannot get my hopes up. I want to let her out of that basement so badly. But I need her to be able to trust me. She is just as stubborn and headstrong as Mama, perhaps even worse. My hand tightens around the locked doorknob. I only want to dry her tears.

If she runs away and takes Rush—

—if she abandons me like Mama did—

—I cannot allow it.

I won’t allow it.