malachi_adams (malachi_adams) wrote in justourstory, @ 2008-07-01 20:39:00 |
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It was closing time at the funeral home. Business was done early for once, this week hadn't seen too many incomers, a real rarity in this business. James was putting the last of his papers in the filing cabinet, and preparing to head home. Mrs Dearing was on his case lately about Malachi, wondering how he was, and as always, why James saw fit to work him into the ground. He headed downstairs to the embalming room, where he had Malachi catalogging the bodies again.
"Hey boy, I'm closin shop early tonight. No sense in both of us stayin here when there's nothin to do. And the missus is asking about you, y'know. She worries about you, son. Anyway, she's cooking tonight, and thought you could use a solid meal. Let's get outta here."
He nodded, checking the name on the last toe tag against his list and got up to begudgingly follow James to the car. He had been working him like a dog these last few weeks, as if his stress level needed it. Between helping dig graves, picking up bodies, which James often made him do himself, and doing the hundred other things that he wasn't legally qualified or allowed to do, and his recent bout of anxiety in the graveyard, he didn't need this shit. Setting the passenger seat back so his legs could move, he buckled his seat belt, lit a cigarette, and stared out of his window as James drove home.
"...Listen son, I know you're not much for talkin, and I'm not a fan of the way you like to do, but I'm.....sorry. I know I put a lot on ya sometimes, and it ain't always easy... and put that damn thing out will ya? You know those things ain't good for ya."
Giving an annoyed laugh, and shaking his head, he toyed with one of his braids before ccomplying, and taking one last drag, he flicked his cigarette out of the sedan's window.
"Old man, be glad I can't talk, cuz I don't give a shit about this right now..."
Pulling up in the Dearing driveway, a calmness came over him as he glanced in the lighted window to see Mrs Dearing setting the kitchen table. He always had a fondness for James' wife. Truth be both, he liked them both, but Mrs Dearing didn't have the quality of being the hardass taskmaster her husband was. He stood a few steps behind James as he opened the door, taking the time to pop a mint in his mouth. As they walked into the foyer, the smell of the roast Mrs Dearing was setting on the table made his mouth water.
"Jim, is that you darlin?"
"Yes, Clara. Guess who's with me?"
Malachi peeked sheepishly around the corner, knocking on the trimming of the kitchen door, grinning. Dropping her wooden spoon, Clara flailed her arms and ran to him.
"Oh sweet Lord!! There's my sweet boy hahahahaha!! Boy I declare you get taller every time I see you! You keep growin and this house ain't gon' big enough! You gon' have to walk on your knees! Bend down here and give me some sugar, honey!!"
She wrapped her plump arms around his neck, almost choking him with her embrace. Kissing his cheek, she gasped as she took a good look at him.
"Malachi!! What have you been doin' baby? You look run half to death! Has James been workin’ you like a plow horse again??"
He smirked, knowing he couldn't answer her, not like he would have ratted James out, let alone tell her the miserable care he'd been taking of himself lately. Shaking his head, he just mouthed the words "no ma'am" to her. Hearing his stomach growl angrily, she scolded him.
"Oh Lord, listen to you! I bet you haven't eaten a good meal in a month, have you? You're just a big ol' pile of bones, boy. Come on darlin' lets get some meat on you."
Taking his shoes off, he pulled his chair back and sat down at the table.
“Damn…she really outdid herself, as usual. Man I forgot how good her cookin’ is…”
Clara’s meals were never any small undertaking. She always prided herself on her cooking, and always made enough to feed ten armies, whether she was throwing a party, or whether it was just she and James eating. Tonight, she prepared a gorgeous honey baked ham from scratch, buttery, glistening homemade cornbread, collard greens and redskin potatoes, and a fresh cherry pie, cooling on the counter. Malachi’s stomach cursed him as he waited patiently to eat.
“Well what are you waitin’ for darlin’? EAT! I didn’t cook all this good food for nuthin’ you know!” She scolded him as she piled food onto a plate and set it before him. His eyes widened as he was dwarfed by the mountain of food she gave him. He shook his head, laughing, and mouthed a grateful “thank you” to her.
“Man… she never did give us any small portion. I dunno if I can eat all this…but I’mma try!”
He sat quietly as they ate, at first shoveling his food hungrily, then slowing down as his stomach began to swell. He was glad to be back in a place that felt half like home, but Clara knew that something was on his mind. He had been like a son to them, and her motherly instinct made her sense his distress. She shot him a look as he ate, knowing better than to air his laundry in front of James. He was kind enough to him, when he wasn’t working him to the bone at the funeral home, but James was not one for touchy-feely kind of talk, particularly at his dinner table. As Malachi savored his still steaming slice of cherry pie, his favorite, he nodded thankfully, took his dishes and excused himself from the table.
