Gangrene

It was an ordinary day at a large manor house in New Orleans, yet, on this day, the path of one small boy would change irrevocably. Though the small boy chatting with his mother wouldn’t remember this conversation for many years to come, this talk would influence many of his decisions, until the time of his death. Later in his life, when the boy is married with children, he will repeat this conversation to his children, and his children will repeat a similar conversation to their children, and so on, until the end of the days of man.

“Mwen amou,” said the mother with great affection, placing the small boy on her lap. When she kissed him on the cheek the boy giggled childishly at the feel of his mother’s lips.

The mother chuckled softly, then, in a swift move that her small son didn’t anticipate, or perhaps he did, she held his arms down as she began to fervently kiss his face, ignoring the loud shrieks once again coming from her son. “Ah, mwen pitit gason, but I do love you. You are mwen amou, you are my love.”

After the boy’s shrieks became small puffs of air he is finally able to speak again. “Ah, maman, I’m not your amou, pè is!”

The mother smiled, then gave her son another kiss. “Pè is my love, and so are you. Now, enough of this, who put these silly little thoughts in your head?”

“Grann. She told me that only people nan amou can kiss each other. Maman, does that mean that we are in love?”

The woman couldn’t help but smile at her son’s innocent question. “Ah, pitit gason, we are not in love, though you are mwen amou.”

The boy scrunched up his face as if trying to understand his mother. After a few seconds he gave her a large smile than kissed her cheek. “You are mwen amou, and one day I will have someone pretty like you to be nan amou with.”

“Pretty. Mwen amou will be bèl!” the boy said, clapping his hands in delight.

At hearing this the mother frowned slightly, then took her son’s chin in one hand so that his green eyes met hers. “She will be kind, loving, intelligent. Beauty that shines from the inside, from andedan. From here,” the mother said, touching her son lightly on the chest, above his heart. After a few soft taps the mother raised her hand to touch the side of her son’s forehead, tapping lightly. “This, the heart, the brain. Love comes from andedan. If you do not love what is within, your amou will never be bèl.”

The boy hugged his mother tightly. There were tears in his eyes though he didn’t know why; only that something in his mother’s voice was powerful enough to have moved him. The boy didn’t understand why the tears fell down his cheeks, but, when his mother raised her hands, wiping the pearly drops away with her thumbs, then kissed him softly on the lips, the boy knew that whatever it was in him that had shifted, whatever it was in him that had changed, he knew, that it was for the best.

Namone was in such shock that, as she continues to stare at the invitation, her husband's voice barely registered. And when it does—surely she heard wrong!

“You should go,” Armand repeats. His voice is filled with such conviction that Namone has to turn the other way. Her hands shake as she folds the invitation card back into the envelope.

“I really don't think that's such a good idea. Especially after what happened last time,” she says, her voice barely higher than a whisper. She can feel her husband's stare drilling into the back of her head but he doesn't say anything else, just walks out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Later that day, as Namone, Armand, and their daughter Jasmine ate dinner, Armand brings up the subject of Namone's family reunion again.

“You know amou, going isn't such a bad idea. In fact, it's the perfect opportu—”

Namone's fork clatters down on her plate, awkwardly resting against the chicken alfredo.

Namone and her husband stare at each other across the table. Although upset that Armand has brought up the subject of her family's Reunion again, Namone can't help but be drawn into the deep green of her husband’s eyes. Ah, those eyes, they always get me.

Namone's and Armand's intense staring is only broken by the young, high-pitch voice of their daughter. “Go where, maman, where? I wanna go too. Can I go too pè, please?”

“Oh,” Jasmine squeals, oblivious to the tension coursing through the room. “Oh, please, can we go? I haven't seen grandma in sooooo loooong.”

As Namone stares into Jasmine’s eager, yet sincere face, she knows that she can’t deprive her daughter of visiting her grandmother, especially after so long. Even if Namone will have to see her mother and sister, she can't deny Jasmine’s request because everyone has a right to see their family, no matter how difficult that meeting might be.

Jasmine let’s out another high-pitched squeal, bouncing in her chair excitedly. Even though Namone dreads going back to South Carolina to see her family, she can’t help but smile at her daughter’s happiness.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this was the continuous chant flirting through Namone's mind as her deep green Porsche enters the small town of Bakersfield, South Carolina. As she drives down the dirt road, the only road in all of Bakersfield, Namone can’t help but notice that in her five-year absence nothing in Bakersfield had changed.

