God Don't Like Ugly. Mary Monroe

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СКАЧАТЬ “It doesn’t smell bad around here all the time,” I lied, opening the car door.

      “I’m sure it doesn’t, Annette. Now you be sure and tell your mother I said hello and that I appreciate her handling my dinner party last night.” Miss Nipp smiled. She had given Mama the day off, which meant Mama had some unexpected time to spend with me.

      I hated coming home to an empty house and having to wait so late to eat dinner. Knowing that Mama was home and dinner was ready or close to it, I ran up on our porch with eager anticipation until I entered our living room and saw that strange old man unpacking his things.

      I didn’t sleep much that first night with Mr. Boatwright in our house. When I woke up the next morning I thought I had dreamed him. But within seconds I knew he was real. Before I could get my clothes on, I heard his voice downstairs. “Sister Goode, what kind of greens you want me to cook today, collards, mustards, or turnips?” he asked. I cussed out loud to myself, so I didn’t even hear Mama’s response.

      By the time I got downstairs to the kitchen, Mama had her coat on and was about to leave for work. “Annette, you come straight home from school to start gettin’ acquainted with Brother Boatwright.” She smiled, smoothing my hair down.

      I glared at him. “Yes…Ma’am,” I mumbled, hardly moving my lips.

      “And you better mind him,” Mama added.

      “Oh, me and Annette gwine to get along real good in no time,” he said, hands on his hips, smile on his face. He had on a gray-flannel housecoat that touched the floor.

      I didn’t even eat breakfast that morning. I just sat at the kitchen table staring from one wall to the other while he sat in the living room watching TV. I left to go to school without saying a word to him.

      Miss Nipp knew something was wrong the minute I entered the classroom ten minutes ahead of all the other kids. “Annette, are you all right? You look rather down this morning. Is there a problem?”

      I had to take a deep breath before I could speak. “This old man moved in with us yesterday, and I don’t like him,” I admitted.

      “A Mr. Boatwright? Your mother mentioned him to me the other day. And why don’t you like him?” Miss Nipp asked. She put her hand on my shoulder and started rubbing it.

      “Uh…I don’t know,” I admitted. “He’s old, and I think he’s going to be…bossy.”

      Miss Nipp patted my head and laughed. “Don’t be too hasty with your judgments. Your mother is not a fool. She knows what’s best for you. Give Mr. Boatwright a chance,” she advised.

      The first few days living with a man in the same house were rough on me. Miss Nipp came to meet him and liked him, but I resented his presence. Mama made me stop roaming around the house in just my panties, and I couldn’t turn on the TV in the morning until he got up. When he shaved he left nappy gray hair on the bathroom sink and pee all over the toilet seat and floor that he took his time cleaning up. But by the time he got settled in, my feelings started changing. He had brought a smell with him that reminded me of Daddy. A musty, pleasant odor I had only smelled on certain men. Every time he entered the same room I was in, I thought about my daddy, and in some ways it was like I had my daddy back. Mr. Boatwright won me over when he started giving me candy and doing all the housecleaning I should have been doing.

      He hugged me a lot and rubbed me in various places on my body, and it felt good. He had the same sadness in his eyes my daddy and I had. Once, after he had given me my Bible lesson, he leaned over and said, “Gimme some sugar!” I closed my eyes and smiled, expecting him to brush his lips across my cheek or forehead. My eyes flew open when I felt his dry lips on mine.

      “Will you be my daddy, Mr. Boatwright?” I pleaded, licking my burning lips.

      “Girl…I’m gwine to be more than a daddy,” he informed me, kissing me the same way again. He patted my behind, and I laid my head against his lumpy bosom.

      Mr. Boatwright quickly made friends with Mama’s friends in the neighborhood, and he joined our church. Reverend Snipes sometimes let him sing a solo on Sunday. “And now Brother Boatwright is gwine to honor us with one of his favorite hymns,” Reverend Snipes announced proudly. Reverend Snipes was a little, reddish brown man around Mr. Boatwright’s age who reminded me of a sad dog. He had a long, narrow face with droopy eyes, a nose that turned up at the end, and shaggy gray hair that stood up around his head like Methuselah’s.

      During the church services some people fell asleep, and unruly young kids, myself included, had to be restrained frequently. But when Mr. Boatwright sang, nobody could sleep through it. Some of the rowdy kids were so taken aback that they sat ramrod straight from the time he started until he stopped to keep from laughing. Mr. Boatwright would sweat and rock back and forth and from side to side. I stared and listened in horror and disbelief. Mr. Boatwright’s yip yip sounded like somebody was stepping on a cat’s tail. Every time he sang, I turned around every few seconds to look at the door, expecting a dog to start howling and scratching.

      After Mr. Boatwright’s solo, people started shouting and clapping. Weeping sisters ran up to him with wet towels and wiped his face. Then we walked the two blocks back to our house, where he sometimes sang another solo just for me and Mama. Every time he did Mama got so overwhelmed she cried.

      On top of being a respected church member, the man cooked like a veteran chef. He made pies and cakes, which I helped him carry to the church for the bake sales, from scratch. For me he baked tea cakes with smiling faces using chocolate drops for eyes and lips.

      I didn’t know how much his disability check was each month, but he bought a lot of nice things for the house that Mama had never been able to afford. He even bought us a new television and me a brand-new tricycle.

      “Oh, Mr. Boatwright—you just like Santa Claus!” I said, hugging him for buying me the tricycle. “You more than a daddy!”

      “See…I told you I would be.” He tickled my armpit and looked at me long and hard with his mouth hanging open. It was a look that made me so uneasy I suddenly had to pee.

      “You want me to run to the store to get you some more Anacin or a bottle of pop or something, Mr. Boatwright? What you want me to do for you?”

      “Uh…just gimme another hug for now,” he said, almost out of breath. He leaned down and I hugged him around his neck as hard as I could. He slapped my butt, then squeezed it. That’s when I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

      He was fifty-three when the nightmare started. I had just turned seven. One evening in August, while Mama was still at work, he ambushed me in my room. I was shocked at the way he kicked open my door and just stood there in the doorway with his hands on his hips staring at me like I was something good to eat. I was lying across my bed minding my own business with a coloring book and some crayons I had found among a box of goodies donated by a woman Mama worked for. A mountain of candy bar wrappers lay next to me. I had stolen the candy from Mr. Boatwright’s room, and I assumed that was why he had entered my room like a bat out of hell—either to scold me for stealing the candy or to give me the rest of it.

      “Uh…what’s the matter? Did I strap your leg on too tight?” I asked, smiling. He had never told me why his left leg was fake, but I thought it was one of the most fascinating things about him. I overheard him one day tell our preacher something about losing the leg in a world war. “What’s the matter?” I asked again. Even though he was a grown man, I could talk to him like he was my own age. He had taken me trick-or-treating the СКАЧАТЬ