BLUE MOURNING
By Angela Carlton
 

Mama’s feet are swollen and blue. She’s been roaming the neighborhood again wearing that nightgown with the cigarette holes on the sleeves. I don’t get school today. She wants to shop the A&P.

There’s a button missing on her gown. Mama forgot to put on her under garment, and you can see that milky roundness peeking out from her chest. She’s in a phone booth now pressing numbers over and over. Eight, nine and a five. The man at gas pump is giving her looks that make my insides turn. His uniform’s nasty like his hair. Yellow teeth, scruffy face and dark eyes. You can tell he does not have one good bone in his body. And when he turns my way, I will give him my own special look that says, Beware of the child.  Will sink teeth into flesh if you come near us!

Mama cannot find coins for the phone. She is searching my pockets for silver. She finds two days worth of lunch money in my jacket while the gas man watches her move. He’s sucking his teeth and flexing his dark muscles in the sun. Oh, he might be tough, I thought, but Mama can scream. He does not want my Mama to scream.

Look out, the money is in her hands, and the voices have told her to spend it! The sounds are clogging up her head. She keeps hitting the side of her temple as if the noises might shake loose out of her ear. Mama is grunting and groaning and laughing at her mixed-up self. Her tangled hair is hanging down in her eyes, but it doesn’t seem to phase her. She’s counting up our dollars in a rush. I cannot tell her that it’s for lunches not to spend it. I cannot tell her to put it back up where she found it and get us on the right road home. I cannot tell her a thing, because Mama’s miles away from her true self lost somewhere inside that tangled mind. Her magic pills are down the toilet. They do not work that way, but I decide to play the make-believe game and fool myself into thinking it will all be fine.

People at the A&P are watching her out of the corner of their eye. They pretend to read the cleaning labels as she empties the shelves into her buggy: five bottles of dish liquid, nine boxes of laundry detergent, one case of bath soap and bleach. They do not notice her filthy feet because they cannot tear themselves away from the show. No Mama, please, we need that money for food not soap, I want to scream, but she has already scurried away leaving me with an empty stomach that twists and roars like the voices inside her head.

The delicious smell of honey buns, cupcakes and cookies float up under my nose. I am beyond hungry. Mama does not care if we eat. She’s too busy with the soap, but I’ve got my eye on the sugar rack: coconut, peanuts and chocolate in shiny wrappers before my eyes. I can almost taste the sweetness in my mouth. If I could only have a small bite, a little one, I would try to make it last. I could trick myself into thinking my belly’s full. Go ahead take the silver one with the bright blue letters. That’s it, put it in your pocket while they all study Mama with pity. 

Chocolate does not stick with you like eggs or grits with melted butter, but it will slide down the throat and make your taste buds dance. While Mama causes a fuss at the register, I stuff the goodies in my mouth and swallow them fast so they can work on that hollow place inside. Mama slaps the cash on the counter and pushes it toward a chubby man who probably always gets the big egg breakfast. I watch him study her blood shot eyes and shaky hands. The ladies behind me are whispering “Look at that nasty nightgown and Lord, she looks strange in the eyes,” but I try not to listen. As I swallow the last bite of caramel, I think this might be the best time to grab another goodie and run, but Mama has already got me by the sleeve. She’s throwing bags in the buggy, gritting her teeth and pushing me out the door so hard that nobody even notices the silver wrapper when it falls on the floor.

When the people in the other cars see her, their mouths will hang open and they will point and pass judgement and glare. They will not stop to help the child in the car, but they will sit for a good while like they are waiting on the popcorn. They will shake their heads and cover their mouths and when they feel that they’ve had enough, they will drive on, because they need a happy ending. They will not get one here.

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ANGELA CARLTON grew up in Roswell, Georgia and was educated at Auburn University and Kennesaw State University. After college she began working on a novel and a series of short stories. Her writing has appeared in Coastlines and Inverse News. She lives in South Florida with her husband and daughter.