Tallulah

I was five when it happened.

We were living with Momma's side of the family. They owned a bakery downtown where most of the grown ups in the house worked, except for Grandpa, seeing as he couldn't walk all too well, and Daddy. The house was pretty big, but since there were so many people crammed in one space, it never really felt that way. My three sisters - Simone Mae, Winona Mae, and Katie Mae - her name was Katherine Mae but everyone, except for Momma, called her Katie - along with my cousins Frida, Emelia, and Yvonne, and me shared a room with three beds - imagine, seven growing girls stuck in one stuffy room. My aunts, Patricia Mae, Joanna Mae, Cassandra Mae, and Hilda Mae shared the room next to us. And across the hall slept my uncles, Ronnie and Peter. My parents, along with my Grandma Gloria and Grandpa Ernest, slept in the room directly across from mine.

It was raining outside and I remember being mad about getting my already frizzy hair wet, along with my school books and clothes. My father, who was between jobs - Aunt Patricia said that it was because he was a lazy bum who liked to sit and drink beer all day instead of looking in the Help Wanted section of the local newspaper - usually picked me and my sisters up at the local junior high. We all met up to meet him there since it was so close to home. He was very rarely late, but after waiting for fifteen minutes in the pouring rain, Katie Mae got fed up and stomped home. Of course, we all followed suit since she was the oldest and what she said went. My cousins went to a high school on the other side of town and since it was only three blocks away from where we lived, they walked home.

Twenty minutes later, when we finally got home, sopping wet and shivering, I wished I had just taken the bus and not listened to Katie.

We happened to come home at the same time my Uncle Peter came home from work at the family bakery downtown. All my aunts worked there, save for Momma, who stayed at home with my grandparents and took care of the books for the bakery at home. I didn't think Daddy had a job, but he left early every morning so I assumed that he was out looking for a job or something. When we went inside, I could hear both Momma and Daddy yelling at each other in the kitchen. Simone and the girls went upstairs to dry off, and Peter tried to stop me, but I ventured into the kitchen anyway just to see what all the commotion was about

My Aunt Hilda was holding onto Momma, who was screaming and crying. Daddy was trying to tell her that he was sorry - but about what? My mother kept trying to grab the plates that were resting on the drying rack but Hilda kept trying to tell her to just relax. Somehow she managed to grab a glass. Momma hurled it at Daddy and barely missed him. The glass shattered noisily on the wall. I stared at the shards of glass, confused. What was going on?

"Calm down - "

"Don't tell me to calm down. I'm not a child. I'm a grown woman. I'm your wife. Remember me, huh? The mother of your children, the woman you swore you'd love? How could you do this to the girls, huh? How are you gonna explain to them what you did, huh? How?"

"I just need to - "

"You need - you need to get out of my sight, you understand me?" She shook her head, rolling her eyes.

"Savannah - "

"Get my name out of your goddamn mouth and get out! You need to get the hell outta here before I do somethin' crazy."

"Honey, I love you - "

"Don't tell me you love me and don't call me honey, 'cause if you loved me and if you loved the girls you wouldn't have done that would you? How about you shut your goddamn mouth before I shut it for you, okay?"

"Billie Joe, maybe you should leave now, huh?" Peter asked from the doorway, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Do you really think she should see you like this?" Hilda shot Peter a look and he picked me up, sighing quietly as he patted the back of my head comfortingly. I always liked him - he smelled like powder and always wore white button down shirts and blue slacks and he always had his hair trimmed nice and short. He was Momma's youngest brother.

"You need to leave," Hilda said, looking at Daddy pointedly.

"C'mon, lil' bit," Peter said, patting my head as I rested on his shoulder. I tried to turn back to look at my parents.

"This is between me and my wife and you need to butt out - "

"Your wife? No, a real man loves his wife. A real man wouldn't do some triflin' stuff like that - " Hilda said angrily, yelling over Momma's head.

And then Momma started crying again and yelling and I couldn't understand what she was saying because Peter was already taking me upstairs, taking the wooden steps two at a time. His shoes clicked quietly against the floor. He walked to the room at the end of the hall - the one I shared with my sisters and cousins - and set me down. He turned to go back downstairs but I tugged on his pant leg, frowning. He looked at me and crouched down, hands on his knees.

"What is it?"

"Why are they fighting?"

"Well," Peter said slowly, gnawing on his lip. "It's probably because your father is a lazy, cheating bastard. Don't tell them I said that, now. That's between you and me."

"Oh." I nodded, as if I understood - as if I, a five year old, could have understood what he meant by cheating bastard. I thought he was talking about a game, and he was, but it was a different kind of game - the game of love and fidelity and honesty that adults played with each other all the time. But I was just a little girl, and at the time I thought that he was just talking about a silly game of Monopoly or something and that Momma was just a sore loser or something. Peter sighed again.

"I'm gonna get you some milk and cookies, okay? You must be hungry."

I remember thinking that Momma had gone crazy - she must have lost her mind, the way she was screaming and carrying on downstairs. She was one of the calmest people I knew until that moment. Her sisters were all loud and ridiculous, but Momma was the quiet one, soft spoken and shy. Until then, I'd never heard her scream - I mean, really scream. Sure sometimes she'd tell me or my sisters to cut it out, but she'd never raise her voice. At least, not while we were around. Momma must have finally snapped. I didn't understand that she was just angry - angry at my father and his betrayal, angry at herself for being so stupid, angry at him for ruining the perfect family she wanted.

Momma hadn't gone crazy - she was just mad as hell.

I didn't know then that just a few years down the line, I'd be in my own poor mother's shoes.