Strangers at the Feast by Jennifer Vanderbes Read Free Book Online Page B

them to live. When he came home from his job at the mall a few nights later and saw her bruised lip, he blamed himself.
    Kijo glanced at his watch, tapped the side of the van nervously.
    Spider said, “Chill, man, we gonna do this. Your ace is on the case.”
    They’d been friends since they were five. When Spider’s father went to the fed pen. They didn’t talk about Spider’s father leaving, just as now they didn’t talk about Uncle Clarence dying from cancer, or about Grandma Rose getting beaten up. They talked about what was ahead of them. Kijo didn’t talk much anyway. For most of his childhood he’d suffered a stutter; when he wanted to speak, his tongue got sticky and his lips tightened. He envied the way words gushed from Puerto Rican kids, like water from hydrants in July. He watched horse races on television because he liked the keyed-up voices of the announcers. But words snagged in Kijo’s mouth like a sweater on a nail; they came out long and crooked.
    Grandma Rose wrote words on thick rubber bands and stretched them in front of him, reminding him to slow down: BECAUSE, MONDAY, FORGIVE . B ’s and m ’s and f ’s were the toughest. Before supper, she always made him say “The big fat cat sat on the rat.” At night, Kijo lay in bed in the dark, reciting:
Fresh fried fish,
Fish fresh fried,
Fried fish fresh,
Fish fried fresh.
    He practiced so much that sometimes, without realizing it, he’d walk down the street doing his exercises. Kids would shout, “Hey, bigblack bastard babbling!” “Whassup, noisy nigger nagging nonsense?” “Good morning, kuh kuh kuh kuh Kijo.”
    The older boys once told him that if he stuck his tongue to a frozen fence post he’d be cured. Kijo could still recall the taste of blood and metal as he tried to peel his tongue loose, how little Spider Walcott had waited until the boys were gone and poured orange soda over Kijo’s mouth until his tongue melted free.
    Even at age five, Spider, fast and fidgety, had a mysterious patience for Kijo’s stutter. He’d sit with his hands on his knees and watch Kijo’s slow lips, examining the jagged syllables Kijo spat out like a child digging for spearheads.
    “This is like some nature reserve,” said Spider as they drove north of downtown.
    Kijo had never seen this part of Stamford but knew folks called it the primeval forest. The roads were kinked; thick trees blocked the sun. Waist-high stone walls lined the road. There were no sidewalks.
    Kijo studied the map in his lap. “Take the next right,” he said slowly. His stutter was long gone, but years of training had made him careful to pronounce each syllable. His voice was deep, so deep it surprised people. Grandma Rose said he sounded like Paul Robeson, or James Earl Jones. After a few beers, Spider always begged him to do Darth Vader. Kijo would then breath slow through his nose and say, “I am your father, Luke.”
    In the van’s side mirror Kijo studied his face: his lips had thickened, his nose was two thumbs wide, like the Jamaicans’, except he wasn’t Jamaican, as far as he knew. He didn’t know if he was handsome; he was too shy to try his way with girls. Even the girl who worked the Pretzel King counter at the mall, who slipped mustard packets into her purse each night and smiled at him as he lobbed trash bags into his metal cart.
    “Nice aim, bag boy,” she’d say.
    He liked the girl, but didn’t like that she called him “boy.” Kijo had a boy’s face on a man’s body. His shoulders were broad and he wastall, taller than any kid he knew. In the past year he’d felt manhood dawn on him: things were opening, pushing, weighing inside him. He understood it was his job to take care of problems.
    “Vidal Court,” Kijo said. “It’s no place for Grandma Rose.”
    “At least she ain’t in a group home.”
    When Uncle Clarence died, the state sent Spider to a group residence across town. After a lifetime of seeing each other every day, Kijo hadn’t