Bastard Out of Carolina - Dorothy Allison [131]
Please, God, let him die, let me die, let someone die.
Don’t let him hurt my mama.
“You bastard! You monster!”
“Anney, please!”
“Don’t you touch me. Don’t you touch her!”
I tasted tears, snot, blood that had run down from my ear. I spat and tried to push myself up. I had to get up, do something, get Mama out of there.
Mama’s hands were on me now, feeling for the damage. My head cleared a little, and I looked up. He was across the room, face white and stricken, and she was down on her knees with me. A roar went up through me, and I gritted my teeth. We had to get out of there, get away from him. I got to my knees.
“Come on, honey,” she cooed like I was a baby again. “I’m gonna get you to a doctor.” Her hands smoothed my blouse, knotted the torn pieces together over my belly, dragged my pants up my legs a little at a time, covering me up.
“Anney, no, wait,” he was saying, but she wasn’t listening. That’s good, don’t stop. Keep moving, Mama. Get us out of here.
“Come on, baby,” she said, and pulled me to my feet. I swayed on rubber-band knees, an empty bowl of pain for a belly. Those dots were floating everywhere. I looked over at Daddy Glen. His face was as empty as my belly. Icy terror rode up my legs to my heart.
Get out, we’ve got to get out of here. You don’t know, Mama, you don’t understand.
She was whispering, “Baby, baby,” holding me tight to her hip as she started for the door.
A terrible clarity seized me. I was thinking way ahead of myself. Uncle Travis’s shotgun was at his house, in Aunt Ruth’s bedroom closet. If I could get there, get it in my hands, I’d hide it until he was there, right there, as he would be, certainly. At the door or standing in the living room, telling his version of things, explaining it all away, crying again or begging, or just holding Mama by the arms the way he had held me. I would have to be careful, not let anyone stop me until I could blow his head off, blow his neck open, his blood everywhere like a whirlwind. I had to do it. I had to, or he would kill me, me and her, someday, I knew, both of us. If I had to die, then that was the way it would be.
“Ruth’s, Mama,” I breathed. “Take me to Ruth’s.” If I could get my hands on that gun, I’d never let it go. Maybe I could just pretend I needed it the way Alma had needed her razor, just to hold it like a doll or something, so that they’d tell the cops, “We never thought she’d use it.” Never.
“We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” Mama said. No. Ruth’s. But she wasn’t listening to me. Was I saying it or just thinking it?
“Anney. Oh, Anney.” Daddy Glen was right beside us, blood on his face. From her or me? I wondered. Something had hit him. I stared at his face like it was a road map, a route to be memorized, a way to get back to who I really was. After I shot him, there would be nothing left, no way back.
All right.
“Please, Anney.” He sobbed like a child, and she pulled me tighter into her armpit. Her free hand snaked out and slapped him, drew back, made a fist, and punched him full on.
“Ohhh,” he howled. “Don’t, don’t.” He staggered back, tripping on scattered dishes.
“Anney!” he whined like a little boy. “I don’t know what happened. I was just gonna talk to her, darling. I just wanted you to come home, for us all to be together again!”
Mama kept moving, dragging me with her, using her hip to open the door, half-carrying me down the steps. Not a pause, not a hesitation, across the yard toward her car.
“Anney, please! I didn’t mean it. I went crazy. I went crazy. Honey, listen to me!”
I was dizzy. Everything hurt, but it was better, better. Strength was coming back, and with it thought. My muscles felt weak but no longer severed from tendons and bones. I could move now. There would be a way. Look how hurt I was. There would be a story we could tell. It would be self-defense. It would be justifiable. I grinned to feel the blood trickling down my neck. Look how hurt I was! Thank you, God.
“Anney!” He was following us. “Please,