Yellow Mama E zine

BABY

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Sure, ask about my “gift.”

          How I smell goodies baking before you die. My brother, who hung himself. Mom who smoked till both lungs burned up. That damn reporter who “lost his head” over my story. In the most gruesome car crash ever.

         Cookies, chocolate croissants, gingerbread.

         Tommy . . .

         Who was mine for a few hours, back in ’87. Before that, he was Cousin Asunta’s. That Thanksgiving, one look, and I was hooked. Long-haired, sly-eyed, with a rock god’s charisma. And, my God, that body.

          Like a strait jacket, Asunta was wrapped around him, but he eyed me, smiling. “Soon,” those eyes said, “It’ll be me and you.”

          Later, when he brushed against me, it was like my heart had caught fire.

          Asunta or not, I wanted him. Like in that Heart song, I had to get him alone.

          And once I did . . .

          The smell of gingerbread should’ve warned me.

           But I couldn’t think straight. What a dope, I’d thought I’d smelled candles! Hey, it was almost Christmas. Those sweet-scented candles were big, back then.

          And it was my first time! Under the tree, Tommy fucked me so hard, I bled over the gifts Asunta had wrapped beautifully. I should’ve felt bad, at least about that. But I was lost in Tommy’s chest, and curly, long hair. With each thrust, his hair brushed against me. His cock hurt me, but what delicious pain! So deep, I shivered. Moaning, he got ready to cum. I didn’t want it to end . . .

          But it did.

          Outside, Louie watched from the window.

           Asunta’s jealous ex. Who saw Tommy pull out and cum all over me. But not my face.

           Louie saw Asunta’s.

           We looked too much alike. Whether he saw our Sucato noses, or pouf-y dark hair. Or just tits splashed with Tommy’s load . . . Who knew? Who cared?

           Tommy died for it.

           I killed him. Louie fired the gun, but I plotted to get Tommy alone to fuck him. I could’ve snuck him upstairs, but no . . . under the tree was more exciting! It was my fault that Louie mistook me for Asunta.

          And that gingerbread smell. It wasn’t old lady perfume. Or fire. It was the one smell that would’ve forecast Tommy’s death! ‘Cos it was his favorite.

          If I’d realized it wasn’t candles, Tommy might’ve still . . .

          The wake was unreal, packed. Veiled old ladies held Tommy’s mom back from the casket. Her sobs were heart-wrenching. Asunta rushed to take her place up there.

          In the back row, I sat frozen, like a stranger. The smell of flowers nauseated me. Why?, I wondered, did I always smell cookies, not flowers? Flowers meant death. What a freak I was. And a slut. Even back there, I felt disapproving eyes on me. Behind their veils, the wailers’ eyes narrowed.           “È lei!” one said. “That’s her!”

         Who fucked Asunta’s boyfriend.

          Even living in her house, I wasn’t sorry. If she knew, she was grieving too hard to confront me.

          Grief . . .

          God, I missed Tommy.

           In dreams, he came to me. A lot. Sometimes in leather jacket and jeans. Sometimes nude, with tinsel stuck in his hair. “Baby,” he said softly, each time. He’d never called me Sandy. Once he touched my hair, and his fingers brushed my cheek. I woke up, suddenly, like someone had really touched me.

          But always . . . “Baby . . .”

          Like he had something important to tell me.  

          I never wanted to wake up from those dreams.

          Was it grief, or guilt, that led me to the stove?  

          My night off from Sucato’s. Like the night Tommy died, my family worked till closing. Aunt Rosa with phone orders; Uncle Sal making dough and flipping pies. At the counter, Asunta heated up and charged for slices. ‘Cept now she wore cowl-neck sweaters and rarely smiled.

           I dragged a chair over to the stove. Willed the oven to get hot. The aroma of cookies to fill the room. Chocolate chip, my favorite.

           ‘Cos my turn was coming.

           Lately, I was sick so much. This rawness in my gut. And nausea. Sometimes I puked in the mornings. After those “Tommy” dreams.

          The smell of cookies would mean the end.

          Tonight was my only chance.

           I shifted the chair closer, opened the oven door.

           I pictured Mom at the table, wine in an oversized glass. Aunt Rosa had that same set. Smoke from Mom’s Virginia Slim wafted over to me, making me feel as sick as if it were real.

           “Two things about guys,” she said, like she had years back. “Number one: They’re all fulla shit . . .”

           Ghosts, I was seeing now.

           I turned on the gas.

           “Number two . . .”

            I stuck my face inside and waited.

           “Pullin’ out don’t do shit.” She coughed hard. “Ya get it, Sandy?” She kept coughing. “Ya can still get knocked up.”

            Finally, I smelled gas. Then I was coughing.

            “They never . . . ever . . . pull out in time.” Like it was important enough to say through coughs.

            I coughed harder, felt real woozy. The gas was draining me. My eyes watered. It was the sickest I’d ever felt.

           “Or you wouldn’t be here!”

           Something—it felt like a hand, but I was alone—eased my head back, carefully, so I didn’t bump it on the oven.

            I shut off the gas and collapsed on the floor. Still coughing.

           “Baby,” Tommy kept saying, in those dreams I dreaded waking up from.

           In one dream, he was smiling, I remembered, now. This sweet, almost shy smile. Even dead, he looked happy.

           Baby.

           When I could get up, I opened the window. The cold air felt good.

           I moved to the living room, fell onto the couch.

           Tomorrow, I would tell Asunta everything. Grief or not, she’d be really, really pissed.

           But if she hit me, she couldn’t be the godmother.

 

 

THE END

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       Cindy originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey; Megazine; Dark Dossier; The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate. 

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Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.