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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

My father passed away when I was eight. I remember little of him but his big, warm hands, his thin gray hair, and his extraordinary booming laugh. He’d been a newspaperman all his life, and because of this, the whole town knew Mother and me, and greeted us on the street, whether we knew them personally or not.

Mother and I got along on what he’d left us, supplemented by what she earned as a file clerk, and what she made working for a janitorial service three nights a week. We didn’t have a lot, but we seemed to have enough. I was never chided because of hand-­me­-down clothes, like some of the other children. I was never chided at all, in fact. I was left alone. I was always alone.

When I was twelve, Alice fell in love with a man fifteen years her junior. They married, and he moved in with us. Rolf was his name, and he had a huge moustache and big, bushy eyebrows. He was a very nice man, good to Mother and me. He treated us well, bought us nice things, and eventually moved us to an improved neighborhood, to a new house on the nicer side of Wilton.

I remember the first night they were home after their weekend honeymoon. I was in my bed and they tucked me in and kissed me good night, then went to their room across the hall and shut the door. I heard the bedsprings creak as two people settled down on them; then they began to creak rhythmically, and I knew what they were doing in there. I’d heard at school, but I never really believed that Mother would do something like that, especially with Rolf and his eyebrows. I crept out of bed and sat next to their door and listened.

I remember pulling my knees to my chest, work­ing my toes in the hallway runner. My bum got cold as I sat on the wooden floor, listening to them talk and moan and bounce on the bed. I began to rock back and forth until my flannel nightie got too hot for me, and I wanted to take it off, but that seemed entirely improper, so I huddled up against the wall instead, rubbing my thighs together and chewing on the heel of my hand.

Just as I heard Rolf give a mighty gasp and groan, I bit through the skin of my palm.

The springs settled. I heard Mother talking softly, and I could imagine her smoothing the sweaty hair from his forehead as he lay collapsed atop her.

Then the springs creaked again as Rolf rolled over, and I sucked the warm, salty blood from my hand.