Crave - Laurie Jean Cannady

Скачать книгу

he spent days out at sea, while his wife managed the bootlegging business. Wherever there is liquor, there will be men. Wherever there is liquor, men, and a lonely, married woman, there will be trouble, and trouble set up shop in Big Boone’s home.

      Despite his demands, there was still that tug of love, of responsibility, which pulled her to that dirt road, to that little house, whenever Big Boone was certain not to be there. I often imagine her, more a mother than afraid, praying all calculations had been correct, and she would miss Big Boone as she visited the younger Boone babies.

      One day, Momma, six, stared out the window, watching for her mother. Soon after Big Boone left for work, Grandma appeared on the horizon, pulsing down the dirt road as if she were a steamroller, barreling toward something that required her in order to be even. Her black hair, curled into flips, surrounded cheeks so taut that kisses might have made them pop. Despite having birthed fourteen children, she was slim, with narrow hips, and she wore those signature breasts all Boone women wear, which make us look as if we’re carrying a load everywhere we go.

      Once she entered the house, Grandma sat on the couch. Momma pressed her body between her legs. I see them connected, Momma’s cheek to Grandma’s chest. They are engulfed in an aura so bright, I can’t tell where Grandma’s spirit ends and Momma’s begins. They shelter in that unmoving moment, where mommas come home to their little girls, where girls grow into women who aren’t hungry before they are born.

      Until that moment becomes unsheltered and a new moment finds mother and daughter in tears, pried apart. They are barricaded in Big Boone’s bedroom. Grandma screams through swelling lips, “Andrew, leave me alone.”

      Momma cries, “No,” her hands extended toward her mother. Grandma hugs her, but she does not pick her up to go. Then the impact, so ferocious both boys jump away from the door. They grab their mother and thrust her and themselves out of the window, the room’s only accessible exit.

      Big Boone kicks open the door and stands in the middle of the frame. Every part of his body shakes. His hands are curled into fists. A white shirt layers every muscle of his chest as it pulses up and down. His eyebrows sprout from his forehead like dried and frazzled paint brushes. With eyes bulging, he scans the room for his wife.

      Momma watches as her daddy throws pillows on the floor, as he flings clothes and blankets out of the closet. She stares at the window where her mother and brothers made their escape. Big Boone walks over and sticks half of his body out. Unable to find his mark, his eyes rest on Momma, sitting quietly on the floor. He approaches her. She lifts her arms to him. He pauses, places his hands under her armpits, and swings her into the air. Her legs wrap around his waist. She settles on his hip and presses her cheek against his chest. They walk out of the room, connected. New moment. New Momma.

      Ten years later, Grandma Rachel would be dead, and that moment would be one of many that Momma revisits in order to remember her. But what those moments cannot give, no matter how hard they are studied, are those elusive remembrances, the smell, the touch, the voice of a mother. Those are not moments, but mementos every motherless child works hardest to keep.

      They are the ingredients of a hunger never satisfied, no matter how much there is to eat. I see this in Momma as she shares her portion with me. This is how I know my own hunger, placed in me before I was born.

       A Feast in the Making A Feast in the Making

      Momma was the youngest, and her brothers and sister had already decided the youngest would be the one to go. Years of experience had taught the Boone children what it took to be fed. Boys, no matter how young, were impractical options. People, especially white people in a segregated Virginia, didn’t like giving a black man food, even if he were a boy. Older girls were better than boys, but there was always the possibility something impure would be requested in return. Their daddy had taught them never to be that hungry, no matter how many days they’d starved on chicken broth and fried bread.

      The younger, the better, so they sent Momma. For this new task of “borrowing a meal,” Momma’s siblings had trained her well by quizzing her on the rules of borrowing. Rule one: always carry your own plate. Neighbors were more likely to give food if they didn’t have to give a dish too. Rule two: never step foot into anybody’s house. Little girls all over Virginia had gone missing after making that mistake. Rule three: never smile, not until you get what you went there for. Pouty eyes, a grimaced frown, and a body shrinking under hunger meant maximum borrowing score.

      Once she was old enough, and six was old enough, it was her turn to go. Bruce, one of the oldest Boone boys, assured her he’d watch the whole time, making sure nobody snatched her into the Deep Creek woods. Her siblings told her how big of a girl she was and how full they’d all be after they cooked the food she’d borrowed for the family. Her chest swelled with their compliments. Her new charge was “big girl” work, and like most “big girls” she’d grown tired of waiting to be fed.

      That’s how I felt when Momma took us to visit on Saturdays and Sundays of my childhood—small in a big space. I looked forward to traveling that dirt road, protected by the ranks of elms that bordered it. I felt relief when we turned the corner and that box of a home sat on its red foundation, under a red roof, still.

Скачать книгу