Raise It Up, page 3
I watched Oliver now, feeling unwanted but undeniable lust stir in my belly. He looked so priestly and pure in his black cassock and white surplice, so angelic, like the statue of St. Aloysius. Oliver glanced at me as he passed, offered a hesitant smile with those generous lips, as though he felt he shouldn’t be smiling at a funeral—especially the funeral for my mother—but wanted me to know he felt sorry for me.
I blushed, lowered my eyes.
Did he know?
Did he suspect?
I thought suddenly of Mama in that pine box, not five feet from where I sat, and felt guilty.
At my side, Charlie stirred.
“I want Mama!” he exclaimed very loudly, standing up and looking over his shoulder at the people in the pews. “Mama!”
Daddy hissed at me to keep him quiet as though he thought people expected Charlie to behave.
Father Jenkins turned and glanced in our direction, a look of annoyance on his face.
Oliver too glanced over his shoulder, and for a long moment, our eyes met again, and he seemed to be saying a lot of things, or wanting to, but what, I was not sure.
I made Charlie sit next to me, put my arm around him, pulled him close.
“I want Mama, Cee Cee!” he wailed, upset, scared by the people, the pine box, and the way people looked at us. He knew something was wrong. “Where’s Mama, Cee Cee?”
“Hush, Charlie,” I whispered. I held his hand, squeezed it.
“I want mama!” he shouted, pulling away from me.
“Mama’s gone to see John John,” I said, putting my arm across his chest to keep him in his seat.
“Stop it, Cee Cee!” he muttered, trying to get away from me. “I want to see Mama! I want to know where Mama is! I want to know, Cee Cee! Youse got to tell me!”
He stood again.
“Sit down, Charlie,” I urged.
“Ain’t gone sit down!” he replied. “Ain’t gone to and you can’t make me, Cee Cee! You can’t make me! We ain’t no goddamn communists!”
There were gasps in the pews.
Daddy grabbed Charlie by his arms as if he meant to lift him off his feet and throw him out the nearest stained-glass window.
A hush fell.
“Leave him be,” I pleaded, pulling at Charlie from behind, trying to wrestle him away from our father.
“Make him be quiet!” Daddy ordered, his face red with embarrassment.
“Stop it,” I hissed. “Leave him be.”
“He’s upsetting everybody!”
“I want Mama!” Charlie moaned.
“It’s all right,” Father Jenkins said.
“Charlie want Mama! Mama mama mama! I want mama, Cee Cee! Dammit!”
Daddy let go and Charlie fell backward, and we crashed into the pew, Charlie landing on top of me and banging his head against my mouth. Bright, angry pain fled across my face. I put a finger to my lip and it came away wet with a spot of blood.
“Now look what you did!” Daddy snorted, as if it were my fault, as if we had to make sure blame was properly assigned. Daddy was big on blaming and shaming.
“Mama!” Charlie moaned. “I want Mama! Oh, Cee Cee, where’s Mama? I want Mama!”
“I’ll take him,” George said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand to Charlie. “Come on, bud.”
Charlie took his hand.
“Georgie, I want Mama,” Charlie muttered, oblivious to the commotion he had caused, oblivious to the fact that he was stepping on my feet and rubbing his dirty shoes against my pant legs.
“I know you do, bud. Let’s go look for her.” George led him out of the pew.
“I don’t want to just look for her, Georgie. I want Mama! Dammit!”
“Don’t cuss. We won’t find her if we don’t look. Come on, bud.”
Father Jenkins turned back to the makeshift altar.
Oliver gave me a hesitant smile as he too turned back around.
Charlie followed George, and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Daddy sat at the end of the pew. I glanced over and saw his hands shaking, his right foot jiggering from side to side like it was a jackrabbit in a room full of rocking chairs. He had his eyes closed and jaw clenched, the demons in his mind battling for whatever was left of his soul.
Kay scooted down the pew to sit next to me, leaving Daddy there by himself. He did not appear to notice or care. I put my arm around Kay’s shoulder and she put her face against my chest and hugged her Winnie the Pooh bear as she cried.
