Author Biography: Rainelle Burton studied at Wayne State University. She has organized creative writing projects for public schools in Ohio and Michigan and is currently a representative for the Detroit chapter of the International Women's Writing Guild.
Author Biography: Rainelle Burton studied at Wayne State University. She has organized creative writing projects for public schools in Ohio and Michigan and is currently a representative for the Detroit chapter of the International Women's Writing Guild.
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Overview
Author Biography: Rainelle Burton studied at Wayne State University. She has organized creative writing projects for public schools in Ohio and Michigan and is currently a representative for the Detroit chapter of the International Women's Writing Guild.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781585671403 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | The Overlook Press |
| Publication date: | 05/17/2001 |
| Edition description: | 1ST |
| Pages: | 208 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.29(w) x 9.27(h) x 0.84(d) |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Rainelle Burton studied at Wayne State University. She has organized creative writing projects for public schools in Ohio and Michigan and is currently a representative for the Detroit chapter of the International Women's Writing Guild.
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
KNOW WHAT, CLARISSA?
I tried to figure out what went wrong this time. Sometimes Isee where it's our fault but other times I just don't know what happens—whyyou stay so sad all the time.
The Woman said God doesn't love ugly. Always said that.Well if that's the case He must really be through with you, ugly asyou are. Just kidding, Clarissa. I'm trying to make you laugh. Butyou're never in much of a laughing mood.
It's okay to be ugly, I like you anyway. But I don't know if it'sokay to joke about God, He might strike you down. I haven't beenstruck down yet but you sure have.
I don't know if I really believe in God. It's a sin not to believein Him, I know. I do believe in sin. And heaven and hell too. ButI don't know if I believe in God. Sometimes I believe and othertimes I don't. When I don't I won't admit it. I don't want to go tohell and I don't want God to strike me down.
Know what else, Clarissa?
Sometimes you lie too, I know. The Woman said that a childwho lies will kill her own mother. Maybe that's why it happens.But you don't lie all the time, only when you're in trouble. Mostof the time you don't say anything at all—just sit there like you'redoing now looking sad and ugly.
You need to have a soul so you can pray. They say that Godsteps in and saves you when you do. I don't know about thateither. The martyrs prayed and they were killed.
What you really need is to get to Glue. You can't get there ifthey get you first though. You never knowwhen they're going toget you it happens so fast. But I do. I can tell just like I can smellthe rain before it storms.
Chapter One
WOMANHOOD
I helped Marcus look for worms under the backporchsteps. When it rains, the worms come up from under the dirt.That's what it did last night so we caught a lot this morning.
I pried the corner of the tin sign from the house. A chunk ofwood held to its rusty edge on a nail that should have come out ofthe house but took a piece of it instead.
Last year the Husband said he would paint the sign, Clarissa.That was when he found it down the alley and the Woman had afit. Need it to keep the rain out from under the steps he told her,said the wood's getting soft. He called it a little pliant. TheWoman called it rot. "Always patching rot," she said. "Windows,toilet, roof, now this. Patch and chink. But it don't do no goodcause it's an old rotting piece of shit."
The Husband said the foundation's strong so that ought tocount for some worth.
He painted part of the sign but stopped when he saw the newgreen was too bright for the old yellow-green of the house. Nowthe sign says WITH UPTOWN SODA POP in faded orange letters.The paint spot covers the LIVE IT UP part.
Marcus leaned the sign against the house and we crawledinto the hole to dig in the mud. We filled up one can with wormsand started on another one but the Woman came home and I hadto stop.
Marcus said we caught enough to probably make a dollar fiftyif he can take them to Belle Isle and sell them to some grownupswho fish there. If he sells them to some boys he'll make aboutfifty cents.
The Woman said I can't be around him for the next fewdays because I have the Curse. I don't know much about itexcept I started to bleed all of a sudden for no reason at all andit's been three or four days now and never stopped. I don'tknow if it ever will. But it doesn't hurt so I just forget about itsometimes. I know I can't touch the flowers while I have it, itwould make them die. The Woman told me that. Can't touchMarcus either she said. Something awful could happen to himif I did and she'd kill me for it. And there's the womanhood ragsI have to burn as soon as I take them off. Someone could usethem to do things to her.
I don't know why they're called womanhood rags. It seems likeit would mean they're for a woman. I'm not a woman, I know.Eleven and a half is too young to be one and I don't look like one,act like one, or feel like one. But she said I am a woman now, said"I don't know how this house is gonna stand having two women init" as soon as she found out I started bleeding.
