Mercy Page 4

  and I prayed to God that m y uncle w ouldn’t talk but nothing

  stopped him and I would try not to m ove and not to breathe so

  I w ouldn’t run aw ay or call him bad names or scream because

  it caused me such outrage in m y heart, I hated him so much for

  being so stupid and so cruel. I sometimes had cuts on the inside

  o f m y mouth because I would bite down to stop from talking

  back and I would press m y fingernails into m y palms so bad

  they would bleed and I had sores all over m y hands so I bit m y

  nails to keep the sores from coming. Y ou had to do what

  adults said no matter what even if you didn’t know them or

  they were creeps or very bad people. The man was an adult.

  He w asn’t so mean as m y uncle in how he talked, he talked

  nicer and quieter. I was sitting there, acting grow n up,

  wearing m y black bermuda shorts. Outside it was hot and

  inside it was cold from air-conditioning. I liked the cold inside.

  O ur house was hot and the city was hot but the movie was nice

  and cold and the sweat dried on you and I liked how amazing it

  felt. The man sat down next to me. There were a million empty

  seats and the theater was like a huge, dark castle, but he

  sat down right next to me, on m y left. The whole big theater

  was empty. The usher was a teenager but I didn’t think he was

  cute. He had a light blue uniform and a flashlight. He showed

  me to my seat. He wanted it in the middle but I kept wanting

  to go closer to the screen. I sat down in front where I’m not

  allowed with my parents because they think it’s too close but I

  like it because then the movie is big and it seems like the people

  are giants and you forget everything looking at them. The

  theater was so big and the ceiling was so high and you could

  get lost in it except that the seats were all in rows. The theater

  was dark but not completely dark. There was dim light but

  not enough light really to see in or to read my book in. I had a

  book stuffed in my pocket. I always carried a book. I liked to

  read whenever I could. Y ou could read almost anywhere but

  there wasn’t enough light even for me so I had to sit and wait

  for the lights to go down all the w ay and the movie to start. I

  crossed m y legs because I thought it was sophisticated. I

  crossed them one way, then the other way. I opened the top

  buttons on my blouse because I was alone now and I could do

  what I wanted. The man sat down and the usher wasn’t there

  because I tried to look but I didn’t want to insult the man by

  acting like anything was wrong. I didn’t understand w hy he

  had to sit there and I wished he wouldn’t but you had to be nice

  to people who sat next to you in a bus or in a synagogue or

  anywhere and I wanted to move but he hadn’t done anything

  bad and I knew it would be an insult to him and I didn’t think I

  was better than other people. He said some things to me and I

  tried to look straight ahead and I tried to be polite and not talk

  to him at the same time and I tried to ask him to leave me alone

  but not to be rude because he was an adult and it wasn’t right to

  be mean anyway. I didn’t understand what was w rong

  because people sit next to people all the time but I thought he

  could move over one seat and not be right next to me but I

  didn’t know how to say he should m ove over w ith o u t. it

  seeming like I was mean or thought he was dirty or poor or

  something bad. He said things and I said yes or no or I don’t

  know or I don’t think so and kept looking ahead to show I

  w asn’t interested in talking and had other things on m y mind

  and he told me I was pretty and grow n up and I said I was ju st a

  child really and I had never been to the m ovies before m yself

  and m y mother was waiting for me and I wanted to watch the

  m ovie but when someone says yo u ’re pretty you have to say

  thank you. Then the lights went o ff and it was really dark and

  the room was dark and big, an enormous cave o f darkness, and

  I felt buried alive in it as if it wasn’t good and then the light

  started flickering across things from the screen and the man

  put his arm around m y shoulder and I asked him not to touch

  me but I was very polite because I thought he was just being a

  friendly person because people only touched you if they were

  your friends or your relatives and liked you and I wanted to

  scream for the usher to come but I was afraid o f making noise

  because it w asn’t right to make noise and I didn’t want to do

  something w rong and insult the man and he did all those

  things, many things but as i f it was one thing with no breaks or

  stops in it because he ju st curled and curved and slid all over

  with his arms everywhere and his mouth all over and his hands

  everywhere and keeping me in the seat without stopping, and

  he kept whispering and he hurt me and I didn’t know what to

  do except that grow n-ups don’t cry or make noise and he

  pushed his hands in me and I didn’t know what to do, except

  he was hurting me, and he slumped more over me and in m y

  chest and kept pressing me and then he slumped again and

  shaked and stopped pressing so hard and I pulled m yself aw ay

  from him grabbing on me and I ran and I ran all the w ay up the

  aisle in the dark and I found the usher w ho was all the w ay in

