She Wanted To Die Because Her Son Was On Drugs

Irma wanted to die because her son was on drugs. She woke up shaking. From the sounds of the madrugada house she could tell Tomas was not home. Had not come home. Last night before he ran out the back door he spit at her and called her cunt. She'd punched him twice in the jaw. She didn't remember hitting him but her younger daughter Tina told her what she saw. He was fisting her bedroom door. She remembered starting out wanting to stop him. She remembered one moment when she felt like killing him. She didn't remember hitting him. He was much bigger than she was. He yelled much louder. She was hungover from her own drunk. Drunk on rage, drunk on her obsession to make her son get straight, clean and sober, by force of her own will. She rose and walked to the window facing the back yard. She knew she wouldn't sleep. She peered through the white metal shutters at the moonlit broad flat plantain leafs. She wanted to not think of Tomas. She wanted one breath, one moment she could call her own. She walked barefoot on the cold tiles through the door, not looking at the jagged hole Tomas had punched, past Tina's bedroom where she saw her sleeping on her belly, still hers, still safe. The street was lapping like acid at her door but it still hadn't gotten Tina. She was damned if the street was going to kill her son. She walked out into the moist sereno air of the yard and shuddered in the coolness, the only cool moment of the day. She studied the unformed green fingers of the plantain fruit then took down Tina's school uniform from the line. It wasn't good to iron clothes wet with sereno. Perhaps she'd become pasmada, stiff like a board despite her Mother's warnings. She took her time smoothing out the pleats of the navy blue skirt, forming the points of the collars of Tina's white shirt, flattening the buckling of the embroidered Sagrado Corazon emblem on the pocket. This morning she had time to make avena with milk and cinnamon sticks and cloves. She stirred and tasted for sweetness. She grated nutmeg on the sweet gruel. This was the breakfast Tina loved. Tina stood before her dressed all by herself in yesterday's uniform. Hair done in two braids. Part zigzagging across the top of her head marking her as a child who must be her own mother. "He called me cunt. He lunged at me. I stepped to him. He spit in my face. He punched through my bedroom door. I stepped into him, to stop him. I remember wanting to kill him. I remember hating him as much as I used to hate Ignacio. Except Ignacio was only a husband and when I came to the killing point I could get rid of him. But this one is my son. "Little Tina told me I punched him twice in the jaw." Irma looked away from Adela, and the little baby in Adela's arms. She knelt beside Adela and stroked the baby's tiny hand. "Tomas used to be my baby." Adela stood up heading for the door. "For Tina's sake you've got to get him out of the house." She didn't wait for Irma's answer. She'd heard it dozens of times. Irma put the pillow over her head. A second of silence. She lay on her abdomen, cheek to the side, arms alongside her body, breathing into the knot in her belly. The pillow muffled the sounds of Tomas who had finally come home and was in the kitchen dragging out of the refrigerator every container of leftovers she'd put away for him from the last five dinners he missed. In the morning the kitchen would look like a pig rooted there. "Pig." She yelled this loud enough for him to hear. She had an instant of hesitation before she was possessed by the demon who drove her to take him on when he wasn't sober. For a split second she could have simply thought the word, or whispered it, but now it was too late, she'd risen and screamed the word over and over. He picked up. And she picked up. Rage was her poison. Next she found herself in the kitchen, her face against her son's, looking with pure hatred at his drooping face. "This has got to stop." He laughed. "You've been with those people who have nothing to lose. Well, we do." He laughed again. He spread mayonnaise on a piece of bread. Globs of mayo dropped onto the counter and dropped on the floor. "Pig." "Stay out of my face. It's because of you I do this." "I pick up the glass and put it to your lips. I roll the blunt and light the blunt." "You're lucky I don't put my arms around your neck and squeeze." He feinted a lunge. He stepped back and began to lay slices of cheese on the bread. Mayo oozed and spilled. She screamed louder. He shook his head. "You're a bad Mother. You're going to wake Tina up." He walked away clutching the oozing sandwich, spilling mayonnaise all the way to his bedroom. Without looking back he stepped inside and slammed the door. She stood staring at the mess of containers, spoons, spilled food. She shook. She was hostage to this giant drunken baby suckling on the endless tit of the world. He was sucking her dry. Killing her. His Father she'd gotten rid of when at last the desire to save herself overpowered the desire to have a husband, the delusion that she might save a man from the rule of his cock, and yes, the bottle. Ignacio had been a drunk although not a sloppy, helpless one like Tomas who had begun so young there was hardly a break between the baby bottle and the booze bottle. Ignacio had been a drunk who held a job and did his drinking with the others in the military, his peers, his competitors. Those he'd chosen over Irma, Tomas, Tina. She'd booted him from their home thinking he would see what he was losing and come home, come home thinking. Instead he'd seized his advantage and embraced the opportunity to drink and fuck without the interruptions of a crazy screeching woman. Playing the role of the crazy screeching woman today...was Irma!!!