God Help the Child: A novel Read Online Free Page B

around them, whispering, “You’ll be fine. You did great.” Neither one hugged me but they smiled at me. Apparently Sofia Huxley has no family. Well she has a husband who is in another prison and still unparoled after seven tries. No one was there to meet her. Nobody. So why didn’t she just accept help instead of whatever check-out-counter or cleaning-woman job she might be given? Rich parolees don’t end up cleaning toilets at Wendy’s.
    I was only eight years old, still little Lula Ann, when I lifted my arm and pointed my finger at her.
    “Is the woman you saw here in this room?” The lawyer lady smells of tobacco.
    I nod.
    “You have to speak, Lula. Say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”
    “Yes.”
    “Can you show us where she is seated?”
    I am afraid of knocking over the paper cup of water the lady lawyer gave me.
    “Relax,” says the prosecutor lady. “Take your time.”
    And I did take my time. My hand was in a fist until my arm was straight. Then I unfolded my forefinger.
Pow!
Like a cap pistol. Mrs. Huxley stared at me then opened her mouth as though about to say something. She looked shocked, unbelieving. But my finger still pointed, pointed so long the lady prosecutor had to touch my hand and say, “Thank you, Lula,” to get me to put my arm down. I glanced at Sweetness; she was smiling like I’ve never seen her smile before—with mouth and eyes. And that wasn’t all. Outside the courtroom all the mothers smiled at me, and two actually touched and hugged me. Fathers gave me thumbs-up. Best of all was Sweetness. As we walked down the courthouse steps she held my hand, my hand. She never did that before and it surprised me as much as it pleased me because I always knew she didn’t like touching me. I could tell. Distaste was all over her face when I was little and she had to bathe me. Rinse me, actually, after a halfhearted rub with a soapy washcloth. I used to pray she would slap my face or spank me just to feel her touch. I made little mistakes deliberately, but she had ways to punish me without touching the skin she hated—bed without supper, lock me in my room—but her screaming at me was the worst. When fearrules, obedience is the only survival choice. And I was good at it. I behaved and behaved and behaved. Frightened as I was to appear in court, I did what the teacher-psychologists expected of me. Brilliantly, I know, because after the trial Sweetness was kind of motherlike.
    I don’t know. Maybe I’m just mad more at myself than at Mrs. Huxley. I reverted to the Lula Ann who never fought back. Ever. I just lay there while she beat the shit out of me. I could have died on the floor of that motel room if her face hadn’t gone apple-red with fatigue. I didn’t make a sound, didn’t even raise a hand to protect myself when she slapped my face then punched me in the ribs before smashing my jaw with her fist then butting my head with hers. She was panting when she dragged and threw me out the door. I can still feel her hard fingers clenching the hair at the back of my neck, her foot on my behind and I can still hear the crack of my bones hitting concrete. Elbow, jaw. I feel my arms sliding and grabbing for balance. Then my tongue searching through blood to locate my teeth. When the door slammed then opened again so she could throw out my shoe, like a whipped puppy I just crawled away afraid to even whimper.
    Maybe he is right. I am not the woman. When he left I shook it off and pretended it didn’t matter.
    Foam spurting from an aerosol can made him chuckle, so he lathered with shaving soap and a brush, a handsomething of boar’s hair swelling from an ivory handle. I think it’s in the trash along with his toothbrush, strop and straight razor. The things he left are too alive. It’s time to throw all of it out. He left everything: toiletries, clothes and a cloth bag containing two books, one in a foreign language, the other a book of poems. I dump it all, then pick through the trash and