by Jo Bardsley
Prophet Esther sat in her darkening office, hand resting on the telephone, brown skin almost invisible in the gloom, the social worker’s card a pale glimmer. The air conditioning shut off ten minutes ago, already the heat was building. She should pray, but she couldn’t say the words, even to God.
If she made the call, some lady in a cheap nylon suit from Ross Dress for Less would drive a cheap Japanese car to her daughter’s home to check on the grandchildren. She would have the school records, the absences, the uneven grades; and the medical files, a fracture here and there, the missing tooth, the bedwetting.
Grace would lose her temper. In moments she would be snatching at the air in front of the social worker’s face, clicking her nails together like the beak of a predatory seabird. The social worker would flinch and leave. Grace would strut out to watch her go, not understanding that this was not a victory, she had not routed the social worker like an ex’s new lover.
Then they’d be four little Black kids in the Florida system. She knew those kids. She might as well drive her grandchildren out into the Everglades herself, leave them with a shotgun and a loaf of bread each and let them take their chances with the gators. At least the gators would make it quick.
Best to leave it alone. It wasn’t like anyone really knew what they were doing, raising kids. After generations being sold away from kin in slave times, then driven away in Jim Crow, all they had was the Bible and guesswork. Esther’s mother in law used to tie Hank to a tree and beat him with a skillet. Hank turned out just fine. He was proud that he only ever used a switch on their kids. Maybe Grace was just a throwback.
Besides, what would people think? The pastor’s own grandkids taken away? It would hurt the faith of the faithful and that was a terrible sin. There were already rumours about Grace, places she’d been seen, people she’d been seen with and not just menfolk neither. Esther was able to pray about that at least; she could call an abomination when she saw it.
But there was the thin trickle of blood from Georgia’s ear and puddle of it on her pillow. On the way to the hospital the child remained silent, shuddering now and then in the back seat. Esther had had a dog that shuddered like that. The white neighbours had shot it and shattered its spine. It dragged itself home to die on the porch.
Turned out it wasn’t a brain injury, as Esther had feared, but a ruptured eardrum. Esther told some story about sliding on a hall rug, but that air had been gathered in the cup of Grace’s hand, driven into the four year old’s ear by her mother’s slap.
Esther’s fingertips rested, motionless, on the phone while the heat and the darkness thickened in the empty office.
Jo Bardsley is a queer teacher and writer based in East London. They recently completed a Masters in Creative Writing. Since then their work has been published in Mslexia, Folding Rock and Northern Gravy among others. They have been shortlisted for the Queen Wasafiri prize for new writing. Their work often explores marginalised experiences. They are on Bluesky @jobardsley.bsky.social
Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash
