Read Online Crave by Laurie Jean Cannady - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Jean Cannady
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heart free fell into his stomach, where it remained, as he stood eye to eye with the marble-eyed man who answered the door.
Momma exhaled when she saw him. Hip pressed against the arm of the chair, she steadied herself for a punch, a slice, a âMotherfucker, I wish you would.â But none of those came. There was just silence ping-ponging between them. Momma looked at her husband or what was once her husband. Half of himself, body so drained by vodka and anything that burned going down, she couldnât remember what she once loved about him. His brown skin had grown gray, like a thunderstorm had wrapped itself around him. He looked taller, but only because his frame was wearing skin as if it were a hand-me-down. His clothes hung, sliding off of his arms. His pants sagged around the thick of his thighs as if they were pulling themselves down.
The man moved away from the door. My father walked in. He pressed his shoulders back, puffed his chest to add inches to his stature. Carl had been known to rumble with men twice his size when he was drunk, but he was not drunk enough to buck, so he turned to Momma.
âWhere are my kids?â he asked.
This question sounded awkward even to him. He had not gone there for his kids. Heâd gone there for his family, but his family wasnât his family anymore because his woman wasnât his woman.So, he called for the thing that was still his, that which another man couldnât slip himself into, yet. Momma tilted her head to the closed bedroom door. He followed her gesture.
With eyes trained on the door, he felt his throat closing. So many things he wished in that walk across the living room, that he had a drink, that he hadnât taken that first damning drink, that heâd never touched her with anything but affection, that heâd gotten to know those three kids in that room, the ones he had decided to say goodbye to.
Nowhere Man Nowhere Man
âIf you want to see your daddy, look in the mirror.â This Momma said whenever I asked why I was lighter than everybody else and why my eyes were caramel drops and hers, my brothersâ, and sisterâs were Milk Duds. This she said when I asked, âWho do I look like, if I donât look like you?â
I never found answers in the face looking back at me from the mirror. Yet, I ventured, time and time again, into that bathroom, with the tub scrubbed so ferociously it shined, to the place where Pine Sol was the breath of porcelain fixtures. I gawked in the mirror, stretching and scrunching my face, holding my lids open with my fingers, examining the specks of chocolate in my eyes. I never found him there. I covered my mole, the one set between my lip and nose, large, obtrusive, like a raisin in an oatmeal cookie. I did not find him there either. I sometimes pulled back my hair, turned my chin to the right, squeezed one eye closed, in an attempt to piece together my father. Still, all I saw was me.
Then I turned from that mirror to the father in my mind, the one whoâd said, âSee you laterâ right before my second birthday. In that version of him, my father had a hairline that swooped across the top of his head like a fat check mark. His skin was fair, like mine, and clear, too smooth for a manâs man. This might have prompted others to try him, but for his eyes, which could punch holes through faces with one glance. My father was not a big man, not a tall man, but the way that he walked, long, like he knew people were watching, added six inches to his stature. His gait was lengthy, hurried because he had places to go, people to seeânamely me. And when he moved, his arms propelled him forward as if they were oars and life, his boat, cutting through seas constantly working to toss him over. In my mind, my father had never been capsized. He was not somewhere clamoring for air, every second drowning. My father had just drifted away becausearms werenât meant to be oars nor
Momma exhaled when she saw him. Hip pressed against the arm of the chair, she steadied herself for a punch, a slice, a âMotherfucker, I wish you would.â But none of those came. There was just silence ping-ponging between them. Momma looked at her husband or what was once her husband. Half of himself, body so drained by vodka and anything that burned going down, she couldnât remember what she once loved about him. His brown skin had grown gray, like a thunderstorm had wrapped itself around him. He looked taller, but only because his frame was wearing skin as if it were a hand-me-down. His clothes hung, sliding off of his arms. His pants sagged around the thick of his thighs as if they were pulling themselves down.
The man moved away from the door. My father walked in. He pressed his shoulders back, puffed his chest to add inches to his stature. Carl had been known to rumble with men twice his size when he was drunk, but he was not drunk enough to buck, so he turned to Momma.
âWhere are my kids?â he asked.
This question sounded awkward even to him. He had not gone there for his kids. Heâd gone there for his family, but his family wasnât his family anymore because his woman wasnât his woman.So, he called for the thing that was still his, that which another man couldnât slip himself into, yet. Momma tilted her head to the closed bedroom door. He followed her gesture.
With eyes trained on the door, he felt his throat closing. So many things he wished in that walk across the living room, that he had a drink, that he hadnât taken that first damning drink, that heâd never touched her with anything but affection, that heâd gotten to know those three kids in that room, the ones he had decided to say goodbye to.
Nowhere Man Nowhere Man
âIf you want to see your daddy, look in the mirror.â This Momma said whenever I asked why I was lighter than everybody else and why my eyes were caramel drops and hers, my brothersâ, and sisterâs were Milk Duds. This she said when I asked, âWho do I look like, if I donât look like you?â
I never found answers in the face looking back at me from the mirror. Yet, I ventured, time and time again, into that bathroom, with the tub scrubbed so ferociously it shined, to the place where Pine Sol was the breath of porcelain fixtures. I gawked in the mirror, stretching and scrunching my face, holding my lids open with my fingers, examining the specks of chocolate in my eyes. I never found him there. I covered my mole, the one set between my lip and nose, large, obtrusive, like a raisin in an oatmeal cookie. I did not find him there either. I sometimes pulled back my hair, turned my chin to the right, squeezed one eye closed, in an attempt to piece together my father. Still, all I saw was me.
Then I turned from that mirror to the father in my mind, the one whoâd said, âSee you laterâ right before my second birthday. In that version of him, my father had a hairline that swooped across the top of his head like a fat check mark. His skin was fair, like mine, and clear, too smooth for a manâs man. This might have prompted others to try him, but for his eyes, which could punch holes through faces with one glance. My father was not a big man, not a tall man, but the way that he walked, long, like he knew people were watching, added six inches to his stature. His gait was lengthy, hurried because he had places to go, people to seeânamely me. And when he moved, his arms propelled him forward as if they were oars and life, his boat, cutting through seas constantly working to toss him over. In my mind, my father had never been capsized. He was not somewhere clamoring for air, every second drowning. My father had just drifted away becausearms werenât meant to be oars nor
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