Bone Shaker

© 1998 Shirley J. Walker
All rights reserved.

"They're crawlin' on me," she yelled. "Get 'em off!"

Jean raced to her mother, found her sprawled on the couch, arms flinging about like electrified hairs.

"Mama, what's wrong?" Jean shouted.

Sometimes her mama saw snakes or worms or bugs; all things she feared most, crawling on her body. Her pitiful screams would tear deep into Jean and fill her eleven-year-old heart with dread.

"Lordhavemercy ... get 'em off me."

Jean's scanned her mother's body and saw nothing. She rushed to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and soaked it with warm water. She began to rub it over her mother's arms, face, and legs. She could smell the staleness of whiskey that stuck to her mama.

"They're gone now, Mama," Jean said.

"Gone?" Her mother's eyes were red and swollen. She began to calm down.

"Yes, Mama."

No matter what fears crawled on her mama, a rub with a warm towel always chased them away. She led her mother to bed, covered her, and turned off the light. Mama seemed so helpless when her fears crawled out of the whiskey bottle.

"Sleep well, Mama," Jean whispered, and quietly left the room.

Two weeks later, Jean noticed an old gray Buick parked in their driveway when she got home from school. She wondered who could be visiting. She sat on the porch, absorbed in her thoughts. Her mama didn't have a job because of her drinking, but she got paid every month. Most of it spent on whiskey. "Medicine," Mama called it, "to ease her pains."

Mama had also said Sam was "medicine." For a while, he chased away her pains. Then he brought them all back. But now he's gone, and so is his raggedy black Cadillac. Jean smiled thinking about that, and finally went inside.

Her mama sat on the couch with a strange man. Two ice-filled glasses and a bottle of whiskey sat on the glass coffee table.

"Jean baby, this is Rick," her mama said, giggling.

Jean glanced at her mother. She hadn't seen her this happy in a long time; not since Sam left. Mama's smile was so pretty before Sam made a hole where a tooth used to be.

She quickly shook off that thought and looked at this man. Black coarse hairs above his mouth hid any top lip he may have had, and his thick eyebrows almost met in the center of his high forehead. The pupils of his eyes resembled fish eggs, floating on cotton, packed into bone sockets. Something dark was in those eyes.

She remembered the darkness Sam had in his eyes when he shot the neighbor's Rottweiler dead. He claimed the dog was going to attack him. Self-defense, he'd said. But the dog was still in its yard.

A hand slithered out, grasped hers, and the stranger's scarred bottom lip moved.

"Pleased to meet you, Jean."

The words rushed out past oatmeal-colored teeth, assaulting her face like a blast of stale furnace air.

She quickly turned her head and snatched her hand away.

"Baby, where's your manners?" her mama said.

Jean shrank away, managing a weak "Hi" before excusing herself.

Why couldn't Mama see the darkness in some men's eyes, she wondered. This one had it, and she decided she did not like him one bit.

One morning three weeks later, Jean headed to the kitchen to scrounge for something to eat. Her mama always had coffee and cigarettes for breakfast. By the time Jean got home from school, it was liquor and cigarettes that her mama craved. Jean usually made a sandwich or heated soup for their dinner. Her mama never ate much, as her thin bones would testify. But this morning, there sat her mama and Rick, eating eggs and toast.

I can't believe Mama let him sleep over, Jean thought, disgusted. She opened the fridge, fished out a piece of salami, and found crackers in the pantry. Jean looked suspiciously at them as she sat on the chair next to her mama.

"Jean, I got something to tell you. Rick is ... well ... he's going to move in. Whatcha think, baby?"

She didn't want to tell her mama how she really felt, not in front of him.

She said nothing.

"You'll like him. I know you will, baby," her mama continued.

"Yeah," he said. Oatmeal teeth flashed again, and darkness churned, clouded his eyes.

They were much like Sam's, after Grandma had a sudden heart attack. Jean blinked back tears as she thought of her. Sam claimed she was dead when he found her.

"Gotta go, Mama," Jean said, quickly wiping her eyes. She grabbed her books and slammed the front door behind her. Maybe if I don't think about it, it won't happen, Jean thought. Maybe he'll be gone when I get home. She practically ran all the way to school.

In her last period class, Jean was talking to a classmate about her situation. When she finally looked up, the teacher was standing next to her.

"I notice you like this class so much, you insist I keep you after it's over. That's one hour detention, young lady, for disrupting class," he said, and sauntered to his desk.

Damn, she thought, this day's turned to shit. It was almost 4:00 when Jean finally made it home.

She tossed her books on the couch and turned on the TV. A few minutes later, in walked Rick.

"Where is your mama?" he asked, sneering.

"I don't know," Jean answered. "Probably drunk ... passed out."

When the fly-by slap hit her face, it so surprised her she did not immediately feel the pain.

