Our usual babysitter, Althea, got sick with some strange virus and hadn’t been able to watch us kids for over a month. So when my Aunt Betty called one night and told Mama she wanted to take her out for a few drinks and a little fun, Mama started calling around the neighborhood until she found us a new babysitter. Her name was Marcie. She was in the eighth grade, and lived a few buildings down the street from us. Mama said she’d pay her fifty cents an hour. It was probably the easiest money anyone ever made. The second Mama left to go meet Aunt Betty, Marcie turned on the TV to an old Life of Riley rerun and sat down on the couch to watch it. Hours later, through the evening news and Danny Thomas and Have Gun Will Travel, all the way into 77 Sunset Strip, she was still sitting there. Once in awhile she’d call, “You kids behaving yourselves?” from the living room, and we’d sing out from wherever we were in the house, yes, of course we were behaving ourselves, and that would seem to satisfy her. Marcie probably figured as long as she could hear us somewhere, anywhere—and we hadn’t cut off an arm or swallowed Drano—then everything was okay. Anything less than a medical emergency would have to wait until after her show was over.
My sisters, Karen and Debbie, spent most of the evening playing in the kitchen. Karen had long ago given up asking me to play with her, by now knowing ahead of time what my answer would be: never in a million years. Karen and Debbie were my sisters, which—for some perfectly logical, though inexplicable reason—meant they were terminally infested with cooties. No one could have paid me enough to play with them. It was a boy thing, I guess. No boy I ever knew would have been caught dead playing with his own sisters.
But Marcie had the news on TV, which didn’t interest me. So I just sat for awhile on the floor near the kitchen doorway, out of Marcie’s sight, and watched Karen and Debbie while they played—a safe distance, I figured, from their aforementioned cooties. Karen was busy telling Debbie she was going to teach her how to cook, which I thought was pretty funny since there wasn’t any food in the house. The refrigerator was empty, except for a couple sticks of margarine and an old bottle of nasty-tasting molasses our father had left behind when he moved out. The cupboards didn’t have much in them, either, just some flour and spices. But Karen was undaunted. She peered into the refrigerator and the cupboards and smiled at Debbie. “We’re going to bake a lasses cake!” she said. Debbie grunted and smiled and pretended she understood. Karen climbed up on the counter and took flour and salt and Crisco from the shelves, but couldn’t quite manage everything in her little hands. She dropped the nearly-full bag of flour, and it hit the floor with a loud smack! A cloud of flour floated up toward the ceiling. We held our breaths and looked toward the front room with our eyes wide, and waited.
“You kids better not be getting into anything in there you’re not supposed to!” came Marcie’s voice.
“We’re not!” Karen called. We listened: nothing but the sound of Danny Thomas on the TV. We breathed again.
Karen hopped down from the counter and got the molasses from the refrigerator. When she saw how little there was, and how much time it would take to get it out of the bottle, she put it back and said to Debbie they were going to make biscuits instead of cake. Then she got a jelly glass from the dirty dishes in the sink and filled it full of water and poured it onto the little mountain of flour on the floor. Debbie laughed without making a sound, as if her voice box had been surgically removed. She clapped her hands and grunted something that sounded like “Good!”
I watched Karen and Debbie making their huge mess until I was sure they’d be busy for awhile. Then I got up and went into the living room. Marcie was staring at the TV, biting the inside of her cheek the same way Mama always did. She didn’t seem to hear me when I walked tiptoe behind her and up the stairs and into Mama’s bedroom.
The smell of Mama’s perfume was everywhere, around her dresser and in her closet, and on her pillow, mixed with other smells that were her. I walked around the room for a minute, just breathing. Then I went to Mama’s dresser and reached up into her jewelry box and took out something smooth and round and heavy. In the dark, I thought it might be an earring. I knew a kid at school named Randy Myers who bought things like this from me. This one felt nice. Randy would probably give me a quarter for it, enough to buy myself a candy bar every day for a week. I stuck it in my pants pocket and got out of there before Marcie or one of my sisters could catch me.
The phone rang just as I got to the bottom of the stairs. I yelled, “I’ll get it!” Marcie didn’t even bother to look, and Mama had long ago warned Karen and Debbie to leave the phone alone. I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
“Billy,” came a whisper I knew right away.
“Daddy?”
“Sshhhhhhh—“ he hissed. “Your mother home?”
“No.”
“No? She go out?”
“Uh-huh. To that Blue Moon place. She said Aunt Betty was going to be there.”
Daddy made a noise into the phone like he was blowing his nose. “The whore sisters,” he snorted. “You got a sitter?”
“Uh-huh. Marcie. She’s thirteen.”
“Where is she?”
“Here in the living room, watching TV. I think Have Gun Will Travel just came on.”
He breathed into the phone some more, that hissing noise he made when he’d been drinking.
