Charles River Review

The Harvard Extension School Writing Program

2003-04, issue nine, number one

We Wear the Mask

Michelle Coleman

For some reason he took a liking to me. He watched me all the time. I pretended that things were cool, but I knew he was dangerous. If I stayed inside, there was a chance I could avoid him. He was always outside—if not him, then one of his men. He singled me out and refused to call me by my name. Instead he called me Amina. I don’t know why he did that. My name doesn’t even sound like Amina. Maybe I reminded him of someone he once knew. Everyone began calling me ‘Mina even though they knew that wasn’t my name. I guess I could have ignored them, but I answered to it. If I wasn’t around, he would ask for me. Whenever he called me away from my friends, I went to him. Pretty soon I was hands-off. It was like: don’t mess with her or else! I was suddenly popular. It was kind of exciting. I didn’t want the attention, but there was nothing I could do.

Once I watched him torture Big Pete on the basketball court in broad daylight. It was midday, almost too hot to be out. Heat rose from the concrete in steamy waves, distorting things. Most of the kids had gone home for lunch. Even the flies weren’t stirring. My little brother Harry and I were getting our last hits in on the handball court. We were flushed from the heat and giddy from perfecting our games. Harry figured out how to “roll a killer”—direct the ball to the point where the wall met the ground. When he hit that shot, it ricocheted low at lightening speed. It was impossible to return. We were giving each other high fives when we heard a shrill scream coming from the court near the kiddie swings. Harry tried to get me to mind my business because our mother whipped us for watching trouble. She said that watching was as bad as doing. But I had to see what was going on.

The Harlequins, the Boss’s men, were holding Big Pete down with his legs spread-eagled. The Boss was alternating between speaking in Big Pete’s ear and squeezing his privates with a pair of red pliers. Big Pete was wearing filthy blue jeans. I couldn’t help thinking that it was too hot to be wearing jeans.

Big Pete was blubbering, and he screeched when the Boss applied pressure. Harry kept tugging on me to leave. I shook him off expecting to hear something pop. A metal taste rose in my mouth. I felt like I needed to vomit but I stayed there. As I clutched the chain link fence separating the court from the playground, I broke into a cooling sweat. The Boss took a break from Pete to smoke a Newport. The air stirred a bit in the noonday heat. He noticed me by the fence and cocked his head slightly as if he were asking a question. Hot shame corkscrewed within me and I blushed hard, embarrassed for being caught staring. I gave him a sheepish smile. He smiled back with his eyes. Big Pete was lying at his feet. Everything was still.

For a moment, we were soundlessly suspended in the heat, eyes locked. Harry shifted his weight as if he had to go to the bathroom, and began to mew quietly. He was desperate to leave. As smoke encircled his face, the Boss motioned with a slight jut of his chin for us to get going. Harry whispered, “Please.” I threw my arm around his neck and pulled him to me. Harry was so relieved that he let me hold him as we walked away. I looked over my shoulder. The Boss was still watching. We didn’t talk about what we saw, we didn’t tell our mother. Nobody called the police. None would have showed up anyway.

Big Pete was the neighborhood bum. I remember when he used to live in Chlora Brodnax’s rooming house. He used to carry a trumpet case all the time. Now he lived on the street. His people lived nearby, but they wouldn’t claim him. He was small and scrappy and wasted looking. One time, I saw him taking a dump in the alley near the playground. When he noticed me, he shouted, “Got any toilet paper?” I ran away stunned and laughing. Big Pete used to pass out behind the playground dumpster. Sometimes the kids littered his unconscious body with garbage. Harry dared me, and I poured Dr. Pepper on him. He never stirred. Harry told me that Big Pete was a dope fiend.

The Boss was always very tender with me. He just wanted to talk. Sometimes he recited poetry—things he knew by heart. He knew Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poetry and spoke in dialect without sounding ignorant. I sat with him at the stone chessboard tables in the playground. Sometimes we played. He would challenge himself to play using only his pawns. I always lost badly. Sometimes he read the Daily News. I didn’t know anything about current events, so I just listened. He was funny. I laughed when he read Dick Tracy comics; he had a different voice for every character. All of this was our secret. He never told me to be quiet. I just knew.

He was not unattractive, but he wore a scowl that made him look ugly. It softened when we were alone. He was short and muscular, a brown-skinned Bluto with a barrel-shaped chest and huge tattooed arms. His tattoos looked like children’s drawings —nothing sophisticated like roses or hearts or hoola girls. Harry told me that these were jailbird markings. His hair was conked, lye-straightened, and slicked back with pomade. He looked like he wore a patent leather helmet.

