Crave - Laurie Jean Cannady

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yard, pecking at crumbs, sifting through dirt, searching for more of the treat. He pecked, strutted, and occasionally bound toward the smorgasbord under the box. Before entering the dark cavern, the raven scanned the yard, the air above, and the porch. He sensed no danger, probably because his intense wanting obscured any danger he might have felt. He stepped forward, one clawed foot in front of the other, one waddle, then another.

      He finally found his way under the box and began partaking in his spoils. Uncle Bruce snatched the twine so hard the branch flew at his face. He moved quickly, placing one hand on the box as the bird cawed and flapped inside. He motioned for his brother to hold the box as he prepared for battle. Per his instruction, his brother tipped the box ever so slightly, while Uncle Bruce stuck his bare hand inside, rooting for a throat or foot. By the way Uncle Bruce gripped his lower lip between his teeth and squinted his eyes so tightly they were almost closed, Momma knew her brother finally had a hold of his prey. Uncle Bruce pulled the bird out of the box by its neck. Its wings beat furiously against his chest and face, but he did not let go. His hands held the bird’s neck like a vise, so tightly its caws sounded like kitten screams. Using his other hand, he squeezed the air out of the bird’s neck, like he was wringing water out of a rag. He squeezed, twisted, until the bird flapped no more, until its clawed feet no longer dug into skin, until its black eyes grew dim. They repeated this process until they had three blackbirds. Then came the plucking, the chopping, and the marriage between what was caught, what was stolen, and what was borrowed.

       The Way It Is Done The Way It Is Done

      By the time Momma was fifteen, she was the last Boone child home. Her only reprieve from labor she alone had to complete and her daddy’s watchful eye were visits with her momma. She’d beg, after finishing homework and chores, to escape Deep Creek’s suffocating forest and dusty road so she could find freedom in Portsmouth, with its rows of homes lined like vertebrae and its fast-moving cars cruising the arteries and veins of the growing city. Most days, the answer was “no,” but there were days Big Boone’s “yes” came with strict instructions that she go to her mother’s and stay there until he either picked her up or her momma took her back to Deep Creek.

      She usually abided by her daddy’s rules, but like most fifteen-year-olds, she wore his authority like a sweater she could slip out of. If her momma had been drinking, she could slide out of the house and back in unnoticed. That’s how she met Pop, slid right into him before she could stop herself.

      She first saw Pop when she was fourteen. Her daddy had temporarily closed shop in Deep Creek in order to housesit for his sister, Lina. Aunt Lina had a beautiful home, everything so immaculate and shiny, Momma spent the first day admiring the furniture, the trinkets, the pictures on the walls, taking a mental note of things she hoped to one day possess in her own home. She went outside for a walk and was met by a honking horn. Behind that horn sat Pop, his “honk” the universal sign that he liked what he saw and wanted to get closer. She was only a young girl then and her daddy was near, so close wasn’t happening that day, but a year later, when she was able to slide out of her momma’s house back to that neighborhood, where her sister now resided, she answered Pop’s call.

      Soon, every motive centered on getting her daddy to let her go to her momma’s so she could sneak to her sister’s and to Pop. He had an actual girlfriend, one his age, but that didn’t stop him from giving her attention, from telling her how pretty she was, and sneaking a hug or a kiss when no one was looking. Then, they began playing games, games that went beyond “truth or dare” or “hide-and-go-get.” Their games often included alcohol, kissing, heavy petting, and sometimes they excluded clothing. While those games perplexed her and oftentimes troubled her, she was with her sister and her sister’s husband. She was with friends and a man she was falling in love with, as much as a fifteen-year-old could. She felt safe and she had her boundaries, but the lines around her were moving so subtly, she didn’t realize her boundaries were becoming invisible.

      Games that included Pop, her sister, brother-in-law, and other friends soon became games she and Pop played alone. Sometimes, the games required a bed, but even those she believed she could handle. During heavy petting and kissing sessions, Pop had always stopped when she said, “No more.” She began to trust him, which meant to love him, and she thought nothing of going into the bedroom, lying in his arms, kissing and grinding in order to prove her affection.

      He muffled her pleas with his lips, all softness. Warm air from his nose ricocheted against the side of her cheek. The next kisses were not soft, not warm. They were the pressing of lips, tongue into her. She pulled away, but the more she pulled the more he pressed. His hand, clenching, hurt the outside of her thigh. His pelvis rotated as he used one hand to restrain both her hands above her head. One kiss erupted into another before she caught her breath. Her mind screamed, That is enough, and then her mouth screamed, “That is enough,” and then her mouth couldn’t scream anymore and her hands couldn’t push anymore, and her legs were open with his thighs wedged between her thighs.

      She attempted another “No,” but he, again, silenced her with his lips. She struggled to free her arms, but his hand remained locked around her wrists. Her body tensed, legs tightened, feet flexed, all preparing for impact. Then submission, when nothing more can be done. Only tears were there, pouring down the sides of her face, washing away the girl she was.

      When he was done, when he let go, she ran into the bathroom, plunked on the toilet, and stared down. Blood. With so little knowledge about virginity and what happens when it is taken, she wondered from where the blood dripped.

      After a knock on the door, there her sister stood, reaching out to comfort her. Momma cried, “Why didn’t you come for me when you heard me scream?”

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