I still don't know much about what this has to do with beingaround Marcus except it must have something to do with the reasonwhy his teeth are crooked. The Woman told Aunt Della shedidn't understand why here in Detroit they let girls go to schooland be around boys when they have the Curse.
"Can mess a boy up," she said. "Back where I come from, inmy time they didn't have none of that. A girl had the Curse shewas put up someplace where she couldn't get near nobody till itwas all over with. Folks could get messed up and they knew it."
I'm glad we're not back where she came from. I don't want tomiss school and I'd miss Marcus. I like him almost as much as Ilike you, Clarissa. When the Woman leaves I sneak and play withhim. I try hard not to touch him though, don't want anything badto happen.
Yesterday we made a game out of it. I was It because I havethe womanhood rag. The alley fence was Glue. Marcus didn'twant it to be, said James caught his elbow on its rusty wire. Butthere's nothing for Glue near the side fences. Just muddy dirt nearthe one between our house and the old people's, sand near theother one. But weeds are near the alley fence. Weeds tall as ourknees. Some grow through the wire that's not bent.
I like the alley fence. There I can see every house on the otherstreet. Every porch—some still good, others patched with siding,tin, wood. All the yards—two with grass and flowers, others fullof weeds. The rest just sand and dirt naked. I watch the peoplewho live in them go about their business. Sometimes they shaketheir heads at the patches, the weeds, the nakedness. Sometimesthey don't notice at all.
Got an A on the Catechism test.
Marcus hates Catechism. But when Sister talks about Godand the saints and all the stuff about heaven and archangels, itseems like she's telling us stories about places that are secret andpeople who are invisible. It's like being in a dream I don't want towake up from. I let my ears hold on to every word she says whileI close my eyes and look inside my head to see all the peopledoing secret invisible things.
I imagine them—even God—until they become real, butnobody can see them but me. It's like magic or something. Itseems like it might be a sin to say that God's like magic so I don'tsay anything about what He's like. I just listen and imagine. Sistersaid that nobody can remember as much in Catechism as I can.
I imagine souls in purgatory. Souls, not people. All kinds.Babies who died before they could get baptized, grownups andkids who died with sins that weren't mortal—which would takethem straight to hell—but venial that would take them to themiddle. Venial sin souls, stuck between visible and invisible,looking like pieces of fog floating around between heaven andhell. Scared and screaming because they can feel at least some ofhell's fire. Not all of it—only people in hell can feel all of the fire.They burn and scream, Clarissa, for hundreds of years. But notfor eternity. Or until someone saves them with indulgences.Indulgences are like Glue from all the suffering.
When Sister talks about hell I think about root working. A lotof it. I imagine people down deep under the bottom of the groundworking roots all the time, stealing rags and drawers and hair andeverything else from each other. I imagine them putting downpowder all the time, burning stuff all the time. That's why there'sso much fire. And I see the Root Worker laughing at the devilbecause he keeps trying to make her burn but can't—she's as powerfulas he is—while all the other people down there spend therest of eternity burning and scared of both of them.
We're going to heaven, Clarissa.
We took the long way home this afternoon so that we couldgo past the Root Worker's flat. It was Marcus's idea. He got tiredof playing the same old games I guess. Halfway there ReverendBlackwell from the church on Charlevoix Street pulled up besideus in his new car. Spanking new Buick the Husband calls it,since the last one was a 61—black, not even two years old—andlast month he bought another one. He rolled his window downand hollered out to us, "Lord sure did bless us with a fine daydidn't He?"
Marcus stopped and squinted at his face in the shiny hubcaps.I tugged at his sleeve. "Can't talk to him, Marcus," I whispered.
"Was just admiring all His gifts," Reverend Blackwell wenton. "Sun shining, roof over everybody's head far as I can see.Then I said, Lord look at those healthy looking kids. Clotheson their backs, shoes on their feet ... I know you mustthank Him."
We didn't say a thing.
Reverend Blackwell scratched his head. "What puzzles methough is I don't recall seeing you in church. Don't thank Himand He'll take it all away. Can't thank Him if you don't set foot inHis church."
Marcus frowned and pulled me with him. "We go to SaintAgnes!" he hollered over his shoulder.
"Ain't like it's home," Reverend Blackwell called after us."Nothing like coming back to your roots."
Seems like Reverend Blackwell's nice enough—always smilesand nods at everyone. But the Woman said he's a hypocrite, saidhow can somebody care about folks when he won't even liveamong them?
