Free Graceland by Chris Abani Page B

that eclipsed the sun every time they walked by, suffering as they singed, pulled, tied and yanked. Shaved hair from armpits and legs fell in among giggled methods of birth control, the most popular being to drink a bottle of bitter lemon after sex.
    “Kills de sperm,” Aunt Felicia said.
    Elvis longed to try on their makeup and have his hair plaited. Aunt Felicia finally gave into his badgering and wove his hair into lovely cornrows. One of the other girls put lipstick on him. Giggling, and getting into the game, another pulled a minidress over his head. On Elvis, it fell nearly to the floor, like an evening gown. He stepped into a pair of Aunt Felicia’s too-big platforms and pranced about, happy, proud, chest stuck out.
    Looking up, he saw his father, Sunday, coming up the path. Aunt Felicia and Oye took in Sunday’s approaching figure with alarmed gasps and then looked back at Elvis’s cornrowed hair, painted face and dress, but it was too late. Elvis had kicked off the platforms and was halfway down the steps running to meet Sunday. He thought that somehow his father would like him better with the new hairdo. Sunday had not been the same since Beatrice died and he’d lost all interest in his son, except to reprimand or punish him. Sunday stopped and squinted as Elvis approached, face changing in slow degrees from amusement to shock and finally to rage.
    Elvis ran straight into the first blow, which nearly took his head clean off. As he fell, his father grabbed him with one hand, steadying him, while with the other he beat him around the head, face, buttocks, everywhere. Too shocked to react, still out of breath from his sprint, Elvis gulped for air as his father choked him. Suddenly, Oye towered beside them. Sunday glanced at the steel of her eyes and dropped Elvis like a rag. She caught him, enfolding him into her as he sobbed himself into unconsciousness.
    When he came to, he was cocooned in Oye’s soothing and healing smell. His lip was cut and he couldn’t see out of one eye, but he could hear his father ranting in the backyard, giving Aunt Felicia a rough time.
    “No son of mine is going to grow up as a homosexual! Do you hear me?!” he shouted at her.
    Elvis could not hear her mumbled response.
    “When you have your own children, you can do what you like. But Elvis is my son. Son, not daughter …”
    Aunt Felicia’s voice cut him off.
    “Don’t interrupt me when I am speaking—otherwise I will beat de living daylights out of you!” he screamed.
    “Sunday!” Oye called.
    There was silence from the backyard as Sunday stamped out front.
    “Stay out of my life, witch!” he shouted at her.
    In one hand, flush with his thigh, was an open razor, its metal honed to a cruel edge. Oye took in the razor with a glance and, putting Elvis down slowly, rose to her feet. Never taking her eyes from Sunday’s, she reached out and pincered her fingers into a vise around his scrotum. He screamed in pain and dropped the razor.
    “Don’t you ever threaten me, laddie,” she said quietly.
    “I was not threatening you,” he whispered through tears. “I only want to shave de boy’s head.”
    “Fine. But if ye hurt him again …” She smiled sweetly, letting go of him.
    He sighed into the floor and squatted there panting.
    “Put on your slippers,” he said to Elvis between gasps.
    Elvis stepped into the plastic-and-foam flip-flops. He stood, waiting for his father to tell him what to do next, his breathing fast. Picking up the razor that he had dropped, Sunday stood and led Elvis by the hand out to the back. As they left, Elvis looked pleadingly at Oye. She smiled reassuringly at him and looked away. The echo of his flip-flops slapping the cement floor filled her mind.
    When they got out back, Sunday pulled up a small stool for Elvis. “Sit dere,” he said gruffly.
    Elvis sat. His father walked across the yard to the kitchen in the corner and lifted the large kettle of water that was always smoldering over