Blue Belle Page 12

  "I was always told my mother died giving birth to me. Sissy really raised me—took care of me—my father never paid me any attention."

  She took a drag on the cigarette, looking at the dark ceiling.

  "I was a big, tall girl, even when I was real young. And skinny too—you believe that?"

  "Sure."

  "I was. Like a board. Ugly old skinny girl with no kind of face at all. Sissy was pretty once. You could tell by looking at her in the morning light. Sissy was hard on me. I had to do my chores sharp, or she'd let me know it. Homework too. We had a school, all the kids together in one class. Sissy made sure I did my homework. Always sent me to school clean, no matter how things were at home. She never had a new dress in all the time I knew her. Said it didn't matter to her. She had nice nightgowns, though. She caught me trying one on once and she took a switch to me so hard I didn't want to sit down for a couple of days. Anything she had, she'd give to me. Except those nightgowns. Or her perfume."

  She took another drag.

  "My father never much bothered with me. Once in a while, I'd do something to make him notice me. Pay some attention to me. He didn't care if I did my homework, but he had to have his coffee just so: dark coffee with a big dollop of cream across the top; he never mixed it.

  "I talked back to him once. He grabbed my arm, pulled off his belt to give it to me. Sissy jumped in between us, kitchen knife in her hand. The devil was in her face—you could see it. You never put a hand on that child, she told him.

  "He backed off. Told her I had it coming, but he wouldn't look her in the face. Sissy said if I had something coming she'd be the one to give it to me. Go ahead, my father said, give it to her.

  "Sissy ripped the belt out of his hands, dragged me outside to the back. You better yell now, she told me. Loud! She whipped me something fierce that time. Brought me back inside by the hand, told me to get to work on my chores and keep my mouth shut. My father was watching us when we came in. Sissy went back in the bedroom. I saw her taking one of her nightgowns out of her drawer. My father went back there too."

  She drew on the cigarette again, the flame close to her hand.

  "My father was real drunk one day. Late in the afternoon, swamp shadows across the back of the house. I heard him fighting with Sissy when I came back home. I swear I'll kill you, Sissy told him. He just laughed at her. Slapped her hard across the face. I went after him. He threw me off, but I got up again. Sissy and me fought him until he was out of wind. He just lay there on the floor, looking up at us. I'll be back tonight, he told Sissy, I'll be back, and I'll take what's mine.

  "He staggered out the door. Sissy grabbed me, took me to the back of the house. Your time has come, she told me. She took out a suitcase. I didn't even know she had one. Put all your clothes in this, she told me. Don't argue. I helped her fill it up. I thought we were going to run away together. We snuck out the back, into the swamp. Sissy showed me a marker on a cypress tree, where she'd cut it with her knife. She gave me a shovel and told me to dig. Deep. I found an old mason jar, wax–sealed. Found two more. Sissy broke the jars open. There was near a thousand dollars in the jars."

  Belle yelped—the cigarette had burned into her fingers. I held out the ashtray and she dropped it in, put her fingers in her mouth for a second to suck on them.

  "Sissy sat me down at the table. He'll be back in a couple of hours, she said. You take that suitcase and get into the swamp. I'll fix the boat so he can't go after you. You take the back trail all the way through, to where it catches the highway. The late bus to town comes past there about nine—you got plenty of time to make it."

  Belle's face was wet with tears, but her voice was the same quiet whisper.

  "Where am I going? I asked her.

  "You go to the bus station. Take a Greyhound north, and don't stop until you're out of this state. Go north and keep going, Belle, she told me. You're going to be on your own.

  "I didn't want to go—I didn't understand. Sissy wouldn't listen to me. You're grown now, she said. Almost fifteen years old. I held him back as long as I could, baby, but now your time has come. You got to mind me, Belle, she said. This one last time. You got to mind me—do what I say. She took her nightgowns out of the drawer, threw them in the suitcase too. Your nightgowns …I said. I won't be needing them anymore, she told me. I think I knew then. For the first time."

  Belle was crying now, working hard to keep her voice steady.