“Jim, somethin’s wrong with the boy… why can’t you notice things like that after 6 years??”
“What do you want me to do, Clara? Talking to him doesn’t do any good. He hasn’t said so much as a word since we took him in! Hell, it was a month before we found out he gets those headaches and terrors of his…we couldn’t even hear him scream in the night!”
“I know, Jim…I just feel so sorry for that boy. He knows how much we love him, but I just wish he could tell us what’s wrong…”
He barely overheard them from the den. He couldn’t hear well enough to know what they were saying, but he knew it was about him. Wanting not to get into this again, he laid down and sprawled his legs over the side of the couch. It was far too small for his whole body to fit, but he always loved the feel of laying here. How he sunk down into the plush cushions, his body always melting in their warm comfort. Clara, knowing he’d rather be left alone, tended to James, giving him another slice of pie, and sending him on his way to fall asleep in his chair, with the day’s paper over his face, TV blaring. His usual evening ritual.
Sometime later, after James had gone up to bed, Clara came into the dark den, finding Malachi staring intensely at the mirror on the wall. Walking slowly to him, she spoke in her twangy, matter-of-fact voice.
“Now you may be able to fool James, honey, but you can’t tell Mama Clara you’re alright. What’s the matter baby?”
For once, he was glad he couldn’t answer her. She had a way of cutting through him, no matter how hard he tried to hide his pain. He sighed and shook his head in a futile attempt to tell her he was alright. He sat up to let her sit on the couch beside him. Taking his head in her hands, she spoke softly to him.
“Come here, sugar. I know you can’t tell me…I just…wish you could. You know we love you, and would do anything for you, right?”
He nodded, tracing his fingers through his cornrows, and laid his head in her lap. It felt silly, being as big as he now was. He towered over her by a solid foot at least, and he silently thanked God no one could see him with his head in this little southern woman’s lap, legs dangling shamelessly over the far arm of the couch. He knew she was only trying to help, but he became angry as his pain began to swell to the surface, tears welling in his silvery eyes.
“Yeah Clara..you really wanna hear this.. How I always heard mom and dad fighting, bottles being thrown at me, how dad was always drunk or gone…or screwing some drunk he brought home from the bar before mom got home…How mom used to work until she broke down… How I had to take care of her when she’d pass out…
And dad...ha…he was no help. Just yelled about how she was worthless and lazy, how everything was his anyway, how he used to threaten to put cigarettes in my eyes to see if they’d catch fire… then he was just gone.
And mom was never the same…she broke down… I had to feed her for a week after he left… And when she finally did get up…all she wanted was… all she wanted was to score…she fed and clothed me well enough, but always something… she gave me coke in my juice! She was so out of it, she didn’t know any better…And the guys she’d bring home…they made me watch while they…..hurt her.”
Not being able to bear his thoughts anymore, he buried his head in her lap, while she softly sung to him. She was the only person he’d ever felt halfway close to ever since he ran away from the foster home. She found him after about a moth of sleeping in parks and alleys, eating food from whatever place was ditching leftovers. He’d been with her ever since she took him in, offering him sandwiches for helping her around the house. Needing a chance to collect himself, he went to the bathroom and washed his face, hoping the cold water would help his headache. When he came back, Clara had gotten up to get ready for bed. Needing something to distract his mind, he turned on the CD player. Sara had been listening to Johnny Cash again, and over the years, he’d grown to have a certain fondness for him. His body and mind exhausted, he collapsed face down on the sofa again. Hearing the thud, Clara came back to check on Malachi, and finding him sprawled on the couch, she grabbed a quilt she had crocheted, and placed it gingerly over his torso. It wasn’t near big enough to cover his massive frame, but at least it was something. Tracing her fingers through his hair, she kissed him gently on the ear. Looking back at his motionless form as she stood in the doorway, she clasped her hands together, and wiped a tear from her eye.
“My poor lil’ boy…I wish I knew what was hurtin’ you.”
She prayed as she looked on him.
“Lord, just let him speak ONCE…that’s all I ask…just once…Amen.”
He drifted in and out of consciousness as she went upstairs to bed, and lip-synched with the man in black as best as his consciousness would allow.
“When I was just a baby
My mama told me ‘son
Always be a good boy
Don’t ever play with guns
But I shot a man in
Just to watch him die
When I hear that whistle blowin’
I hang my head and cry
I bet there’s rich folks eatin’
In a fancy dinin’ car
They’re probably drinkin’ coffee
And smokin’ big cigars
Well I know I had it comin’
I know I can’t be free
But those people keep a’movin’
And that’s what tortures me…”
And as Malachi heard his Folsom Prison lullaby…he drifted off to sleep.