Dancing With Mrs. Brown

The interviewer entered the gray room, slid the chair from the folding table, set his recorder down, and crossed his legs.

"Mrs. Brown, thank you for meeting me today." He scanned her bird-like figure. "Are you comfortable?"

Her shoulders lifted and relaxed with a heavy sigh. "Don't matter too much if I am, do it?" Mrs. Brown's eyes focused on his, pulling him into their depths. "I on the edge right now. No turning back. But I fine." She leaned into the table. "Ask your questions."

He cleared his throat. "Yes, Ma'am." He shuffled some papers he drew from his satchel. "Yes. Okay."

She continued to look into his face, gaze steady.

"Ma'am, you've been here close to eighteen months?"

"Yeah, that sound right." She brushed her forehead with her palm, returned her hand to her lap. "Feel longer."

"How do you feel? About tomorrow night?"

She took a moment, looked up toward the tiny rectangular window near the ceiling. "I feel all right, I suppose." She continued to stare at the light, the clouds moving across the sky breaking the sunlight into morse code.

A few minutes passed. He looked down, smoothing the edges of the notepaper. They curled up again. He pressed them down firmly, considered folding them under. They popped up again when he lifted his palms and set them flat against the tabletop.

"Mrs. Brown? Would you like to tell your story?"

She turned her face toward him, as her gaze remained on the patch of sunlight. "Time is right, I think. You gonna turn that thing on?" She glanced at the recorder, then into his eyes.

She's already dead. I'm talking to a corpse. "Yes, Ma'am." He set the device on its edge, microphone directed her way, pressed the button. "All set."

Mrs. Brown smiled a ghost smile, her eyes returned to the window, then glided to the far corner of the room. Dim suited her.

"I liked to fuck. Ever' which way, and I was game. Never took no money for it, though. I wasn't no whore. I just liked men, is all. They sure liked me. And I could dance. Like watching fire, they say. I loved dancin'."
Her eyes sparkled a bit, floating in the growing dim of the room.

"Mr. Brown saw me dancin' one night, decided he was gonna meet me. He said he knew he was to marry me that first night, as I straddled him in bed. He said I had a smile like warm honey." She smiled, her face turned to the side, eyes far away. "He had his way, and we was married. Only days later. And we was happy."

He smiled a bit, watching her remember. He checked the recorder.

"I moved to his place, ironed his shirts, made his dinner, rode him ever' night. He worked a nightclub down the street. Before too long, we made a baby." She swallowed, her hands clenching the sides of her pants. "Micha. He came quick, so quick I birthed him at home. Dinner almost burned. Mister was at work, so I was alone, but I wasn't scared. I knew he'd never hurt me. And he didn't." She breathed in a short sob, holding her two hands to her chest. Eyes large, teared to full. "Didn't hurt at all." The corners of her mouth tightened, pulled down. "He came out gray. Wouldn't cry, wouldn't breathe. Never woke up to the world." She rocked softly, hands to her heart. Her lips trembled, then tightened again. Eyes dry. She smiled. "I washed him clean, wrapped him in my church dress, and took him to the dumpster out back."

The interviewer raised his head, startled. Consulted his notes. Judgement: death by asphyxiation.

"Excuse me?" He struggled to modulate his voice.

She faced him, face raw, open. "Yes'm. You think it wrong? You think I don't love my baby?" Her hands clenched, gripping her shirtfront. "What you think, Mister?"

His hands flew up, fingers spread. "No. No, I can't say. I wasn't there, right?"

"That's right. Damn right. You wasn't there. You can't." She pointed, punctuating her words. "Know. What. I. Did." She kept her finger raised, ragged fingernail aimed at his heart. Her ragged eyes aimed at his soul. "What? You think?" She began to shake, her ankle cuffs tapping against the legs of the metal chair. "You think I hurt my baby?" Her voice rose to a shriek, teeth bared, her grimace a savage grin.

"Mrs. Brown! I never. I wouldn't. Please." He leaned back, sure to stay out of reach. He pressed his fingers to the edge of the table. "Please."

She trembled, tiny quakes rolling through her from head to toe, her pulse dancing in her throat. She moved her gaze back to the window, the fading light still creating ceiling mosaics. She stilled, mouth slightly open. "I don't talk no more."

"Are you sure? Wouldn't you like everyone to understand?"

She wiped her mouth, straightened her shirt. She stared at the working recorder. "No way they can. That baby, he...he was the key. The key to the cage. Mister kept me close, kept me dim. I couldn't let him have my baby. If he saw him, held him, I never get free. Baby was the key. I hid the key." She looked up, eyes fierce. "Don't you get it?"

"You wanted to be free?"

"No. I wanted to be here. After tomorrow, I be there."

"There?"

"In hell."

He leaned in closer. "I don't understand."

"I knowed I couldn't get Mister. He too big. Too strong. But I could get his baby. I get his baby, I go to hell for sure."

He held his breath, "But, why?"

"I want to dance in hell, Mister. I want to dance with the Devil." And she smiled, eyes glittering as she chuckled softly, straightening. "I is a good dancer, like fire."