Coming back home is like stepping into the past, thinks Namone. From the old men chewing tobacco in front of the barber shop to the small children running around barefooted, laughter written across their faces. Even Mrs. Anna May, the town gossip, was busy perfecting her trade, speaking a mile a minute in the loudest voice she could possibly muster to the person sitting across from her.

It is a few seconds before Namone can decipher Anna May's gossiping, but when she does, she can't help but growl in irritation. I just got back and already people are talking bad about me. I don't know why I’m surprised, why I ever was surprised. It's always going to be like this in Bakersfield.

“I heard that Cylvia’s daughter comin’ back, though I don’t know why, it’s not like anyone in her family can stand her—uppity, you know. She real uppity…”

“What do you expect me to think? If a black baby come out with green eyes somebody had to be white, and it sure ain’t the mamma!”

Both women giggle for a while until they notice the Porsche creeping down the road, desperately trying to avoid the running children.

“Well, I’ll be damned…” Anna May whispers as she spots the expensive car, probably the most expensive thing to ever enter Bakersfield. “That’s Cylvia’s daughter right there!”

The other woman squints her eyes, trying to change the blur of colors into a face. When the car gets a little closer the woman is able to make out Namone's features.

“She still as plain as a pair of old jeans,” the woman says to Anna May. “Nothing like her mother or sister.”

“Yeah, but look at that car! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that in my entire life!” Anna May whispers, or at least tries to. The woman across from Anna May nods her agreement while they both stare in awe at the magnificent car. Even the children stop their game of tag to stare slack jawed and open mouthed at the shiny sleek car creeping up the street. One of the old men stops chewing his tobacco to nudge his companion, and, when he gets the man's attention, jerks his head in the direction of the car.

The street, once filled with children’s laughter, Anna May’s gossiping, and the sound of chewed tobacco hitting the bottom a tin urn, is silent. All eyes stare at the most beautiful and expensive thing that they had ever seen. It is a few seconds before the blaring of a horn interrupts the silence.

“Oh, she still so rude,” Anna May says loudly for the whole street to hear as the children scatter wildly out of the road. When the way is clear the green car speeds off, leaving a large dirt cloud in its wake.

Staring in the mirror Cylvia can't help but scowl at her appearance. Age had not been kind to her: there are deep lines around her mouth and eyes, and her skin has lost its caramel splendor. Snarling at her reflection, she opens the vanity door, taking out her make-up kit. Expertly, Cylvia applies what feels like pounds after pounds of make-up onto her face. Though it feels like hours, with the skill that Cylvia has, it is only a few minutes until the face of Cylvia's youth is staring back at her.

This is the only thing that I am good at, Cylvia thinks as she pulls out a cigarette from the deep green Newport box. Lighting the cigarette Cylvia stares at her reflection, and though it does look young at youthful, all that Cylvia can see is the true face that lies underneath.

Cylvia turns away in disgust. Walking out of the bathroom into the equally small living room. Cylvia sits down on the battered couch, staring at the television, staring at the life that she will never have, the life that she has always craved for: The life on the face of the TV.

As Namone walks to the boot of the car she sees her mother stepping out of the small off-white house with her customary cigarette in her hand.

“So you came,” Cylvia says, walking down the two steps which placed her in the front yard.

“Yeah,” replies Namone, slightly breathless after seeing her mother for the first time in five years. “I got your invitation.”

Cylvia raises the cigarette to her lips, taking a slight drag as she saunters over to the deep green car. Not even batting an eyelash at the expensive Porsche parked on her nonexistent lawn, Cylvia rounds the car until she’s standing next to her daughter.

“Groceries,” Cylvia says, indicating the trunk packed full with bags of food. Namone nods her head in agreement as she begins to load her hands with bags. Cylvia watches, cigarette resting between two fingers as her daughter takes the bags of groceries into the house. Cylvia takes another drag, watching her daughter return from the house, after a few minutes, to once again carry groceries in.

By the time Namone is done carrying all of the groceries into the house, Cylvia’s cigarette is half gone. Taking another drag, Cylvia watches as her daughter heads back to the car.

Namone walks over to the trunk of the car, glancing inside to make sure that nothing had fallen out of any of the grocery bags. Noticing that nothing is hiding in any of the corners, Namone reaches up a hand to close the trunk. Her mother’s hand around her wrist stops her.

Standing tensely, Namone watches as Cylvia walks around to the side of the car to stare through the backseat window. Too bad Jasmine is still asleep, at least then we would have had something positive to talk about, Namone thinks to herself.

Namone sucks in a lungful of air, staring into her mother’s face. Age had done nothing to mar Cylvia’s beauty. If anything, time had only enhanced her mother’s features, making them more refined. Exhaling slowly, Namone opens her mouth, closes it. Before answering her mother, she clears her throat.

