Black and Blue Ivy

Banished Children of Eve

The pounding in my head reminded me of the time I accidentally drank vodka-laced orange juice. Like many mornings, it was the only edible thing I could find in the fridge. While Morningstar was snoozing on the sofa, I had snuck quietly into the kitchen and gulped down half the carton. Later, when I was puking my guts out in the bathroom, she let me have it--raging and yelling. She wasn't upset her twelve-year-old daughter nearly died from alcohol poisoning but pissed because she had been "saving" the toxic mixture for a date later.

I think that experience saved me in the long run, however, because the very smell of any alcoholic beverage has since made me dizzy and nauseous. I was never tempted to indulge in the 40s or Night Train bottles passed hand to hand around the skate park trashcan fires.

As I lay facedown on the linoleum tile floor that smelled like centuries of built-up wax, trying to decide which hurt worse, my head or my gut where Dolores had landed some hard kicks, I sensed a presence enter the room. Bracing myself for another attack, I cracked my eyes open just enough to spot a kitchen knife gleaming in the dish strainer. If I were to propel myself off this floor, I thought, and grab that knife I might have just enough time to turn and twist it into Dolores' gut. The vision of her pig-like face squealing in pain as I thrust in the blade revitalized my limbs with visions of sweet vengeance. I was contemplating how I would simultaneously send Naomi's head spinning across the immaculate kitchen when I decapitated her with a meat cleaver, when hard footsteps clicked toward me then stopped.

I smelled burning incense and mothballs when the dark figure leaned over me. Firm hands jabbed into my armpits and guided me to a seated position. As I blinked through hot tears, the face of Sister Mary Francis, St. Vincent's Reverend Mother, slowly shifted into focus. She appeared aged from the deep lines bracketing her mouth, but her tightened grip indicated a youthful strength concealed beneath her black habit.

"You're bleeding," she said, pale gray eyes behind bifocals scanning my body.

"They beat me up. It wasn't my fault," I blathered through a fresh onslaught of tears.

Her hard "shhh" silenced me as she guided me to my feet and wheeled me toward the kitchen door. "Stop bawling. You're not a baby. We'll discuss it in my office."

Falling in lockstep with her towering figure, my footsteps echoed through the empty hallways in time with hers. Her black crepe veil fluttered behind her in soft whisper. The crystal rosary swinging from her plain belt caught the light and shimmered, adding an odd note of glamour to her austere appearance. I imagined it was gifted to her when she first became a nun, by her family perhaps.

I kept my eyes trained on a life-sized statue of Mary at the end of the hall. Illuminated by a hidden light within the wall niche, the plaster halo around her head appeared to glow. I thought of the rosary prayer I had memorized by sheer rote.

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs mourning and weeping in this vale of tears.

The Reverend Mother stopped abruptly before a darkly-stained door with a window of thick wavy glass. She whipped out a keychain hidden in the dark folds of her habit, shoved the key in the lock with a hard twist, and the door creaked open. She stepped aside so I could enter first. As soon as the door shut softly behind me, whatever bulwark of strength I held onto cracked, and a hot mixture of tears, blood, and snot poured out unrestrained as I sobbed into my hands.

Her tongue clucking with what I assumed was disapproval, perhaps even disgust, the Reverend Mother retrieved a box of tissues off the desk and thrust it into my hands.

I guessed her secretary didn't work weekends. The office was shadowy, silent as a tomb.

A second door opened into her office. "Come inside."