F: Being Watched by Aunt Belle

Chapter: Kid, Being watched by Aunt Belle

My mother and big sister have left the house, my sister to school and
my mother to work. Like most days, my sister screamed and kicked. She
doesn't like school and hates taking the bus even more. When my mother
offers to drop her off, like today, my sister calms down.

My sister has to take the bus home, though, because my mother doesn't
get to leave work until much later. Sometimes my sister comes home
smelling like pee, or crying, or both. Sometimes she doesn't, skipping
up the street and talking with the girl who lives across from us.

Right now, when it's a school day, I'm left with my aunt, who is called
a "teenager" but who is old enough to watch me. My aunt looks like a
grownup to me. She can drive a car, and knows how to cook. Being
watched by her is very different than being watched by my father, who
went away. We haven't seen him in a while. With my father, I'd mostly
sit in my room, going through books or making mud pies on the porch. My
father always took the hose and washed them away, leaving slick brown
streaks on the concrete. Sometimes I went with my father on errands. He
said he couldn't leave me alone. On those trips I stayed in my father's
hot car while he stood in front of a counter, talking with a clerk. I
could see him through the windshield, and it was like watching somebody
else. As soon as my father got back in the car, he went back to
slapping my hand away from the radio, or telling me to quit whistling
through my teeth. This is the only way I know how to whistle. He never
took me inside the stores.

On most days we would go home and he would hit me until I sat still
enough for him to put his thing down there. It hurt. I can't decide if
his hand or his thing hurt more.

Shh, shh, ain't no big thing.

Shh, shh, ain't no big thing. Honey.

But now my aunt watches me. Mother has told me, "Do you want to go back
to that place where they wash you mouth out with soap?" My aunt
wouldn't wash my mouth out with soap but, still, I don't think she
likes me. When my mother leaves in the morning, my aunt asks me, "We'll
have to see if today is going to be a whipping day."

Whippings from my aunt don't mean the belt or a stick, just her hand.
They don't happen much, and they don't really hurt. For a whipping I
lay over my aunt's lap like a baby, and usually I start crying before
the first smack.

On days when my big sister stays home from school, no one says anything
about whippings or spankings. I laugh when I hear the word "spankings,"
so my aunt doesn't use it much. If my big sister stays home, my aunt
makes her stay in bed while I hang around her door, peeking in until my
big sister can't take it anymore and comes out.

"You're not really sick, are you?" my aunt will ask.

"Yes, I am. I'm just not sleepy anymore," my sister will say.

We spend the rest of the day watching the television, or baking
cookies. My aunt "draws the line" at letting us go outside.

But mostly it's just my aunt and me. We go to the pool down the street,
or to the park next to the museum. My aunt cuts her eyes at men while I
watch. When they leave, she tells me these men like redheads, but
they're not her type. She picks them apart, talking about their hair or
their skinny legs. I have learned that asking, "Where does he live?" or
"Does he have kids?' make my aunt mad. She says, "How should I know?"
and rolls her eyes.

Sometimes I rub suntan lotion on my aunt's back, which gets red easily
and makes her mad. Mostly I sit in a park swing, afraid she'll get mad
if I ask for a push while she's talking to one of the men.

My aunt tells me a lot about how to behave. This is especially true
when she and my mother are planning on having men over to the house.
The men always show up after my big sister and I have gone to bed, but
it's a small house and I can hear them laughing and talking in the
living room.

"You're not going to crawl out of your room like you did last time?" my
aunt asks me. Tonight is a men night, I guess.

"No," I lie.

"And you're not going to start yelling for a glass of water,
right?"

"No," I lie again.

"Good. Go to sleep and keep quiet and stay in your room, okay?"

I don't answer. My aunt's questions make my head hurt. I know that if I
don't answer, and if my aunt is thinking about something else, she
won't make me. But she can just as easily make me promise I'll stay in
my room, not making a sound. "Pretend you're a snake," she told me
once, "With no arms and no legs, and you can't get out of bed." I
tried, but it had an opposite effect, until I was out of my bed and
running through the house, using my arms and legs to make sure they
were still there.

I wait until I hear the men's voices. My mother is with them. She
hasn't been home all day. She sounds happy. I can't help myself.

I open my bedroom door slowly. It doesn't creak as much if the air
conditioner isn't on, and it isn't. I crawl on all fours out of the
room, through the hallway and to the living room wall. I lay flat,
waiting to be caught, but I'm not. The men don't sound like my father.
They speak flatly, but loudly, and they talk over one another while my
mother and aunt laugh. When my aunt speaks, she sounds like an
adult.

I stay where I am, knowing they'll catch me if I move. I listen to
their talk and the tinkling of the ice cubes in their glasses. In the
morning, those glasses will smell sharp, like crushed dandelions. Like
medicine.