  "I grabbed on to her. Hugged her tight. Don't make me go, Sissy, I begged her. She pushed me away. Looked at me like she was memorizing me. Then she slapped me across the face. Hard.

  "Why'd you slap me, Sissy? I asked her. Why'd you slap me? You never slapped me in the face in all my life."

  Belle took a deep breath, looking straight at me in the dark.

  "I slapped you so you'll never forget my name, baby. Don't you ever call me Sissy again, not even in your dreams.

  "I was standing there, crying. Sissy rubbed my face where she'd slapped me. So tender and sweet. She kissed me to take away the pain, like she used to do when I was little.

  "We heard my father's car pull in. Sissy was calm. I'm not just your sister, Belle. I'm not Sissy. I'm your mother.

  "I couldn't move. Go! Sissy said. Go, little girl. I'm your mother. I kept you safe. Now run!

  "I ran into the swamp, but I didn't go far. I hid down in a grove, so scared I couldn't make my legs work. I heard my father yell something at Sissy. Then I heard this explosion; flames shot up. The boat. You stay right there, bitch! I heard my father yell. Then I heard his gator–gun blast off. Once. Twice. He yelled my name. Screamed it out into the night. I ran through that swamp. My mother wasn't lying there dead by the boat—she was inside me—running with me—keeping me strong. She's always inside me."

  Belle grabbed me, holding me tight, her arms locked around my back.

  Crying the truth.

  49

  I DON'T know how long we were like that. Belle loosened her hold. She drew back from me, reaching out a hand to touch my face.

  "Does it hurt?"

  "No."

  "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to remember my name," she whispered.

  "I do."

  "Will you get in bed with me, honey? Lie down with me?"

  "Sure."

  She propped herself on one elbow, reached across my chest for the cigarettes. "I have to tell you the rest," she said.

  "You don't…"

  "Yes. Yes, I do. You still don't know what I want from you."

  I fired a match for her and watched the smoke drift out her pug nose, not pushing her.

  "How old do you think I am?" she asked.

  "Twenty, twenty–two?"

  "I'm almost twenty–nine years old," she said. "It was fourteen years ago when my mother saved me. I went running. Even when I was a young girl, they only looked at my chest, not my face. There's always young folks running in this country. I found them—they found me. I made some rules for myself, promises to my mother. I never turned a trick, but I let my tits hang over plenty of bars. I could always make men buy drinks. I never let a man beat me—there's some who wanted to try—big girl like me makes them feel small, I guess. I drove cars too—I'm real good at it. Getaway cars sometimes. I ran 'shine over the mountains in Kentucky. Drove stolen cars from Chicago to Vegas. I thought I was going to be a showgirl there. I've got the size and the body for it, but my face…"

  "You have a beautiful face, Belle."

  "No, I don't. But I know it's the truth to you. Just listen to me, don't talk."

  I nodded, rubbing her shoulder.

  "I saved my money. I read a lot of books, teaching myself. I'm an incest child. You know what that means? I have my father's blood and my sister's too. That's why my face is so…like it is. My eyes close together and all. I have bad blood, Burke. Bad blood. Only the Lord knows what's gone on in my family before I was born. Or what happened to Sissy's mother. My grandmother, I guess. I saw a doctor. At New Yo
rk University. I told him the truth. He did some tests, but he couldn't tell me anything without testing my father too. I'm all messed up inside. I'm missing a rib here"—she pressed my hand under her heart—"and one leg's a bit shorter than the other. The doctor wouldn't tell me that much, but I made him say the truth."

  She smoked in the dark while I waited.

  "I can never have a child. Never have a baby of my own, you understand? My father's bloodline has to stop with me."

  She felt the question.

  "He's down to Raiford State Prison. In that drawer over there, I have all the papers. I was busted once with a station wagon full of machine guns. I rolled over on the people who hired me," she said, watching my face. "They told me it was stolen watches when they asked me to drive."

  "They didn't tell the truth," I said.