"Don't ever disrespect your mama like that again. Get the hell to your room!" he shouted.

Tears stung her eyes and spilled over her throbbing cheek. She bolted outside, shaking, not knowing what he might do. She didn't know why she said what she did. It was as if he brought out the worst in her. Pain throbbed in her cheek. She would beg her mama not to let him move in, and she would promise to do anything.

Jean began to run towards Baker Street, five blocks from home. When she reached the white frame house, encased by a yellow fence in need of repair, she rapped on the door. It cracked open slightly, revealing a small face, wrinkled by years and sun. Her body, slightly bent, wasn't much taller than Jean's. Wispy strands of gray hair scattered about her splotched head. Jean thought Miss Cebell looked a hundred years old.

"Hello, ma'am," Jean said.

"Who's that?"

"Jean, ma'am."

"Jean, that you, child?"

"Yes ma'am."

The door creaked open, and Jean went inside. Most of the window shades were closed, and the tiny rooms resembled dark caves. She would not be surprised if bats swooped from them.

Miss Cebell fished out wire-framed glasses from a pocket in her flower print skirt.

"Didn't think I'd see you this soon, child," she said.

"No, ma'am," Jean whispered, her head down.

Miss Cebell went to a table in a slightly lit corner, opened the second drawer, and lifted out an oval, dark blue tin box. Sprinkled on the lid was red glitter, and painted in the middle was a golden heart.

"Ain't seen you since ... now let me see ... since your stepdaddy left."

She plopped down in a rocker and flashed a nearly toothless grin. She tucked snuff between her bottom lip and teeth.

"Now, what was his name ... Sam somebody?"

"He wasn't my stepdaddy. Just my mama's boyfriend," Jean said, feeling uncomfortable at the mention of Sam's name.

"Scandalous, he was. Use to pass by here, staggering most times. Gave me the finger once. Just scandalous," Miss Cebell said. "Ain't never coming back, you know."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Come here, child."

Jean walked toward Miss Cebell and stood before her. She could smell a mixture of urine, baby powder, and ... something old. As Miss Cebell peered over her glasses at her, Jean thought of how much her old eyes looked like the yellowed fake pearls her mama sometimes wore. She had hoped she wouldn't have to come here again. But here she was. Miss Cebell had what she needed.

"Give me what you got," Miss Cebell said.

Jean reached in her pocket, pulled out Rick's comb, his curly black strands of hair hugging tight, and handed it to her.

"Yes, this'll do. Hold out your hand, child."

Jean held out her hand. Spiny fingers grasped it, and Jean felt a sharp prick in her palm. Miss Cebell rubbed the comb in the few drops of blood from Jean's hand.

"Take this, child." She pressed the blue tin box into Jean's hand.

Miss Cebell pricked her own hand, rubbed the comb in her palm, and grabbed a tin cup off the dusty wood floor. A crude skull was etched on it. Jean could see some sort of strange colored powder inside it.

Miss Cebell snatched bloody hairs from the comb, stuffed them into the cup, and tossed the comb over her shoulder. When she spit twice into the cup, snuff splattered her chin. Using the sleeve of her sweater, she wiped her wrinkled mouth. The brownish stain blended in with the other stains on the sweater. Jean watched her all the while.

"Hand me the bone, child."

Jean looked at the tin box in her hand. Even though she knew what it held, she hated to remove it from its hiding place. She pried the top off, being careful not to shake it. The finger-size bone, bleached white, looked as though you could use it for chalk. She picked up the bone and held it out to Miss Cebell, who quickly snatched it from Jean's hand.

"How many times I tell you not to point it? Brings bad luck. Hold it like this."

Miss Cebell cupped the bone, long nails criss-crossed over it, shadowing it like prison bars.

"Then you hand it over. Remember that, child," she said.

"Yes ma'am," Jean whispered.

Miss Cebell plunked it in the cup, placed her bony fingers over the top, and began to chant words Jean could not understand. Then she began to gently shake the cup.

The soft rattle it made reminded Jean of a shaken box of Cracker Jacks. She used to shake the box, rip it open, and fish for the prize that would always break the same day.

"Where's your hanky, child?"

Jean dug in her pocket and pulled out her plain white handkerchief.

"Take it now," Miss Cebell said.

Jean reached into the rusted cup and took out the thin bone. Strands of hair wrapped around it. It was dark, moist from the snuff, and it stank. Just like the last time. Jean carefully rolled it up in her handkerchief and placed it in her pocket.

Miss Cebell smiled a triumphant grin, traces of snuff peeking from the peeling wrinkles in her chin.

Jean also smiled. She had her Cracker Jack prize.

During the next week, the streets buzzed with playing children, and Rick moved in.

"He promised never to lay a hand on you again," her mama said.

Jean wanted her mama to be happy. But he's the wrong man, Mama, she silently screamed.