“Daddy?” I said.
“What?”
“Are you coming back home?”
“Well, I—uh—“ I heard him swallow, but he didn’t answer. Then he said, “I want you to do something for me.”
“What, Daddy?”
“I want you to put some of your things in a bag. Underwear. Shirts. Some socks.”
“In a bag? A grocery bag?”
“Yeah, a grocery bag, that’s good. And then I want you to take it to your bedroom and wait there.”
“Wait? For you? You’re coming for me?” My heart was beating now.
“Sshhhhhhh!” he said again. “Keep quiet! You can’t say anything, you hear me?”
“Yes,” I said, whispering.
“I won’t be coming, son, I can’t. You understand? They won’t let me.”
“Who won’t let you, Daddy?” I said.
“It—doesn’t matter. I’m gonna send a taxi for you, and I want you to watch for it from your bedroom so your sitter doesn’t get—you know—suspicious. You understand?”
“I think so.”
“I’m gonna tell him to wait for you, not to come to the door. You’ll have to take your bag and climb out your mom’s window and go to the taxi. You can do that, can’t you? I’ve seen you climb out that window before.”
“I think so,” I said again.
“Just get in the cab and tell the driver you’re Billy Campbell. He’ll bring you to me.” I listened to him breathe some more. “I love you, son,” he said.
“I love you too, Daddy,” I said. I could hardly keep from screaming.
He hung up.
I was trying hard to stay calm. I put the receiver back in the cradle and went to the kitchen for the paper bag. Karen and Debbie had white goop all over themselves. There was one huge biscuit in the middle of the floor, and they were patting it with their white hands. I took out a bag from the space between the refrigerator and the wall, where we kept them. Then I walked back to the front room and headed up the stairs. Marcie had moved onto Mama’s chair, humming to a Nestles Quick commercial. She didn’t look at me. It was like she was blind and deaf to anything that wasn’t on the TV. With Marcie, I didn’t have to sneak around.
I went into my bedroom and took all my underpants and tee-shirts from my dresser drawers and put them in the bag, then threw in my only other pair of pants. I folded the top of the bag over a couple of times and set it by the window. Then I got my jacket from the closet and put it on. I turned off the light and went back to my window and waited.
I watched the cars come up the street and drive by. Over and over again, one of them would look like a taxi, and my heart would beat hard, and I’d be just about ready to grab my bag of clothes and beat feet for Mama’s bedroom window. But then I’d see it wasn’t a taxi, and something would fall in my stomach. It fell harder each time this happened. After awhile, I wondered if maybe this wasn’t another time when Daddy said one thing but meant something else, or he forgot, or he’d just got too drunk to keep his promise.
I’d been sitting there for awhile when the hallway lights suddenly came on, followed by the clop of footsteps coming up the wood stairs. I could hear both Karen and Debbie crying. Marcie must have told them it was time to go to bed.
“Boy, your Mama’s gonna spank your butts good when she sees what you’ve done to your kitchen,” I heard Marcie say to them. Karen and Debbie started crying even harder. I heard them go to their bedroom and close the door, and then they really started crying.
Marcie pushed open my bedroom door and turned on the light. I shaded my eyes. She looked at me—dressed, wearing my jacket, sitting by the window—and frowned. “You getting ready to go somewhere?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Marcie nodded. We looked at each other for awhile.
“What’s in the bag?” she said finally.
I looked at the bag, my heart starting to pound. “It’s something— for school,” I said. “Show and tell.” I looked at her. I was sure she could see I was lying.
“Show and tell?” she said, looking interested. “So what have you got?”
“Well—” I racked my brain, but nothing came to me. My heart beat harder. I realized there wasn’t any way out; I had to tell the truth. “Its—my underwear,” I said. “There’s underwear and shirts and pants.”
I looked up at her and waited. Her face was blank for a second as if she didn’t really hear what I had said. When it finally registered, she twisted her face up and rolled her eyes at me like I was crazy. “Oh, gawd,” she said. “I think you’d better just get to bed before your mom comes home and spanks your butt, too.” She turned off the light. “And I bet you she doesn’t want you wearing that jacket to bed, either.” She closed the door and a second later I heard her bouncing down the stairs.
It wasn’t long before everything was quiet, except for the low sound of voices and music coming from the TV through the floor. Karen and Debbie settled down pretty quick, too, and I figured they were in their beds asleep. It wasn’t long before I could feel myself getting tired. My eyes had begun to sting. I got on my bed then and lay down on my back, for some stupid reason believing I’d be more likely to stay awake lying down, and that I’d see the car lights when they shone across my wall. I thought of how many times I’d done this—waited for Daddy—before.