  "Yeah, you understand. They didn't tell the truth. I got a free pass out of it—no testimony, just the names. And one of the feds, he looked up my father for me. He's doing a ten–year jolt for manslaughter; he gets out this Christmas."

  "How come he's still in on a ten–year hit if it happened fourteen years ago?"

  Belle's face twisted—I saw her teeth flash, but it wasn't a smile. "He never did a day for killing my mother. He shot a man in a dispute over some gator hides."

  She pointed her toe in the air, flexing her thigh, drawing my eyes to the tattoo.

  "Look close," she whispered. "Look real close. What do you see?"

  "A snake."

  "When I was running through the swamp that first night, I stopped in a clearing. A snake hissed at me. Cottonmouth, maybe. I couldn't see him in the dark. He had me rooted—too scared to move. Then my mother's spirit came into me and I knew I had to go. No matter what. I threw a branch at the noise and it stopped. A gator wouldn't stop. I was dancing in this club in Jersey. All of the girls had tattoos. Butterfly tattoos. Their boyfriends' names. A rose on their butt. They told me where they got it done. I had the man do a snake. Right on my thigh, pointing at my cunt. A poison snake—that's all the men saw."

  I looked hard at the tattoo, knowing there was more. Seeing it. "The snake, it's the letter 'S'."

  "Yes. For 'Sissy.' For my mother. It's the only gravestone she'll ever have."

  I lit a cigarette. "That's where your dance comes from."

  "Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me you see it."

  "I see it. There's worse things than gators out there," I told her. "But not as bad as what's in the house."

  She kissed my chest. "That's what I wanted," she said, talking fast now, like I'd cut her off before she finished. "That's what I wanted from you. Marques told me he wouldn't meet you without a cut–out. He told me you were a dangerous, crazy man. Said you used to be a hijacker and now you're a hired killer."

  "Marques doesn't…"

  "Ssssh…" she said, putting her finger to my mouth. "He said you killed a pimp just because he had a little girl on the street. He said everyone knows you lose your mind when people fuck kids. He said you took money to bring back some runaway girl. You got her away from the pimp, then you shot him anyway."

  "And you wanted…"

  "I wanted you to rescue me. I told you the truth, honey. I told you the truth. It's my soul that's lost. My spirit. My mother saved my life—I need someone to save the rest."

  "The hijacking…"

  "I deserve to have my ass beat for that. I played it wrong. I wanted a hard man. I knew I couldn't hold you with sex. I wanted you to rescue me—I wanted to be your partner. I thought if I brought you a solid–gold score, handed it to you on a platter…you'd know I was worth something. I didn't want the money."

  "Damn."

  "Burke. I don't care if you take off the back room. You want to do it, I'll drive the car. And I'll leave the engine running until you conic out the door, I swear it."

  "And if I don't?"

  "I'll go inside and pull you out."

  I took a deep drag. "I mean, if I don't want to pull the robbery?"

  "I just want you to want me," she said, her voice grave. "I never meant anything more in my life."

  I took another drag, feeling so tired.

  "I can't rescue you, Belle."

  "You let me help you. Help you with your friend. Find that van. Then decide."

  I sat quietly, watching the shadows.

  "Please, honey."

  "Go to sleep, Belle," I said, stroking her back. "If the Prof's okay, you can help."

  She closed her eyes on the promise.

  50

  SHE SLEPT with her face against my chest. I brought the Prof's face into my mind, keeping him alive. Seeing the Prof made me see prison. Where we met. I never knew what sent him down that time. Any time the subject came up, the little man made it clear what he was about. "I didn't use the phone, and I came here alone," is all he'd say. It was enough.

  The first time I went down, I was a kid. In New York, sixteen years old, you're too far gone for another bit in reform school. I came in with a good jacket: attempted murder. But it wasn't enough. One thing good about all that time in reform school—I knew the rules. I did the thirty days on Fish Row by myself. The Prof rolled up on my cell one day—he was the runner. Said, "This is from a friend," and tossed a couple of packs of smokes and an old magazine in my cell. I wanted a smoke bad, but I left everything on my bunk, waiting for him to come around again. I grabbed him through the bars, pulling him close.

