Elizabeth Massie - Naked, on the Edge

Jimbo grabbed her arm, gave it a painful tweak then let go. The two moved down the hail and climbed the steps to the main floor, leaving the dark solitary cells behind.

Tonya thought, I’m an angel.

“Bitch,” muttered Jimbo.

I’m good, she thought. I don’t deserve Jimbo’s shit.

Jimbo pushed Tonya through the door at the top of the steps and locked it. The keys jingled haughtily. “Put the damn hat back on,” he said. “Pull it low like before, you whore.”

She did.

As they walked through the corridors, Jimbo dragging her, pissed off more than she’d ever seen him, Tonya watched for the best moment to shout and yell that she was being kidnapped. Wouldn’t old Jimbo be shocked at that, and wouldn’t his smart mouth be silenced when Captain Harner came to help her, an innocent female in the hands of an ego-crazed guard? Wouldn’t Jimbo be surprised to find himself handcuffed and taken away? Maybe to have a digit whacked off by the trash-hater? Maybe to have a little time down in a solitary cell himself?

Wouldn’t the pussy-licking ACLU look pretty good to him by then?

Marcus found the spoon and a corner. He slid down, wedged himself deep into it, and said his prayers. Then he dragged the sharp spoon handle across both wrists and waited as the blood and warmth and life drained away, the weight of himself flowing away and lightening him for the flight to heaven.

The mockingbird was singing, and it was morning. The bird was alone, but close by in a shrub, and its song was forceful and clear. From somewhere beyond the roof of the tool-shed, the baleful medley crossed the yard. It drifted in the stifling summer air and entered the tiny attic window where the flies and the gnats and the smoke came in.

Anna knew the song belonged to a mockingbird. Very long ago, her mother had told her of a bird that knew how to sing many different tunes. A bird that could change its melody in a heartbeat. This was a survival skill for the bird, and it flourished. Anna remembered her mother’s story clearly, although she could no longer remember her mother’s face.

As the bird sang to the sun, Anna and all Greta’s other friends sat in the sooty dust in a circle on the attic floor. They wore dirty, sleeveless summer tops and matching short pants, but they sweated just the same. Greta’s mother had sewn the clothes for the friends, a large set for Joseph, who was fifteen and the tallest, a small set for Margarette, who was nine, and sizes in between for the others. Anna was twelve, William ten, and Susanne eleven. No one in the circle spoke because they didn’t have permission to speak.

It was time for class.

Greta sat on a short-legged chair. She had her fingers linked about her knees, causing the hem of her pretty pink dress to hike up around her ankles, revealing pink embroidered socks. Her blond hair was curled about her chin. She smiled at her friends as she looked them over. She had an elegant smile. No living soul, regardless of race or class, could have seen that smile and not said it was elegant. The dimples on the smooth cheeks, the gentle parting of lips over perfect teeth. Greta gave the smile to the friends frequently, and it made their blood run cold.

“Good morning, children,” Greta said.

“In unison, the friends said, “Good morning.

Greta tilted her head and licked her upper lip with a slow motion of her tongue. Anna thought Greta must have had a teacher once who had used that very gesture. Greta was enamored of the adults in her life—her relatives, her parents’ acquaintances. Sometimes she talked to the friends at great length about the adults she knew: her father’s coworkers, her mother’s dressmaker, her grandmother and her uncle Geoff. Greta’s eyes danced, and her hands were dramatic understudies to her lively voice. When Greta talked this way, Anna would nod as if she were listening while throwing all her concentration to the sounds of the birds outside the window. She knew the other friends did what they could so they would not have to listen either. To hear of family, to think of family was to open wounds that would never heal.

“Joseph,” Greta said.

Anna felt her own body draw up in unison with Joseph’s.

“I see that your hair’s grown long. How could you come to class like that? You look such the ruffian, like a boy from the ghetto.”

Greta smiled a horrible and elegant smile.

Joseph, tall for fifteen and as lean as a willow branch, turned his good eye toward Greta and shrugged.

“What is that? What is that shrug?”

Joseph, now having permission to speak, mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“Hmmmm,” said Greta. Like Anna, she was twelve, but she already had gained the matter-of-fact conversational style of her father, Erik Bnimmer, the adult she admired the most. “How can we conduct class with a ruffian here on the floor? We should cut it, then, shouldn’t we?”

Joseph said, “Yes. We should.”

There was, of course, no other possible answer.

“Good,” said Greta, and she smiled her smile at them all.

She went to the small chest near the open window and lifted the top. From inside she brought her sewing set and from the set, a small pair of scissors. She stood and turned to face the friends in their circle on the floor. She smiled.

“I should like to be a beautician someday, like my Auntie Kate. She is a wonderful woman. She plays the piano as well as she can fix hair and polish fingernails.”

Little Margarette raised her hand.

“What do you want, little one?” asked Greta.

“Would you need help for the cutting? I could catch the curls.” Margarette sat still. Her tiny smile was not as elegant as Greta’s, but it was a true smile. Margarette was the treasure in the attic; she was the friend of the friends, and Anna knew if she would ever allow herself to use the word love, it would be for Margarette.

Greta, who because of Margarette’s youth was usually more patient with the girl, said, “No, you stay in the circle and see how it’s done. See the scissors, how sharp they are? Dull ones tear the hair. And see how they are short? Long scissors can snag and make a mess.

All the friends were silent. They had learned the importance of paying attention.

“Tip your head my way,” said Greta. She sat back down on her stool, and Joseph slid around on his bottom until his back was almost touching Greta’s knees. He stared straight ahead, and the other friends averted their eyes from his. It was best not to look and see the fear that had flared there. Joseph would have to handle the haircut as best he could. Whatever the haircut would entail.

“Head back,” said Greta.

Joseph put his head back. Anna could see, from the corner of her vision as she looked at the barren bookshelf beyond the soft tousle of Joseph’s hair, the thin fifteen-year-old put his head back. She could see his blind white eye, but not the good one. She was glad because the blind eye was dead to emotion. Emotion was a dangerous commodity.

Greta slid the scissors’ tips into the mass of black curls. They came together. A curl dropped to Greta’s lap, and she brushed it off with the brusque movement of someone slapping a fly away. In a matter of minutes the haircut was done. Anna let herself look at Joseph then. The haircut was poor, but no other harm had been done.

“Now, isn’t that much better?” Greta said. No one moved except for Margarette, who nodded slightly.

“Isn’t that much better?” Greta’s voice held a sudden, sharp edge.

Everyone on the floor nodded vigorously and said, “Oh, yes.”

“Good, then,” said Greta. “And I hope you watched carefully and listened to the lesson because I will ask someone to cut hair very soon, and it best be done the right way.”