“It’s all right, sweetie,” I whispered in her ear.
A lady behind me—Mrs. Fairfax—handed me a tissue for Kay, then another tissue for my busted lip.
I stared at the pine box—it was the cheapest one they had, and how we were going to pay for it, I had no clue—and realized suddenly Mama was inside that box. It made me feel sad, angry, empty. I’d always known she was inside it, but I didn’t know it. Not until that moment, sitting so close, feeling my insides unraveling.
She was in that box and I was never going to see her again.
Ever.
Mama was gone. Her last memory on this earth was of me, standing there in her yellow dress, a towel wrapped around my head as a half-assed wig, her lipstick on my lips, a flashlight in my hand for a microphone, Diana Ross’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” blasting from the record player.
I had killed her. She’d been so angry she’d suffered what the coroner called a massive coronary.
The words of the Latin mass were loud in the small chapel.
During the middle of Father Jenkins’s sermon, as he talked for what seemed like a small eternity about the new church with its “bastard mass” and “bastard sacraments” and heretic popes on their merry way to hell and taking all the unsuspecting Catholics of the world with them, and how we surely were living in the End Times with its terrible apostasy from the true faith, and how the possible election of someone like Ronald Reagan to the White House could well signify the beginning of the dreaded One World Government and the reign of the Antichrist, Daddy got up suddenly and left.
I burst into tears.
EIGHT: Gonna be good good good
AS WE prepared to leave, Mr. and Mrs. Kowski said how very sorry they were.
“I want you to come for dinner,” Mrs. Kowski said to my father. “You shouldn’t have to worry about cooking on a day like today, Earl. And Christmas is just two weeks away. I won’t take no for an answer. What do you say?”
“I reckon that’s right nice of you,” Daddy said, “but we’d best get on home.”
“Oh, please,” Mrs. Kowski countered. “It’s no trouble at all. Oliver and your Cyrus are friends, after all. Do say you’ll come.”
“I reckon I’d rather be alone if y’all don’t mind,” Daddy replied in his Southern drawl.
“We could watch the children for you,” Mrs. Kowski continued, undeterred. “They could even spend the night. Must be a very hard time for you, Earl. It’s no trouble at all.”
“I reckon,” Daddy said, looking uncomfortable.
He wasn’t much for social niceties.
Oliver stood to the side of his mother with his own little brother and sister. He smiled at me. I’d never been to Oliver’s house. He’d invited me, but I had always made excuses not to go. The Kowskis lived in a fine brick home with a nice yard, a detached garage, and a swimming pool in the back. It looked clean. Probably smelled clean too. The thought of going to their house was terrifying.
“Please let us do this for you,” Mrs. Kowski went on. “The children will be just fine. I’m sure you’ve had a lot on your mind, and it’s no trouble at all. The boys can sleep in Oliver’s room and your Kay can sleep with my Mary. We have extra pajamas and anything else they might need.”
“Well, I reckon that would be all right if you don’t mind,” Daddy offered.
“We’ll bring them home tomorrow,” she said. “Why don’t you at least come and have dinner with us?”
“Well, that’s mighty kind of you, but I don’t reckon I’m in the mood.”
“Your Teresa was a lovely woman. I’m so sorry about what happened. You must be devastated.”
Daddy said nothing.
“George, are you coming?” Mrs. Kowski asked, looking at my brother George.
“I reckon I’d better get on home too,” George said. “I’ve got to get up early for work.”
“We’ll bring Cee Cee and the kids home tomorrow, then. You needn’t worry. I’m sure they’ll be no trouble at all, and we just wanted to do something to help in your time of need.”
Something in my stomach fluttered with the realization that I would be spending the night at Oliver’s house. In his bedroom. Even though Mama was dead and we had just attended her funeral mass, I was excited. I felt guilty, of course, but damn.
