Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [98]
Ramona jumped up and down and pulled her hand from Mae’s. “Okay, Mommie,” she called behind her as she ran down a slope of grass straight to the swing. She hoisted herself up on the wooden seat and grabbed the chain links in her tiny hands. She mashed her feet against the earth for her takeoff into what always felt like heaven to her, flying through the green park air, the air whistling in her ears, the aroma of bread baking in the factory across the street going right to her head, making her head feel lighter, the sight of the tree leaves from up high, the sun dancing under her chin as she threw her head back and laughed out loud. She kicked her legs out, then in, then out, until she got the shrill in her stomach that told her she was going high enough, so she eased back on the motion of her legs to maintain the speed that was laughable and fun.
But this day she felt a push against her back just as she tried to slow down the swing. It was a heavy push against her small back, and it sent her up and through the air at the height that was scary. “Stop!” she screamed as she hunched her back to make the shrill in her stomach go away. She looked down and saw the baseball bat on the grass, knew it was that Donald Booker who was always bullying people, especially black people, with that bat. Had everyone at Sayre Junior High, where he sometimes showed up for class, terrorized with that bat.
“Stop it, Donald Booker, right now,” she yelled. “I don’t want to go that high.”
But Donald Booker didn’t stop. He pulled the swing back as far as he could and then with all of his force catapulted Ramona on the swing through the air. Ramona got a feeling in her stomach like she’d never had, like a scream filled with circles of white light. She almost felt it right now, standing in the bedroom wrapped in Shern’s soft green robe. She had to sit down on the bed, had to lean forward so the feeling would stop, so she could finish remembering.
“Mommie, Mommie, help me,” she’d screamed. She was coughing and choking and hollering out for Mae.
“Your momma ain’t nothing but Bernie’s nigger girl,” Donald Booker sang, “Bernie’s girl, Bernie’s girl, your momma ain’t nothing but Bernie’s nigger girl from early in the morning.”
“Help me, Mommie,” Ramona cried. “Mommie! Mommie! Mommie!”
“You no-good bastard,” she heard her mother yell frantically from far away. “You leave her alone right now, right now, or I swear I’ll fuck you up.” Mae’s voice got closer as she yelled, and then she was right there almost talking in Ramona’s ear.
“Mommie, Mommie,” she sobbed, as she felt Mae grab the chain link of the swing arm and hold it still so Ramona could get down. “He was scaring me, Mommie, and making me go too high in the swing.” She fell into Mae’s arms and rested her head against her chest, which smelled like fresh-cut grass.
“He’s not gonna bother you anymore, lil darling, Mommie’s here,” Mae said as she held Ramona to her and mashed her chin into the top of her head.
Ramona had forgotten that Mae used to do that, hold her tight like that. She took her hand from the pocket of the soft lime green robe and rubbed it through her hair. She could almost feel Mae’s chin there the way it must have felt all those years ago, moving up and down against Ramona’s head as she told Donald Booker about his bad-assed self.
“Go on, you juvenile delinquent boy, and get home where you belong before I do to you what your momma should ’ave been doing,” she said, still holding Ramona tightly. “Big as you are and you ain’t got nothing better to do than to pick with babies.”
Donald Booker poked his thin lips at Mae. He was as tall as Mae, and Ramona was almost afraid for her mother as he stared in Mae’s face like he was grown too. “Awl, shut up, Bernie’s nigger girl,” he huffed.
“Wh-what did you say to me, you heathenistic son of a bitch?” Mae unwound her arms from Ramona, stooped down lower to whisper in Ramona’s ear, stretched and reached