“What? You think you too good to stay in my house?” Cylvia yells, flinging the cigarette from her hand. The silence after Cylvia’s outburst is so acute that, as mother and daughter stare at each other, the sound of Cylvia’s cigarette hitting the ground can be heard. “You done come on my property, with your designer clothes and shoes. On my property, to your mother’s house, with your expensive ass car. You done come to your mother’s house, where I raised you. What, you ashamed of where you done come from? You too high and mighty now to stay where I done birthed you? You might be all rich now, staying in some white ass suburb, with your green-eyed husband, where you can pretend to be his white ass wife! But remember, I done raised you! This is where you done come from! There,” Cylvia screams, throwing her hand back to indicate the small off-white house. “You is country! You is black! You was poor! You can hide in your expensive clothes and car, with your Creole ass husband, but remember, you always gone be my daughter and I’m trailer trash! This whole fucking town is trailer trash! Yeah, you escaped, but that don’t mean you ain’t trailer trash too!”

As Cylvia finishes ranting, Namone has tears in her eyes. Though Namone's vision is slightly blurry that does not stop her from seeing the malicious smile that twists Cylvia's features from refined beauty into something horrific. The deep green box of the Newport flash before Namone's eyes as her mother takes out a cigarette before lighting it, taking a long drag as she continues to study Namone’s watery eyes.

Removing the cigarette from her lips, Cylvia slowly exhales a puff of smoke in Namone’s face. As Namone begins coughing her mother turns around, walking back to her small off-white house, leaving Namone standing dejectedly on Cylvia’s nonexistent lawn.

When Namone wakes up it is to the exorbitant laughter of Spongebob Squarepants. I must have slept for hours, she thinks as she notices the orange glow of dusk invading the immaculate hotel room. Namone stretches, letting out a large yawn, which draws the attention of her daughter.

“Oh, maman,” Jasmine says, abandoning Spongebob and the Crusty Crab in order to scramble on the bed with her mother. “You were sleep for sooooo loooong.”

“Yes, I think I was,” Namone says, placing Jasmine onto her lap in order to plant a warm kiss onto her daughter's cheek; Jasmine giggles.

“Maman, you were sleep for so long that me and pè already ate dinner. Pè ordered room service and I got to pick anything I wanted off the menu,” Jasmine says excitedly, a smug look written across her face.

Namone groans, not daring to glance at the side table where the clock sat atop it, glowing neon-green in its insistence to tell the time. Namone sighs at all the hours wasted, twirling herself back down in order to lie her head back on the warm soft pillow.

Namone opens one eye to see Jasmine lying parallel of her, face making a new impression on the pillow. Namone smiles softly, running a hand through her daughter's hair. “I just realized how long I must have slept. It's nearly dark outside.”

“Don't do that,” Namone says absentmindedly as she removes Jasmine's thumb from her mouth. Jasmine lets out an indignant huff.

“Oh, maman,” Jasmine says pouting. But Jasmine doesn't put her hand back in her mouth, though Namone does see it twitch a few times.

Suddenly, a few seconds later, Jasmine leaps from the bed. “Oh,” Jasmine squeals, slightly agitated. “I was s’pose to tell pè when you woke up!”

Namone raises an eyebrow, though not all surprised by Jasmine words. “Where is pè?” Namone asks, sitting up in bed. Jasmine points in the direction of the bathroom.

He's probably taking a shower or something, which, when I think about it, I wouldn't hear because of the loud laughter of one Spongebob Squarepants. The things parents will endure for their children, Namone thinks as she steps out of the warm bed, slipping her feet into pink fuzzy house shoes.

When Namone reaches the bathroom door she nocks softly. “It’s open,” her husband calls, voice slightly muffled due to the closed door.

When Namone steps into the bathroom she is assaulted by two strong arms wrapping around her waist. Before she can even blink there is a pair of warm lips kissing down her neck.

Namone lets the warm kisses continue for a few minutes before she turns around in her husband arms. She kisses him once on the lips before stepping back, adding a few feet between her and her husband.

Armand sighs, sitting back against the vanity. He crosses his arms. “Yes, we need to talk.” There is a short silence beforeArmand speaks again, “We can leave tomorrow in the morning.”

