Anansi’s Daughters
Sasha
Brooklyn, NY
September 1997
THAT LEAN AND MEAN BEEF JERKY. IT LOOKS SO GORGEOUS resting there with all the others, third shelf, second aisle where it usually lives.
“This price oughta convince ’em, Zori. I mean it’s one of the most logical things you could buy here. Do you know how many people twelve ounces of beef jerky could feed?”
But Zora just rolls her eyes because we already tried this routine three times, and if it didn’t work the last three times, it wasn’t gonna work now.
“For crissakes, Mom made me eat red beans with my pasta again yesterday,” I continue. “I mean she’s obviously depressed because she’s had way too much time on her hands to be getting this creative with the dinners.”
“I dunno, Sasha. I thought the beans were pretty good. And actually—”
“And then she had the nerve to tell me I wasn’t getting enough protein. Well, obviously I’m not getting enough protein if we’re living off this freakin’ rabbit food. Did you know babies sometimes turn orange when they eat too many carrots? I read that in a science book, you know.”
But before Zora can respond, we see Mommy and Daddy walking down the aisle of meats, arguing under their breaths.
As Mom and Dad approach, I pipe up a little louder, pretending like Zora and I are still deep in conversation: “I mean, don’t you just wanna go camping when you eat jerky? I chew on it and I go ummph! Look, feel my stomach, Mom. You’ll see there’s basically nothing left.” I point in between and below my two bee stings where my rib cage ends. “I swear it’s because we’ve been vegetarians way too long.”
“You’re being dramatic, Sasha,” my mother mutters. It’s like her ongoing talks on how to be in tune with one’s own body have all gone to waste, and she looks away longingly at the aisle of canned beans and vegetables.
Only Dad’s face is glowing with the window of opportunity. It’s story time again.
“You know, Sasha, there used to be this guy by the junction who used to sell homemade beef jerky out on his stoop,” he says. “Until one day he died very mysteriously. Nobody knows what happened to him, but rumor had it he became none other than the—”
“Rolling Calf!” Zora says. She’s standing on the wheels of the shopping cart so she can see him better.
“Right, Zori!” he says. “You see, when a butcher dies, he becomes the Rolling Calf to pay penance for all the cows he tortured and killed in his lifetime.”
As he speaks, his eyes grow large, and his voice rises and falls like a wave. Even his neck appears to stretch upward before springing back again. People in the aisles are politely trying to move us out the way, but Daddy doesn’t budge.
“You could hear Rolling Calves where my brother and I grew up because they have thick iron tails that smell like sausage and clink like chains. Whenever we had the mind to be rebellious and stray against our father’s wishes, we’d hear the metal, smell the pork, and know we’d gone too far. We wouldn’t run off the way you kids do now—you know, foolishly.”
His stories are always like this: very entertaining, so as to keep us listening till the big moral point at the end.
But after twelve years of living with the man, I feel like I’ve gotten to the point where as much as I love his tall tales, they never sound as good when families are pushing by us with their shopping carts, wondering why we’re blocking the entire aisle. Zora, who won’t enter middle school for another year, is like a puppy, anticipating his every line like it’s brand-new.
Dad continues, “You see, once upon a time there was a boy and his brother. And this brother thought he could defeat the Rolling Calf alone. The boy went out to help his brother and barely made it out alive. But his brother, well . . .” He pauses. There’s a flash in his eyes that always looks like lightning.
“Back when I was your age, we used to tend our own cows. You think that’s real cow they’re giving you at McDonald’s? Cow shit is what they’re giving you.”
Mom glares at Dad, who quickly rotates his gaze to her knees to avoid feeling her eyes on him. Normally, his story ends with the boy luring the Rolling Calf into the ocean with the help of the hurricane and a penknife. Water is always key in these stories because, like the Wicked Witch of the West, the Rolling Calves—as well as other germ-infested meats—are all apparently afraid of cleanliness.
“Yes, clean people can’t be bothered with dirty meats,” Mom says.
She rubs her hands together and twists her lips when she says this, like she’s wiping them clean of something. Her face looked this way when she caught the rat in our kitchen last week.
We follow our mother toward the cashier and see that she has replaced our beef jerky with raw and unsalted almond butter.
Lately I’ve been noticing that the families here are different from the ones who shop at C-Town. C-Town children whine a lot and fill their carts with things like Go-Gurts, Kraft macaroni and cheese, ice pops, the good bologna, peanut butter, crackers with salt on them, and white bread. Meanwhile their moms are running back and forth returning things so that their grocery bill won’t be too high. Dad loves to remind us that he left his nine-to-five three years ago so we would never have to shop at places like C-Town again. This business was supposed to bring us up to speed with the Park Slope crowd and the people who shopped at the co-op. Still, it’s been more than a few years, and Dad’s new business has continued to flop.
Here at the co-op, families buy organic laundry detergent and tofu ice cream. The fathers are always happy to help their wives and children, picking up the most natural-looking tomatoes. Mothers look younger than they are, sometimes dyeing their hair new down-to-earth shades.
