One small torch - short story - 1990 Gertrude Johnson Williams Literary Contest winner

Ebony, Dec, 1990 by Sharon M. Draper

"IF you don't sit your stinkin', useless butt back down in that shopping cart, I swear I'll bust your greasy face in!!" she screamed at the 3-year-old child in front of her. He studied her face, decided she was serious, and put his leg back inside the cart. He was standing near the front end of the cart, amidst an assorted pile of cigarette boxes, egg cartons, and pop bottles. He didn't want to sit down anyway because of the soft, uncomfortable load in his pants that had been there all afternoon and it felt cold and squishy when he moved too much. He rarely had accidents like that, but when he did, Mama sometimes made him keep it in his pants all day to "teach him a lesson.

Jerome was only three, but he had already learned many such lessons. He'd never seen Sesame Street, never heard of Fountain Square-he didn't even know that he lived in Cincinnati. But he knew the important things-like never mess with Mama when she was in bed-mama got really mad when you woke her up, especially if she had somebody in the bed with her. And never touch the hot thing that Mama used to light her cigarettes, even if the mysterious orange and blue fire that comes out of it liked to tease you and dance for only a moment before running away. Because Mama once had caught Jerome playing with the lighter, and she made the fire come out and she held his hand right over the flame, but it wasn't his friendly fire dancer, but a cruel red soldier that made his hand scream and made him dizzy with pain and he could smell something like the meat Mama cooked, but it was his hand. When she stopped she had washed his hand with cool water and soothed him with warm hugs and wrapped the place where the fire soldier had stabbed him with salve and bandages. She told him that she had done it "for his own good" and to "teach him a lesson." He had tried to tell her that he was just trying to find the fire dancer, but she wasn't listening, and he had given up, thankful for the hugs and the silence.

One other lesson that Jerome had learned was never, never stay near Mama when she sniffed the white stuff. She got it from a man named Leroy who smelled too sweet and smiled too much. When he leaves, you hide behind the couch and hope Aunt Bessie comes over because sometimes Mama yells and gets her belt or her shoe and hits, and hits, and hits.... And sometimes she just goes to sleep on the floor and it gets dark and you cry and your tummy feels tight and hurty, but at least there's no shoe to run away from.

Once Aunt Bessie had found Jerome curled up behind the couch sucking his thumb. His pajamas were soaked and smelly and he had been shivering and hungry. Mama had been gone all day. She had told him not to leave the room, and he had been really, really good, but he was so cold, so very cold. Aunt Bessie had taken him to her apartment and given him a warm bath, some hot soup and some of Ronnie's sleepers, even though she had to pin the back of them so they wouldn't fall off. Then Mama had come and she and Aunt Bessie had yelled and screamed so much that Jerome had to hold his ears while he lay curled on the foot of Aunt Bessie's bed. Finally Mama started crying and Aunt Bessie was saying stuff like, "I know, honey," and Jerome knew he was going back home.

Mama had hugged him and kissed him and held him close to her until he fell asleep that night. Jerome had felt so warm and special and golden-he wanted to feel like that forever. He knew his Mama loved him. She had bought him a GI Joe man last week and it wasn't even his birthday or Christmas or anything, and most days she combed his hair and dressed him in clean clothes and told him to say, "Yes, Ma'am" to grown folks. And sometimes, on real good days, she would hug him and smile and say, "You know you're my best baby boy, don't you Jeromey? You know you're my baby, don't you?" And he would smile and that warm, golden feeling would start at his toes and fill him all the way up to his smile.

Even though Mama had yelled at him, today was a good day. Mama always yelled-it was no big deal. (Some days he yelled back at her. Then she would slap him and he'd cry and he'd cuss at her and then she would slap him until his head hurt. So mostly he ignored her.) But today was a good day, a shiny day, he thought. The sun was bright gold outside against a clear blue sky. And inside the grocery store there were so many colors and sounds and lights that Jerome just grinned. Mama called it the big store and it was always crowded when they went. Other children would be in carts also and they would have to pass very close to each other. Jerome liked to pretend he was driving a big, fine silver car down the expressway. Sometimes the cart would be a tank, as he passed cautiously through rows of armed cling peaches and silent sentinels that looked like boxes of Frosted Flakes. And at the cheekout lane, the armies rolled smoothly down the long black road that disappeared under the counter. He started to ask Mama where it went, but it was more fun to imagine that it went to a secret hideout where only sweet potatoes and boxes of oatmeal were allowed.