Free The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove by Susan Gregg Gilmore Page A

forehead on the corner of the glass-topped coffee table. I heard the muffled thud and quickly ran down the stairs to see what had happened. But when I spotted my mother kneeling on the floor, clutching Baby Stella in her hands, I carefully dropped behind the banister. Adelaide came running out of the kitchen. Maizelle was just a few steps behind her.
    Mother immediately began yelling and cursing, spitting out words I had never heard, words I later had to ask Cornelia to define. And as she steadied herself on her feet, with Adelaide’s doll still dangling from her right hand, Mother spied my little sister. Adelaide slid behind Maizelle, but she couldn’t hide. Without much warning at all, Mother stormed toward her, yelling something about it being time she grew up and quit living in her childish, make-believe world. It was time she quit playing with baby dolls and making those damned mud pies. Adelaide pressed her face into Maizelle’s bottom, desperately trying to disappear.
    “The real world is not very nice, little missy, not fucking nice at all. And you might as well learn that right now,” Mother screamed, looking so red-faced and twisted I thought the devil himself had swallowed her whole. Mother pushed Maizelle aside and yanked my little sister by the arm, her fingernails piercing Adelaide’s pale, tender skin.
    Adelaide started crying and shaking uncontrollably, which only seemed to further fuel Mother’s rage, like a match thrown into a bucket of kerosene.
    “Shut up! Do you hear me! Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more of your damn screaming.”
    But Adelaide couldn’t stop. Her heart was broken into too many tiny pieces. And Mother didn’t care. She slapped her across the face and then grabbed her small frail-looking arms and shook her back and forth, back and forth, my sister’s curly-haired head looking like it might snap right off. Maizelle tried to squeeze her body between Mother and Adelaide. But Mother slapped her too, fortunately only sweeping the top of Maizelle’s shoulder. I saw Maizelle’s right hand go up as if she was intending to hit my mother back. Then, just as quickly as she had raised it, her hand fell behind her back.
    “Get your nigger ass out of my house!” Mother screamed. But Maizelle didn’t move. I thought for a minute she really might strike my mother, just punch her square and hard in the mouth. And I hoped for a minute that she would. Then the back door slammed shut. Maizelle relaxed her stance a little bit and took a full step back, carefully pulling Adelaide along with her. Nathaniel walked into the front hall. I guess he was coming for his hat or to tell Maizelle good night. But there he stood, tall and strong, trying to make sense of the confusion that was unfolding right before his eyes.
    He stepped toward my mother, who snatched Adelaide in her arms and charged up the stairs, not even noticing me crouching in the corner of the landing. She threw my sister on her bed and slapped her thigh over and over again. I shook every time I heard the sharp sound of her hand striking Adelaide’s smooth, fair skin. Then she started slamming drawers and doors, one right after the other. It sounded like a tornado was ripping through my sister’s room, and in the midst of it all, Mother just kept shouting at Adelaide, demanding she take one good, last look at her baby dolls as she stuffed yet another one into her arms. Adelaide would never see them again, Mother promised. Never. Then she stomped out of the room, with her arms full of plastic arms and heads and legs, not even bothering to look back at the little girl left crumpled on the bed.
    As soon as Mother slammed the door to her own room, directly across the hall, Nathaniel ordered Maizelle to run and check on Adelaide. She turned and grabbed onto the handrail, pulling herself up the stairs with such strength that I thought she might knock me down. I could feel her feet almost on top of mine and her breath, heavy and