Reverend Blackwell doesn't live next door to his church likeFather Ritkowski. Not even in a rectory but on the west side,Clarissa. Where the houses are brick and nobody will walk past aweed without pulling it up from the ground. The Woman saidthat's where people who've made something of themselves live.She said Reverend Blackwell comes this way on Sunday to preachand collect money from folks so he can pay for his house and newcar. And on Fridays he comes to see what else he can get from allthe people he calls himself saving.
But Aunt Della said he's a foreman at the plant, that's how hehas so much. Said he marched downtown with Martin LutherKing and he'll march in Washington too if his church sends him.
"Did all that and they still ain't got nothing," the Womansaid. "How they figure sending him do the same thing someplaceelse'll get them any different?"
Aunt Della said she's going to move to the west side too assoon as she hits a big number. I think she likes him.
The big Buick drove slowly by us and on down the street,shining silver against the dirty brown and yellow houses. Shiningnew against the cracked sidewalk and dried-up tree stumps themen said they'd come back for—that was when I was seven.
I watched the big car shine smooth and polished through theshadows that paint-peeling porches made in the street. It stoppedbeside an old white Cadillac with black and green doors and asquashed-in tail fin. Reverend Blackwell stuck his head out thewindow to talk to the man who squatted in front of its jacked-upfront wheel.
We caught up with Marcus's friends Little Man and Eddienear the Root Worker's flat. Little Man was arguing that theyshouldn't mess with her. "You'll be sorry if she put a fix on us," hesaid. "Cause then what can we do?"
It didn't make any sense to Eddie.
"Aw, Little Man," he said, "what would she want to do that forwhen all she sees is just some kids walking by?"
"But she knows," Little Man said after he thought about it aminute.
"My daddy said she don't know nothing," Eddie told him."Except how to take a lot of dumb folks' money and stir up someshit."
I eased back and didn't say a thing, just kept my mouth shutand tried to think about sitting on the steps and talking to you,Clarissa. And I tried to think about God and going to heaven butmostly about you. Every now and then the Root Worker's facelaughed inside my head. That's when I concentrated harder and Itried to see God again but all I saw was you. That was goodenough.
"Then why'd Mr. Stevens drop dead like he did?" Little Manasked. "Mama said Mr. Stevens was all right before his wife gottired of his no-working ass and went to see the Root Worker.After that he couldn't hold his own pee. Next thing she knew hejust up and dropped dead. Like that."
"Auntie said the Root Worker's a good woman, can fix whatGod and the doctors give up on," Marcus said.
Oh, my God, I am heartly sorry ... I prayed.
"You believe that?"
"Look at old Miss Morris," Little Man went on like he knewmore than any of us. "She was ate up with cancer and the doctorcouldn't do a thing to fix it. They prayed but she was dying—couldn'tdo nothing. They took her to the Root Worker and lookat her now."
... and I detest all my sins, this one too ...
"You dumb? God did it, not her. Did a miracle."
Little Man wouldn't give up. "My mama said the RootWorker pulled live snakes right out of Miss Hettie's belly—"
"My daddy said Miss Hettie is a snake."
"—and she stopped the devil from taking over Mr. Gray'swhole self."
"Sister said we shouldn't believe that stuff!" I screamed atthem. "It's a sin!"
They all got quiet, then turned around.
"What you talking about her to Sister for anyway, Ellen?"Marcus asked. "You know Mama said don't go telling stuff."
"I didn't," I hurried up and said.
Eddie interrupted. "My uncle said it's the Root Worker who'sthe devil."
They kept arguing about her till we were in front of her flat.
I froze when we saw the long narrow steps that led up toher door. Twenty-two. I counted them twice this week.Twenty-two steps on the side of the empty red store withKERCHEVAL AVENUE HARDWARE—QUALITY LAWNMOWERS writtenin almost invisible crayon on a sign that dangled in its window.It used to be twenty-four steps, Clarissa. Maybe twenty-five.I can tell by the big empty space between the top ones.Sometimes I imagine the steps leading to heaven like they doon television. But today my eyes followed the brick to the tinywindow above the store. And then followed the last step to theheavy dark door with a yellow board nailed at the top whereglass used to be.
Marcus laughed. "Counting to five," he said. "Not on Glue byfive you got to go up there knock on her door—one, two ..."
We took off, grabbing trees, leaping on grass, and screamingGlue! as fast as we could.
"There she is!" someone yelled and we ran like lightning.Boys hollering and girls screaming, flying off every which way,running for our lives and not looking back. I was right behindMarcus.
We made it home and fell on the front stairs. Marcus laughedand tried to catch his breath at the same time. "I didn't see anyone,"he said. "You?"
