Liar's Bench by Kim Michele Richardson

like clowns. And, after a while, it seemed like this one made both me and Mama cry more than he made us laugh. Still, he’d always apologize with a pretty gift and blaze those sharp pearlies. After he’d gotten over his hangover, that is. Then they’d go dancing again. I guess that’s why she loved him better than my daddy.
    Maybe even better than me. Because it was less than two months later when Mama delivered me back to Liar’s Bench.
    Daddy was waiting, with arms spread wide. “You didn’t let all that ‘fancy’ corrupt you, did you, baby?”
    I looked up at Mama questioningly and she nodded her approval from behind her sunglasses. I fell happily into Daddy’s hug, sneaking a peek at Mama over his shoulder. And that was when I saw her heartbreak for the first time—her face seeming to slowly craze like a porcelain bowl picking up the hairline cracks after it hits the floor. I’d never realized just how big her losses were. Her sisters. Her parents. A husband. Now, me, her only child. But in that one glimpse, I saw everything. I was almost nine years old, and I didn’t know how to help her. But I knew that she couldn’t help me. I buried my face in Daddy’s chest, grabbing hold of my immediate little happiness before it could be snatched away.
    Wearily, Mama sat down on Liar’s Bench and looked across the street toward the old courthouse, lost in thought. When she cleared her throat, the words sounded strange—sad. “Mudas is too puny for the city,” she told Daddy. “She mewls like a sick kitten at every loud noise. Tommy and I feel it’d be best if she lived here with you. We’re moving north soon, to Chicago. Tommy’s been offered a better job. And I don’t think she’s strong enough for a bigger city.”
    Confused, I shot her a look. Instead of answering, she adjusted her sunglasses to hide the recent eye whap that Tommy had given her. Instinctively, I felt for the small of my back. It still hurt. Four days ago, I had gotten separated from her and Tommy in the city department store and started crying. Tommy’d called me a big baby—a chicken for making a fuss—and smacked my tail all the way back to the car. When we got back to the apartment, he’d taken off his thick belt and beaten me. But this beating was different.
    There’d been a big argument about it afterward. The biggest ruckus ever. Even when I’d clamped my hands over my ears, I could still hear the slaps on skin, the shouts, and the slamming doors. Tommy had finally stormed out of the house, yelling about how he needed some air. His “air” always smelled “a whole lot like whiskey,” Mama had screamed back, reaching for a refreshment.
    I was so afraid, I ran to hide, pressing my small body way back inside the closet, hiding under a pile of coats until Mama came for me and coaxed me out with a sugar cookie.
    Then she’d gone and emptied a bread bag and filled it with ice to help with the swelling on my back. When Mama had finished, she’d hurried to the medicine chest to get salve to spread across the welts. I heard her gulping down the bottle of codeine cough syrup that she kept in there, as she tended to her own swelling. After she was through nursing our wounds, she’d lit herself a cigarette and studied me for the longest time. The smoke settled into our silence, and for a minute I saw wounds bigger than mine. I’d reached up, hugged her neck, and patted her back. “It’ll be okay, Mama, it’ll be okay.” I kept petting.
    Then, for the first time ever, Mama cried on me. Scared, I patted harder. She finally stood and went into the bathroom. I heard her open up the cabinet again. Another sip of refreshment, and a few seconds later, she came out. Her breath smelled a lot stronger, orangier, like fruit and Tommy’s bourbon. She’d knelt down. “Keep your back covered at