Morgan Lafay

"My Sister, Our Hero"

Mama! Mama! He's drunk again!
Old truck coming up our dirt
road, held there by hitting
the ditch on either side and
bouncing back. Lucky drunk bastard.
Truck never did think of smashing
into a telephone pole.

We all scattered like scared mice.
All but Annie. She was in the back
yard reading fourteen-year-old girl
stuff: "Gone With the Wind." We
hollered, we did. Ran past her into
the corn field. Figured she would
be behind us shortly. Mama was.

Old truck didn't stop in front like
usual. He drove straight through to
the back screeching to a halt just a
few spare inches from where Annie
was reading.

He got out of the truck, hatred glaring.
"Ya stupid cunt bitch, gonna jus set
thar and get killed? Serve ya stupid
bitch self right. One less lousy mouf
ta feeeeeed." Then he went down on his
knees puking.

We watched in horror. He was going to
kill her. Annie shut her book. Got calmly
up off the ground, lifted up that two-pound
heavy hardback and slammed it down on our
beloved father's head...

Don't                    (slam!)
you                       (slam!)
ever                      (slam!)
beat                     (slam!)
me                       (slam!)
or                         (slam!)
threaten              (slam!)
me                       (slam!)
again!                  (slam!)
Useless             (slam!)
drunk                   (slam!)
bastard!              (slam!)
I'll                         (slam!)
send                    (slam!)
your                      (slam!)
stinking               (slam!)
ass                      (slam!)
to                          (slam!)
hell!                      (slam!)

Annie called out to the cornfield:
"It's all right. Ya'll can come out."

He never did hurt Annie again; and us
less if she was around.

The Baby Book

The therapist said: “So there was evidence your mom kept some special things from your siblings, but you could find none of your own. Maybe you shared some?” “No, none that I know.”

He didn’t understand. It hurt. It’s hurt for many, many years now.

“Well, do something about it! Make your own book. Dedicate it to yourself from your mom.”

So I did.

I found an old scrapbook I had barely started years before. Removing the pages with wish lists and trivial writings, I cut a piece of my hair from underneath the nape of my neck and bound it with a pink ribbon. I borrowed one of my son’s preciously saved baby teeth, encased it in plastic, pretending it was my own, pasting both in my book.
I made up estimated dates the events could have happened.

I filled in "baby's full name;" “baby’s favorite song;” “baby’s first word;” “baby’s first step;” “baby’s first trip;” “baby’s first Christmas gift;” and other seemingly pertinent things one would want to read about themselves.

I took the only family quilt left I had that mama had made. It had cloth from some of the little short sets and dresses she had made for me. Carefully, I snipped pieces out, writing underneath the item in the baby book the estimated date of the outfit: worn at first day of grade school, age 5; from dress worn to sister Carolyns's wedding; age 6.

I kept that book for about a week before the anger and frustration took over. I gently removed my son’s baby tooth and flung the damn book filled with lies up in the attic in a dark corner.

The next visit to my therapist, he asked if I had worked on my baby book.

“Yes, but it was all a lie. The only thing real in it was the hair from my head, and the material from the clothes I once wore as a child.”

I'm just not good at pretend.

Mr. Jack

Where does she go with the kerosene lamp, barefoot, wearing a light summer dress and tears in her eyes? The lamp isn’t lit until she is far down the path, after the moonlight has run out. I follow her only because she is so sad. I wonder what in these dark woods could make her feel better. Owls hoot and small animals rustle through the brambles and bushes. Squirrels usually sleeping awaken, and chatter their alarm.

She goes to the old family plot and kneels, sobbing into her hands. I hear rustling ahead. Afraid it is something or someone who could harm us both, I shrink back. But then I see him. He has been to our house many times. I like him. He brings mama apples to bake pies, and she would have me always take one to him with a note inside the pie tin.

I’m not scared now, and mama has stood up. But she is still crying. What I hear I should not be hearing. But their soft words lull me into comfort I hadn’t felt in so long. He begs her to come away with him; bring the young ones and leave. Leave all her misery behind. Mr. Jack promised her a good life; a happy life. “You will never have to work in those fields again. Your hands will be soft as your breast. Only smiles will flood your face. If there are tears, they will be tears of joy.”

Mama steps back and says, “I cannot leave my other children Jack.” “He is an evil man. While my two young sons and I would be safe, he would take it out on the other two. I can’t do it, I won't.”

I got so sick and dizzy I almost threw up. The thought of being left behind knocked the breath out of me. Our old man would kill us. Thomas and me. He would surely kill us. I couldn't listen anymore. I had bees in my head. Nothing made sense. I fell backwards from where I was squatting.

They heard me, and Jack pulled a handgun. He thought it might be the old man I guess. They did not see me, but I heard mama say “I have to go now Jack. I won’t be coming here anymore. Please don’t try to change my mind. I can’t do it.”

I was a horrid mess. Confused and scared. I thought we were going to leave all our troubles behind and go live with Mr. Jack somewhere far away. But he didn’t want all of us. I didn’t like him anymore. He scared me now. He wanted to take my mama away, my only protector. “Mama, don’t go. Don’t leave us.” I cried all the way home. I didn’t need a kerosene lamp; my little feet knew these woods well.

I ran home, washed my feet in the outside bucket, and jumped in bed. Mama came home shortly. I was still softly whimpering when she knelt down and rubbed my face. “I’m not going anywhere Morgan; I would never leave you and your brother. Not for anything or anybody.”

That night, what was left of it, I slept well.

There were no more apples, and no more Mr. Jack.

Apple's sweet beauty
tainted by
impossible promises

Brother Dave

The funny one, you always made us laugh. When no one else would take a dare, you did. Even when you knew a chicken couldn’t fly with a boot over its head. Crickets didn't taste good because they were crunchy. You couldn’t float with the aid of an umbrella, hole in it or not. Clinging to our very own Tarzan made vine, you would hold on as long as you could before flying through the air, hitting the bald dirt. “Damn,” you would say; “that sure did hurt.” And we would bust up laughing, same as you.

Tag-along sweet baby; little brother always to me; later, snaggletooth playmate. I didn’t know you after you turned ten. Mama’s death separated us younger brothers and sisters.

I didn’t get to see you again until you were 17. Married at 21, I finally visited what used to be home. I had the hardest time finding you. A friend of a friend knew you lived out in the woods… the deep woods. Somehow you got my message “Sis is in town!”

I quickly wrote down directions to meet as you gave them over the phone: “Go past the old cemetery where the folks are buried, turn left; take dirt road down a piece as far as it goes; I’ll be there in a spell."

You could have warned me how you looked, mean jokester! I thought I was being set upon by Big Foot himself! A burly man behind long bushy hair, eyebrows and beard carrying a big-ass walking stick. No baby brother I remembered! Sure didn’t look 17 either; but when you laughed, I knew. Still had that snaggletooth you broke jumping from the barn loft while holding a too long rope.