Freddie Owens - Then Like the Blind Man - Orbie's Story

Momma closed the Bible. “Prove what? That they’s a God? Victor honey, I never heard tell of such a thing. Prove it yourself. All you need do is look around.”

“I do look around, and do you know what I see? I see a lot of pious do-gooders like yourself. Like that Negro preacher at work. I see them sticking their noses in where they don’t belong.”

“But Victor honey that ain’t…”

“I’m not finished yet,” Victor said, holding his hand up like a cop. “These people, they act so good, so pious, so ‘above it all’. But when push comes to shove they’re just hypocrites. Like yourself.” He waited for that to sink in. Then he worked the button on the pen. Click-click , it went. “If Jesus loves negroes, Momma, why don’t you?”

Again the air went out of Momma’s chest. Me, the empty beer bottles, Victor’s pen, even the Battle of the Alamo — all seemed to be waiting for Momma to speak. “Can I talk now, Mr. Two-Years-of-College?” she finally said.

Victor raised his arm from the elbow up, fingers curled around the pen, thumb on the clicker. He watched Momma like that, smirking, like he knew everything there was to know and Momma would be a fool to doubt him.

“They’s different people, Victor,” Momma said. “Just because I don’t mix with every kind don’t mean I’m not trying. At least I’m trying to be like He was. The Lord’s ways are mysterious.”

“Who says?”

“Why, it says so in the Bible!”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that Momma,” Victor said.

“No I won’t. I won’t have to do no better.” Momma put her hand on the Bible. “It’s God’s Word we’re talking about here.”

Victor wore silver pants and a white short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned at the top. There were a few spots of beer on the belly. “The Bible is just a fairy tale Momma. Just a made up story you would have to be a fool to believe.”

“It’s God’s word!” Momma said.

“Prove it to me Momma. Prove to me there’s a God.”

Be quiet Momma. Don’t make Victor mad. Don’t make The Dark Thing come.

It was nighttime outside. A picture window rose up in back of Victor framed with dark red curtains. A roar swelled from the television set. Mexican soldiers were swarming up the wall of the Alamo. Davy Crockett knocked one off with the butt end of his rifle.

“I don’t have to prove you nothing,” Momma said. “What did they teach you in that college? That they’s no God? Well, there is one. And His word is right here.” She thumped the Bible with the palm of her hand.

Click-click , went Victor’s pen. “Prove it to me Momma.”

“Quit calling me that!” Momma said. “I ain’t your Momma, and I don’t have to prove you a damned thing!”

“Better watch those cuss words Momma. What will the Lord think?”

The Dark Thing was getting big now, getting heavy, mixed in with all that chicken grease from dinner — chicken grease and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

Momma slammed the Bible onto the coffee table, yelling now. “I said don’t call me Momma! Your Momma’s dead! Wasn’t nothing but a drunk let her own kid go hungry! If it hadn’t been for your Daddy you’d have been out on the street!”

“That’s not the point!”

“It is too the point! You ain’t had no raising is the point!”

Victor took off his glasses and tossed them on the Bible. A thousand Mexicans charged the Alamo.

“Your Daddy sent you to that college didn’t learn you a thing! Bunch of fifty dollar words nobody understands!”

Victor hauled off suddenly, throwing his pen across the room. It sailed all the way past the TV set and into the dining room, smacked against the wall there and broke apart, landing on the dining room table. “You Bible-Thumping-Bitch!”

Okay Momma stop it now! Can’t you see?

But Momma couldn’t see. Couldn’t see that pen. Couldn’t see the greasy red mole next to Victor’s nose, how shiny it had become. Couldn’t see the worms. “Your Daddy had you working in that store of his for nothing! Wouldn’t even let you out to play!”

Victor slapped the arm of the sofa chair. “Son of a bitch, Ruby!”

“Son of a bitch, yourself!” Momma yelled. “You ain’t no child! I ain’t your Momma neither!”

I held my breath. More cannon fire exploded from the Alamo. I could see the moon — a pale thumbnail rising in the glass of the picture window behind Victor’s head — floating peacefully as if, quietly tilting over the watery half-reflection of the television set. Suddenly there was a humungous loud crack and the coffee table’s glass top, Momma’s Bible, Victor’s horn rims and all the beer bottles dove straight toward the floor.

“Bastard!” Momma yelled. “You goddamn bastard!”

I jumped up.

Victor’s hand was bleeding. I could see the heart tattoo, wrapped around with the snake’s tan-colored body, ‘Born To Lose’ written there in green letters. Victor looked at the hand. Then he looked at Momma. Then he cocked the hand back in a tight knuckled fist and rabbit-punched her square in the face. The sound of it was awful, like a mallet on wet meat. Brown curls of hair fell across Momma’s forehead. Victor came back around with his open hand and slapped her across the back of the head. A plate of false teeth popped out bloody on the couch. Victor grabbed Momma’s hair and bent her head back, his eyes all over the front of her. “You want Jesus! I’ll give you some Jesus!”

Momma’s mouth had dropped open. She cried out, trying to flail at Victor with both fists.

“You leave my Momma alone!” I shouted. I ran between them, pushing backwards, trying to make Momma far away. Momma wrapped an arm around me, holding her other hand over the place Victor had punched. Victor stood over us, his fist raised, trembling to come down.

“Get out of the way, you little shit!”

“No Obie!” Momma hugged me to her. “Ooo tay!” She was trying to talk without her teeth. “He ma boy!”

“You leave my Momma alone! I’ll kill you, you hit her again!”

Momma grabbed up her teeth and pushed them back in with her thumb. Hugging me, dragging me along with her, she slid to the end of the couch.

Victor took a step toward us, his fist still raised.

“Victor, please! Please don’t!”

Victor stood there, looking down at us, frowning, the red mole shining. It was like he didn’t know what else to do. He unclenched his fist. Blood made red cracks over his fingers, over his fingernails. The snake on the tattoo looked at me sideways and slid away.

Victor’s eyes began to well up, his chin to quiver. Crocodile tears began to bulge and stream down his cheeks, one then another, over the red mole and around the twitching corners of his mouth. That’s what he did when he got drunk, when he was mad, when he wanted to hurt me, hurt Momma, hurt Missy, hurt the walls, the tables and chairs, anything he could get his hands on, crying like he was so sorry, like he was somebody you had to feel sorry for. His hand dropped to his side.

“I’m so sorry, Ruby,” he said.

“It’s too late for sorry.”

Victor reached out with his bloody hand, but Momma pulled back. “I just want to look at that eye.”

“Stay away from me!” Momma’s voice was trembling now.

“You’re right, Ruby. My mother was a drunk, a drunk and a whore.” Victor’s throat swelled with a sob he tried to gulp down. He looked at the television set — at the ruin of glass, the King James version of the Bible, its gilded pages crushed against the floor, at the beer bottles pointing in every direction. Then he heaved up a sigh and let loose with a kick, the shiny brown toe of his shoe catching the empty frame of the coffee table, smashing it, flipping it up and over and upside down in front of the television set. He stood over the mess of everything, looking at nothing, his face crazy with tears.