kitten loose on the floor and Matthew and I
proceeded to chase it around the kitchen and
living room area. Suddenly the door burst open,
and Bobby walked into the apartment.
His rage was instantaneous. Upon setting eyes on
the kitten, he began to unleash his anger upon
Debbie who was caught off-guard by his sudden
appearance.
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“What you doin bringin’ some filthy animal in
my house? What da hell you think you doin’?” he
screamed.
“I - didn’t - do - baby,” she sputtered through her
sobs as Bobby pounded down on her, “it’s -
Greg’s - kitten.”
His fists stopped in mid-air and he sprang back. I
was scurrying around the floor trying to catch
and protect the kitten. Bobby lunged forward into
the living room where I was huddled on the floor
with the kitten safely in my arms. At his approach
I pressed my face down into my folded arms
covering the kitten. Bobby grabbed my exposed
neck into his fist and pulled me from the floor. I
held the crying kitten more tightly against my
chest.
He dragged me to the window on the far wall
next to the television. With his free hand he
opened the window and jerked my head up to
face him, still holding my neck with the other.
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He plucked the kitten from my hands. Holding
my beautiful kitten by the neck with his thumb
and forefinger, he dangled it before my face.
“Don’t you ever bring no shit like dis in my house
again, ya hear me?” Before I could answer, he
effortlessly flipped my kitten out the window like a
Frisbee. He held my body up to the window and
made me watch my kitten fall through the air and
hit the ground.
He threw me away from the window and
slammed it shut and pulled the shade down. In
one step he was standing at my feet. He took
another step forward and put a crushing foot onto
my chest. I gasped for air and grabbed his foot.
“Don’t touch me wit’ yo filthy hands,” he hissed
as he shook his leg loose from my grasp, kicking
me in the face in the process.
“What da fuck you gon’ do wit a damn cat in dis
house? We got too many moufs ta feed already. I
don’t want no dirty animal in here with my baby
girl.” Bobby and Debbie had recently had a child
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together, her name was Ruby, and she was asleep
in the next room. She was just under a year old,
and she was the most important person in the
apartment as far as Bobby was concerned, even
more important than Matthew.
He bent down, putting his face where my kitten
had been just moments before, “I don’t want no
filthy animal near my baby girl.” He slapped me
hard across the face.
“Do. You. Understand?” His emphatic speech
was littered with spit.
I managed a whimpered, “Yes” before he slapped
me again.
“I’ma make sure you understand boy!” He pulled
me from the floor by my shirt and threw me
against the wall. I shrank to the floor at impact.
“Get up. Get up. GET. UP!” He raged.
The force of the impact had made rising from the
floor impossible. Bobby stormed across the small
room and lifted me up again.
“You sonuvabitch, I said GET UP BOY!”
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Raised to a standing position he held my limp
body against the wall and slapped my face forcing
my head into the wall with each backhanded
blow. The smell of tobacco on his hands replaced
the sweet smell of the kitten I had cherished.
Debbie appeared behind Bobby and grabbed his
waist, pulling him toward her.
“Please baby, please let him go. He didn’t know,
he’s sorry,” she pleaded.
Though my ears rang, I heard her words, and
grew furious with her for letting Bobby believe I
had brought the kitten into the house, for letting
Bobby hurl my kitten out the window, for letting
Bobby beat me. I was angry but helpless, pinned
against the wall. Debbie’s tugging on Bobby’s
waist was a fruitless effort. My beating continued
and in a single motion he slapped me then
Debbie, knocking her to the floor. Matthew as
usual was nowhere in sight.
The beating continued until Bobby wore himself
out. His heavy breathing was hot on my face. I
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saw blood on his hands that was surely mine. He
pulled his hand from my chest and let me fall to
the floor. He walked away casually to the kitchen
table. Through my swollen eyes I watched as he
unloaded his pockets. Pulling a miniature manila
envelope from his pocket, he flipped the top and
pressed it open. He dumped its contents onto the
table. Debbie’s formerly lifeless body was
suddenly revived as she crawled to the table.
“Baby, let me get a bump, baby, please,” she
begged.
“Fuck you. You let your bastard kid bring that rat
into my house an’ now ya wanna bump off my
shit?” he didn’t take his eyes off of the powder
that he smoothed out into a series of lines with the
bottom edge of the miniature envelope.
There was more faint pleading and then shouting
but the sounds became steadily more distant.
Slumping further down the wall I drifted into
unconsciousness.
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I was kept home from school the next day since
my face was swollen, and there was no excuse to
give to the school for such a sight. I heard Debbie
and Bobby arguing about it before Bobby angrily
left the apartment. After he was gone Debbie
crept into my room, lifted me from the bed, and
brought me to the couch. First fastening the chain
on the door, she turned on the television and
found some cartoons. I couldn’t see very well
through my swollen eyes, but the sounds of the
outside world were comforting. Debbie brought
ice wrapped in a wet towel and gently set it across
my face. The sudden bitter cold stung for only an
instant before the pain began to subside. I fell into
a deep sleep, listening to the television and
Debbie’s sobs.
A knock on the door scared me awake. I sat up
painfully and the wet towel fell to my lap, my eyes
barely able to make out the door in front of me.
The knock sounded again. Standing up slowly I
saw the chain hanging from the wall. I was home
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alone. I walked to the door and asked, “Who’s
there.”
