Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [46]
She was finished pouring juice and then started arranging silverware and napkins as she called into the living room, “Get on in here and eat.” And to Victoria she said, “You might as well take the socks all the way off, and change out of that good dress. You staying in with me this morning.”
Victoria spent the Sunday morning in with Ramona. They faced each other at the oblong Formica kitchen table as they ate salt pork and egg sandwiches; Ramona languished over her brewed coffee; Victoria sipped at her Ovaltine and milk. Neither spoke—Victoria because she was quiet by nature, Ramona, because there was no need to chastise or otherwise insult the child right now—so they listened to each other’s slurping sounds and the crackle of the March wind hitting the kitchen window.
Plus Ramona was preoccupied with Tyrone’s mouth. She knew men, had been experiencing them in all varieties since she was sixteen. She knew their arms, their backs, the calves of their legs. But she especially knew their mouths. And Tyrone’s mouth was polite, the way it lightly touched hers and almost asked for permission before parting her lips with his tongue. But this morning his mouth had been powerful, confident, the way it came at her wide open and mashed against her lips like it was going to swallow her lips. She only knew one thing that could change a man’s mouth like that. She remembered then how his eyebrows looked pasted on his forehead when he told her why he was on Chestnut Street; it wasn’t the morning light, like she’d tried to convince herself; his eyebrows were guilty-looking. The very thought of Tyrone lying to her, maybe even running around on her caused such a thick slab of emotion to bear down on her that wasn’t even anger—she would expect to feel the how-dare-he kind of rage—but this mass of feeling falling heavy all around her like humid Philadelphia air before a rainstorm in July was a sadness so dense that it caught her off guard. She hadn’t realized that her feelings for him were that solidly strong.
She shook the image of his mouth from her head and forced herself to focus her eyes on the here and now, the coffee she was sipping, the red and white vinyl place mat, the Abbott’s dairy calendar on the wall behind Victoria’s head, Victoria holding her salt pork and egg sandwich—struggling to eat.
“Does your mouth hurt?” Ramona asked as she watched Victoria bite her sandwich using her side teeth instead of the ones in the front.
“Just a little.” Victoria lied. She so hated appearing hurt and needy and helpless. And right now her lips felt puffy and hot; her gums above her two front teeth throbbed even as she bit down with her side teeth. She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat and stared at the stalk of breakfast meat hanging out over the white bread and scrambled eggs. She broke the salt pork off. The eggs would be easier to chew. She tried to bite down using her front teeth. The throbbing spread and raced even up through her nose. She held the eggs in her mouth and glanced up at Ramona.
Ramona watched her intently. She couldn’t believe that the child was acting like she was fine when it was so obvious the pain she was having chewing the soft scrambled eggs. “Why you lying?” Ramona said it more than asked it as she put her coffee cup down. “I can see you hurting.” She got up from her side of the oblong table and went to Victoria’s side. She put her thumb against Victoria’s chin and held a napkin under her mouth. “Spit the eggs out ’fore you swallow them without chewing and choke to death. Then I don’t even know how I’ll be able to face my mother when she gets back in here from Buffalo on Tuesday.”
Victoria did as she was told and spit the half-chewed eggs into the napkin. Ramona’s thumb was warm against her chin as she moved it down to open