  "Take this stuff back where you got it," I said to him, nice and quiet. "I got no friends here."

  The little man looked up at me. His eyes had a yellowish cast. No fear in them.

  "Here's the slant on the plant, son. Don't play it hard when you not holding no cards."

  "I'm holding myself," I told him. "You tell whoever gave you this stuff for me that I'm sending it back, okay? And if he don't like it, tell him I'll send it back with interest when I hit the yard."

  The little man smiled, not even trying to pull away. "Jump back, Jack! I ain't no wolf, and that's the truth."

  I looked over at the cigarettes. "From you?"

  "From me, fool. You never heard of the Welcome Wagon?"

  "I thought…"

  "I know what you thought, youngbbood. Here's a clue—don't play the fool."

  "I can't pay you back," I told him. "I got no money on the books."

  "Look here, rookie. I've got more time behind the Wall than you've got on the earth. In prison, first you learn, then you earn."

  "Learn what?"

  "Here's your first case, Ace. Don't smoke the butts. Don't read the magazine. Let it all sit. Don't trust me. When you get into Population, keep your ear to the ground, ask around. People call me the Prophet. I don't stand tall, but I stand up. Take a look before you book."

  I let go of him. The little man made his way down the tier, rhyming the time away.

  When I got into Population, I moved slow. Asked around, like the man said. The Prophet had some rep. Guys knew him going back twenty years—this was at least his fifth time behind bars. He once did four years straight in solitary for smuggling a gun inside. He hooked up with a guy doing three life sentences, running wild. They took a guard hostage. Got all the way to the front gate when they ran out of room. The guy with him got blown away. The hacks broke half the bones in the Prof's body.

  In solitary, they kept at him. Every day, every night. He kept telling them the gun came to him in a vision. Every con in the joint knew where the gun came from…where it had to come from. A guard. And the Prof was too much of a man to give up even one of them.

  It took a few weeks, but I finally saw the Prof on the yard. I rolled up on him, keeping both hands where he could see them. The group of men around him pulled up close. The Prof made a motion with his head and they peeled off, giving me room.

  "What's the word, rookie?" he challenged me.

  I took the two packs of smokes and the magazine from under my shirt.

  "You handing them back?" he asked.

  "No. I wanted y
ou to see for yourself," I said, opening a pack, taking out my first cigarette in seven weeks. "Smoke?" I asked him, holding out the pack.

  "Much obliged, Clyde," the little man replied, a smile shining.

  I hunkered down against the wall with him, my back to the yard, watching. Speaking out of the side of my mouth, looking straight ahead.

  "I'm sorry for what I thought."

  "That's okay, gunfighter. You just a schoolboy in here."

  I wasn't looking at him, but he must have felt the question.

  "I glommed your jacket."

  "How'd you pull that off?"

  "You don't have to pay if you know the way," the little man said.

  I did three years on that bit. Not a day went by that the Prof didn't teach me something. When it was near my time to leave, he schooled me about how to act in front of the Parole Board. When the Board set a release date for me, he gave me the hard stuff. Straight.

  "You're short now, schoolboy. You know what that means? Thirty days to wait, and you walk out the gate. They'll come at you now. Punks you backed down before, they'll get bold, knowing you don't want to fuck up the go–home. You got two plays: hide or slide."

  "Break it down."

  "First guy fucks with you, you can go to the Man. Take a PC for the rest of your bit."

  "No."

  "Yeah, that only works for the citizens. The guys who're never coming back here. That ain't you. So we got to slide. I got people here—leave it to me."

  "Which means?"

  "Which means young blood is hot blood. You got to be cold if you want to grow old. Someone moves on you, tell them 'later' with your eyes, but don't do nothing right away, okay?"

  "Okay, Prof."

  By the end of the week, it happened. A big fat jocker named Moore who'd moved on me early in my bit. I showed him a shank and he backed off. Went looking for easier game—there was a lot of it around. I was sitting at my table during chow when I felt him looking down at me.