We said good-bye to Daddy and George and got in the Kowski’s station wagon. It was a newer model with electric windows and everything. Kay sat in the middle as we squeezed in the backseat with Oliver. His little sister Mary and little brother Edward sat in the very back.
I was so nervous at dinner I could hardly eat.
“Don’t you like it, Cee Cee?” Charlie asked.
“I guess I’m not that hungry.” Truth was, sitting next to Oliver, I was so nervous it was hard to breathe.
Oliver turned, offered me a sympathetic smile.
“There’s kids in Africa starving to death, Cee Cee,” Charlie said. “Don’t youse waste that food. Mama would whup your behind.”
“I’ll ask them to save it for me.”
“Don’t you worry about it,” Mrs. Kowski said kindly.
“Georgie said Mama went to be with John John,” Charlie informed me. “I done told Georgie that was bullcrap ’cause John John’s gone gone gone, and I don’t want Mama to be gone gone gone like that. No sir! Mama done be playing a trick on me, and that’s mean, playing a trick on Charlie. I knows I’s stupid, but that’s just mean.”
Mrs. Kowski smiled at this outburst.
Mr. Kowski, seated at the head of the table, frowned ever so slightly, adjusted his heavy glasses, which kept sliding down his nose.
“I ain’t right in the head,” Charlie went on. “Daddy say I’m like balls on a milk cow.”
“Oh heavens,” Mrs. Kowski exclaimed.
“Daddy say I’m a certified Grade A retard.”
“Charlie, don’t talk like that,” I admonished.
“When I was born, Our Lord whacked me with a dumb stick. That’s what Daddy say.”
“Your father would never say that, dear,” Mrs. Kowski countered.
“Daddy says it’s like throwing good money after bad.”
“Charlie, please behave,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. “We’re guests in someone’s home. We should let them talk.”
“He’s all right,” Mr. Kowski said.
“I’ll be good,” Charlie said, nodding his head as if agreeing with this idea. “Ain’t gonna cuss or nothing, Cee Cee. Ain’t gonna say shit or damn or—”
“Charlie!” I said rather too loudly.
“I’m just saying,” he replied, his voice wounded. “I’m gonna be good good good.”
“I know you will be.”
“I ain’t gonna cuss, Cee Cee.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Our Lord and Our Lady don’t like cussing. No sir! Do not cuss! Do not pass go! No no no! Our Lord don’t like it when you say shit and damn and fuck and—”
“Charlie, stop it!” I snapped.
He fell suddenly silent. He lowered his eyes and went completely still.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” I said, stroking his back. “I didn’t mean to get mad. But please don’t cuss in someone else’s house. You can be a good boy. I know you can be.”
“Cee Cee mad at Charlie,” he complained softly, lower lip trembling.
“I’m not mad, Charlie.”
“Cee Cee ain’t supposed to get mad at Charlie. Ain’t supposed to hurt Charlie. Ain’t no one supposed to hurt Charlie.”
“I’m sorry, bud. I am. Please, I didn’t mean it.”
“Charlie don’t like it! No sir, no!”
“Come here, buddy,” I said, pulling him to me.
“Charlie not right,” he said softly to my chest. “Charlie don’t mean to be bad. Charlie’s a stupid stupid stupid.”
“Hush, now,” I said.
“Charlie so dumb.”
“Stop it, buddy.”
“Charlie so sorry.”
“I know you are. Hush now. It’s okay.”
“Charlie love Cee Cee so much.”
“I know you do. And I love you too, Charlie. You’re a good boy.”
Charlie fell silent.
I glanced around the table. The Kowskis looked uncomfortable. I felt embarrassed. But Kay, sitting on the other side of the table, giggled as she whispered something to Mary and the mood shifted.
“Come on, Charlie,” I said. “Eat your food. Be a good boy, okay?”
“Charlie gone be good good good!”
NINE: Don’t you get sick of it?
