Grace by Natashia Deon Read Free Book Online Page B

is swelling, lips tight, eyelids sealing from swell, cain’t open ’em if I wanted.
    I hear a woman’s voice: “You think that black bitch is better than me? Hell, I’m good enough for the both of yous.”
    â€œThat sho’ looks nice, Cynthia,” one say.
    My blood keeps rising. Everything go black.

    T HIS MORNING, A woman’s humming a peaceful song and dancing nice with a little boy. He’s barely tall as her armpit, standing on her shoes.
    I ain’t never seen hair so red.
    She say, “I love you, Johnny.”

    I MUSTA BEEN sleeping good ’cause she changed my clothes and gave me a new pillow stuffed with mint.
    The boy’s gone.
    A man’s there in the boy’s place, sitting on the corner of the bed with his back turned to me. His red neck looks like not-done meat with white lines creased deep and jagged across it. His grayish hair is lined with a razor’s edge above his neck. I see him in the mirror smiling and when he laugh, his shoulders bounce. When he ain’t laughing, his teeth poke outhis mouth like a egg halfway out a chicken. He covers his mouth with one hand to hide it, lets his buckteeth wet his palm. When he pulls his hand away, he stretches his lips over ’em to cover.
    The woman slouches in her chair, painting her makeup on. Her silk gown clings to her curves. The man was fixing to say something but took a deep breath instead.
    Finally, he gets up and goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, squeezes. “Cynthia, I wanna take you away from here. Give you the good life.”
    Cynthia laughs out loud. “And make a good woman outta me, Nate?” She throws her washrag in the basin. “Take me away from my kingdom?”
    She squats above her chair, smacks the wet rag between her legs, and swishes it around her privates, then stands up and sprays a burst of perfume there, too. She slides her frilly britches over her hips.
    He puts his hands back on her shoulders.
    â€œCome on, Nate. I got a headache and another customer. Just pay me and go.”
    â€œI’m serious,” he say.
    She clears the snot from her throat, hocks it in her rag, and throws it back in the basin, then falls back in her chair and takes a fancy silver box off the table. She pulls out a cigarette. “You still here?”
    He grabs his hat and coat from off the dresser. Hiding under ’em is a bunch of yellow flowers. She smiles. “You gettin soft on me, Nate.”
    â€œI know you like yella,” he say. “I could bring you flowers every day, if you let me. Be the man you want me to be.” He crouches on one knee, holds the flowers out to her. She lets him rub her thigh. He say, “I love you. You know that. I could look after you. You could stop what you’re doing here and just be mine.”
    Her expression softens.
    â€œHell,” he say. “I’d even look after your bastard. Every boy needs a daddy.”
    She stiffens, lights her cigarette, sucks it started, and blows the smoke over his flowers, say, “I’m allergic to little dicks and spare change. So like I said nice before, get the fuck out.”
    His fistful of flowers slam across her chin and her hair spreads across her face. Yellow petals twirl across the room and blood rises from her split lip.
    He say, “I . . . I try to do s-something nice for you. Look what you m-made me do.”
    She don’t look at him.
    â€œJust leave my money on the dresser,” she say, her voice crackling. She picks up a glass of water and drinks. Blood rushes in.
    The door slams when he go. It makes me jump but Cynthia don’t. She keep puffing on her cigarette, then eases down in her chair and lets her legs gap open like a man. The strap of her gown slides off her shoulders, flashing bruises on her back. I ain’t never seen a white woman with bruises like that.
    Between her puffs, she spits out bits of blood from her lip, sprinkling her gown