Love Child by A.M. Torres Story of Fiction and Suspense

Hello readers. I will like to share a chapter from my first novel which I titled Love Child. Love Child is the first book of my Child Series, and it was first published in 2011. It was refreshed, and edited again in 2016. First published by Outskirts Press now I published it with CreateSpace. 

Love Child is the fiction/suspense story of protagonist Tommy Hulette who faces tragedy, and must overcome everything that comes after it. The story is fiction, but does deal with its share of topics. I shared the prologue a few weeks ago. Now I want to post Chapter one here which I simply published under the title "Mama's Burden." That is the title of Chapter 1.  Tommy Hulette story begins with his mother's anguish and depression.

Mama's Burden

As I pause by my apartment, I look around me. The halls are scribbled with graffiti. Garbage littered the floors. A bad urine odor drifts to my nostrils which leaves me feeling nauseated.

Stepping into the lobby, I barely acknowledged the familiar form of the wino who slept anywhere he could. Today he slept on top of garbage bags, while other times I noticed the heroin addicts passed out on the sidewalk. More often than not I would have to step over them just to get inside the building.

Unfortunately, this was considered normal in the ghetto neighborhood in Brooklyn New York where I lived in one of the project buildings with my mother, father, and my younger sister Greta.

Jerks sold drugs in street corners, and every night we’d hear gun shots ring out. Sometimes they were loud, sometimes they were faint, but we always heard them. Our neighborhood was dangerous, and we avoided going out at night as much as we possible. My father was held up three times, while my mother once had her purse snatched.

My father wanted to move us to a better neighborhood, but he couldn’t afford to with the money he earned as a messenger which he said paid him a pittance. It barely paid the rent. Mama was the one who stayed home with Greta, and me.

She took care of us, and the apartment. She did the cleaning and the cooking, only money was so scarce that our dinner often consisted of chicken stew with white rice for dinner. For breakfast we were lucky to have oatmeal or just plain toast. Butter was a luxury. At the beginning of the month, once the rent was paid we wouldn’t eat breakfast at all, and we were forced to skip the rice. We rarely if ever had dessert. Our priority was paying the rent. That needed to be taken care of first.

During the winter months we rarely had heat, while in the summer we sweltered in heat. Our apartment was small with one tiny bedroom which Greta and I shared. She slept in a small cot while I slept on blankets spread on the floor.

This sucked especially when roaches crawled in the apartment, and I woke up repeatedly to shake them off me. This would go on until the wee hours, so I never got a full night’s rest. I also kept an eye on Greta to make sure no roaches crawled on her.

Dad and Mama slept on a beat-up sofa bed in the living room which was the only piece of furniture we owned besides a small plank table where we had our meals. We didn’t own a TV or a radio. 

We didn’t own many clothes so Greta, and I were forced to wear the same things repeatedly which led to bullying in school. We were accused of being too poor to afford good clothes. I tried to ignore such nonsense talk, but sometimes I got angry enough to deck someone, and that would lead to suspensions which always made Dad angry.

“Tommy, every suspension pushes you back more and more,” he would tell me. “It’s not worth it not when you need your education which is your only ticket out of this dump. Don’t let stupid kids who will likely get stuck here set you back. Ignore them and concentrate on your studies. In the end you’ll be better off for it believe me.”

I tried to do that I did, but I hated that school. I hated our neighborhood. My mother especially detested it. Her hatred of our neighborhood was making her miserable these days, and not a day would pass that she didn’t yell, or holler at one of us.

Dad felt her rage the moment he walked through the door after a long day at work.

I fished for my keys. My heart sank as Mama screamed at Dad again. I let out a deep breath while she lashed out loud enough for the building to hear. This occurred every day now. I heard her clearly, as I was sure the whole building could.

“At least you get to escape this hellhole every day!” she raged yet again. "You get to see people! You have an excuse to get out!  What do I get to do? I just sit here cleaning, cooking, and waiting for you to get home. I don’t even have a TV! I never see anything but roaches and Bridget Felder once in a while. Some company! But you don’t care! You never care!”

Bridget Felder was our long time neighbor, and Mama’s best friend. For Mama to badmouth her proved how frustrated she was. I heard this before, and I was sure to hear it again. I knew Dad was probably sitting on our stained couch holding his face in his hands like he usually did in the middle of these attacks.

Mama continued berating him. “I have no life in this house just the same damn thing day after day! I’ve looked for work, but no one wants to hire me! But you don’t care! As long as you can escape that’s all that matters to you, and to hell with me. That’s all you think isn’t it? To hell with me!”

Dad let out a loud groan another sound that’s become familiar in the apartment.

