Mama's Little Helper

Momma's Little Helper

"Momma grabbed my arms and squatted down to my level. Such lovely blue eyes--more purple than mine.

"'Genevive,' she said, ‘stand right here and wait for Donna. You all are going to stay with Aunt Joanne for few weeks while I do some errands. Can you be a big girl for Mommy?'

"‘Of course, Mommy; I'm a big girl. But I wanna go with you!'

"Big girls don't cry, so I tilted my head back to keep the tears from falling. I'd never been away from her more than one night, and I could sense something was up.

"‘It isn't safe, sweetie,' she said. ‘There are some very bad men looking for me. But don't you worry--I've got my magic wand, and I'll turn invisibubble!'

"I managed a weak smile, snuffled my tears, and hugged her tight. She kissed my forehead, then rushed down the sidewalk. She always dressed so chic, like a fashion model. That day she wore a yellow turtleneck and a brown peasant skirt that fluttered out the the bottom of her trench coat.

"She was in such a hurry she forgot the last part of our ritual, and I had to remind her.

"I yelled, "'Momma!' and flashed the "I love you" sign.

"She raised her arm in a return salute as she crossed the street. And that's all I remember before the sirens and chaos."

Dr. Silverman dropped his pen and put his fingertips together. "You are repeating what you've told me several times already, as if you're acting out a story--not reliving the moment. You still think you killed your mother?"

"Of course not. It was an accident."

"If you really believed that, would you be in here?" He peered at me over his half-moon glasses. I hate those glasses--he's too young to wear something that went out of style fifty years ago. Probably thought it made him look more the "professional" head shrinker, along with the steepled fingers. But an actor always knows. I can't help it; I have to test my boundaries, so I saved him ten minutes of beating around the bush.

"I believe you think I never got "closure" eleven years ago, so I'm stuck in this hellhole."

I saw his back stiffen a hair, but to his credit, he didn't flinch. He switched tracks. "How are the NA meetings going?"

I shrugged. "Fine."

That's one issue I can't afford to push him on. He doesn't need to know it's as easy to get drugs in a psych ward as a prison. Half the time they leave the pharmacy unlocked, and Jose took advantage of it. For a week of dessert I got three Valium and two hillbilly heroin, and they'd be kicking in any minute.

"Miss Perkins, I'm impressed with your progress. As we discussed, tomorrow you'll move to an assisted living facility. Would you like that?"

Condescend much? "Not really. I want to go home."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. I don't know what he was waiting for, but he needed to make it quick. My stomach and head were both swirling from the Oxy. I had about ten minutes before I started puking, tripping, or both.

The good doctor closed his portfolio and shoved it to the side. "You look a little under the weather. Are you feeling okay today?" I could see the concern in his eyes. He really thought he could save me.

"I haven't eaten much; just feeling faint."

"Well run down to the cafeteria and get a snack. We're finished. I'll see you tomorrow for your exit interview."

"Right on." I gripped the arms of the leather chair to push myself upright. Sheer will forced my legs to walk in a straight line. "Hey-thanksh for all your help, Doc." Jose was waiting for me as I stumbled through the door.

"Dude, you cut that one close. I told you not to take that shit before a session! You'll get us all in trouble!"

"Shut up and put your arm round me." I was feeling no pain, and my slurred speech proved it.

Jose got me into bed and went to ply cigarettes and pudding off someone else. That spick is an entrepreneur, all right. Plus, he's loyal. I gotta give the boy credit.

Ah, tripping is the name of the game today, and I've got hours of free time for my favorite activity--research and development. I never told the good doctor, but I knew both the bad men Mom was talking about. Paco and Timmy. They were at our house at all hours of the day and night. The stench of badness followed them everywhere; I could see it as a trail of falling black cinders. I never did understand why Mom couldn't smell it.

Paco would strut in without knocking and plop in a chair, demanding I get him a beer. He had long greasy black hair and a scar below his left eye. Sometimes he spoke Spanish to Mom so I couldn't understand what they were saying. On nights when he was too drunk to get out of the chair he usually pissed himself. Since that was where I slept, I got to clean it up. That was a good night. On bad nights, he'd sit at the end of the couch and pull up my nightgown when he thought I was asleep.. He never touched me, but I still felt dirty.

Timmy was a a lot nicer, and twice as good looking. He always brought us candy, and usually a movie. While Donna and I watched VHS tapes, he and Mom would play in the bedroom. That's what Mom called it. Sometimes she'd come out with a black eye, or crying. If that's how adults played, I wanted none of it.

The best times were when the three of them locked themselves in the bathroom. They'd come out all dreamy and smiling. We liked that. We could ask for ice cream or candy or money for a movie, and they always said yes. Mom would gesture toward her purse, laugh, and fall back into lala land.

Aunt Joanne wasn't like that at all. After Mom died we lived with her and her husband Don in a small house in a smaller town. She made us do our homework, and forced us to find a hobby. I like to blow shit up, so chemistry became my thing. Donna picked fashion and men. Needless to say, she barely waited until after high school to start having babies, but at least she married the dude and moved out. I stayed two years after graduation, to get my AA at the local community college.. Don and Aunt Jo are good, law abiding citizens but boring as hell. I got me a secretarial job at Bayer so I can jump into a lab coat the minute I get my bachelors.

It seemed like the perfect time for my very own apartment, two doors down from Timmy.