  the back and I said the man was bothering me but I was afraid

  to say what he did and the usher didn’t say anything or do

  anything so I asked if I could sit somewhere else please and

  could he keep the man from bothering me please because I

  knew you weren’t supposed to talk in the movies and the usher

  could make you stop and he just stared at me and he took me

  somewhere else with his flashlight and I sat there making my

  shirt right and my pants right but I couldn’t make them right

  and wiping my hand dry and I sat there looking all around in

  the dark and there wasn’t enough light from the movie for me

  to see where the man was and I couldn’t look at the movie

  because I kept looking for the man but I was afraid that if he

  saw me looking for him he would think I was wanting him to

  come and I kept trying to see where he was in the dark and i f he

  was going to try to talk to me more and the movie kept going

  on but I was afraid to watch it because maybe the man would

  come and I knew I couldn’t find my mother because it wasn’t

  time to meet her yet and I had to stay in the movies or I didn’t

  have anywhere to go and then the man came and I was going

  to scream or hit him or shout but I was afraid to because I was

  never allowed to hit adults, no such thing could ever happen,

  and he looked at me and he stared and he walked by and down

  the aisle and I was afraid he would come back and I got up and I

  ran, I ran out, I ran into the street, into the cars, into the hot air,

  into the light, it was like running into a wall o f heat and I

  couldn’t breathe, and I ran to the department store and once

  when I was a little child I had g
otten lost in a department store

  and I was lost from m y mother a long time and someone took

  me to the manager because I was crying and lost and scared

  and they announced over the loudspeaker for m y mother to

  come find me and she came and this was the first time I was

  ever so scared since then but I w ouldn’t cry or make noise

  because I didn’t want the man to find me so I kept running and

  saying I needed the manager and I needed m y mother and it

  was an emergency but I kept as quiet as I could and I couldn’t

  breathe so they called her on the loudspeaker and then when

  she came I shook and cried and I tried to tell her and she said,

  did anything happen, and I kept saying yes and I kept trying to

  say each thing that happened and then we were on the bus and I

  kept crying but I w asn’t supposed to talk because people could

  hear and it was something bad, and then we got home and I

  said how I didn’t want the man to sit next to me and I didn’t

  know how to tell him to go away because he was an adult and I

  didn’t mean to do something w rong but I didn’t know how to

  tell the man not to rub because I didn’t even know what it was

  or if it was a mistake because maybe he was making a mistake

  because it was dark and maybe he thought I was someone else

  that he knew or it was some other mistake and when I told him

  he didn’t listen to me and he rubbed me and I didn’t want him

  to, I wanted him to go away, and I tried to be polite and act like

  an adult and not make noise in public and I didn’t cry like a

  child and he had a dark jacket on and they asked me if it was

  leather but I didn’t know what leather was and they asked me

  what it felt like but I didn’t know how to say and he had on a

  striped shirt and he had on dark pants and he had dark hair and

  he didn’t sit straight even when he first sat down and he had

  bad posture because he couldn’t sit straight and he smoked and

  he asked me i f I wanted to smoke, and I did but I didn’t say that

  to m y mother because I just looked ahead o f me and said no

  even though I wanted to and so I was good and I didn’t have to

  say I wanted to, and then he slumped all over me and held me

  still with his arm around m y shoulder and his head pinned

  under m y head so I couldn’t m ove aw ay and I couldn’t

  describe him enough for them but I could still see him; and m y

  mother cried; and now I can see him, almost, I can’t remember

  yesterday as well, even now he’s right next to me, almost, on

  me, almost, the pressure o f his body covering m y heart,

  almost, I can touch him, nearly, I could search the earth for

  him and find him, I think, or if he sat down next to me I w ould

  die, except I can’t quite see his face, nearly but not enough, not

  quite, and I can feel his fingers going in, almost, if I touch my

  face his fingers are more real, and it hurts, the bruised, scraped

  labial skin, the pushed, twisted skin; and my daddy came into

  my room after I couldn’t cry anymore and said nothing

  happened and not to cry anymore and we wouldn’t talk about

  it anymore; and I waited to be pregnant and tried to think i f I

  would die. I could have the baby standing up and I wouldn’t

  make any noise. M y room is small but I can hide behind the

  door.

  T W O

  In 1961 and 1962

  (Age 14, 15, 16)

  M y name is Andrea. It means manhood or courage. In Europe

  only boys are named it. I live in the U . S . A. I was bom down

  the street from Walt W hitman’s house, on M ickle Street in

  Camden in 1946, after the war, after the bomb. I was the first

  generation after the bomb. I’ve always known I would die.

