. . . Her mother held the knife in her hand, the strain in her face refusing to put it down. Simone backed up slowly as the blood dropped on the counter, the splatter spreading across the uncooked food on the counter top, splattering her mother’s shirt. She looked for some place to hide her.
Her mother smiled quietly, looking at the blood on her shirt. “If you put some water directly on the stain,” turning her back, walking toward the sink, “the stain can be easily cleaned away.”
Simone backed up to the counter next to the backstairs that led upstairs to the bedrooms. Her hands trembled, squeezing tight across the open cut, scared to look at what had happened. Her mother still held the knife in her hand. Cutting the faucet water on, she turned around.
“How many times have we brought bandages this month?” Simone began to cry as her mother walked up on her with the knife. “Don’t cry, Simone. It was just an accident. Don’t cry. We just have to get you cleaned up. How about ice cream for your dinner? I’ll do something different for your father so he won’t even know.”
She could feel her mother’s heart beat against her chest through their hug. She was crying for help, for her mother to stop.
“Simone, how many bandages did we buy this month?” Her eyes were full of tears, confusing what had happened, and what her mother was asking. The knife banged against the kitchen counter as her mother pulled her hands away, the calm in voice changing into a demand. “Stop crying, and answer me.”
Simone looked up from the tears in her eyes. She noticed that her mother had not done her hair, kind of going in all directions. The water continued in its run from the faucet.
“Four times.”
“To the same store?”
“No.”
“Ok,” putting the knife on the counter, hugging her against the cut of her hand. “I need you to go upstairs, and clean up. Don’t let it get infected. Are you ok?” She began to cry again in her mother’s arms.
“Ok,” pulling away from her only child. Simone stared at her through the tears. A big stain of blood smeared the front of the shirt. Looking at her daughter, she looked down at the blood on the shirt, and began to smile.
“Go ahead. Don’t worry about it.” Simone turned to the backstairs entrance, running over the first couple of stairs. Her mother’s voice followed her up the dark stair casing. “How much ice cream do you want?” She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
“Can I have the big bowl?” listening for her mother’s voice over the climb of stairs. She wasn’t going back downstairs.
Simone’s mother turned, picking the knife up from the counter, staring at the stain of blood on her shirt. She began to add sauce to the food she had been preparing. The pour of the sauce slowly covered the splatter of blood. She called again to her daughter. “How much ice cream do you want?”
Simone walked into the bathroom, closing the door. Hearing the voice of her mother from downstairs, she paused in thought. “The big bowl.”
To take away the pain. To take away family that did not care. To be by herself where she would not be noticed, and that there was no help coming.
She walked to the bathroom sink, fumbling the hot, cold handles. The cut was deep, hiding under the skin. She looked at the package of bandages. Only two left, pulling the large bandage out of the wrapper, placing it over her cut.
Chapter 2
“She fell off a curve?” she repeated, smiling in between her sentence. He was smiling too.
“I thought you would understand, young lady. Terrible, isn’t it. How does someone fall from a curve, and die? But she did, and I really loved her.” Simone’s father walked up to the conversation with a plate of food.
“Did they let you look at her?”
“Yeah, it was her, but it was horrible how she looked. I couldn’t look at her without getting sick. They made me stand there, and everything. It was horrible.” He smiled again, looking at Simone, “How does one fall off a curve?” finally laughing together. But Simone could tell the whole story had seemed to make her mother upset. She looked worried.
“I don’t think its funny, and your wife, if she was still here, would not think it was funny or that you were laughing at her death. Simone, it’s not funny. Stop laughing.” Her father, at first smiling, looked concern.
“Are you going to be alright? He was just talking about his wife.”
“I know. I don’t think its funny. That’s horrible to die like that.” The entirety of the dinner hall seemed to draw away from her mother's hysteria.
“This is your daughter?” the younger man turning to Simone’s father.
“Yes, our only baby,” her mother answered, wiping the side of her daughter’s face with her hand.
“Would you allow me to get you some more cake, young lady?”
“Can I have some more cake?” she asked, both her parents nodding in agreement. “A big piece of chocolate, and some strawberries.”
“At your service,” Simone watching the younger black man walk across the floor to the dessert table. They had tables full of all types of cakes; four feet cakes, cakes to hard to eat, cakes to complicated to pronounce, cakes to beautiful to cut. She watched as he approached the chocolate cake, beginning in conversation with some woman. He looked the young girl’s way, holding up his hands, smiling. "He’s going to be awhile", she thought, sucking her teeth.
Her father’s voice broke through the silence, “This turned out to be pretty fun. I didn’t expect so many people to be here amongst all this food,” swallowing down some type sandwich with potato chips. “Simone, when you get a chance, you should try the sour cream cottage cheese with the garlic onion rings.” Her stomach turned to the thought of cottage cheese, sour cream, and garlic, eyeing the chocolate cake table again. Her chocolate cake carrier was now in conversation with a group of women, raising his hand again at her look.
