Chicory by carol Torian

Naomi hated how her Aunt Mellie’s admonishing voice echoed in her head as she searched a leftover ham bone for enough scraps to make a decent sandwich for her husband Harold’s lunch. She certainly didn’t need to feel any worse than she already did. Standing in a cold kitchen, at five o’clock on a cloudy Monday morning. Wearing a grease-stained robe and a pair of old brown socks. And thinking about the way Harold had treated her body so carelessly the night before. Naomi swiped at tears with the back of her hand and quickly wrapped Harold’s sandwich in a piece of wax paper. She was filling his thermos with hot coffee when he entered the kitchen.

“Mornin’, shugga,” Harold said lazily as he placed a sloppy kiss on Naomi’s right cheek. Then he groped her breasts through the thinning fabric of her robe, and slapped her behind, before he plopped down at the table to wait for his breakfast. Just like he’d been doing for the last nine years of their marriage.

Naomi rolled her eyes and filled a chipped plate with scrambled eggs, biscuits, and fried fatback. She snatched a fork and spoon from a nearby drawer with such force that she startled a roach that was easing sluggishly over the knives. The roach toppled onto its back just as Naomi slammed the drawer shut.

“We got roaches again,” Naomi announced, setting Harold’s plate in front of him. “And I need some money to buy the children some shoes.”

Harold liberally sprinkled pepper on his eggs. “Well, just like my Mama say, Naomi, nasty breed nasty. You pick up a mop and broom ’round here sometime, and we won’t have no roaches.” He sneezed. “I ain’t never seen no roaches at Mama and ’nem house. I tell you that. ’Cause my folks is clean.”

Naomi ignored Harold’s comment and shoved her hand at him. He took a bite of his fatback and motioned toward her calloused palm. “What that ’pose to mean?” he asked.

“I told you I need some money to buy shoes for the children, Harold,” Naomi repeated, impatiently.

“Damn if you ain’t always trying to get yo’ hands in my pocket!” Harold chuckled. “I believe you’d steal off a dead man if you got the chance! Where yo’ money at? You go to work for white folks every day. Don’t they pay you?”

“I had to pay the light bill, Harold, and we needed some food.”

“And that took yo’ whole check?” Harold questioned skeptically, dipping a biscuit into some of the sweet molasses that Naomi had bought.

“You the man of the house, Harold!” Naomi shouted as she stomped back over to the stove. Empty-handed. “And you supposed to be a provider. We married!! But I swear sometimes you act like you don’t even remember the vows we said!”

“Oh, I remember all right,” Harold said, licking his fingers, one at a time, “and won’t nothing in our vows ’bout providing no shoes for no children.” He paused to drain his coffee cup and twisted in his chair to face Naomi. “And to be honest, I don’t even know if that oldest boy mine, no way. He mighty dark. Somebody else’s nappy-head bastard might could be running ’round here calling me Daddy for all I know. I mean, I ain’t seen yo’ black ass in months. Then here you come, back from that school in Georgia with yo’ belly all poked out.” Harold rounded a hand over his stomach to make his point. “Looking to me to marry you.” He pushed his plate away. “I coulda had any woman I wanted. You just lucky I’m a man who do the right thing. And took you at yo’ word.”

Took you at yo’ word. Perhaps Harold was joking, Naomi thought as she stared at him. But he didn’t look like he was joking as he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her. “What you mean, he mighty dark?” Naomi asked.

“I mean just what I said,” Harold told her, picking up a pineapple-shaped saltshaker and tossing it from hand to hand. “I got doubts.” He set the shaker down. “Ain’t nobody in my family bowlegged with no flat nose. And to tell you the truth, the boy kinda remind me of that old cross-eyed drunk who used to live down the road a ways from yo’ daddy’s house.”

Naomi felt as if she had been slapped, but she recovered quickly and grabbed a butcher’s knife. “Harold Chicory, you know you the only man I ever been with!” she screamed as she crossed the floor and shook the knife in his face. “You know that! And every child in this house is yours! Do you hear me?!!” She inched closer to Harold, touching the tip of the knife to his shirt pocket. “Do you hear me?!!”

Harold sucked in his teeth and got up from the table. He knocked the knife from Naomi’s hand and picked up his lunchbox. “I got to go to work,” he said.

“Do you hear me?!!” Naomi continued to yell. “Do you hear me?!!” But Harold ignored her as he put on his flat cap and brown corduroy coat and walked out the door.

Naomi ran into the yard screaming after him, but within seconds, the hum of Harold’s truck engine drowned out her voice. Still, she kept screaming as the truck bounced down the rutted driveway. It was nearly out of sight when Naomi picked up a handful of rocks and hurled them with all her might. The rocks sailed through the air aimlessly and landed on the dead grass where Harold’s truck had been parked. Naomi cursed and stamped her foot before she went back into the house to get the children ready for school.

At seven o’clock, the boys made a run for the car in the pouring rain. Naomi stepped off the back porch more cautiously, but thick red mud covered her navy canvas shoes anyway. In the car, she kicked off her shoes and socks. Barefoot, she drove fast. All the way to the main road. At the stop sign across from Tab’s Store, she looked left and then right. Then left again. Going right would take her to the elementary school. Going left would take her to the highway. Away from this town. Away from Harold. She turned left. Like she’d wanted to do so many times before.

“Where’re we going, Mama?!” her youngest son, Paul, shouted from the backseat. “Where’re we going?!”

Naomi couldn’t answer. She just kept driving.

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Copyright © 2010 by Carol Torian