“What! Just a few hours ago you came in here crying your eyes out about what happened between you and your mother. Now you don’t want to leave. You can’t possibly mean that we are going to stay for that reuni—”

“No, we’re not going to stay for that reunion, we are going to stay for me. Look,” Namone says as she stares into her husband’s eyes. “You weren’t there. The things Cylvia said to me…”

Namone continues speaking as if she hadn't heard her husband, “You weren’t there. I was. You didn’t hear the things she said to me. You didn’t hear the way she said them.

“Earlier, when I came in crying, I wasn’t crying for me, I was crying for her, for Cylvia. There was something missing. It was as if she were dead, or as if she had given up on life. Look, I don’t know what it was but I need to figure it out, I need to know. And, perhaps if I figure it out then I might also come to understand why. I need to understand why. I need to understand what it is about me, what it is that I could have possibly done to make my mother hate me.

“I’m tired of feeling inadequate. I’m tired of feeling unloved. I’m tired of feeling unworthy. I need to know, I need to know…”

As Namone repeats those four words tears flood her eyes. Though Namone refuses to let them fall she knows that this time the tears are not for her mother, but for herself. She knows that the tears are for the life that she could have had, for the love of a woman she had always craved for.

“What?” Namone asks absentmindedly as she grates the cheese for the macaroni.

“Girl, don’t act like you don’t know who your sister is! You might have been gone, living in some white ass sub—”

“Look, Cylvia,” Namone says, dropping the large block of cheese onto a plate. “I wasn’t saying I didn’t know who my sister was. I was just asking for clarification. What do you want me to do? Does she need help bringing food in the house or something?”

Cylvia huffs, strolling out of the room quickly, muttering under her breath about ‘kids who think too highly of themselves.’ Namone sighs; it had been like this all day. Her mother was itching for an altercation, and if Namone hadn’t been desperately trying to keep the peace, she would have probably left her mother’s house hours ago.

“Ardella,” says a soft voice, barely above a whisper. Ardella turns her head in the direction of the kitchen, ignoring her mother’s mutterings as she goes to sit back in front of the TV.

When Ardella sees her sister she smiles. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t little icky Namone. Finally cared to grace your family with your oh-so-holy presence?” Della’s smile expands at the childhood taunt. She can see Namone clench her teeth at hearing her spiteful words and it makes Della ridiculously happy to see that Namone is as plain looking as ever.

“Why would anyone want you?” Immediately Namone turns around, heading back for the kitchen.

“There’s food in the car,” Cylvia says, cigarette in one hand, watching the argument with undisguised glee. When Namone hears her mother she stops but does not turn around.

“Well, you heard mom. There’s food in the car. Go get it.” When Namone turns around to go get the food, Della can’t help her malicious laughs at her and her mother’s tyranny.

It was a long day for Namone as she cooked over a hot stove while her mother and sister sat in the living room, alternately smoking cigarettes, watching TV, or practicing their favorite activity—yelling at Namone.

As Namone drives to her hotel room, where her husband and daughter are, Namone can’t understand why she doesn’t just leave. Perhaps time had corrupted her memory, but it was clear from today, from the first five minutes in her mother’s house, that her mother and sister hate her.

Yet, even knowing this, Namone recognizes that she will return to the house tomorrow for the reunion. There is some unknown force driving Namone to stay until her and her mother talk, and, though Namone has no idea whether her mother will answer her unasked questions, she knows that whatever Cylvia reveals tomorrow, she knows, that it will change everything.

Armand sighs as he takes Jasmine outside to play with the other children, ignoring another argument brewing between Namone, Ardella, and Cylvia. It had been like this since they had first arrived at Cylvia’s house; argument after argument, jibe and jibe, hurt after hurt. It wasn’t even noon and already it felt like the end of the day because he was so tired of hearing it all.

When Armand enters the house again Cylvia is sitting on the couch, lighting up another cigarette. When Cylvia sees him she smiles cruelly. “Namone, you had to go and leave us, go and leave my house in order to marry this hideous, wannabe, white man. Of all the people to marry in order to get somewhere in life you had to pick him? All he does is stand around all day. Looking down his nose at my house! Yeah, keep lookin’. This is where your precious little Namone came from. She came from here, from me!”

Namone steps out of the kitchen at hearing her mother’s voice. “Cylvia, please…”

“Don’t ‘Cylvia, please’ me. Yeah, look at your husband, godamn green eyes! They probably contacts.” Cylvia and Ardella laugh to each other.

“What did you say to me?” Cylvia demands in an angry tone. Armand shrugs then turns to leave. He feels something hit him in the back. When Armand looks down he sees Cylvia’s cigarette.

“Yeah,” Cylvia says, standing up from the couch. “Yeah, go outside with the kids. Go play with the kids. You see this Namone? He don’t wanna be in here with you he wanna go outside and play with the kids. I bet he’s a pedophile. Is that it, green-eyes, you a pedophile?”