“What is cottage cheese?” she asked her mother.
“How do I suppose to know, Simone. I hate that type of stuff.” Her mother still seemed to be upset about something. Everyone was having a good time, but her.
“There’s my school teacher,” raising her hand, waving in the direction of the tall dark bald head man. He smiled, waving back across the dinner hall. Walking their way, she noticed that he was in the same direction as the chocolate cake, the young man now in conversation with a small crowd.
“Some cake,” she yelled across the hall of people to the school teacher, pointing to the chocolate cake table, “chocolate,” she continued.
Her mother cut through the excitement, “Simone, that was so rude. You are a young woman. That is your school teacher, and we are in public.” She didn’t care, drooling the cake statue on the table.
Her school teacher seemed confused at first, realizing that she had said chocolate, turning to the cake table. She smiled as he began in motion the cutting of the cake. She also noticed that the conversation of the younger gentleman had come to an end, and he, too, was at the chocolate cake, cutting a piece. It was a big piece, smiling in thought, "This was a good night; two more pieces of chocolate cake."
Her school teacher walked up on her, and her parents, handing Simone the cake, “How is everyone doing?” shaking her father’s hand. “This turned out to be pretty nice,” looking around the entirety of the dancing hall. “So many people that I don’t know are here.”
“I was just telling my wife the same thing,” finishing up the last of his sandwich.
“Where did you get that food from?” eyeing the empty plate of Simone’s father.
“I had to go toward the front of the building where they have the cooks. Tell them you want something cooked, and they’ll bring it to you.”
Simone dug her teeth deep into the thick chocolate cream that layered on top, licking her lips to the sweet taste. Her mother grabbed around her husband’s arms. Straining her face, “How is Simone doing in school?”
Simone continued, scooping a thick layer of chocolate with her fingers, sucking the cool moisture into her mouth.
Her school teacher looked at her, smiling. “Simone is top of the class. Probably my best student; grades, and behavior. Sometimes she seems as if she is in pain, distracted, when we are just sitting around doing nothing, but she always says she is fine. I just think the level of the class is not her level, intelligence wise, but I wouldn’t advise moving her up.”
Simone pulled the cake down slow from her mouth having heard what her teacher said, and her father heard it. She remembered her mother had thrown the dresser cabinet on her back the night before, over something she got mad at, and she had hid how bad the pain was. To just sit in those hard school chairs with nothing to do was horrible, the pain beyond anything she knew.
She thought she had broken something in her back, and was scared, and alone. The pain lasted for days, each day sitting through it, suffering it, but she had managed to hide it from everyone; including her parents.
She could see the agitation in her mother’s face overtake the subtlety of the conversation as if he was going to ask, “Are you abusing your daughter?”
Her mother looked at her. She slowly put the cake down to her side. "Cake night was over with", she thought. Her mother began to rub her face. “Are you abusing your daughter?”
“You said the front of the building, and ask the cooks?” Her father nodded his head. “I will be right back,” walking into the crowd, disappearing among the clutter of people. At the same time, the younger black man walked up. "Young lady, it seems tonight is your night. A big piece of chocolate cake, and strawberries.” She paused, feeling the stare of her mother.
“Two pieces of cake, Simone? Are you going to be able to eat all of that?”
She didn’t know what to say, taking the cake, and strawberries in her free hand. Putting both plates together, she stood back from her mother, seeing her father standing directly behind.
“Answer me, Simone. Two pieces of cake?”
“Answer your mother, Simone.”
“Can I have both pieces?” . . . She watched her school teacher walk up to where she sat in the classroom, asking her if she was ok, surrounded on all sides by a class full of young people. Having paid it no attention at first, she blamed it on the chair, that her butt hurt. She hadn’t realized that she was still struggling with the pain in her back, that he noticed something might be wrong . . . Her mother turned from the stare at her daughter to the crowd of people all around.
There was no reply. It was awkward the silence in the conversation, and the young man could tell something was wrong.
“I’m sorry. Did I take too long? Some people that said they wanted to help me with the situation with my wife, and I just got caught up in the moment.”
“No, no, no,” her father answered, finally smiling. “Simone’s school teacher was here. Just concerned about her education.”
“Someone so beautiful already has a beautiful future.” She liked how he had said that. “Listen, I been seeing people with sandwiches, and potato chips, but I haven’t seen it nowhere?”
“Go to the front, ask for the cooks, and they’ll make what you want.” The younger man smiled, smiling at Simone, walking into the direction of the crowd. From a short distance, in the middle of the crowd, music began to play; kind of like disco, kind of like blues.
