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Even when he does something nice— like gives you a whole box of Krispy Kremes, all your own—he’s really just plotting on something else.” She said, “His eye—that ugly one—it looks funny.” “Somebody told him no.”
l The next day Amon came in from the back. I was in the kitchen, making a bologna and Miracle Whip sandwich. “You can’t be in here no more.” “Say who?” “This not your house.” He looked at me, surprised. “What you tipsy?” “Wouldn’t matter if I was,” I said. “Your Mama’s already gave it her blessings,” he said, like that settled it. “That ain’t even how she talks,” I said. “She ain’t church.” I placed my sandwich back on the plate and set it on the counter. “So you can bounce.” “Oh, you big time now,” he said. “You decided.”
“Maeya doesn’t need you anywhere near her. None of us do.” Suspicion twisted his face. “You must be planning on keeping her to yourself.” He opened the refrigerator door, closed it and swung back to me, getting louder. “‘Cause you sure enough not running, what, an orphanage in here?” “I’ll take that key.” My voice had gone tight. When he moved closer, you could feel his size in the floor. “Nine ain’t what it used to be. Girls grow up fast nowadays.” And then he laughed, throat like a train tunnel. “You make me sick,” I said. “Okay,” I heard him say, swallowing a giggle. “Do you.” I never felt him hit me. First, I was standing, then, laid out. Darkness pooled around me and the smell of bologna became electric, crackling and sputtering behind my eyes. I lay there, trying for breath. I heard him changing TV stations. Then I remembered the weight of his shoulder rolling towards
me before the fist shot out. High in the chest is where he’d hit me. When I got to my elbows, he came over and put a heel on my throat, flattening me. “I seen so much I gave one of these sum bitches back.” And he pointed to the empty socket in his face. “You lucky I left you something to chew your food wit.” I got to my feet and started for the bathroom. I was up and walking, but I was shaky. At the sink I steadied myself before the mirror. My wind felt small; it made a little rattle. Slowly, I cranked my head, right, then left, until my breathing got easier. I had not expected a warning and there had been none. I opened the medicine chest; the reflection of my eyes swung past. There was a box of band aides and some mouthwash. I didn’t need band aides or mouthwash. I headed down to the corner where Alvin used to be. I thought of asking one of them that took his place to kill Amon, but didn’t. Then I went looking for Maeya.
l For Jennie Ketler: 1902-1982 By Robbi Nester
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On New Years Day in Philadelphia when I was ten and you were seventy, the Mummers waved their plumes and stamped. Ice fell in feathers from their capes. Three boys would bear the Captain’s train down to the judge’s stand on Broad, a flask of whiskey at their lips. My father lifted me above the crowd, the helium balloons. His shoulders then seemed high enough. I said that he should lift you too, and laughed; with smoke-black braid, thick shoes, you’d dangle almost to the ground. But from your deckchair on the curb, the view was blocked. You worked your foot and said you’d seen it all before. Robbi Nester is the author of a chapbook, Balance (White Violet Press, 2012). She was born and raised in Philadlephia, but now lives in California. Robbi has published poetry in Qarrtsiluni, Northern Liberties Review, Inlandia, Victorian Violet Press, Floyd County Moonshine, and Caesura, with poems forthcoming in Jenny and Poemeleon. Her reviews have appeared in The Hollins Critic and Switchback, and her essays have been anthologized in Easy to Love but Hard to Raise (DRT Press, 2011) and Flashlight Memories (Silver Boomer Press, 2011).
The next day I didn’t go to work. Barnacle Bob would have to do it without me. I did hope the crabs were running for him, but I wanted to be in the house when Maeya came in from school, which I was. The sun was gone from the sky. It was getting to be time for dinner. I’d gotten paid the day before, so I had some money. Maeya was eating cornstarch from the box, a habit I hadn’t been able to break her from. She looked bored, flicking jacks around her lap on the carpet. “You keep eating that, you gonna turn into a ghost,” I said. “Watch.” “I wanna bake a cake,” she said. I was getting mad. “Fix your face. You look a mess.” “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
