Black and Blue Ivy

Fever Dreams

Although I had missed the family dinner, Bentley made sure Mrs. Roche brought my dinner to my room. I could tell when she entered that she hated waiting on me, hated humping up the tower steps especially, so I rushed to take the tray from her.

"I'll bring it down to the kitchen when I'm done," I told her stiffly.

"Fine," she huffed, brushing back an errant gray lock from her forehead.

When she reached the door, I said, "I heard I have a new baby sister."

Her eyes narrowed as if I disgusted her. She ran them up and down my body as if stripping me of my clothes, and left. I hated Mrs. Roche at that moment and vowed to never cross paths with her again if I could help it. But there were more pressing things than the dour Mrs. Roche. Like food!

I pounced on the dinner tray. Lifting the silver cloche covering the plate, I breathed in deeply the steamed aroma of a thick meatloaf rimmed with bacon, garlic potatoes, and green beans in butter. Fresh rolls steamed from the basket when I peeled back the linen napkin. I attacked those first, popping one in my mouth without bothering to butter it and then washing it down with gulps of cold milk. The Robinson household certainly knew how to feed me. Already I felt my flesh filling out the contours of my new clothes with curves I'd never had before. I'd have to watch or I'd get too big, but I was pounds away from that, so I ate and ate and ate until my stomach popped over the waistband of my tights. Satisfied at last, I lay on my bed wishing I had a TV to watch. I glanced at the night table that held only the white, leather-bound Bible Gardenia had given me as a welcoming gift. Although I did enjoy reading some of the Bible stories, especially the Old Testament ones about Lot and his wife turning to a pillar of salt. That always fascinated me probably because there was a painting of it, a reproduction I supposed, hanging in one of the hallways of St. Vincent's. The painting's dark contour fascinated and frightened me. I thought about finding that story and reading it before going to sleep, but I was so exhausted that turning pages seemed to be too much effort, so I turned out the light instead. Blue moonlight streamed in through the arched windows making slanted shadows on the floor and curved walls. The night was cold. The wind batted at the windows, seeping in through the cracks in the old frames. I yanked the covers to my chin and closed my eyes. As grateful as I was to be out of that horrid attic room and back in the relative safety of my bed, I was still disturbed by the events of the day. So disturbed that I found myself tossing and turning, unable to find a comfortable position. I realized what was bothering me. It wasn't neurotic Gardenia and her ridiculous ideas of parenting, her pathetic longing for a child that made her collect throw-away children like she were collecting dolls. She was trying to fill her own void the same way Morningstar did with drugs and dudes. Both were sad, broken-hearted women. And I wasn't, I vowed to the moonlight, going to end up like either one of them. No fucking way! But they were once young too. What happened to make them break like that?

The answer came with a gust of insistent wind against the glass.

They both fell in love. Morningstar with Luther Black and Gardenia with the child she could never have. And here Luther Black was so close to me. I could walk to his house if I wanted to. And say what? Hey, I'm your kid. Love me?

I jabbed my fist into the pillow and turned my back on the window. I didn't want to give into the temptation of staring out over the roofs across the moon-crusted lawn to gaze at Luther Black's inverted cross.

Why does love promise us paradise, I mused, but only turns out to be the source of so much pain?

And then my mind settled on the thoughts I had been avoiding all night.

"Bentley Robinson."

I imagined myself melting in his arms, our hearts beat in time together, becoming one....