“Why should I remember his name? Just when I start remembering it he gone be gone anyway. What, you think he gone stay with you foreva?” Cylvia laughs nastily. “Please girl, I don’t see how a child of mine could be actin’ so crazy. Look at your sister, she believed that same shit you did and all she got was seven kids by seven different daddies.

“What, you think you different? You think you better than us? That same shit that happened to her gone happen to you.” When Cylvia finishes speaking she has a smug look on her face.

“That’s not true.” At hearing her daughter’s words the look that crosses Cylvia’s face is almost comical: pure, open-mouthed shock.

“You heard me, Cylvia. That’s not true. Just because something happened to you doesn’t mean it’s going to happen to me. That’s not true. And I’m not saying I’m better than you what I’m saying is that I have better judgment than you.”

“Suddenly you the expert on things that ain’t never happened to you,” Ardella interjects snidely. Cylvia smiles at Ardella’s words.

“What you mean that ain’t true? It don’t matter if that shit ain’t happened to you yet, ‘cause it’s gonna. It happened to your sister and it happened to me and I’m your moth—”

“Oh, hell no! I don’t believe this shit…” Cylvia puts her hand up and immediately Ardella clamps her mouth shut.

Namone sighs, “Cylvia, I was always your daughter, but you were never my mother.” The room is eerily silent as Namone takes her apron off to place it down on the kitchen counter. “And frankly, I’m tired of pretending. I come back to your house every five years to try to make nice with you, but I’m sick of it. I did nothing to you. It was you, always you. It was always you and Ardella.

“The last time I came, and you said all that stuff to me about Armand and our child, I just, I…” Namone takes a deep breath, as if she is trying to force the words out of her throat, and perhaps she is. “I swore that I would never come back here, ever. Yet, when I got your invitation it was my husband who persuaded me to come, because he thought: maybe, after all this time, after what happened last time, Cylvia sees, Cylvia understands, Cylvia wants her daughter in her life. Maybe you do want me in your life, maybe both of you want me in your lives, but, if you do, it’s not to love me, it to hate me, to scorn me.

“I will not be the punching bag, to be taken out of the closet once every five years, in order to make you two feel better about your miserable lives! That will not be me again! I’m done with this. It’s over. I’m done with you.” With those last words Armand goes to Namone, taking her elbow as he escorts her out of the small off-white house.

Cylvia and Ardella step out of the house, yelling insults in between puffs of their cigarette at the retreating backs of Armand, Namone, and their young daughter Jasmine. Cylvia and Ardella were yelling about how Namone would be back, that Namone would come crawling back But what they didn't know was that Armand would make sure that that never happened. What they didn't know was that Aramand would make sure neither Namone or Jasmine would ever have to face this hellhole again.

“Maman, what’s wrong with grandma?” Jasmine asks fearfully, cringing away at the vile insults being thrown at them.

Namone smiles sadly down at her daughter. “There is nothing wrong with your grandmother. This is her, this is who she is. I will never force you to come back here like I forced myself to, out of some twisted since of family abligation. Just ignore your grandmother and aunt, because, once we leave here, you will never have to see them again.”

Jasmine nods her head though Armand is sure that she doesn’t understand half of the things Namone had said. When Jasmine looks up at Armand, probably expecting him to speak as well, Armand leans down to kiss Jasmine softly on the cheek. Jasmine smiles up at him, though her smile isn’t as bright as it usually is, while Armand opens the backseat door.

Jasmine scrambles into the car and Armand softly closes the door after her retreating form. He turns to Namone, noticing tears in her eyes.

Armand sighs, reaching out to take Namone’s hand. He kisses her softly on the knuckles then leans over to kiss her once on the cheek. “Yes, you did the right thing.”

Armand steps over to Namone, drawing her into the circle of his arms. She let’s out a few heart-wrenching cries as he holds her—holds her and holds her.

When her cries dwindle down to soft hiccups Namone steps back from him, wiping her tears onto her sleeve. She let’s out an embarrassed laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much in my entire life as I have on this one trip.”

Armand laughs with her, trying to ease the tension. “Well, sometimes it’s good to cry. And sometimes it’s good to let things, to let people, go.”

Namone stares at him for a few seconds, then says softly, “Do you think so?”

Armand opens the car door for her, and, as Namone gets into the car he says softly, not sure if it’s for himself or for both of them that yes, sometimes it is good to let people go. And that sometimes the only way to save yourself is to cut off your own leg.