There is a science to it, falling. One can’t just trip over one’s own foot, land on one’s face, and expect a payoff. First, find (or create) a puddle of some sort. Pierce one or two shrink-wrapped containers of chicken and discreetly allow the draining fluid to pool on the floor. When the fall begins, think of it as a dance: right leg up (two, three, four), left leg buckle (two, three, four), land askew, and await the attention of an audience. Cry silent tears at first that build to anguished wails as all efforts to remain stoic come to naught. Have one’s child cry along for effect, or better yet, drop her during the fall, let her slip off the hip. As an added bonus, her injuries will be real.
Every year, approximately six hundred lawsuits are filed against grocery stores and supermarkets across the nation due to negligence, discrimination, coupon infringement, etc. Two hundred of these cases are dismissed without fanfare, one hundred are battled out in court, but the remaining three hundred are settled for undisclosed amounts and gag orders. The odds are in your favor.
—
You haven’t always lived this way, or so you imagine. There is a well-preserved, wallet-sized family portrait your mother carries in her purse that shows her sitting down with a baby (presumably you) in her lap. She is younger and prettier, wearing a “mom” sweater she’d never be caught dead in now, crazily patterned and hued, as though designed by an epileptic in the full swing of seizure. Standing behind her is a man, that “ugly sonofabitch” who fathered you and then died two and a half years later, blown to so much fleshy debris in an offshore accident. All you remember of him are his hands, large and hairy, and the metallic taste of the thick gold ring he always wore. In that same purse, your mother carries a picture of the house she bought with the settlement she was awarded after the accident. The house is beautiful. This is the picture she clutches when she cries.
Your mother is a woman who craves the attention of men. After the money came, so did they, poking their way into her life and her bank account, draining both. The settlement money was gone by the time you were four, as was the house, put up as collateral for some pretty-boy venture. Something about a gym or a tanning salon, you don’t remember which. It’s not something you talk about.
You like to believe that the first fall, the one that left you with a permanent brace on your ankle, was real. That she was reaching over to grab the biggest, freshest eggplant off the display but slipped and, oh shit, dropped the baby. The store settled without a fuss, blaming the overzealous produce misters for leaving the floor wet. The money lasted for a good three years, and would probably have lasted longer were it not for Matthias, the auto mechanic. And Chuks, the bouncer. And Dwayne, the sex offender, as you soon found out. Some people find it easy to be good when the going is good but lack the fortitude for hardship. Your mother is among them.
She could have gone to her father, head bowed so low she’d have gravel and leaves in her hair, but she’d married against his wishes, moved to the States against his wishes, and had you against his wishes, all with a man he called “that fool from Calabar.” The extended family had been forbidden to attend the wedding, and you have no idea what your grandfather looks like except that you look nothing like him and your mother is grateful for this.
You’ve changed names and addresses so many times that you’ve written “Amara” on dusty cars across the country and in coffee grounds spilled on motel breakfast counters, you whisper it as you fall asleep, so you don’t forget which name is real. And so it goes, year after year: the fall, the payoff, the glitz. Always followed by slipping out of apartment windows and rented trailers, clothing stuffed in pillowcases and grocery bags thrown into the trunk of the car (please, God, let it start), and on to the next town, the next mark.
—
You were sitting in the lobby of Jones and Margus, cradling your arm, which was in a cast. It may as well have been Hunter and Cleb, or Dynasty and Associates, any in the string of ambulance-chasing firms you had used in the past. Your mother was beside you and pulled you up when you were motioned into a small office. In firms this size, a junior associate, some hapless new graduate from an area law school, screens plaintiffs.
You were relieved to see a woman behind the desk. This spared your mother the embarrassing last resort of offering a blow job to convince the lawyer to take your case. (It also relieved you of extending one yourself, discreetly of course—and only after you’d turned thirteen—when your mother excused herself on a false trip to the bathroom.) As the woman rattled off the information you’d provided so far, you picked up a letter opener resting on the edge of the desk and twirled it between your fingers. The handle was weighty and appeared to be carved from bone.
“I am sorry, but I don’t think we’ll be able to move forward with your case.” You were prepared for this, and your mother launched into a diatribe. It was tearful and ugly and manufactured, right down to the last sniffle. The clerk sat there, polite but unmoved, watching you instead of your mother. You realized your mistake, that you should have been the one with the tearful monologue this time. It’s a tricky thing, this act.
If one is working with a child, use her on the women. Most will have children of their own, others will wish they did, so tears are guaranteed to elicit concern. Women should work on the men themselves, breasts a-heavin’, tears a-flowin’. When age leeches tautness from face and body, take note as men’s eyes follow the child’s ripening form. For a brief span of years, she will be perfect: old enough to capture men’s lust, young enough to rouse women’s sympathy. Make use of this.
“Marsha will see you out, and I’ll need that back, please,” the associate said, indicating the letter opener you still had in your hand. As you were handing it back to her, handle first, you looked into her eyes. They were knowing, like she saw through you. You felt as though you were falling and you don’t know what got into you, but you didn’t let go. It became a tug-of-war that the associate eventually won, but only by jerking the letter opener out of your hand at an angle that sliced into your palm.
Your mother, ever the opportunist, screeched, “Oh my God, you cut her! Oh, baby, Graceline, are you okay? I’m pressing charges!”
The woman apologized profusely, wadding up tissue to stanch the trickle of blood. But your mother was in full swing by then, the bleeding palm her prop, and launched into the lobby with you in her grip.
The firm exchanged a large check for dropped charges and your silence, and for months you lived like queens. You moved into a motel where you had your own bed, a rarity, and your mother gave you a daily allowance to spend at the fairgrounds a quarter mile away. You hobbled to the grounds while your mother occupied herself with shopping and the men who darted in and out of her life like a lizard’s tongue. You spent the days balancing on the Ejection Seat and testing your aim at the Chump-a-Lump. You insisted on riding the Tunnel of Love by yourself, despite the efforts of Giles, the carnie, to find you a partner (“C’mon, fellas, you aren’t going to let the little lady go by herself”) and his efforts to join you later at night when he clocked out. The children who waited in line giggled at you for riding alone. While they spent their day at the fair dodging overbearing parents and piles of manure from the livestock on display, you, too much your mother’s daughter in face and body, dodged the hands of eager men.
—
Baby, I’m so proud of you.”
Your mother lay next to you on your bed and picked at the plastic fittings on your brace, a nervous habit she’d gotten from you. The scent of Chinese food wafted from the trash in the corner, where the roaches that never bothered her would soon gather. She waved her hand, heavy with costume rings, at the room. “All this because of you.” Your palm, marred with a hoary scar, itched.
You never considered another lifestyle, tethered to your mother by familiarity and a notion of loyalty. Then you discovered your pregnancy. You were sitting in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven when your mother handed you a five-dollar bill to purchase tampons, something she’d been doing with soldierly regularity the third week of every month since you’d turned twelve.