Crave by Laurie Jean Cannady Page A

sidewalks of Portsmouth, Virginia. He’d lost money, time, wedding vows, and memories. More of him was lost than she’d ever found.
    â€œCarl, you know that money was for food. I pray you didn’t drink it up again,” she said.
    â€œLook, girl, I was just having some fun. Ain’t nobody drinking nothing up.” He said this as he slid toward her. “Lois, you so serious, gotta learn to live hard, girl, ’cause when you get old, you gone be soft.” He accented his last sentence with a thrust and a wind of his pelvis.
    â€œThis is not funny, Carl,” she said. “We have no food.” She rubbed her belly. “Champ is hungry.” She pointed at him on the floor. “I am tired.” She pulled her hand through her hair. “And I am alone.” With that, her hand went to her face to stop tears she did not want to fall. “All I have is two dollars and that is only enough to buy milk. I can’t take this anymore. I’m sick. The baby’s sick and I can’t even count on you to go to the store.”
    â€œGive me the money,” he said with a grin. “I’ll go to the store.” She initially intended to ask him to go, but once he volunteered, she knew she couldn’t give him her last two dollars. Before she could say “no,” he shot into the bedroom.
    They raced to the dresser and squared off.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” he claimed. “I’m just gonna flip it and make more.” Momma wanted to believe him, but his “flipping,” rather than multiplying, had always divided. After so many times, she knew what could be flour, rice, and navy beans would be poured down his throat. He was still playing, laughing, and smiling as he pleaded. But it was not a real smile, not a real laugh. A jagged snigger snaked out of his throat. He pushed her from the drawer. Momma bounced back with each shove. He laughed, as the bounce became part of the game. He finally granted her entry into the drawer. She grabbed the money and clenched it behind her. He reached, pressing his body against hers, rubbing his hands up and down her thighs and around her chest as she cried, “Stop playing, Carl.” But he was not playing anymore. He wanted her, tears and all, on the bed under him.
    He pulled her from the dresser, as she caged herself behind her arms. She thrust all of her power against him with her belly. He fell to the bed. She fisted the money, stuffed it under her breast and turned to see his smile, the real one and fake one slathered together in a scowl. She knew then he didn’t want her anymore. He just wanted the money and he wanted her to shut up.
    Her heart thumped too heavily in her chest. She felt it in her neck, in her temple, in her belly. Cramps tightened with each beat. The baby inside thrashed violently. I sometimes wonder if LaTanyawere gasping for amniotic air or bracing for what was to come. Momma, wailing, ordered him to leave, and warned she’d call his parents, Ms. Mary and Mr. Frank, if he didn’t act right.
    An image of his father, green eyes, red whites, slurring words, and his mother’s arms crossed around herself, a hug meant for him holding her together, angered him even more. Hands flailing, he paced the room, stopped, looked at her, pointed, screamed something incomprehensible, and charged toward her, pressing her back into the dresser. He clamped her forearm and began turning, turning, turning, as if he were wringing out a washrag. Momma’s arm remained wrapped around her breasts and her belly. When he released her, his hand impressions were hot against her flat skin. Despite the pain, she held on to the two dollars.
    â€œLois,” he said her name repeatedly, as if it were a nail he could tap flat.
    â€œI have to feed Champ, Carl,” she said. “I got to get some food for the house.”
    â€œGive me the damn money, Lois,” he snarled. Spittle sprinkled the