I slept, though for how long I couldn’t guess. I woke up with my heart beating like mad and tears suddenly gathering behind my eyes: I was sure I’d missed the taxi, missed seeing Daddy. But when I jumped up to look out the window I almost screamed out loud. There, parked next to the curb, was a shiny yellow cab, its parking lights on and its motor idling quietly in the night.
I couldn’t move fast enough. I didn’t know how long it had been waiting, and I was scared it would drive away before I could get to it. I couldn’t yell for it to wait; Marcie was sure to hear. I grabbed my bag and tiptoed to my door and opened it quietly. The glow of the TV came blue-gray up the stairway. I moved quickly into Mama’s bedroom, thence to her window. It was already open a crack. I opened it as wide as it would go and threw out my bag of clothes. It fell to the grass outside our living room window with a loud whap! My heart jumped: Marcie had to have heard. I stopped and listened, and heard only the muffled sound of the TV. Nothing seemed to be moving downstairs. Maybe Marcie had fallen asleep, too, I thought. I grabbed the window frame and climbed through, feet first, then turned and let myself down until I was hanging by my hands on the outside. Then I swung over and dropped to the little roof that covered our front porch. From there it was an easy jump to the grass. I could see the TV through the living room window, but not Marcie. I kept low anyway, in front of the bushes, and grabbed my bag and ran as fast as I could over to the driver side of the taxi.
The driver’s skin was so dark I could hardly see his face. But I could see his eyes and teeth. They looked like they were floating by themselves in the dark. He was smoking a cigar: I could see the burning end glowing to a bright orange whenever he took a puff. His eyes looked at me for a second. Then he pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “Yo’ name Billy?” he said. His voice was almost as low as a bullfrog’s, like the fat man’s voice on Amos ‘n Andy.
“Yeah,” I told him, breathing hard. “Billy Campbell.”
“Hell, boy, I jus’ about gave up on you.” He looked at me sternly a couple seconds more, and then poked his thumb over his shoulder toward the back of the cab. “Well, don’t just stand there; get in. Yo’ Daddy’s waitin’.”
The driver had said Daddy’s hotel was in the middle of downtown San Francisco. There were lots of cars on the road, so it was nearly an hour before we got there.
“See that?” said the driver. We were on the highway. He pointed to some bright, lit-up buildings in the distance. His cigar had gone out, but he was still chewing on it.
“See what?” I said.
“That,” he said. “That big buildin’ in the middle there.”
“Yeah?” I said, lying.
“That’s where yo’ Daddy’s stayin’,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
There were buildings with bright lights everywhere around us, and I wondered how the driver could keep them all straight without losing his way. Finally, we turned into a dark alley between two of the tallest. He parked in a small lot behind some other cars.
“You stay close to me,” he said, letting me out. “This ain’t the best part of town for white folks. Even kids.” He led me into the building. The fluorescent lights were bright; they hurt my eyes, and buzzed, like weird-looking beehives. We went up some stairs, and down a hallway, until we stood in front of one of the doors. He knocked on it.
“Who’s there?” came a voice from inside, which I knew instantly as Daddy’s.
“I got yo’ boy here,” said the driver. His deep voice sounded like a bowling ball rolling down the hallway.
The door opened, and there was Daddy’s head, poking out through the opening. He was smiling, but his eyes were red, and they had some crusty stuff in them, the way they usually did when he first got out of bed in the morning.
“Hey, heyyyyy!” he said. “How’s my boy?” He opened the door wider and leaned down close to me. He had just his underwear on, and when he breathed on me, it smelled like he’d been throwing up.
“Hi, Daddy,” I said.
Daddy’s smile faded. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to smile.
The taxi driver coughed something nasty-sounding from his throat. “Uh, that’ll be seventeen-fifty,” he said.
“Oh,” said Daddy, standing. “Yeah. Just a second. Let me find my pants.” He disappeared behind the door.
“I’m double-parked,” the driver called after him.
I heard change rattling inside the room. Then the door opened wide and Daddy handed the driver some folding money. “Keep it,” he said.
The driver counted the money quickly and smiled, then stuffed the wad into his pants pocket. “’Preciate that,” he said. “You folks have yourselves a nice evenin’.” He walked down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.
Daddy looked me up and down. “Well, aren’t you coming in?” he said. “Jesus, you act like it’s only been yesterday since you saw me.”
I walked into the room; Daddy closed the door behind me, and locked it. “You can put your things over on that chair,” he said. He pointed to a green chair that looked like someone had spilled oil all over it. Daddy’s pants were draped over the back. I walked over and put my bag on it, then took off my jacket. Daddy watched me for a minute, leaning against the door, then came over to me and reached down to pick me up. “How ‘bout a nice big bear hug?” he said. “Just like we used to?” He squeezed me tight. But his breath was so bad and his whiskers so scratchy that I couldn’t help pushing away and whining, “Ouch! Daddy, your face!”