A few days later, Jean came home from school and found the house messy. On the floor, a plastic cup leaked remains of a drink into the beige carpet. Half-eaten pizza was scattered about the coffee table; its box tossed carelessly on the couch. A scrunched-up blanket lay next to it. She could hear the radio on in her mama's bedroom.

"Mama?" she called out. There was no answer. She knocked on her mama's door, opened it, and saw her mama sprawled across the bed. Her arm dangled over the side; her hand clutching a whisky bottle. Jean pulled the bottle from her hand and gently shook her.

"Mama!" Jean shouted.

"Huh, whatsmatter?" her mama slurred. She squinted, eyes loaded with red lines, like a child's scribbles. She finally focused on Jean.

"Oh, hi baby. What time is it?"

"2:45. Mama , what happened?"

Her mama's lips were bloodied, and the straps of her nightgown were ripped. Over her left eye was a nasty bluish swelling. A slight cut zigzagged below it, painting blood down the side of her face.

"What happened to your face, Mama?" Jean shrieked.

"What ... my face? ... uh ... I ... tripped," her mama stammered. She clumsily sat up and vomited.

"Oh Lord, help me. They crawlin' on me ... get them off!"

Jean cleaned her mama up, rubbed her with warm towels, and comforted her until she fell asleep.

Jean began heating canned chicken soup for her mama. As she reached for the crackers, Rick walked in and, with an angry look, headed for her mother's room. The bedroom door thundered open.

"Get up, drunk!" he yelled.

Jean cringed when she heard a slap and her mama cry out.

"Get your ass up!" he shouted.

There was another slap and a scuffling sound, like something thrown. Jean raced to her own room. Tears ran loose like undammed rivers, splashing her face.

A little while later, she heard pans thrown around the kitchen and breaking glass. She knew what she had do. I mustn't fall asleep, she thought.

Later that night, Jean carefully crept in the darkness to her mother's room. The door was slightly opened, and she slowly pushed it further. Thin shards of moonlight crept in through the blinds, painting the bed with strips of light. Among the tousled covers lay her mama and Rick, both of them snoring. Jean reached into her pocket, pulled out her hanky, and gently slipped it under Rick's pillow.

Immediately, his body began to glow lime-green, and sweat poured from his craggy face. When his body began to twitch, Jean took the wire cutters from another pocket, grabbed his thick left hand, and easily clipped off the third finger.

Miss Cebell had said, "Always wait for the twitching to start, then that finger will pop right off."

Blood gushed only for a second, then completely dried. Jean reached under the pillow, pulled out the handkerchief, and carefully opened it. It was empty. She placed the severed finger on it, wrapped it, and jammed it in her pocket.

She glanced down into his dark leathered face and smiled. It had begun to shrivel. He no longer glowed. Crumpling sounds, like scrunched up newspaper, came from him. A pale greenish smoke discharged from his body, bringing with it a smell of rotten meat. In a few minutes, Rick was just a pile of smoldering, putrid ashes.

She found his pants draped over a chair, searched the pockets, and took the car keys. She went to the other side of the bed and glanced at her sleeping mama. Her swollen bruises were visible even in the dim light. Jean could see that some of her fingers had recently broken nails. She picked up her mama's hand, caressed it, kissed it.

"No more of this, Mama, I promise," she whispered, as she held her mama's hand.

"You clean all the ashes up?" Miss Cebell asked.

"Yes ma'am. All of them. Before my mama woke up."

"Give me that finger, child. And the keys."

Jean handed over the hanky, careful to cup it the way she learned, and the keys to the old Buick.

Miss Cebell reached into the table drawer and fetched a small, soiled bag. She handed it to Jean.

"You sprinkle this in her food, her water, whatever she puts in her mouth. Stops the craving for drink. When it's empty, you know what to bring me, child."

"Yes ma'am."

"You look so pretty, mama," Jean said, beaming proudly.

"Thanks, baby. Been rough ... not drinking and all. Thank God I found the strength to quit. I know I'd be dead now if I hadn't."

"I'm glad you quit, Mama." Jean smiled and hugged her.

"Baby, I know I had to do something. Drunk all the time. Sick. You taking care of me instead of me taking care of you. I wanted you to have a good Daddy, but they upped and left ... just like that," she snapped her fingers. "Never said 'bye. Nothing."

"They didn't matter, Mama. You'll find somebody good for you."

"I swear I'm going to do right by you, baby," her mama said. She held Jean's face in her hands and kissed her cheek.

Jean grasped her mama's hands and gently stroked them. Almost perfect except for the snapped-off first joint of the right little finger. Payment for Miss Cebell's medicine.

"Baby, I still don't remember cutting off my finger. Too drunk at the time, I guess. Ugly, huh?"

"No, Mama," Jean smiled. "You have pretty hands."

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