Baby

Baby

((CONTENT WARNING: GORE, HOMOPHOBIA, ABUSE, SUGGESTIVE CONTENT. READER DISCRETION ADVISED))

[12.25.1989 // 3:05 AM]

The whirl of a tape recorder. A click. A hum.

‘Hey, Baby.’ Slurred, unsteady, a voice like a stumble, a voice like a catching of breath. Tires a snarl on the highway, gritty like the grinding of teeth. Red-eyed drunk, words liquor-soaked: ‘Call me back. I need you.’

You see her in your mind’s eye: rosy-cheeked and beautiful, tussled golden hair like an unruly halo, her makeup smeared. That necklace — silver, bearing Christ crucified, expression twisted in pain, teeth barred at God — resting against the divot where her throat met her breastbone. There, right there. The T1 and C7 vertebrae. There. 

You’re trying to sleep, but it is there. It is always there. The image of the taught, pale skin of her throat. And then the slow blooming of bruise like the blooming of a flower. Poppy-red petals with hues of delphinium-blue tracing torn veins. Spots of tiny aconite. Goosebumped flesh, the tremble of a panicked pulse. You can hear it echo in your ears. Loud, so loud. You can feel its beating in your teeth. 

And then — silence. 

And then — bone. Bursting forth slowly like an alabaster carpel through layer and layer of tearing skin. Pollen-eager, ugly, dripping.

‘I want to hold you.” That voice like a catching of breath, its lips against the shell of your ear. ‘Please, Baby, I want to hold you.’

~

[Evidence:]

T-shirt

Bastrop Bears Volleyball. A cartoon bear emblazoned on the front, white against the maroon fabric, standing with his weight shifted onto one leg. A volleyball is held under one of its arms. There are bleach stains at the collar. A woman’s large, oversized. She lent it to you one night to sleep in; you never gave it back. Buried deep beneath the smell of you are fading remnants of her shampoo. Cherry and lilac. 

Keep it pressed against your nose and rock back and forth on your knees. Then, burn it. 

Plant

The tomato plant on the back porch. The one that wilted, its leaves curled in on themselves for fear of the sun. She used it like an ashtray, sitting on your balcony in her underwear. How many times did she try to quit? Every other week, jaw-set, arms-crossed, cold-turkey, martyr-like, and itching for a fight because ‘this time, Baby, this time…’. 

Then, she would always show up on your doorstep anyway, the smell of smoke already tangled in her hair, a bruise beneath one swelling eye. Always kissing you the way he kissed her, kissing you like she wanted it to hurt, murmuring against the inside of your thigh: ‘This time, Baby, this time…’

Remove the lipstick-stained butts; dust the ash from its leaves. Water it until the soil is black. 

Photograph

Kept in your wallet. Cut from the eulogy. Her, looking a hazel-eyed kind of beautiful, a summer’s kiss of freckles on her nose. Younger than you knew her. 

It is the only photo of her you have. You did not take photographs of her. To take a photo would be to incriminate her, to incriminate you, to brand the ruby red lines of a noose around the both of your throats. To take a photo would be to tell the truth.

Liar. Take it out of your wallet. Take it out. Take it out. Take it out. 

Magnet

The magnet on your fridge that holds up the electrical bill. Lucifer’s sheartail. A species limited to the deserts of Texas and Mexico christened ‘light-bringer’ for the iridescent, violet gorget of feathers around its throat. Carved out of wood and painted by hand. She did not know that when she bought it with her husband’s money at an Arizona flea, placed it in a small jewelry box, wrapped it in lavender-colored paper, and presented it to you with a lithe smile.

‘It’s like the ones at your feeders,’ she said as you turned the small thing over in your hands and ran the pad of a thumb against its wooden feathers. It was not like the ones at your feeder — who were ruby-throated and larger than the non-native sheartail — but you did not correct her. 

She thought it was odd, your fascination with hummingbirds. Staying awake at odd hours, humming a lyric-less song beneath your breath as you cooked sugar water on the stove. ‘There is a myth,’ you told her once, ‘that the hummingbird is the sun in disguise, trying to seduce the moon.’ 

When you were finished refilling your feeders — a half-dozen sturdy plastic things, cherubic hummers already droning hungrily around you, summoned by the smell — she would take a sip from what was left of the pitcher. Then, while the taste was still sticky on her tongue, she would kiss you. 

The flutter of little wings and the red of her lips. The flash of feathers like the glint of the sun against water. 

Here. Gone again. Here. Gone again.

Refill the feeders. Watch the birds as they fly, dart-like and clever. Hear nothing of her in the chorus of their wings. 

Pay the electrical bill.

Tremble

The shake of your hands. The tapping of your foot. The way you have a tendency to look at the throats of strangers as they speak. The way you bite your lip so hard it bleeds when you masturbate. The ugly scarlet half-moons embedded in that soft flesh. 