Simone began to look around for somewhere to sit, where she could finish her cakes.
“Would you like to dance?” her father asked her mother. She didn’t really reply, still staring into the noise of the crowd. Her father, grabbing her hand, pulled her into the noise of the music.
Simone sat down next to some type juice container. The tension in her toes relaxed as she slid the fronts of her shoes from her feet. A group of old women sat crowded, noisy in their gossip over the noise of the music. They had drunk too much wine, and were confused where the bathrooms were.
She sat back in the cushion of the chair, breathing out from the pain in the back of her leg. It was bruised, and swollen.
Making sure not to draw attention to the pain, she breathed out heavy. The stare of her parent’s had made her tired, looking down at the cake, and the fallen pieces of chocolate. It had lost its excitement, its beauty. Now just
something that would have no taste.
Her small hands fumbled the chocolate into her mouth, the smell of sugar mixed with strawberries covering her face. She smiled again; the flavor of chocolate cake, and she had two big pieces. There was the sudden noise of the drinking fountain, the many colors of juice overwhelming, camouflaged into the dance floor lights. "Where were the cups," she thought.
“Excuse me, where are the cups for the juice?” The group of old women turned to the young girl.
“Come on child,” taking her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Do you want a plastic cup or the big glass ones?” She didn’t know, sliding on the fronts of her shoes, her feet tangling one over the another.
From across the open dance hall, the crowd of people gathered in conversation had grown enormous. The old woman continued in her pull of the young girl’s hand, approaching what looked like a stage of dark lights coming from the entrance of the fountain. Behind the lights, cups could be seen; glass cups, plastic cups, cups with designs, cups with tops, color cups. Simone smiled as she approached the glass cups with the entangled straws.
“This cup right here glows in the dark when you put something in it,” the old woman walking back to the wine table. Simone shook her head, to drink from something that glowed in the dark didn’t seem good, the mixture of pineapple, strawberry, banana staggering her thoughts, and she wanted to know what pineapple juice would taste like.
Easing her cup into the mixture, the cool liquid splashed against her hands. She inhaled the smell. The juice was cold, the straw twirling, circling within its enclosure. Refreshing against the force of heat surrounding her face, the sweet taste in mimic of the chocolate cake. She wanted to sit down from the head rush, but the walk back to the chairs had become crowded with more people. Looking for the old woman at the wine table, she had already sat down, waving to the young girl to come, join them. From the cold and sugar in the drink, mixed with the dancing lights, the walk towards the group of woman began slow. She could hear her mother calling her from behind. “Simone, where is the bathroom? I need you to help me with my dress.” She pointed in the direction of a secluded hallway, both walking towards its entrance. The dancing had not eased her mother's discomfort. The noise of the crowd, and music continued.
“This was supposed to be a small gathering,” her mother mumbled in disgust down the hallway to the bathroom, her dress pulling down her back, onto her shoulders. “Your clumsy father kept pulling on the tailpiece of the back, and pulled the strap.”
The bathroom separated from the crowd, and the hallway, curving up onto steps that led into an small entrance. Both woman, and young girl entered into the bathroom, into a crowd of women.
“That is a beautiful dress. That color is phenomenal."
“Thank you,” her mother replied. I had some one make it for me for my daughter’s birthday.” Simone stepped to the side as her mother continued in conversation. “Messing with my husband, the strap came loose.”
From behind the bathroom door of one of the toilets, a man’s voice could be heard laughing. Simone’s mother paused in conversation. The man came from behind the door, looking at the confused faces of the women.
“Uhhhh, the men’s bathroom was crowded,” snatching some water from the sink, hurriedly leaving through the entrance down into the hallway. Simone’s mother continued to stare as the other women continued in their nuance. Simone smiled. "Now that was funny", she thought.
“You see now, Simone? That’s why I am so hard on you because of the insanity of the people. If the men’s bathroom is crowded, it’s nobody’s fault. He should have just waited or let someone know.”
Simone thought to say something, but decided no. Seeing the smile on her daughter’s face, she could tell that she had not understood.
“Did you have something you wanted to say to me? You know what’s going on, and I don’t?"
She could hear the hatred in her mother's voice, the lonely desperation beginning to grow within her where she was.
Another woman began to speak, “And then he was a man in a women’s bathroom with all these women. These men no longer respect women or children. It could have been just little children in here, and we wonder why the
world is the way it is.
Simone’s mother, pulling her hands to the back of her dress, responded, “And we are supposed to be the intelligent of society.”
Her hands fumbled over the strap that fastened the waist to the back shoulder. "I don't think its working correctly anymore,” she said, her voice soft, low sounding over the continued commotion in the bathroom. . . . . continue