Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [33]
There was a certain irony in my father addressing me as “Son.” “No, but I believe in calling a Nigger a Nigger and a Spic a Spic.”
“You’re right, Son, and those Niggers were the sweetest. Boy, did they put up a fight.” My father laid the gun down and turned around to describe the women. “Those who fought, we treated them the worst. We would punch and kick them like they were dogs; then one of us would get on top and stick it in. We’d take turns until we all got enough of what we wanted.” My father’s eyes became dreamy as he spoke. “We would pick them out like fruits in the market. There wasn’t one black woman who I wanted that I didn’t have.”
I hoped my father couldn’t see the hate in my eyes but I was trembling. This was worse than slavery. “So what happened if they reported you guys?”
“Report us? Are you crazy?! If they reported us, it would be worse for them. A few of them started investigations after they left, but those never amounted to anything. The warden had his share of women too. Those were the good old days.” My father smiled. “Oh, to be young again.”
“Did you remember a woman by the name of Sonia Watson?” I put my hand in my waistband.
“Who?”
“Sonia Watson, prisoner 225768.”
My father looked confused. “Who was she?”
“She was a prisoner in Bention Correctional Facility in 1967.”
“That was my second year as an officer. We had a lot of fun that year. Who is she to you?”
“Do you remember her?” I asked, holding the deep blue eyes of my father.
“No. What is this? Are you a cop?” my father asked nervously.
“No, I’m not a cop.”
“Reporter?” My father clutched the rifle.
“No, she was the first black queen of New York.”
My father lifted the gun to my head. “I knew that you didn’t belong here. What do you have to do with that whore?”
My sweaty finger reached around the trigger. My eyes didn’t blink. “She was my mother!”
“Oh, she put up one hell of a fight, but she was the best. We saved her for a special night. I think we did her on New Year’s Eve. She was the only one who hadn’t been touched since she had come into the prison. No; she thought she was too good for us. We tried everything to get her, but she wouldn’t let any of us touch her. She thought she was too good for us. So that night we fixed her good.”
“No.”
“Yes, we did. There was a party that night and your mother had her enemies.” I could tell the recollection was getting to my father. Saliva drooled from the sides of his mouth. “We knew that she wouldn’t go to the party so we went to her cell after the party had started. That night we had smuggled whisky in for the ladies and, while they were having their party, we had ours with your mother. Sit down, Boy. Let me tell you what happened to your mother.” Jim motioned with his rifle for me to sit down.
“No.”
“I said sit your mother-fucking Nigger ass down.” This time, my father put the end of the rifle in the middle of my forehead. “Remember, accidents happen in hunting. If you don’t believe me, ask our vice president.”
I sat down. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Oh, I stopped killing Niggers a long time ago. There are too many complications involved with that, but I’ll give you one hell of a good beating. Your mother was a fool and I see the apple hasn’t fallen too far from the tree.”
“You will suffer for what you did to my mother.”
“Maybe, Boy, but not in this lifetime. Life has been very good to me. After I finish beating the hell out of you, I’m going to kill some deer; then I’m going to put out an SOS. Nigger needs help! He’s fallen and can’t get up.” My father was smiling.
Ants had started to crawl onto my skin. “What then?”
“Don’t worry about that, Boy. Everyone will hear your story. The same story your mother told thirty-five years ago. Yes, we raped your mother and we beat her until we thought she was dead. But your mother was a strong woman; she didn’t die. She held onto life as she was rushed into the hospital. I think she spent two months in that God-awful place. I heard she lost her hearing in one of her ears. We tried to kill her in the hospital but