Part V: Snakes – Snake #5 (Chapter 92) (***Trigger Warning*** Violence against a teenage girl)
As he drags in ladders, rollers, brushes, paint
cans, tarps, linseed oil, turpentine, and some tools I don’t recognize, he
whistles various tunes from the 50’s and early 60’s, none of which I recognize,
except for “A Summer Place.”
“You have a nice whistle.”
He doesn’t, really – he’s horribly off-key and
nasal – but I hope he’ll let me hang around long enough to learn his trade.
“You think so?” he asks, surprised.
“Yeah, I do.”
And I swear he does
whistle better now he’s been complimented, and there’s a spring in his step I
haven’t noticed before.
He works quickly, slapping down tarps and laying
out bushes and rollers.
“Need help?”
He scowls at me, like I have asked him for $100 or
some other unlikely item. “Naw, not really. Your mom’s payin’ me good enough.”
“I just thought, maybe, it would be an interesting
job to learn. I could be your apprentice.”
He shrugs.
“I wouldn’t be any trouble.”
Darryl looks in the direction of the living room.
“Your ma might think it kinda funny, me gettin’ paid for work you do.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure she wouldn’t. Honest!”
Mother walks in and takes a slug from the
ever-present Hamms. “How’s it going?”
“This little lady’d like t’learn how t’paint.”
Mother studies him. “I see,” she says coolly.
“Please, Mom?”
“Well, if you stay out of his way, maybe start on
the other side of the room, or something.”
“Thanks, Ma!”
Darryl removes his painter’s hat and scratches his
head. “‘Scuse me, ma’am, but would I be gittin’ paid the same?”
Mother glares at him. “With this piece of work
around, you’ll earn every damn penny.”
I pick up a brush and twirl it. “Where do I
start?”
Mother shrugs. “See what I mean?”
“She’ll be no problem,” Darryl says as he pours
paint into the pan.
“Well, I’m taking the kids to Monique’s,” she
says. “These fumes will drive Junior bonkers.” To Darryl: “If Sam gets in your
hair, chase her out.” To me: “And, you, kiddo, stay on your side of the room.”
What a
strange thing to say.
After Mother leaves, Darryl takes the brush from
me and sets it on the floor. “I’m going to show you a little trick of the
trade.” He picks up a roller, rolls it back and forth in the paint pan, and
draws a large “M” on the wall. “Now you fill it in.” He hands me the roller.
I obey. “Hey, pretty cool!”
“Goes fast, don’t it?”
“Yeah!” I draw my own “M’s” and fill them in.
“You still in school?” Darryl asks.
“I graduated last month.” Paint splatters in my
hair and on my face.
“Good for you.” Darryl takes another painter’s hat
from his box. He pats me on the head and sets the hat on top of my head. “You
need this.”
“Thanks.” I lift the hat, twist my hair into a
bun, and tuck it inside.
“Looks good.” He takes out a scraper and knocks
loose paint chips from the windowsill. “You look so young.”
“I’ll be 18 in October.”
“Just a kid.”
I stick my head in the air. “But I know a lot.”
“I’ll bet you do. Thought I knew a lot when I
ditched 10th grade. Just turned 15.” He sighs. “Had to get married.”
“That’s young. My neighbor got married in 11th
grade. The baby came six months later.”
Darryl shakes his head. “Never got to do things I
wanted to.”
“I’d look out the window when she and her husband
came home from the grocery store – it’s like they spent a lot of time there – and
I’d think, ‘Wow, they got their own car and apartment, and no one’s going to
tell ‘em what they can or can’t do....’”
“Well, it’s not true.” He digs the scraper into
the wood. “You got responsibilities. The kid bawls all night, and the old
lady’s bitchy the next day. Gotta work or you don’t eat. Then the government
comes in and takes a chunk out of your paycheck. And then every Goddamn bill
collector in town comes with his hands out, until there’s nothin’ left for us.”
“Ummmm. About six months ago, I saw my neighbor’s
divorce in the paper.”
“I’ve got three kids now – good kids, too,” he
says, “and I’m not doin’ too bad since I begun workin’ on my own.” Darryl stops
chipping at the sill and looks right at me. “My wife and I got an
understandin’. I provide good for her ‘n the kids, but I don’t tell her none of
my business, and she don’t ask.”
I’m not sure what to say, or if he even wants me
to say anything; I slap paint on the wall, drawing my “M’s” and filling them
in.
“That coat looks a little thick.” He places his
scraper on the sill and comes over. “Let me show you another trade secret.” He
takes the roller and rolls it in the pan. He whips another “M” on the wall and
in a blink rolls the cylinder around. “See how I rolled it up and down and then
sideways?”
“You went so fast.”
Darryl moves in close, dips the roller in the pan,
and hands it to me. “Now grip it, yes, that’s it.” He gets behind me and puts
his hands over mine. Then he guides the roller onto the wall. “First, up and
down, now, side-to-side. See how good it covers?”
“Uh, huh.”
“Let’s do it again.”
This time, he presses his body to mine; I can feel
his breath on my face.
“Ummmm, up and down, side-by-side. Ummmmmm....”
This is no longer about painting a wall.
Was it ever?
Darryl blows into my ear. “I want you.”
He feels hard against my back, and he’s moving
just right – up and down and sideways – he knows just where to touch, has just
the right amount of body heat, and God knows I’m ready....
But I can’t. I’m not sure why, except that I would
never want to have his babies – I would want someone smart and clever for that,
and something tells me he’ll always be a nobody – and he’s a married man, and
he’s too old, so why am I letting him grind against me?
Why don’t I break away and run?
He caresses my breasts, and I let him.
“C’mon, baby, let’s do it.”
Something snaps inside me; whatever has been
holding me frozen has evaporated. “NO!”
He stops. “No?”
“I don’t want to!” I struggle to break free.
Darryl pushes me to the floor and kicks me in the
stomach.
I yowl. “Please stop!”
“You bitch!” He kicks me again, this time in the
ribs.
I crawl away and struggle to my feet.
I run from the room and out of the house, into the
backyard where I collapse to the ground.
Killer bounds over to me and licks my face, as if
he somehow understands and wants to take my pain away. He lies beside me and
places his snout where it hurts the most: on my rib cage. It does feel better.
Darryl looks out the window.
Killer will protect me from the intruder inside.
You can’t get me now!
Killer glares at Darryl, growls, and bares his
teeth.
Darryl turns away and disappears.
I fall asleep on the ground and don’t awaken until
my stepfather nudges me into consciousness.
“Sammy?”
I open my eyes and wait for the fog to lift. I sit
up and throw my arms around him. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Johnny seems surprised. “Why, thank you.” He looks
at me hard. “Anything wrong?”
“Huh, uh.”
“You sure, honey?”
“I’m fine.”
“What are you doing out here?”
Killer whines and looks at me with sad eyes.
“The paint fumes got to me.” I stroke Killer’s
ears.
“Well, I just paid the painter and sent him on his
way.” Johnny helps me up. “He did kind of a sloppy job, though.”
I shrug.
“I’ve thought about stopping payment on the check,
but then I thought about his wife and kids....”
Now I understand.
Two types of men inhabit this world: those who
hate women and those who don’t.
Later in life, I will learn to trust my instincts,
to trust that voice inside which, when men like Darryl butt into my life, says,
Run as
fast as you can, don’t look back!
Even when I wouldn’t always listen, I would never
be taken by surprise by the Darryls of the world, ever again.
But, for now, I don’t tell anyone what has
happened because I would get blamed.
They would all say I asked for it.