He was smarter than anyone I’d known—except my daddy, who’d been to college. He seemed to know a little bit about everything. Later I realized that one of the things that men do in prison is read a lot. I don’t think he finished high school, but we didn’t talk about things like school. I was fourteen. He was old, in his thirties, I guessed. He could have been anything – a doctor, a lawyer, maybe a teacher. He was the kind of person folks followed and feared.

He told me that I was different. He said he liked me because I was clean and came from a good family. I pretended that it didn’t matter. I told myself that I was going along because I was afraid not to. He didn’t know anything about me but his attention made me feel good.

“You speak like a lady, Amina. I like to listen to you. It’s like you’re not from these streets. You’re still sweet and fresh.” He thought that I didn’t curse, but I cursed all the time. A lot of the neighborhood women sat in their yards or in their apartment windows listening to people’s conversations—nosey bodies. I had to be careful for fear of getting popped upside my head by an adult within earshot. You were everybody’s child back then.

“No, I’m not,” I told him. “One time…one time I tore this girl up for trying to disrespect me,” I blurted as I recalled a third grade fight in which I windmill-punched myself out of after school. I thought my violence would appeal to him and keep my legs from shaking under the table.

“Little Miss Toughie. Keep messing around and one day you’ll find yourself like all the other sheep—lost and looking. Nothing’s gotten to you yet. Enjoy this, while it lasts. I know I am.” He stared at me.

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I thought, “Not too sweet to hold it down.”

His lieutenant, Red Bone, was a pretty boy and a smooth talker. He was younger than the others, not much more than twenty-five. A lot of the neighborhood girls competed for his attention. Red Bone had big, clear brown eyes with thick, long lashes and a complexion the color of caramel. His smile was brilliant and toothy. He was slim and graceful and he laughed a lot. Old women giggled when he talked to them, everyone did. His power was in his ability to charm. Everyone respected Red Bone because they liked him. Even though he was second-in-command in the Harlequins, people weren’t afraid of him.

One night he offered to walk me home from the playground saying he was protecting me for the Boss. I lived around the corner but nobody said no to a Harlequin. When we got to my house, he came into my yard without invitation and sat on the stoop.

“What’s your real name? I know your momma didn’t name you Red Bone,” I asked with false bravado. He laughed.

“Darling, you’ve got to be special to have THAT information.”

I shrugged in response. It wasn’t safe for me to appear anything but neutral. We both knew that I belonged to the Boss. Red Bone made me nervous. He was so fine and likable. Being alone with him made my insides quiver. Unlike the Boss, he didn’t need fear to get my cooperation. I should have stayed quiet, but I started to ramble:

“When I was little my family called me Peaches. They were my favorite food. We have a tree in the back. I asked for peaches even before I could talk. Our peaches are not like the ones in the store. They’re as big as softballs and sweet and juicy. They’re so fuzzy they’re hairy. My mom’s peach ice cream is really good. We can’t eat them all. She cans them. They’re like a piece of summer in the winter…they used to call me Peaches.”

“Peaches…that’s cute. I like the way you talk.”

“I’m just like everybody else, Red Bone,” I said as I looked around at nothing in particular. “It’s getting late. I don’t want my mother to have to call me. I know dinner’s ready. It’s time for me to go inside. Thanks for walking me.” I didn’t want to seem rude, so I sat until he made motions to leave. We were quiet in an easy, comfortable way.

“My name is Daemon. Nobody knows that. Don’t make me regret I told you.” For the first time, the laughter drained out of his eyes. He narrowed his focus looking at me as if I were prey. I stood, sensing danger. “Oh! All right, Dae—er, I mean, Red Bone. Thanks again. Good night.”

He got up to leave, quickly leaned in, and kissed me on the mouth. I didn’t have time to turn away. I didn’t kiss back. I was still. His lips were hot and tender and fleshy. His kiss was neat and left my mouth tasting like chili peppers. For a moment, I left my body and watched him stealing that kiss from me from above. I felt like I was on fire. The blaze began on my lips. That was my first kiss.

The next day started like any other. Harry and I were full of summer vacation possibilities. There was the neighborhood pool, the library, or the playground. We could also hang out front jumping double-Dutch. Harry knew how to turn the rope better than me. We only needed two more to get it going. I wasn’t good at jumping rope, but what I lacked in skill I made up for in enthusiasm. I used to love when grown women stopped and asked for a jump. They kicked off their high heels, and, barefoot with manicured toes, they jumped in time with the ropes on the concrete. Their hair and breasts and jewelry and our gangly arms and legs and songs formed a hypnotic rhythm.