After I got settled in, I went to say hello. I could hear a bubbling echo bouncing around the room. Not one to deny anyone the pleasure of a good bong hit, I waited until I heard voices, then knocked.

"Hello?"

Besides a few pounds around the middle, he looked just the same as I remembered. Tall, thin lips, blonde hair and blue eyes, fake smile behind white, even teeth. Genetics had blessed the man, no doubt. No wonder my mom fell under his spell.

I rehearsed my lines a zillion times, but I could feel the sweat on my hands and the marbles in my mouth. "Hi, my name is Genny. I just moved into 2B. Listen, I'd like to talk to you about some of the goings-on around here. I'm concerned there might be drugs and prostitution, and I wonder if you know anything."

He looked me up and down with a half smile. "Sure. Anything for a new neighbor." He gestured toward a ragged brown velvet sofa. "Have a seat. My friend was just leaving."

The strung out blonde didn't look too happy about it, but she shrugged into her red leather jacket and traipsed to the door in four inch heels. He followed her, enclosing her in a three minute goodbye for my benefit. He made sure I saw the hundred as he stroked her thigh with it all the way to her tight ass, and tucked it God knows where. Because there wasn't even a thong to catch it.

I took a seat on a folding chair that looked clean. Timmy sat in the sunken center of his couch. "Do you like your apartment so far?"

"Yes, thank, you it's lovely. Can we dispense with the formalities? I know you're a drug dealer."

He narrowed his eyes. "You've got some fucking nerve coming up in my pad with that shit." Reaching into a box on the side table, he produced a joint. "But I like you; you've got spunk. Tell you what..." He lit the cigarette and took a few drags. I saw it coming, the eye-lock, blowing smoke in my face intimidation thing. Cliche all the way, but I was ready. I didn't blink.

"How about you keep that high and tight little mouth shut, and I won't have to duct tape it and throw your ass in the river. Be a shame to waste such sweet meat." And right on cue--the slow, sleazy smile. But I didn't expect him to lean forward and pass me the joint.

What could I do? I took it.

From that day on, I was his best friend. I never ran any drugs, but I organized a mess of papers into separate books for each drug; crack, heroin, coke. He didn't sell pot; said the risk wasn't worth the hassle. Every month we'd drive to the Hamptons to deliver boxes of cash to his ex-wife to launder through her flower shop. Good times. Champagne, caviar, and enough blow to kill an elephant. Once in a while he'd hook up with his ex. All the other times she was mine.

One night after finishing up the books, we huffed an eight ball in an hour. I know my limit; I was three inches from a heart attack. I got up to take a walk and clear my head.

"Don't go--we're just getting started." I climbed over his legs to get my purse and felt his face brush against my ass..

"Get off!" I reached behind and smacked him on the head. "Jesus, Jimmy, you lech! You know I like girls."

"Aww, shit, Genny, you're breakin' my heart. One more line, ok?"

"We're out."

He snorted at the irony. "Call Big Eddie and tell him to bring back one of the bricks."

"No. I can't stay up all night; I have to go to work tomorrow."

"Come on, I know you're holding. Save enough for your breakfast of champions, but leave me the rest."

I pulled a vial out of my pocket and threw it at him. "Take it. I won't answer the phone if you call from the E.R."

"Thanks, hon. What would I do without you?"

"I don't know--rot in hell?." I slammed the door for effect.

Must have been five minutes, but it felt like forever I stood in the hallway, my heart hammering from the coke and the adrenaline. At three in the morning, even the crackheads knew not to disturb Timmy. I heard a gurgle, some rustling, and then a thump. I waited a few minutes just to be sure, then used my key.

The floor lamp highlighted his head on the coffee table like a golden crown. I wondered if he was really dead, but no way was I getting closer. I've seen enough movies to know curiosity kills stupid white women. I snapped on my gloves and grabbed the cash, but left the drugs and books as evidence.

I swear I'd barely gotten to sleep when some crack whore pounded on my door. "Timmy ain't answering. I need a fix, damnit. Call him up."

I opened the door to a wrinkled woman scratching her arms and dancing around like she had to pee--we called it the Crack Ho Boogie. She looked forty, but was probably younger than me. I dialed his private cell phone number; we could hear it ringing in his apartment. "Listen, he's asleep. Come back in a few hours."

"But I needs it woman!" She turned on the charm. "He listen to you--I gotta make rent. Today! I need to fix and sell, fix and sell." She smiled as best she could with three teeth in her head, still jumping around like a monkey in my damn doorway.

"Fuck. Let's go." I pulled on my robe and walked down the hallway. The click of the key in the lock was deafening. I held my breath and pushed the door open. "Timmy? Timmy! Some bitch says she has an appointment." The bitch brushed past me and ran over to the coffee table. She put a hand on Timmy's shoulder and he fell on the floor, a line of dried blood running from his nose down his shirt. She screamed; I screamed; it's all a blur from there.

The police found me laughing in the corner. Snot was dripping on my robe but I couldn't stop. It was surreal, the way portions of the coke had turned pink with his blood. I found it funny--it looked like a line of Pixie Stix candy, just like the ones he used to bring me.

It was that impromptu performance that landed me here. The "authorities" think I cracked from the drugs and grief. Even funnier, they think Timmy and I were lovers. I got off easy for this particular experiment--three months in Mt. Jackson Sanatorium for killing my own father. Tomorrow, I'll be brushing up on my Spanish, and I'll start looking for my sister's.