Free Strange Music by Laura Fish Page A

bedchamber’s dark air, seeping up like a yearning can. Haven’t seen Rebecca Laslie for years. Waiting on Mister Sam, I long for she. Long to know if she dead or alive. How a mama can sever a daughter from she?
    Something like Mama’s face – if that’s what she is – stares back from old stone rainwater jar when I go to fill Mister Sam’s jug: my hair curls tied up in a ragged red scarf and, sharp as moon-shadows black on water, deep pits like Pa carved under Mama Laslie’s eyes for crying and half drinking sheself to death. Rebecca Laslie lives. I swear she’s not dead.
    I have to take jug’s weight, raise rim to Mister Sam’s lips. Mister Sam tastes cool water, head jerking up down, up down, with each tiny sip. Eyes uplifting to mine, weakly he slides into pillows again.
    Sounds I hardly know trickle into my ear, pulling my head round. Sounds like Mary Ann laughing, but how laughter can be mournful? Empty? Scared? Hall clock strikes eight, calling me for Doctor Demar’s table laying. Why hall clock chimes so lonely sad?
    Dancing, Mary Ann comes first into great-house dining-room. Stripes purple as lips still stand up vivid on she face. Worming a path from forehead to chin are bold lines of skin Charles’ whip raised. But blue bruises faded long time past.
    Cutlery in my hand, I pause from table laying. May, Jo, Friday, follow Mary Ann. Friday wears a nice green shirt, first time I seen him dress bright and crisp. But I feel badness in all this busha-house party mood.
    â€˜Pa treat Friday to it,’ Mary Ann’s singing, throwing she head round.
    â€˜Why yu tek so lang lang coming?’ I ask Mary Ann. ‘Yu tink me work fe yu?’
    â€˜It Friday’s birthday,’ she replies.
    â€˜Mary Ann, Mister Sam say don’t ansa back,’ May says mockingly.
    Pa’s cracked feet pad like leather on yacca floor. Same Pa. Same mama. Sibyl and me both sister sameway. Why sameway Pa don’t treat we? Shame! Me cyaan change me red skin colour. Cyaan kill it .
    Mary Ann’s face aglow with wickedness. A thin brown hand stretches out, making for cutlery by Doctor Demar’s plate. She all curiosity, Mary Ann. I wonder if she aware of Doctor Demar’s gaze. But sparkling silver’s within she reach. She dares to touch one fork, pretty plate.
    Looking like Pa’s about to attack, jaw hard-grinding roast coffee beans, him eyes sad, mean; Pa’s lean shoulders set angrily. Lizards scuttle into hiding.
    I cuss pickney, ‘No, outta de weh.’ Running around all with eyes of different colours – Friday’s green, Jo’s blue-brown, May’s grey – pickney scatter onto dark verandah, bare backs half-black as my own daughter’s.
    Brooding, sucking him teeth, Pa gazes at Mary Ann. She head bobs beneath table-top, eyes peering up.
    â€˜Mary Ann, clear de hall table wen Doctor Demar rum finish,’ I’m saying to she.
    Pa, deciding something, teases dirt from under fingernails, flicks it towards sea. What’s past’s more real to him than what’s present. Pa’s arm skates Mary Ann. ‘Cho! Cease an sekkle,’ he yelling.
    Ducking, Mary Ann squeals, ‘Me aint done noting!’
    Striding onto verandah Pa’s foot scuffs a centipede, leaving a scaly smudge, oozing slightly.
    Centipede’s skewered on a splinter, scaly patterns delicate like lace. Mary Ann, in a trance, cages it between toes, hurting it for pleasure.
    Turning, Pa says, ‘De saltin fish yu mek dis mornin have a bad flavour.’ He cut him eye at me. ‘Wot mek yu not tek back yu baby fadda, Charles, huh?’
    â€˜Me bring Mary Ann into dis place,’ I say. ‘Me tek care of she.’
    Mary Ann’s mashing a withered claw between verandah planks, a twisting body. I know of all Pa’s ways to bring Mary Ann pain.
    â€˜Git out, Mary Ann,’ I shout. ‘Git to kitchen block, do yu chores.