“What?” he said. He quit hugging me, and for a second I thought he might be mad at me. “What’s the matter?”
“Your whiskers,” I said, rubbing my cheek. “They hurt.”
Daddy looked at me for a minute, and then put me back down on the floor. He rubbed his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Rough, eh?” he said.
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Well,” he said, “I guess we can wait until I’ve shaved for the hugs.” He sat on the bed that seemed to fill the whole room and looked at me. “I’ve missed you, son,” he said.
“Me too, Daddy,” I said to him.
His face brightened. “Hey!” he said, standing up. “You wanna see something really neat?” He took his pants from the chair and poked around in the pockets, then pulled out the biggest roll of dollar bills I’d ever seen in real life. He sat back down on the bed and peeled off a couple of bills from the roll. “Look at these.” He held them out to me.
“Wow!” I said, pointing. “A hundred dollars!”
He beamed. “Bet you haven’t seen many of these!” he said.
“Wow,” I said again. “Where’d you get all that money? Are you rich?”
He sort of chuckled and put the bills back into the roll, then stuffed it all back into his pants pocket. “No,” he said. “Not quite.”
“But where did you get it?”
He didn’t answer. He went into the bathroom and pulled down the front of his underwear and peed into the toilet. I watched him doing this, watched his gigantic dick gushing pee out in a long, yellow stream. A splashing noise filled the room. Then he flushed the toilet and let go his underpants with a loud snap!
He came back into the room and yawned. He looked at his wristwatch and frowned a little. “It’s late, son,” he said. “We’ve got lots to do tomorrow, find you a school and a place for us to live.” He nodded his head toward the bed. “Let’s get some sleep.”
He lay down on the bed and pulled the covers over himself, and watched while I undressed and got in the bed on the other side. Then he reached over to the bedside stand and turned off the lamp. The sudden darkness was almost frightening, nearly pitch black. “Good night, son,” Daddy said.
“Good night, Daddy.”
“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I know. I love you, too.”
I slept.
“Billy?” I heard Daddy’s voice. He was whispering from far away.
I opened my eyes, but it was too dark to see. “Daddy?”
Daddy was breathing close to me, sounding like a seashell when you hold it up to your ear. He was rubbing his rough hand up and down my legs. “Billy?” he whispered again.
“I hear you, Daddy.”
“Do you love me, son?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I closed my eyes again; I wanted to go back to sleep.
“You know,” he said, “I love you, too?”
“Uh-huh.”
He rubbed some more, then stopped. He left his hand on my leg. “I love you with all my heart,” he said.
“I know, Daddy. I love you, too.” I was trying not to let him hear from my voice that I was too tired to talk right now, that I just wanted to sleep.
He took a deep breath, as if he’d just thought of something really sad. Then, before I knew what was happening and could say something, he grabbed my dick.
My eyes flew open. “Daddy?”
Daddy’s fingers on my dick felt like sandpaper. His breath came at me like a gust of hot, sour wind on the side of my face. I could hear him licking his lips. “I just wish you knew how much I missed you,” he said. Now he was pulling on me, slowly, up and down.
“Daddy?” I said again. “What are you doing?”
Daddy didn’t answer, just breathed heavier in my ear. He pulled faster and faster on my dick. I couldn’t help it: it was getting harder. It felt good, in spite of the roughness, what Daddy was doing.
Daddy let go of me and rolled over onto his back. For a few seconds I thought he was mad at me for daring to question him, was maybe trying to remember where his belt was. An ice-water fear ran suddenly down the back of my neck. Then Daddy started breathing hard, like he couldn’t catch his breath. I felt the bed shaking. I wondered what was going on, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. At last, he stopped whatever he was doing and rolled back toward me, then on top of me, with his butt on my legs—he wasn’t wearing any underwear—and something hot and hard—like his finger, but not—started beating me on my belly, whap! whap! whap!, the way I remembered some kids at school had once given me a pink belly, with their hands. But I soon realized this wasn’t Daddy’s hand, or his finger; it was his dick, and it was growing bigger as it beat on me, whap! whap! whap! It started to hurt. Daddy began making funny noises like he was crying, until, barely a few seconds later, he stopped making any noise at all, as if he’d stopped breathing, all the while beating on me faster and harder. Suddenly, it was different: something wet—something warm—was on my belly, my chest, even on my neck, and I thought for a second Daddy might be peeing on me, until I realized this wasn’t pee, this was sticky. Daddy shuddered, a silent violent shaking, and then sucked in a huge breath as if he’d suddenly been released from being strangled. “Oh, God!,” he yelled, “I love you, I love you!” He fell forward then, cramming my face into his bare chest, still pulling on his dick with one hand, but holding me so tight with the other that I could barely breathe, his whiskers biting into my neck like hundreds of tiny needles until, finally, I was crying, too.