Man Curse by Raqiyah Mays Page B

limp chicken pinned down under Marcus’s six-two, 250-pound frame.
    â€œGet off me, man! Get off me!” Danny screamed. “This ain’t got shit to do with you.”
    My cries echoed from the bedroom.
    â€œYou don’t hit women!” Marcus said, pushing him farther along the floor. “What’s wrong with you, man?”
    â€œFuck you,” Danny said, struggling. “Get the fuck off me!”
    â€œI’ll let your pussy ass go when you leave.” Marcus tightened his grip, pulling Danny’s arm behind his back. Mom got up and ran into the bathroom. A bright red imprint of busted lip blood smeared the door handle.
    â€œIt’s cool, man. It’s cool,” Danny said, out of breath. “I’m leaving.”
    Marcus loosened his grip, letting my father up off the ground.
    â€œWatch out for that bitch,” he said, pointing toward the bathroom door. “She sneaky. I ain’t fuckin’ with her no more.”
    And he turned and left. It would be years before I saw him again.

Chapter 8
    D uring the time I was living with Dexter, I often missed the safety and closeness of being in a familiar, feel-good place. The plush rose carpet with purple swirl flower designs. The window seat that played home to stuffed animals I’d collected my entire life. The soft, fluffy pink comforter atop my canopy bed, matching light and airy curtains flowing from rods. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it all. I loved being able to walk downstairs and eat as I pleased. No empty OJ cartons to greet me. No fruit basket with just one grape left. I hated when Dex did that. Eat a whole bushel of red grapes and leave me two, like he was being thoughtful. No man to cook for. None of his loud radio static blasting through the rooms, filling the space with noise, clogging thoughts in my head. At home, it was just me, my bed, my closet. Me happily alone.
    For the first week after I came back from Baltimore, everything was perfect. I’d sleep till noon and wake up to an empty house. Walk downstairs. Watch The Young and the Restless while cooking a huge Southern brunch of grits, eggs, potatoes, and biscuits. All were on my to-do list. At the end of the day, my mother would walk into the house with a smile on her face, asking about my day. I’d update her on the latest episode of The Bold and the Beautiful. We’d laugh. And it felt good, like a sisterly bond, rooted in her genuine happiness of my being home from school. But after a week, once she began to grow accustomed to my familiar presence, it was like I’d somehow soaked up all of the warm, welcoming energy, and made it turn to mildewy, stinking resentment.
    â€œMeena, you could’ve cleaned these damn dishes up,” she snapped, throwing her purse on the counter. “You been home all day, you don’t have to live like a slob.”
    I let out a slow exhale, trying to ignore her, feigning being focused on the TV, video bouncing across the screen with a long-haired girl gyrating to the beat. But it became hard to pay attention when my mother began speaking under her breath. Whispering and cussing in audible tones that made memories flash back, like deja vu, to childhood.
    â€œDamn slob. Can’t clean up. All you gotta do is wash the damn dishes, clean up your own shit.” She sucked her teeth. “Meena! Come get your damn books from off this table. This is not your desk!”
    I jumped as my mother hastily turned back to the kitchen sink. I slowly slid my Knicks cap off, remembering why I hated being home. Why growing up, I couldn’t wait to go to college and be away from the constraints of my mother and her venomous hold upon my heart and soul, which always seemed dampened by the wear and tear of criticism crashing my self-esteem. I wished she’d go to therapy. I wished she’d talk to someone about the miscarriage she’d had six months ago that doctors attributed to