“Sandy please,” he cried. “I do the best I can. You know that’s true. I do the best I can with the little money I get. And my job is not as wonderful as you think. I don’t make much, but at least I make sure our rent is paid, and we have food to eat even if it’s not the best food. I try please give me credit for something. I never have money left to buy anything for myself. I don’t have any more than you do. My sneakers are ripping at the seams, and I can’t afford to get a new pair, and I have to walk all day.”

Mama was unsympathetic which was not like her at all.

"Oh yeah sure we have food! Oatmeal, grits, bread, cheese, and all the cheap crap you can get. How often do you get meat? It sure would be nice to have more chicken like Bridget does. It would be nice to go to a restaurant once in a while too. But no I have to stay here stuck with all the cleaning and two children whining all day long!” Her voice took on hysterical proportions.

I cringed at her last sentence. What did she mean by that? She never showed resentment for staying with us before. She always claimed to love us. And why was she acting like this anyway? I hated when she got like this. I hated when she, and Dad fought even more which was so often now, and I had to admit because of her. She started these fights the minute he came home.

With some anxiety I looked around me again. If it wasn’t because I knew my little sister was somewhere cringing in our tiny bedroom, I would have rejoined my friends outside where they were playing stickball in our only yard which wasn’t far from our school. I often went there straight from school to practice my swings, but not today. I had to look after my little sister who was scared by all this fighting, and I couldn’t blame her. It was scaring me as well.

Finally, with great reluctance I slowly opened our door. The moment I did Mama turned on me like a green eyed tigress. “Where have you been?” she demanded before I closed the door behind me. When I had it closed she flung a full glass of water in my face stunning me. Unable to move from the shock of that move she now threw the empty glass at me, but I was quick to put my arm up, blocking it so it fell to the floor with a crash.

Still stunned I could only stare at her while water dripped down my face. She rarely hit me or Greta. I could only stare at her unable to move or react.

“Where have you been?” she demanded again, but this time Dad grabbed her by the arm and nearly swung her across the room. His handsome face exploded with anger.

“That is enough!” he boomed. “Look Sandy I’ve had enough of this! It’s one thing to come after me, but I will not have you going after the children! If you want me to move out then say so, and I’ll go since the mere sight of me seems to upset you, but leave the children alone!”

“Oh shut up!” Mama yelled then turned to me again. “You’ve been out there playing silly games when I already forbade you from doing so. Disobey me again Thomas Hulette, and I’ll break your arm!”

For some reason Mama didn’t want me playing stick ball. I loved to play, and I did every chance I got, but she was always on my case though she never threatened to break my limbs before. I was scared.  I quickly nodded, while Dad turned away in disgust.

I sensed he was at the end of his rope with her, and he was trying not to explode again. He knew if he did it would make things that much worse like trying to detonate two bombs instead of one. No one in their right mind wanted to do that.

“Okay Mama, I won’t play anymore,” I agreed weakly. I was willing to agree to anything she wanted if it would calm her down.

She slapped me on the face and hard. Because my face was still wet it stung, and burned my cheeks. Now why would she slap me after I agreed to what she wanted?

why would she slap me after I agreed to what she wanted?

This time Dad did fling her. She winded up on the couch, and she screamed even as she burst into wild tears. Dad glared at her hard, but his face softened like it always did when she cried like this. He looked helpless. He didn’t know how to deal with the storm that was now her, and it hurt him as much as it made him angry.

Helplessly, he clenched his fists but he kept them at his side. Mama kept sobbing, until she pulled at her own hair. Dad quickly grabbed her, but I had to run to our room unable to watch her turn her hurt herself. It was bad enough she hurt us, but I couldn’t stand this. It filled my eyes with tears.

I trapped them because Greta didn’t need to be more frightened by my tears. I found her in her usual corner crying herself. I took her in my arms as I’d been doing all week. I shook my head longing for Mama to be her old self, and it wasn’t that long ago either.

Greta was eight; I was thirteen.  She was a beautiful girl with all of Mama’s pretty features. She had the same wavy red hair and green eyes Mama had. She had the same long cheekbones, and the same lovely smile. She was Mama all over and Mama had been so proud of this. Our lives were normal enough where we were no different than the children around us.

Greta and I only knew our tiny apartment, but despite our struggles we were content to have parents who loved us very much. Dad worked while Mama stayed home with us. It was all good for a few years. We never saw the screaming fests we were seeing now. 

Mama listened to our stories about school, and laughed laughed with us at dinner. Every night she tucked us into bed like any normal mother. She’d been loving to Dad always saving smiles, and love for him too.