  Other generations didn’t think so. Everyone says I’m sad but

  I’m not sad. It doesn’t make me sad. The houses were brick,

  the brick was made o f blood and straw, there was dust and dirt

  on the sidewalks, the sidewalks were gray, the cement was

  cracked, it was dark, always dark, thick dark you could reach

  out and touch and it came down all around you and you could

  feel it weighing on you and bumping up against you and

  ramming you from behind. Y o u m oved against the dark or

  under it or it pushed you from behind. The dark was

  everything. Y o u had to learn to read it with your fingers or

  you would be lost; might die. The cement was next, a great

  gray desert. Y ou were on it, stuck and abandoned, a great gray

  plain going on forever. They made you fall on your knees on

  the cement and stay there so the dark could come and get you.

  The dark pushed you, the cement was the bed, you fell on

  your knees, the dark took you, the cement cradled you, a

  harsh, angry embrace tearing the skin o ff your knees and

  hands. Some places there is a great, unbearable wind, and the

  fragile human breaks in it, bends in it, falls. Here there was this

  dark; like the great, unbearable wind but perfectly still, quiet,

  thick; it pushed without moving. Them in the dark, the

  cement was the bed, a cold slat o f death, a grave with no rest,

  the best bed you could get, the best bed you would ever have,

  you fell forward on your knees pushed by the dark from

  behind and the dark banged into you or sometimes there were

  boys in cars flying by in the dark and then coming around

  from behind, later, the same ones; or sometimes different

  ones. The dark was some army o f them, some mass, a creature

  from the deep, the blob, a giant parasite, some spreading

  monster, pods, wolfmen. They called you names and they

  hissed, hot steam o ff their tongues. They followed you in

  beat-up cars or they just stood around and they whistled and

  made noises, and the dark pushed you down and banged into

  you and you were on your hands and knees, the skin torn off,

  not praying, waiting, wanting all right, wanting for the dark

  to move o ff you, pick itself up and run. The dark was hissing

  and hot and hard with a jagged bone, a cold, brutal bone, and

  hips packed tight. The dark wasn’t just at night. The dark was

  any time, any place; you open your eyes and the dark is there,

  right up against you, pressing. You can’t see anything and you

  don’t know any names, not who they are or the names for

  what they do; the dark is all you know, familiar, old, from

  long ago, is it Nino or Joe or Ken or Curt, curly hair or

  straight, hard hips, tight, driven, familiar with strange words

  whispered in your ear, like wind lashing it. Do they see you,

  do they know your name? I’m Andrea you whisper in the dark

  and the dark whispers back, okay babe; shut up babe; that’s

  cool babe; that’s a pretty name babe; and pulls out all the w ay

  and drives back in, harder, more. Nino is rough and bad, him

  and his friend, and he says what’s w rong with making love

  here, right now, on this lunch counter. We are in Lits. I’m

  alone, a grown-up teenage girl; at the lunch counter, myself.

  They come up to me. I don’t know the name o f the other one. I

  have never heard any
one say “ making love” before. Nino

  takes the salt shaker and the pepper shaker from the counter

  and he rubs them against each other, slow , and he talks staring

  at me so I can’t m ove m y head aw ay from his eyes and he says

  w hat’s w rong with it, here, now , in the daytime, on this lunch

  counter, you and me, now, and I don’t know w hat’s w rong

  with it; is N ino one o f them, in the dark? Stuart is m y age from

  school before he stopped coming and went bad and started

  running with gangs and he warned me to stay aw ay from him

  and Nino who is older and bad and where they go. N ino has a

  knife. I write m y first poem for Nino; I want it to be N ino; I’d

  touch him back. I ran away lots o f times. I was on the bus to

  N ew Y o rk lots o f times. I necked with old men I found on the

  bus lots o f times. I necked with Vincent and Charles different

  times, adults, Vincent had gray hair and a thick foreign accent,

  Italian, and Charles had a hard, bronze face and an accent you

  could barely hear from someplace far, far away, and they liked

  fifteen-year-old girls; and they whispered deep, horsey,

  choked words and had wet mouths; and you crunched down

  in the seats and they kissed you all over, then with their hands

  they took your head and forced it into their laps. One became a

  famous m ovie star and I went to watch him in cow boy films.

  He was the baddie but he was real nice to me. I said I wanted to

  be a writer, a real writer, a great writer like Rimbaud or

  D ostoevsky. He didn’t laugh. He said we were both artists and

  it was hard. He said, Andrea, that’s a pretty name. He said

  follow your dream, never give up, it takes a long time, years

  even, and we slouched down in the seats. I knew the highw ay

  to N ew Y o rk and the streets when I got there. I knew the back

  alleys in Philadelphia too but I didn’t like Philadelphia. It was

  fake, pretend folksingers and pretend guitar players and

  pretend drug dealers, all attitude, some pot, nothing hard,

  pretend poets, a different attitude, no poems. Y o u couldn’t get

  lost in the dark, it w asn’t dense enough, it w asn’t desolate