Page 67 of Expressionate
“Mommy, are we going to church today? It’sSunday.”
“Tax, go play, Mommy’s tired,” she slurs, turningaway.
“But—”
“Tax!” she yells. “Just leave Mommyalone.”
I’m quiet then. I play on the floor, watching her, making sure she doesn’t need to throw up again. Mommy’s sick, she’s always sick likethis.
“Mommy?” I whisper, though I know I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t bother her when she’s tired. But I can’t help it. I want to know. It’s been hurting for me not to ask. “Mommy?”
“What?” she groans, rolling over to stare at me with glassy, unfocusedeyes.
“Why don’t we go to church anymore?” I liked church. I liked the nice pastor guy and the ladies that watched me and Ally while Mommy and Daddy went to big peoplechurch.
“Because,” she says. I wait for her to finish and when she doesn’t I realize that was her answer. It doesn’t satisfy my curiosity. I wonder if God’s mad atus.
“Are we in trouble?” I ask. She looks at me and for a moment her eyes go from distant toclear.
“We’re always in trouble,” shesays.
“Why?” Mommy stares at me for a moment and I hate the way her eyes cloud over again so quickly. She yawns and rolls over, but I persist. “Why, Mommy? Mom? Why are we in trouble? What did we do? Mommy?Why?”
“BECAUSE WE JUST ARE!” She flips back over, sitting up and glares down atme.
I’m not satisfied. “Is it because Daddy said he didn’t believe in God anymore?” I ask. I heard him say it. I heard him say it, and then I heard him cry. But he told me that boys aren’t supposed to cry, so maybe he was doing somethingelse.
“Maybe…” she trailsoff.
“Do you believe in God, Mommy?” The way she laughs when I ask that scares me. It reminds me of those clapping monkey toys. Hi-hat percussions attached to their hands, clanging wildly. Mommy laughs like that – a bit out of control, a bit wild, a lotscary.
“Do I believe in God?” she repeats. “I believe in Him about as much as I believe in your father’sfaithfulness.”
I don’t know what that means. I wait for her to keep talking, but Mommy looks at me with empty and hollow eyes. Eyes that don’t glow with lifeanymore.
“Someday, Tax, you’re going to learn that no matter how much you believe in something, no matter how much you pray, there is not some almighty hero ready to take you away. He just sits up there mocking you on his golden throne. While we crawl like insects at His feet.” She turns away. Maybe I should try to figure out what she means, but I don’t think I wantto.
* * *
"Hey!"The old man slaps my side. "You still with me, youngun'?" he asks as if he truly is half worried I've keeled over and died on him overhere.
"Yeah," I say. "I'mhere."
"Alright then, tell me 'bout your girl." He rights himself against the sidewalk. Getting himself all comfortable—or as comfortable as a person can get in the pouring down rain andcold.
I sniff hard, ice in my nostrils. "She's a goddamn disease," I say, reaching up to rub mychest.
He nods understandingly. "The best ones usually are—getcha right in that chest o'yours."
I shake my head. "Nah, man, it ain't just my fucking chest. She gets me everywhere. It ain't safe anymore. Nowhere is safe. I can't even go home. She lives right next tome."
He laughs, and laughs hard. When I manage to round my head again to look at the old man fully, he still hasn't stopped laughing. It's starting to piss me off as I wait to ask him what the hell is so damn funny. He finally speaks. "Ain't nobody ever told you not to fuck where youshit?"
I laugh, thinking of Cross. “They did; I didn’tlisten.”
“Well, you done fucked yourself over now. You gon’ haft’amove.”
My laughter dies in my throat at the mere thought. I may hate her right now, but there’s no fucking way I could leave her. I shake my head. Before I can say anything, though, the old man grabs my arm. “Don’t ya say nothing, son. I know that look. You ain’t even gonna try and fight it, areya?”