Momma made us breakfast: grits, soft-boiled eggs, quartered oranges, and slab bacon. She kept us inside most of the morning doing chores. I washed the breakfast dishes. Harry dried. We put them away together. We cleaned our rooms. We both had summer reading lists. I was going to high school in the fall. She wouldn’t let us out if our reading wasn’t done. For good measure, she made us hang a couple of loads of laundry in the backyard. The sun was blazing; the sheets would be dry in fifteen minutes. When she finally released us to the streets, we headed straight for the playground.

Kids were on the handball court when we arrived. “Rise and fly, suckers! We got next! Watch out, I’ve got the H-bomb!” I screamed referring to Harry. He was jumping around acting stupid. Everyone was looking at me. I was slapping my thighs, feeling exultant when the mood began to sink in. Something was wrong. The Boss came up behind me quietly in a rage. There was no time to react. Everything and everyone there stopped. He stabbed me in the chest with his pointer finger and said, “You, come with me!”

Terror washed over me in hot flashes. I controlled the sudden urge to pee. I knew that if I didn’t go with him he would turn the place out. The first one to get hurt would be my brother. I told everyone it was cool and rubbed my aching breastbone. I mouthed “It’s all right” to Harry, shaking my head from side to side in the gesture of no. As I left, Harry’s hands were clenched and big angry tears flowed from his eyes. I locked myself up tight and took a piece of Harry with me.

The Boss took me to one of the buildings neighboring the playground. Usually there were a lot of people sitting out on the stoops, but not that day. There were only a few stamped out cigarette butts and crumpled tissues. He marched me up five flights of stairs toward the roof, pushing me roughly between my chicken bones when I paused. The stairwell was painted an ugly dark brown. It was supposed to mask the graffiti, but I could see writing on the wall:

I was here and now I’m gone. I left my name to carry on…

Suck my dick!

Charlene ♥ Leroy. 2-gether, 4 ever.

The air smelled like poverty—of fried lard and cigarettes and gravy and urine and hair grease. There were broken liquor bottles and half-eaten chicken legs on the landings. Several people had their radios tuned to the same station. Aretha was crooning in stereo for respect. In that stairwell, I forgot who I was. Nothing mattered. My instinct was to survive. I became a clean slate. I became Amina.

It was hotter on the roof than below. The surface was covered with sun-softened tar that smelled like burnt rubber. When we stopped walking, I felt like I was sinking in quicksand. He threatened me not to scream. Red Bone had told the Boss that I was like all the rest of the neighborhood girls. Red Bone had made our brief time together seem far worse than it was, like I came on to him. With liquor-fired breath, the Boss told me that I was a traitor, that I had hurt him, and that I had to pay. He sprayed me with foamy spittle as he raged in my face. I didn’t wipe it away. I tried not to blink.

“Of all the people you had to screw around with it had to be my number one man. You ain’t nothing but a whore. And a stupid whore at that!” I didn’t try to defend myself.

I could hear traffic sounds from below, babies crying, dogs barking, the ice cream truck’s song. I imagined being tossed off the roof and sailing pinwheel-like through the sky. I imagined kicking him in the groin, him crumpling into the warm tar, and feathers miraculously raining down and coating his prostrate body. As he screamed at me, a single thought persisted—survival. Why had Daemon set me up?

“What would I want with Red Bone? Everyone knows that he answers to you. I’m your…I’m your…Amina. You know me better than that. I’m not that kind of girl. Why do you think I would do that? Does this really have anything to do with me?”

The Boss paused. I didn’t say more. I could see the wheels turning in his head. In spite of his anger, he was capable of reason. I continued to look at him unblinkingly as sweat crawled down my back and my body emitted the aroma of fear. He returned my gaze, and a small smile erupted in his eyes. The furrows in his brow slackened, but he held his mouth in a ferocious knot.

I prayed that he still had tender feelings for me and said, “There’s no reason to hurt me. I can’t fight you. I wouldn’t win. I can’t run. There’s no place to go. There’s no use in me making up stories to trick you. I’m just me. We…Please, things don’t have to change between us. Red Bone doesn’t mean anything to me. He’s just a pretty face. You can still talk to me, read to me, and laugh with me. I’m not going anywhere.”

My fear began to melt into doubt as the sun beat down on my head. I considered bearing my neck and waiting for the deathblow like an obedient dog. But I was innocent and he knew it. He knew that I was good—he had spent the whole summer convincing me of it. The thought that I was special gave me the power to press on. I let my arms drop to my sides, tilted my head, put a question mark on my face, and waited. After several seconds, I quietly said: “what’s going on? Will you please talk to me? Tell me a story. Say something! No, a poem…please, recite a poem to me.”

