Sixteen years ago, age seven....
It was one of those summer days when life itself seemed to be slower than a turtle and besides the occasional bunny eating the bright orange carrots in Auntie Joe's gardens there was no activity on the early evening June day. I stared out the living room window with boredom laced in my eyes while my head rested upon my folded arms as they laid upon the window seal.
The only sounds that could be heard were the occasional 'chop' or 'bang', which echoed from the small kitchen as Auntie Joe prepared fried chicken and, to my dismay, green beans. I couldn't wait to grow up because when I do, ain't nobody gonna' tell me to eat any food that's green. Besides fried green tomatoes, they're the only exception.
I sighed and giggled as my breath fogged up the window. Using the sleeve of my blue and white striped shirt, I wiped the dampness off the glass. Pushing my thick rimmed glasses further up my nose, I sighed once more for I had only been home from school for an hour and already Auntie Joe had given me the ultimatum of either going outside to play or to read a book. Of course, I loved doing both of those things, but I didn't want to play outside because this was the bunnies time to have the yard, and I didn't want to scare them away. As for reading a book, I'd read everything Auntie Joe had in the house, from the women's magazines hidden underneath her bed, they were weird though, two whole pages were dedicated to some strange things like how when a woman sees a man it's normal to feel butterflies in your belly. But how could it be normal to have butterflies in your belly? Does that mean a boy puts them there? Or do you have to eat them like you would a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich? That thought makes me shudder, for I love butterflies, but I don't want them in my belly.
When I grew bored of reading those strange magazines, I moved onto the cookbooks Auntie Joe had stuffed in the oven when we weren't using it. From the few books I read, I now knew how to make a red velvet cake and even something called a seaweed salad. That was strange, too. Who would want to eat seaweed? Besides fish of course, minus sharks though, Arnold said they only like to eat fish and blood. They really like blood. I shudder at that, too.
"Ustacould sit by a window and daydream all day like you." As soft as fresh honey, Auntie Joe's southern voice gilds over my ears and, in return, makes me jump up from my spot to quickly run and give her a tight hug. I know I just saw her a little bit ago, but in that short time, I missed the feel of her warm hugs. She doesn't seem to mind as she laughs and hugs me back tightly.
"Honey drops, I've been calling for ya' for some time now. Dinner is ready and has been for a solid five minutes." She huffs out but I know better, Auntie Joe never gets mad at me unless I bring Arnold home, then her cheeks get redder than a cherry tomato and her anger raises higher than a tornado in Kentucky.
A playful smile dances along the lines of my lips, and a mischievous shimmer takes hold of my eyes as I slowly back away from her and her soon to be swatting hands. "Sorry, Auntie Joe, but it just seems the world disappears when I think about Arnold."
I squeal in shock as her hand snakes around my body and swiftly smacks my behind as it were a fly on the wall, "You better not be daydreaming about that troublesome boy, ya' hear? That boy is just another job that don't pay." Her finger points at me while she speaks, and I simply glare as I rub the sting from my behind. Auntie Joe may be a small, framed woman, but she sure can swat like an angry bear when needed be.
I could never figure out why she didn't like Arnold. He was considered a nerd at school and didn't have many friends. He gets bullied for his dark skin and glasses. But that's what I like about him, he wears glasses and so do I. Everyone calls us 'four-eyes', but at last, when we're together and get called 'four-eyes,' we have each other to comfort. We have each other to share the pain of rejection from our peers, and when we're together, the world doesn't feel so scary or lonely anymore. It just feels right.
It feels normal...
Plus, he loves books, and so do I. He knows a fact about everything, and he never gets angry when I ask too many questions. Even at times, he seems happy when I ask them. However, he never answers my questions about why sometimes he shows up to school with blue and green spots on his skin or red water running from his nose or lips, sometimes even both. He always brushes me off and simply says he tripped or fell down the stairs. But when he speaks, his eyes never meet mine, and his words are always so sad, like he was lying to me and hated himself for it.
"Auntie, why don't you like Arnold?" The question was honest and asked with puppy dog eyes as she ushered me towards the kitchen.
Without missing a beat, she spoke, "Because his mama is as nutty as a fruitcake."
My eyebrows raised, and my lips curled in confusion, so I asked, "And?" Cake is really good, so she doesn't like Arnold's mama because she's like cake? That doesn't make sense.
Adults are weird.
"His mama gets her mashed potatoes from a box, and not even the expensive kind, the cheap knock-off brand." She frowned as if his mama had done something terrible that is worthy of the time-out bench at school. But the real question is, how do you get mashed potatoes from a box?
As I take my seat at the table set for two, I ask again, "And?"
She begins to fill my plate, "His daddy's a Yankee from Boston." She shudders as if being a Yankee is to be like gum when it gets stuck in your hair on a hot as hades day.
As I open my mouth to protest, she holds her hand up to shush me, "Daring, in life we can't go barking up every tree, because it won't always be a cat that we're barking at."
Her words didn't make sense to my mind, and as I chewed my dinner slowly, I wondered what value they held. I was more than used to Auntie Joe's strange words, but tonight, her words seemed to strike me dumb. For there was a mystery laced throughout her words, yet for the life of me, I could not solve it.
We ate in comfortable silence with Auntie Joe only asking me here and there about school and if I liked dinner. She expressed that she had added more pepper to the chicken and less salt to the green beans. I couldn't taste the difference for the green beans were still disgusting no matter what she did with them.
Later that night, I found myself lying in bed with Auntie Joe after watching an episode of Golden Girls with her. She always says that I'm the only golden girl in her life and she wouldn't change it for the world.
"Auntie Joe, why do we share a bed?" I had my own room but there was no bed in there, only my clothes and toys. There weren't any windows either, but Auntie Joe always said it was the builder's fault, and they simply forgot to put windows in.
Placing her Bible down in her lap in which she was previous reading aloud for me and my teddy bear to hear, she frowns and stares at me with sad eyes, "You don't like to share a bed with me?"
I shake my head roughly, "It's not that, it's just the other kids at school say they have their own beds, and I wonder why I don't, that's all."
She seems to deflate at my words, but I notice she appears to be scared, "You're scared of the dark and so is teddy, so it just makes sense that you sleep in here where I can protect you both." She smiles and leans over to kiss my forehead gingery before pulling the covers up to my chin.
That made sense, "Night, love you, Auntie Joe." I whispered as my eyes grew heavy, and I sank down into my pillow. It was nearly as big as me.
She offered me a kind smile, but it didn't reach her eyes, "I love you too, honey drops."
If I only knew then what kinds of dangers Auntie Joe was protecting me from, I would've hugged her a little tighter...
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Southern: Ustacould.
Meaning: I used to could.