“It’s me, from downstairs,” said a kind, sweet
voice I recognized from sitting for weeks at her
side.
I opened the door, and in her shabby dress she
held out a kitten, not my kitten, but another that I
recognized from all the days sitting by the box full
of them. She spoke quietly and evenly when she
said, "You lost something."
My appearance did not seem to shock or surprise
her. She, like most of the occupants of the
building, understood what was going on in our
apartment but made no mention. Aside from the
constant noise, there was a lot of traffic in and out
of the place. She must have somehow seen or
become aware of the dead kitten behind the
building. After some mumbled protestation on
my part, she insisted I take the new kitten.
After she left I did my best to nuzzle the kitten as
carefully as possible so it didn’t run off or bite my
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swollen face. But my face was too sore and I was
too weak to control the young animal that was
unaccustomed to being held. The kitten leapt
from my hands to the couch to the floor and
scurried throughout the apartment. Stumbling
around, I chased it without success. The
frightened kitten ran into the kitchen and
between the refrigerator and the stove. There it
stayed, singing its sorrowful kitten cry for the
world to hear. Panicking, I grabbed the broom
from the other side of the refrigerator and tried
blindly to find the kitten.
The kitten stopped crying and this made it more
difficult to locate. As I fumbled around, trying to
get the new kitten free, Bobby walked through the
door. I turned to face him, but my expression of
guilt and fear were masked by the swelling.
Finding me digging behind the oven with the
broom he half smiled, “Glad someone ‘round
here’s cleaning this shithole.”
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At the sound of the voice, the kitten started its
song again. Bobby was on me before I knew it.
He grabbed the broom from my hands and
swung it sideways, connecting with the back of
my head.
“That bitch mother a’ yours aint here to protect
you this time boy. You tryin to hide that fuckin
cat from me? Dat what you doin’? Think you can
hide that fuckin’ cat in my house and I aint gonna
know it?” His words spewed out in a flurry of
contempt as he swung the broom at my already
battered body. The kitten continued crying.
“This where it is boy? You gonna hide behind the
stove like I aint gonna know? Dis my fuckin’ stove
mufucka,” with those words he grabbed the oven
with both hands and ripped it from the wall,
exposing the balled up kitten. I stood in front of
the refrigerator, having narrowly escaped being
crushed by the toppled oven.
He stepped over the oven to grab the kitten. This
time he wrenched the kitten up with his fist tightly
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around its neck. The kitten stopped crying, then
stopped breathing in Bobby’s large, leathered
hand. Stepping back over the oven, he grabbed
my throat with his free hand and again dragged
me over to the window. The kitten and I dangling
helplessly from our flimsy necks, we made it to
the window under a flurry of threats and insults.
My head was ringing from the pain. I couldn't
hear much of what was said, but I tried to pay
close attention. Again he made me watch as he
sent the dead kitten soaring through the
afternoon sky.
Heaving me up by the neck with both hands he
held my head out of the open window. He put his
face against my ear and snarled, “If I see one
more gotdamn animal in dis house YOU will be
goin’ out dis window wit’ it.”
He pulled me back into the apartment, slammed
the window closed, and threw me to floor. As I
lay in a pile of tenderized flesh, I told myself that I
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would get a cat as soon as I was able. I would
always have a cat, and I'd treat it well.
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“Have I got a gift for you!” my principal said, as
she approached me in the hall.
It was 7 AM, and I was waiting for my students to
arrive. “Great, you know I always enjoy a new
challenge. What’s his name?”
A devious smile crept across her face. “Kendra!”
“A girl?” my displeasure was apparent in my
tone.
“Yup, she’s been in our system for less than a
week and was terrorizing the school from day
one. Yesterday she attacked a girl in gym class
and hurt her pretty badly.” She passed me a
photocopied registration form. “Her mom’s in
prison. She just moved here to live with her
auntie. According to her transfer sheet, she’s been
moving around a lot, going from relative to
relative.”
I took in this new development for a moment.
“When’s she coming?”
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“She’s on the bus right now. She starts today.
The Director of Schools wants her with you.” She
spoke as if offering a compliment.
I took a deep breath. “Yes ma’am. I’ll take care of
her.”
“I know you will.” She turned to walk away. With
her back to me, she waved and chimed, “Good
luck.”
Females in a behavior program had historically
been an issue for me because the classes are
usually full of pubescent boys, as my class was at
the time. I stood by the door with a new
trepidation. The first bus pulled up, and I walked
out the double glass doors, positioning a doorstop
to hold one door open, so I wouldn’t be locked
out. The bus stopped, and the door opened as I
approached.
“Good morning, Mr. Love, got a new one for
ya,” said the affable bus driver.
“I heard,” I replied, doing my best to sound
cheerful.
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“She’s a pistol. She’s already started in with the
boys. Be careful,” she warned.
“Yes ma’am. Thank you ma’am.” I said, biting
my tongue.
The boys filed off, and I greeted each one with a
friendly “Good morning Sir,” and I got the same
in return. Finally a hesitant young woman
appeared at the front of the bus. She took one
slow step down, then another. She stopped, and
we were eye to eye as she stood on the last step of
the bus. We were sizing each other up. I
immediately noticed the cross hanging from her
neck. This particular cross was a craft commonly
made by prison inmates.
Pointing to the cross braided from thin white
string I asked softly, “Did your mother make that
for you?”