She kept the apartment clean and made sure we always looked proper despite our pitiful collection of clothes. She made the most of our situation even cutting and shaping cardboard paper dolls for Greta to play with. And Greta did play with them. She couldn’t have loved real dolls any- more than she did those paper ones.

Mama often accompanied us outside (I never played stickball in front of her) and sometimes even played with us. We always got a kick of hide and go seek which was our favorite game, but we loved tag too.

I held Greta in my arms. She broke into sobs, and I held her tightly. Couldn’t Mama see the damage she was doing here? Didn’t she care anymore? She always did. and I knew she did now. Dad told me she didn’t mean the things she said; that she loved us, and of course I knew that was true. I had to make sure Greta believed that too.

“Mama hates me, “sobbed Greta as I stroked her hair. “She screamed at me today Tommy. She blames me and you for ruining her life. She said it was our fault!”

That shocked me. Mama blamed us for ruining her life, and on top of that she screamed that out to her eight-year-old daughter? I winced at the thought, but I also winced that she would say that, and worse mean it. Had she meant it? How could she say it? How did we ruin her life? Even so, I couldn’t say anything, but what needed to be said.

“Oh no Greta don’t you believe any of that. Mama’s angry at the world not at you. Dad told me she’s been getting more and more frustrated at not finding the job she’s been looking for. It’s really upsetting her, but it’s not our fault. Mama didn’t mean to say such a thing. Sometimes grown – ups say things they don’t mean.”

That was true enough, but it sounded lame to me.  Mama had no reason to blame us for her life turning out the way it did. No one forced her to have children. But that seemed to be part of her frustration now, and it hurt.

Greta nods thoughtfully, but she doesn’t look reassured. “Why is she mad at the world?” she asks. “What does the world have to do with anything?”

I kiss her forehead still holding her. How could she understand what that meant?

“It means she’s angry at everyone, and everything even though she doesn’t mean to be. But she loves us Greta, and people say things they don’t mean when they’re angry about their lives or anything for that matter. They blame people they love without meaning to. You understand that don’t you?’ She nods, but doesn’t understand any more than I do. 

That night as I lay on the floor wrapped in nothing more than a large stained blanket I allowed my thoughts to dwell on my mother. I remembered how loving and beautiful she always was. Dad always bought her better clothes than he did for Greta or me. He even bought her make- up, and earrings whenever he could. On pay day he never failed to come home with flowers for her, and the ice cream for Greta and me. We enjoyed that, and Mama washed her hair, and put on her make-up for him.

These days she neglected her appearance unless she had a job interview. Only then would she comb her red hair, and put on some make-up. She owned two business suits which she kept ironed, and hung in the closet for such occasions. Years ago when she was pregnant with Greta she’d been overjoyed. Like most older children I felt jealous about an impending sibling, but that didn’t last long.

Greta had been a sweet and beautiful baby that somehow slept all night on most nights. I’d been expected to help Mama with diapers and bottle feedings which I did.

I didn’t mind doing it; especially when Greta would follow me around babbling while trying to talk to me. She was so adorable doing that. Sometimes it annoyed me, but most times I melted when she followed me. 

Mama was such a loving mother during these times. She saw to our needs while Dad went to work.

There were days we didn’t have enough to eat, but she made sure we children had enough even if it meant giving us some of her meals. She always had a smile for me when I came home from school, and I’d take over with Greta so she’d have some breathing room. At some point in the evening she’d sit with us wanting to know how our school days went. Since we owned no television we spent more time talking, than the average family did back then, and even today.

I remembered her being so romantic with Dad despite them sleeping in the living room. They tried to be discreet with their loving, but there were nights I still heard sounds I shouldn’t have heard. Greta was a sound sleeper who fell asleep fast.

Mama knitted sweaters for us, and she patched up our clothes whenever she could especially with the freezing apartment we had to deal with in the winter. Sometimes she sewed clothes for us too. But those sweaters kept us warm for we wore up to three of them whenever the weather got cold, and there was no money for coats. And it did get cold very cold in our apartment.

There were nights Mama kept Greta and me huddled with her in the living room couch for warmth. In the mornings she’d turn on the stove where she’d have us dress since there was rarely any heat in our apartment.

As usual there was never enough money for anything. Even so Greta and I still felt loved, and we were patient as Dad hoped for a better future. I hoped with him. I believed as he believed. I worked hard in school hoping he was right about education being the key to our escape one day. I dreamed of the day I’d be able to get us out of here. I’d buy a house for us way out in the country somewhere far away from the ghetto.

As for Dad he’d always been good to her as well as to us. Dad was my hero. He was the only one who believed I had a future as a baseball player, if I really wanted one.

More of Chapter 1 to be continued.