My sister and I exchange glances. The line is long.
“How come almond butter doesn’t come with the crunchy chunks like Skippy has?” I ask, staring at the family ahead of us.
“I don’t know,” my mother says.
“Well, what’s the point of peanut butter if it doesn’t come with crunchy chunks?”
“It’s almond butter.” My mother seems distracted. She’s fishing through her bag. “And where’s yuh father?” she asks. “Did he take my wallet again?”
I look around, noticing that he’s disappeared, but I have other things on my mind. “Then we should be eating peanut butter,” I say.
“Peanut butter has unnecessary fat. Also, it releases unhealthy toxins into the body that almond butter doesn’t.”
I look at her for a moment.
“I think some people worry too much about fat, Mom.”
She ignores this comment. Zora gives me a look. Mom keeps looking into her bag and then cautiously toward the register.
Our cashier smiles, teeth white as paint, as we approach her. My mother smiles weakly, tight-lipped, and says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find my wallet. My husband’s coming shortly.”
The woman glances at my mother before turning back to her register.
“I’m so sorry,” my mother adds.
The woman smiles widely. “Oh, that’s okay. Would you mind just stepping aside for a moment then, miss?”
And then the woman just shoos my mother along and moves on to talk to the next customer. We get out of line.
Moments later, Dad finally arrives with a whole new cart full of food, and we get back in line, which is now snaking around the baking aisle.
“You didn’t borrow any money from me, did you?” Mom asks Dad.
“I really don’t know what you’re asking me.” But he says this without looking at her.
“Because I’m gonna need some money.”
“I have no money for you, Beatrice.”
“Nigel,” she says. Her voice seems tender until the smile comes. It opens up, teeth gesturing toward him in an almost threatening manner. “You have the money.”
His nose flares as he looks at her. I once saw a horse in a movie flare his nose like that. I decide to take immediate action.
“Dad, tell us the story about Anansi and his family,” I say, pulling his arm, trying to get him to look at me and not at her.
At first I don’t think I can get Dad’s eyes to stop from squinting. But soon enough those large pupils soften into butter and widen like pancakes.
“You see,” he starts, “Anansi, his wife, and their four children lived in a fancy house in Red Hills until he lost his job.” He pauses for a moment, glancing at Mom before continuing. “He worked hard to keep the home life comfortable, but sooner or later the food was gone, and the family started to go hungry. He went crazy and thought his wife might leave him for a richer man, and they fought a lot. And so finally when there wasn’t even a decent-sized meal for the family of rats they were living with, he cut off the right side of his buttocks, spiced it up, and served it as jerk pork for the entire family. The family loved it and had a meal for the night. Sadly, the father could never sit down again and could only sleep on his side for the rest of his life.”
We look at each other silently for what feels like a minute straight.
Finally Zora says, “I don’t remember the story ending that way, Daddy.”
I try to cut her a look as a warning to quit while she’s ahead, but she’s not even looking at me.
“I mean, doesn’t Anansi—”
“Actually, I remember Anansi leaving,” my mother cuts her off. “I guess he just couldn’t take the pressure. Started up a whole new family.”
I wait for Dad’s reaction. Zora doesn’t wait.
“No, no, no,” she says. “The wife finds out what Anansi did and starts laughing. She laughs so hard she spits it out and tells him never to work so hard again. They end up living happily ever after. Don’t you remember, Daddy?”
She looks so earnest, I almost feel sorry for her.
Dad only nods silently and starts humming. My mother keeps her head up, mouth closed, as we finally emerge back at the front of the line.
Dad continues to hum as the same cashier woman asks my father if she can please help him, sir.
“Can we have all this charged, miss?” he says to the cashier, his smile competing with hers. He likes to smile with his neck arched all the way up to show off his dimple that takes attention away from his overbite.
“Sure. What will you be using?”
“American Express,” he says with confidence.
The woman tries to smile as she tells him the card is not working.
“Not working?” my father asks.
“Right.” She smiles. “I’m terribly sorry.” And she looks like she’s ready to shoo us along again.
“I’ve never had a problem with this card before,” he says. “Please try it again.” Dad’s eyes are going wild, his arms are steady, and I think I can hear him humming again.
“Sir, I really don’t think—”
“Try it again.” My father says this like an order. A woman from behind taps her foot loudly, but my father will not move. The cashier woman seems scared, and for a minute I’m worried someone might call the police. People are already staring, and all my mother can do is bite her lip.
“Here, try this,” he says and pulls out another card.
The woman smiles awkwardly. “Sir,” she says, “we’re a bit under-staffed today. Would you mind putting some of your items back on the shelf?”
The words sting.
“Ma’am,” my father says, softer now, “please try my card.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you say that. Sure, I’ll try your card.”
Her smile sinks deep into her face as she prints our receipt. Her teeth are so white they begin to look plastic. She puts the groceries into the bags neatly without ever looking down. I look away uneasily and rub my jaw.
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