Tick: Three Vignettes

I

When I was twelve and my brother was ten, the white lady my Cousin Marie worked for gave her a dog. She gave it to us. The dog was very old. His name was Duke. He had been a prize winning poodle. We joked that Duke had moved from a white to a black neighborhood. He had really come down in the world. My mother did not believe in animals in the house, so adding insult to injury, Duke now lived in the shed behind our small frame house.

Virginia summers were hot and mostly humid. The yard grass grew very fast. It was home to muskrats, possums, snakes, and ticks. We would pet old Duke when we fed him and feel the ugly bulges of flesh, swollen with blood. My Cousin Charlie, Marie’s husband, cut them off with his pocket knife. He’d set fire to the gray masses on the porch floor. Poor Duke would have red raw wounds wherever the ticks had lived on his blood. His show days were surely over . . .

“Are you awake?”

It’s midnight. Twenty operators are typing spreadsheets that New York bankers must have before the stock market opens. I am one of those operators. I need this job.

“Yes?”

“Is there anything wrong?”

I am wearing the same clothes I had on yesterday. My legs are shut tight to hide holes in inner seams. It’s summer. I am wearing a sweater to hide scars on my neck and arms. I pray the rims of my glasses will hide marks below my eyes. God, I can’t do anything about my mouth.

“Yes, something is very wrong . . .”

I am rocking. I am on my porch rocking in the quiet night. No one had central air or wanted it. We waited for the cool breeze to come up from the river after dark. Small boys came up from the salty water with tins of crabs to sell. Yellow lights dimmed behind white curtains as dinners were served.

It’s hard to stay awake. I feel pain in my face and stomach.

I am dreaming of the time before. A long time ago . . .

II

The trains change after rush hour. They are cold, dirty, and loud. Forty-five minutes on the express for eight years. I get to the City at midnight and run to the office on Fifth. Afraid? I am running from the danger.

We live in a rundown hotel. We lost the rent-controlled apartment on Riverside. I am the only one working. He buys Italian suits, tips big, entertains whores. I am never there. I am working. Last night I was there. While in the shower he came in and beat me. My money was short this week. He used his fists. I said I had to go in early, but I didn’t.

For forty-five minutes the train bumps and bends,

flicking its tail at the darkness behindrushing from station to empty station . . .

I sleep.

III

He is old now. He lost his looks. I watch him stick the needle into his stomach and pretend I am afraid to give insulin. If I hurt him I will get hit. He finishes, lights a cigarette, and pours vodka. This will be repeated until he is lying in filth on the floor. It takes six to seven hours. One night he set the apartment on fire. A pot was left on the stove. The walls turned an ugly dirty gray.

When he drinks he sings. He imagines he sounds better than Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, and Nat King Cole. He doesn’t. I want to laugh, but can’t. I sit until he passes out. Then I leave.

Three years ago I left him. People say I was bold and brave.

I say, I needed sleep.

Everyone has a limit. I finally reached mine.