A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [148]
“Hey, girl,” Dyshett said, reaching over and prodding Debbie on the chest with the flat of her hand. “I be talkin’ to you.” When she was frightened, Debbie’s bald eyes glazed over and she breathed through her mouth like a snorer.
“You such a fat girl. Was you so ass fat all the tahm you can’t tell what’s what? You thought them kicks was your stomach grumbling? You got so much flab in them juicy pink thaghs, in your sweet little ole stomach, pink as a pig. Ain’t she jus’ pink, Sherry? What you give to be fine and sweet and pink?”
For a small, thin person, Dyshett had a surprisingly deep laugh. She sang in the shower, couldn’t help it. We used to stop to listen, stunned by the beauty of her voice. She sang old Motown hits, songs that were on the charts long before she was born. We were determined to listen, determined not to let on that we knew she could charm us. I used to imagine that all of us shared the secret of Dyshett’s true power, possibly the one thing she herself didn’t know.
Sherry was six feet tall, with a large frizzy orange ponytail, and skin that was a deep, glistening black. She said to Debbie, “I bet your man thinks you one choice cut. He a fatso like you?”
“Oh, oh,” Dyshett moaned, “oh, my blubbery little ole elephant, you got such a sweet, greasy, tight pussy for a fat girl. What can I do to make you satisfy?”
I ate. It was difficult to concentrate on my sandwich in the midst of so much gaiety and mirth. I wished Debbie would finish her lunch and leave them to pick on someone else. Her head was bowed so low she was in danger of thunking over onto the table.
“You makin’ her cry, Dyshett,” Sherry said, when she’d recovered herself. “Poor baby, she ain’t ready to get took from her mama yet.” She reached over and pinched Debbie’s arm. “We your friends, honey bun. We here to teach you about all the big do-do that goes on in the world, so you be ready.”
“We want to know more about Mr. Dick, Your Man,” Dyshett said. “He handsome and strong? You always available?—like, ‘Over here, Mr. Dick. Yoo-hoo, right here,’ wavin’ your arms? He a nice white boy, goin’ off to some hot shit college? You get outta here, you come to Dyshett for a little somethin’ to ruin his career.”
Debbie was under the impression, short-lived to be sure, that crying was a kind of defense. The more Dyshett talked the harder she cried.
“You!” Sherry said, turning to me. “How come you don’t stick up for your sistah? Here we teasin’ her to kingdom come and you jus’ sit there like she ain’t no relation. What’s matter w’chyou?”
Dyshett only glanced at me, muttering “pervert,” and then she leaned down under so she could see Debbie’s face. So softly she said, “Or is it your daddy did it to you? Hmmmm? Your daddy visit you in the night?”
Debbie’s mouth opened to its astonishing limit by degrees. It took her several seconds to understand what Dyshett was saying. “No!” she cried at last, in horror.
“Whoa, we thought it was a whale comin’ up out of the ocean there for a minute,” Dyshett said, sniggering.
“You awake now, girl, that’s for sure!” Sherry bellowed.
At night, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d try to think of all of us in some larger context, in allegorical terms. It was Howard who taught me to look at a patch of ground, a terrible day, the befuddled irrigation rig, our Holy Roller neighbor, as something more than just the sum of its parts, so that a thing at once is curiously both diminished and enlarged. Dyshett had so many qualities it was hard to pin her down; she was Joy and Beauty, Rage and Cruelty. I finally settled on Nature. The rest came readily: Lynelle was Wisdom. Sherry proved to be Compassion. Janet was Stupidity. Debbie was Shame.
“Your mama know your daddy visit in the night?” Dyshett asked. She was still leaning forward over the table so that the applesauce, which seemed to effortlessly issue forth from Debbie’s mouth in a single clot, went right into Dyshett’s eye. Sherry was so astounded she laughed. It took Dyshett a moment to register the enormity of Debbie’s