“WHAT’S WRONG with your brother?” Oliver asked as we prepared to go to bed.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“The doctors did a bunch of tests,” I replied, rattling off the standard set of lies George and I used when asked about Charlie. We knew better than to tell the truth. “They said he has developmental difficulties. It’s not like he’s retarded or anything, but then again, he is. They told us to take him to a specialist in New York, but we didn’t have the money.”
I added that last touch, which was always a coup de grace to the overly inquisitive. Couldn’t really blame folks for not having enough money for a highfalutin’ specialist in New York City, could you?
“You didn’t have to let him sleep in your bed,” I said. “He could have slept with me on the floor.”
“That’s okay,” Oliver said. “We can sleep on the floor instead. He’s just a kid.”
Oliver Kowski removed his shirt, pants, and socks, tossed them in the dirty clothes hamper. He turned to look at me, smiled as he stood there in his underwear.
I stared at him, unable to help myself.
It had been a long day. A horribly long, unpleasant day. But now, standing in Oliver Kowski’s bedroom, looking at his bare chest, his bare legs, his smooth body, I was finding it hard to catch my breath.
“Why don’t we get undressed and go to bed?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet so as not to wake Charlie. “Do you want pajamas?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I don’t wear pajamas anymore, but I should have some that fit you,” he said.
“I could sleep in my underwear—you don’t have to bother.”
“It gets pretty hot in this room at night. Mom keeps the heat up. She’s afraid the pipes are going to freeze or something. We can just bed down on the floor. I’ll get some extra blankets.” He disappeared into the hallway and I stared after him, trying to collect my wits.
I was fifteen. I didn’t know what “coming on to someone” meant. How it was done, how it happened. But I had the strangest feeling he was coming on to me. Or was I just imagining it? I was amazed he felt comfortable enough to walk around the house in his underwear. Mama would have killed us had George and I done something like that.
Oliver returned with three extra blankets and two pillows. He spread out one blanket on the carpeting, laid out the pillows side by side.
“You must be tired,” he said.
“I am, a little,” I said.
“You gonna sleep in your clothes?”
“Uh, no.”
There was no help for it. I removed my shirt, folded it, and placed it on the dresser. I pulled off my pants and socks, wondering how I must look to him in my white Kmart underwear and scrawny body.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” Oliver said as I folded my pants neatly and put them with my shirt.
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“You handling it all right?”
“I guess.”
I lingered at the dresser, smoothing out my pants, folding my socks, not wanting to turn to Oliver. I wasn’t much to look at, not compared to someone like him.
“Come on,” he called.
He had lain down, had prepared a place for me.
I switched off the light.
I felt better in the dark. At least he wouldn’t see I had a raging boner that wouldn’t quit. I covered myself and eased my head back on the pillow.
“You’re pretty weird, you know,” Oliver whispered in the darkness.
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
Actually, I had no clue what he meant.
“Don’t you ever get sick of the bullshit?” he asked.
“What bullshit?”
“School. Girls. The Latin mass. Fucking communists. Nuclear bombs. I mean, why can’t people just be happy?”
I said nothing.
“You don’t believe all that, do you?” he asked, turning to me and propping himself on one elbow.
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I could see his outline, the slope of his chest, the shape of his face.
“What stuff?”
“The communists. The ‘Jewish World Conspiracy’ and all of that. My dad goes on and on. The ‘race war.’ The Iron Curtain. The Federal Reserve bank. The gold standard. And all these John Birch Society meetings. All those old fuckers come over and they talk and talk and talk, and my dad makes me sit there and listen, and I can’t tell him I just don’t care. Just fucking do not care. Now it’s all Ronald Reagan this and Ronald Reagan that, and one of them suggested that the guy Reagan picked for his vice president—Bush something or other—is actually the Antichrist and they’re going to usher in the One World Government once Reagan takes office in January, so now they’re all hot and bothered about that. And then my mom starts in with how the pope is a heretic and how the cardinals and bishops are heretics and the church is being destroyed and the Antichrist is coming and, I’m like, oh God, just stop! She thinks John Paul II is the Antichrist. It’s fucked-up, man.”
