Free Gone With a Handsomer Man by Michael Lee West Page B

bathroom, washing blood off her face. Then she raked through the medicine cabinet and grabbed a plastic bottle.
    “What you fixing to do, Mama?” I asked.
    “Teach him a lesson. Come on, help me pinch open these capsules.” She lifted me onto the counter. I watched her put the medicine in a tall glass. She added a little sugar and salt, then opened an ice cold Budweiser. Donnie stepped into the kitchen and she handed him the glass.
    “That’s more like it,” he said and took a swig. Mama walked to the bedroom and started filing her nails. Her right eye was almost swollen shut. Donnie stumbled into the room and flopped spread-eagle onto the bed.
    “Man, I’m dizzy,” he said.
    “Take you a little rest,” Mama said.
    He shut his eyes and got real still. Then he began to snore. Mama ripped off the edges of the bottom sheet. “Teeny?” she whispered, “Fetch me the stapler, duct tape, and a Coke.”
    When I returned, she’d already folded the bottom sheet around Donnie. She grabbed the stapler and went to work. I squatted beside the bed, twitching each time the gun snapped. She fastened the edges of the sheet until Donnie resembled a mummy. He didn’t wake up until she wrapped tape around his ankles. “Ruby?” he croaked.
    She ignored him and kept wrapping him in tape. Once she started a project, she didn’t like to stop. Donnie’s arms twitched, but they were fastened tight. He watched her with a puzzled expression and tried to raise up. She pushed him down. Then she reached for the Coke bottle and took a dainty sip.
    “What you looking at?” she asked him.
    “Goddamn you, Ruby. Undo me. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”
    While he talked, she poured the cola into his mouth. It spilled down his face, onto the mattress. A gargling sound rose up. He spit, and Coke spewed into Mama’s face. She turned the bottle upside down and shook out the last few drops. Then she grasped the bottle by its neck and beat the hell out of him. He screamed, his hips bucking up and down.
    “Hurts, don’t it?” Mama cracked the bottle on his nose. “Teach you to hit me again.”
    He screeched. I felt bad for him, but he had it coming. I opened my mouth, trying to move air in and out of my lungs. Each breath sounded like an iron door with a rusty hinge.
    “Teeny, we don’t have time for an asthma attack,” she said. “Pack your things.”
    My medicines were lined up in the kitchen window. I put them in a sack with a few clothes. We ran out to his station wagon. The engine backfired, then it caught. Mama turned onto the highway. I tried not to wheeze. Catching my breath was like climbing a mountain and getting slapped down by the wind. Every now and then, I’d reach the top, only to see another hill.
    I hollered when she sped by Aunt Bluette’s farm. “Teeny, we can’t live in this town anymore.” She sucked the back of her hand. “Donnie’ll hunt me down. He’ll kill me and you both. I’m sorry, baby, but you’re only eight years old. I can’t let you die. And we can’t go home.”
    I wiped my eyes. Home wasn’t Donnie’s triple-wide. It was my pink bedroom at the farm. It was Aunt Bluette’s hand on my cheek. Home was the place where all my scattered pieces came to rest.
    Mama pushed her foot against the accelerator, and we flew into the night, farther and farther from Donnie and Aunt Bluette.
    *   *   *
    Miss Dora and her man servant, Estaurado, showed up before lunch. He resembled a Spanish version of the Blues Brothers—sunglasses, hat, and a black polyester suit. He was tall and emaciated, with a pointy beard, and cast a spiky shadow along the floor.
    Miss Dora bustled around in a pink bouclé suit, her pocketbook swinging back and forth. Her hands and face were a violent shade of red. “Have you been in the sun?” I asked.
    “I’m a sight!” Her hand flew to her face. “You would not believe what I’ve been through. I stopped for lunch at Chez Cassie. I’m highly allergic to sucralose.