I didn't see her, just ran like everyone else. Hope she didn'tsee me.
* * *
Got the Curse again.
When it first stopped I thought it left for good. But it cameback again, and again this time. Goes away just to come back. TheWoman said it'll happen the rest of my life and won't stop till Iget too old to be any use to anyone.
I don't want to think about hiding rags, being carefulno one finds them, then hauling out the oildrum and makingfires. Sneaking rags out to burn twice a day every month forthe rest of my life almost. How many times you think that'llbe, Clarissa?
I woke up early this morning and pulled the mattress out onthe upstairs porch. The Woman said someone's coming overtoday. She hates the smell of pee and hates it even more when shegets company. I don't like to pee the bed but I can't stop and itmakes her mad.
"Ain't trying hard enough," she tells me all the time. "Just tootrifling to get up and go to the bathroom."
I would get up if I could wake up and feel it, Clarissa. But thetrouble is I just can't feel it. So every morning I put the sheet andblanket on the upstairs porch banister and drag the mattress outto air. I'm ashamed because they're out there where the wholeworld can see my trifling ways.
This morning the Woman let me wash the sheet and blanketat least. "Don't want piss hanging all over the porch where theycan see it. And I don't want you dragging that smell back in thishouse," she said.
I washed the bed things and hung them on the line in thebackyard. When I started for the steps I remembered the rag. Iran upstairs and found it on the porch where it dragged out underthe mattress, still balled up in the newspaper I wrapped it in thismorning. I took it out and burned it.
When I turned to go back in the house I saw an empty spoton the line where the sheet should have been but wasn't. Then Iheard James under the porch. And Leslie Johnson.
"Hold still. Got to put it in." I heard him whispering loud. Iwent over to see.
"Shh! Somebody'll hear us, James!" Leslie sounded mad.
"Can't nobody hear us. Hold still." James spoke a littlelouder.
"But you never said we're going together!" She was mad."Can't let nobody do it if they ain't my boyfriend."
"Told you I like you," he said. "You know that. Else whywould I be with you?"
"Get up, James," she said louder and madder. "You ain't serious,just want to use somebody."
I squatted and peeked in the opening straight at James'sbrown butt shining buck naked and up in the air hanging overLeslie's thighs. She shoved at him and then spotted me over hisshoulder.
"James!" she hollered trying harder to push him up. He justlaughed and kept prying at her thighs with his knee.
"Fool, somebody's looking!"
He turned his head and she scrambled to pull her drawers upover her butt that was on top of my sheet.
James frowned and hollered, "What you looking at, girl? Getout of here!"
I couldn't move.
"Get out of here, Ellen!" he hollered looking around forsomething. "Move, I said!"
I stared at James's naked thighs and the thing that stoodstraight out like a snake between them. And inside my head Iwatched the Root Worker pull a snake out of Miss Hettie's belly.
A rock hit my shoulder.
"You crazy and deaf? I said leave!" James looked around foranother rock to throw.
Leslie fought to get up but James held her down with hiselbow. I moved in slow motion, half crawling, half scooting awayfrom the hole, and almost fell. I went up the steps over the crawl-holeas Leslie cried under my feet.
"Shh! Leslie," James whispered. "She's my sister, ain't nothingto be scared of. Talks to herself, I swear."
Leslie laughed. And then they were quiet.
I tried to stay away from him all day. Seems like I must havesinned. Not because I had seen what he was doing with Leslieunder the stairs but because I wanted to see. He reminds me aboutit every chance he gets, moving his hips around like he's humpingor something, laughing and whispering, "Leslie, Leslie," whenhe's close enough to do it.
This evening I watched the rest of the clothes go aroundin the washing machine. I didn't think about much, just let mymind go around squishing up and down with the clothes, watchingthe suds disappear and come back up again. I was putting theshirts through the wringer when I felt James's breath on the backof my neck.
"Leslie, Leslie," it whispered.
I almost caught my fingers in the wringer.
"Ellen, wanna see something?" he asked. He reached in hispants and pulled out his thing. I turned my head away.
"Feel it, Ellen," he whispered to my neck. He grabbed myhand and tugged. I snatched it back.
"James, are you crazy?" I whispered. "I'm telling!"
"Crazy?" He laughed. "You calling somebody crazy? It's youain't wrapped too tight—who you gonna tell?"
The basement floor was cold. That's all I could feel. And thenall I could see was James on top of Leslie. Leslie turned into you,Clarissa, and I watched.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE ROOT WORKER by RAINELLE BURTON. Copyright © 2001 by Rainelle Burton. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.