‘And what about that boy?’ Ma asked on Christmas Eve, a sort of restrained desperation to her voice, like a dog on a taught lead. Your brother cannot have children. The way you — pretty girl, good girl, last daughter, best daughter — wrung your hands beneath the dining room table. ‘You ought to invite him to dinner tomorrow. I reckon I’ll make my fudge pie. We can save him a slice.’

The trembling as you said: ‘Maybe next year.’ The shake of your hands. The tapping of your foot.

What had you told her? A ‘Good Man.’ You told your mother you’d found a ‘Good Man.’ You told her he called you ‘Baby’; you told her he had a voice like honey and a face soft as milk. 

Liar. Pretty girl, good girl, nasty little sodomite.

~

[Memory:]

‘You’re married,’ you say, tongue heavy. She is already in your bedroom, unbuttoning your shirt. It is the night of the first of many messy fumblings.

It had been dark in the bar. You had been drunk. She had been drunk. The both of you dancing, sweat dripping down your back, your brow, stinking your eyes. You had not seen the ring, then. Only the swaying of her hips, blurry and oversaturated from the kiss of liquor. Only the gold of her hair. The white points of her teeth. You had not noticed the diamond sitting pretty on the hand she placed on your thigh. 

Now, in the amber light of your bedroom, you see it. And it does not bother you as much as it should, because she is here, and she is beautiful, and she has a body like the kick of a shotgun, like a backhand, like the bite of a snake — a kiss like warning hiss of its rattle-tail.

‘I do.’ She gently tugs the shirt off your shoulders and looks at you, head cocked. ‘But he’s a sorry bastard. And Baby, he’d never have to know.’

Shotgun. Backhand. Hiss.

Later, you would learn her name. Later, you would see the bruises he left her — bruises the same colors as the ones you imagine bloomed on her skin the evening she died. Later, you would meet her daughter, a green-eyed girl with a gap-toothed smile she couldn’t ever bear to leave.

Later, you would come to love her, and plans would be made beneath thin bedsheets. Little whisperings about running away, about faked deaths, about Europe in the summertime. 

That night, there was only the dig of her teeth in your lip. There was only shotgun, backhand, hiss. 

~

[The Elgen Courier, Obituaries, Published: 12.30.1989]

It is with heavy hearts that we announce the tragic passing of Isabella Osborn, age 31, in a car accident on December 25, 1989. Isabella is survived by her loving husband of 13 years, Rodger Osborn; mother, Amelia Barnes; and daughter, Abigale Osborn. She was an adoring mother and dutiful wife whose warmth knew no bounds…

You have no right to read this.

Her memory will live on, forever more, in the hearts and minds of her family. She is preceded in death by her father, Antony Barnes, and her sister, Faye Barnes — with whom she is now reunited…

You don’t deserve to mourn. 

…in eternity. She met her highschool sweetheart, Rodger, in her youth, and knew from a young age that he was the ‘one.’ The lovebirds settled down in her hometown shortly after graduation….

Homewrecker.

Isabella was known to be active in her neighborhood, and church community, always willing to offer a helping hand…

Whore.

…volunteering frequently at her daughter’s school and local prayer group. A passionate baker, Isabella always dreamed of opening her own bakery…

Do you think she thought of you? As she bled there in the snow? Broken. Alone. Cold.

…Guests were always greeted with the warm smell of some new recipe…

Her daughter is now maimed in the hospital, motherless.

…Isabella touched many with her beautiful heart…

Do you blame yourself?

…and her wicked wit. Her laughter and love continues to inspire all those who knew her…

Do you?

…Visitations will be held from 11 a.m.-1 p.m., with Rosary beginning at 3 p.m., Monday, January 5th, 1990, at Sacred Heart Church, 4045 Pine St., Bastrop, TX 78602…

Can you taste it?

…The Mass of the Christian Burial will…

Her blood in your mouth?

…be held at 12 a.m. Tuesday, January 6th, 1990…

Choke on it.

…The family invites you…

Choke on it.

… to join them for a celebration…

Choke on it.

…of life after Mass…

Choke.

~

[Soft Epilogue:]

[12.25.1989 // 3:05 AM]

The whirl of a tape recorder. A click. A hum.

‘Hey, Baby.’

You sit on your balcony, barefoot, tomato plant on your lap, watching the dull glow of the moon.

 ‘Call me back. I need you. I want to hold you.’

You imagine her sitting beside you. Red-eyed drunk, hair done up like a halo, smoking a cigarette to its filter. 

‘He found out. I don’t know how, but he found out, and I—

‘He doesn’t know who, though. He doesn’t know who. I got out. I didn’t have time to pack, but I’ve got my wallet, and I’ve Abigale in the car, and I’ve got a credit card he doesn’t know a thing about.

We’re on our way to your house, Baby. And then we’ll leave. And then we’ll leave, just the three of us, and my momma says she’ll take us in for a few nights, and it’ll be alright. It’ll be alright.

I love you, Baby.

That voice like a catching of breath, lips against the shell of your ear. The smell of smoke.

‘I love you.’

…

…

…

The whirl of a tape recorder. A click. A hum.