The Boss removed his Newports from his chest pocket and tapped the back of the pack on the heel of his hand. He looked out over the skyline, then returned his gaze to me. He dug in his pocket for a match, then lit his cigarette. He exhaled deeply as if he were releasing steam. He threw the cigarette down and he grabbed me by my shoulders. He smelled rank. He gripped me firmly and stilled my shaking. This is what he said:

He seemed exhausted. I watched in horror as he pulled his penis out of his pants. The only penises I’d ever seen were the crude drawings in the girl’s room stalls at my school. His eyes were bloodshot and remote. He didn’t seem to see me. I was cramped and tight with fear. My mouth was sour and dry. When I swallowed I tasted poison. My stomach yawed loudly. Salty tears leaked from my eyes. The more I cried, the more congested I became. I began to breathe through my mouth. He guided my body into a reclining position and hovered over me with a defeated expression on his face. My shoulder blades were like cookie cutters in the rooftop tar. He laid his penis on my thigh just above my knee. It seemed like a separate living thing—vulnerable and weighty. It moved like a sick animal on my leg. I was crying full out at this point. I pleaded with him: “You don’t have to do this.” He rolled his penis back and forth on my leg, then came in a hurried jolt. Without thinking, I tried to crawl away on my backside. He looked down on me with disgust and pity. Then he said, “Get up and go home.” I ran all the way.

When I got home, my mother was a basket case. Harry and the neighborhood kids had told her what happened. Nobody knew where I was. My mother had wanted to call the police, but I wasn’t gone even an hour. I told her nothing had happened. I didn’t want to bring the wrath of the gang down on my family. I thought about daddy, who even then seemed like an old man. He moved slowly and his back was curved from work and age. He wouldn’t stand a chance against those Harlequin punks. If I told Harry what had happened, his temper would make him do something stupid. He was the kind of ninety-nine-pound weakling who appeared on matchbook covers. It would be just like his fool self to get killed—for nothing. Nobody from the park called the police. The gang owned the neighborhood.

“If he did anything to you, it’s a crime! He’s a grown man!”

“Ma, nothing happened. Nothing happened.”

She looked into my eyes and gripped my shoulders trying to will me to talk. Harry was behind her looking like he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to find out what had happened, but knew nothing good would come of me telling. Daddy hadn’t gotten home yet, which was good. I wouldn’t have been capable of holding back from the three of them. My mother continued to grill me. But I had nothing to tell. I asked to be excused. Reluctantly, my mother permitted me to go.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face. I closed the door and leaned into it, holding onto the brass knob. The towels that hung on the hook muffled my cries. They smelled sweet and fresh like Cashmere Bouquet, the brand of soap my mother used. I was relieved to be alone and safe. I was drained. The heat of the day enveloped me.

At the sink, I stared into the mirror to try to imagine what the Boss saw, what my mother saw, what Harry saw. The face that looked back at me was familiar. I’d come through the fire unscathed. A bit of hysterical laughter bubbled up as I realized that I was still me. In spite of everything, I was who I wanted to be. It didn’t matter what anyone else saw. I sat on the side of the tub enjoying the cool of the porcelain and noticed that there was cum all over the hem of my skirt. Ma was so intent on staring into my face that she never looked down. Neither did I. I’ll never forget that skirt. I never wore that ugly thing again.

I stayed in the house for about a week after what had happened on the roof. Mercifully, it rained so that there was no pressure to go out. Harry loyally puttered around with me for the first few days. By day four, the sun was back and Harry ran out of the house after our mother released him. The look he gave me as he left begged forgiveness. It was too much to expect him to fritter away his freedom with me under the backyard sprinkler. My mother was happy that I stayed in. We picked peaches and prepared them for canning. She kept a close watch—looking for signs of damage. I remained silent on the subject of the roof. I never told anyone what happened. There were only a few weeks of summer vacation left. Then I was off to a new school and a “new phase” my mother said. She told me that she had met my father when she was my age.

When I finally ventured out, everything was as I had left it. I felt like a stranger, but everyone was the same. No one questioned me or mentioned my absence. I didn’t talk about it either. I fell in step with the neighborhood rhythms. Sometimes I caught the Boss looking at me. When our eyes met, I held his gaze steady and didn’t look away. I didn’t smile. I didn’t feel fear. I didn’t feel. He never called me to him again or called me Amina. No one did. My name is Glory.

Previous | Contents | Next