Pride's Run (29 page)

I could turn my anger on her, but why bother.
Instead, I grab the kettle, march out the apartment and knock on
Mrs. Fillmore’s door, all without saying a word. Mrs. Fillmore
opens it, only after taking a quick look through the peek hole. It
took me months to get her to accomplish that act. Before, she
simply opened the door. My stern lectures about why she should
never do that, especially in this building, finally made her become
more leery. Part of me hated making a seventy-plus year old lady,
who spends most of her time wearing her purple housecoat, and
fluffy pink cat slippers, scared to answer the door. Better safe
than sorry and in my part of the city sorry only gets you
killed.

The door opens wide and she lets me in.
Immediately the smell of baby powder and old lady perfume hits me.
She grimaces, spotting the kettle. She doesn’t say anything. I live
in a world thick with silence. She turns on the tap and the front
burner of her puke-green stove, and then brings out a plate of
homemade chocolate chip cookies.

My stomach growls like an angry dog. Good
thing she is hard of hearing. The kettle whistles a few minutes
later. She clicks off the burner. I make my way to the door. The
entire transaction is done in complete silence because we’ve done
this enough times to know our routine. I don’t like her pity but
having no water ain’t fun one bit.

Only at the door does she grab my sleeve.

“For Fay, Jay. I can’t eat all of these.” She
thrusts the plate of cookies into my other hand. I nod, and accept
them. It’s the same old, same old.

Jesus Christ, I feel the well of tears I hate
fill my eyes. Taking the plate of cookies she pushes in my hand, I
am out the door without a word of thanks for anything. My throat’s
clogged and I’m starting to really hate the routine of my life.

I pour some of the water in the sink. Add the
lemon-scented dish detergent, the same frigging stuff I use to wash
my hair, and plunk the dirty dishes in it to soak.

The cookies I stash away. No way am I eating
them. They are for Fay. She shouldn’t eat the cookies but since
there’s not much else in the house they’ll have to do until I can
get the food she needs. I notice Mom is in her room still dressed
but she’s sprawled across her bed, asleep. She didn’t even look in
on Fay. No change there. I hope Mom has nightmares because she
deserves them.

Starved, pissed at my life, at fifteen there
is not much I can do about it. I’d like to leave, to walk away from
all this shit, but I can’t. Nothing and no one is going to take my
sister from me. Not the leukemia she’s got. Not the frigging
stone-faced social worker who visits once a month like clockwork,
checking on us to see if we are okay. My life ain’t perfect but
that’s life. I make myself clean the filthy dishes knowing no one
else will.