Mom’s wicked witch hands are all over me.

It started at the kitchen table.

“Hurry up and eat and go to bed,” said Mom.

My sisters and I silently go at bowls of spaghetti in our Seaside Avenue yellow kitchen.  Mom painted the room yellow because she likes a yellow kitchen.  I think any color paint will help this 1890-built, one-family house that’s cut up into three, small apartments with walls that jut out weirdly and too many doors that lead to a hallway.

Donna sits across from me, Barb’s next to her, and Maria’s next to me.  Mom ranks the head of the table, near Barb and Maria.  These are our steady positions in the new place we call home after Daddy and Mom’s recent divorce.  A round, wooden clock hangs over the pantry door, of which I sit opposite.  I can see a bag of potatoes on the pantry floor, blue Ronzoni boxes of pasta, Sclafani canned tomatoes, and Campbell soup cans on the shelves.  They are nice and neat, put in order by me.

I look at Mom, watch her, wonder what’s up, what’s her bad mood all about this time.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Stop staring at me.”

“I said, stop staring at me!”

I don’t answer her, look down at my bowl.  Yet, I can’t help myself.  I steal sneaks at her as I twirl spaghetti on a fork that hovers over a spoon.  Grandpa taught me this trick of how to eat spaghetti.

My last look does it to Mom.

“Dear Mary, Mother of God, so help me,” said Mom.

She’s up in a hot-flash, black, angry eyes race, goes past Maria, to me.  As soon as Mom is up, I’m up, run around the table to the other side, then caught by the hair, trapped between the fridge and a short wall that sticks out near the stove.  There’s no escape.  I am cornered.

Mom’s wicked witch hands are all over me.

The only thing that I can do is back against the wall, crouch as low as possible, make myself small, and shield my head and face with my arms and hands, as her hurting hands slap me, every which way.  To bear the stings, I go down deep inside myself and wait, wait, wait, until the beating is over.  My being is small, small, small, at the core of my physical body.

My sisters sit frozen at the table.

“Go sit down and finish your supper,” said Mom.

In my chair, I pick up the fork, but that’s about all I can do.  I stare at the clock on the wall above Donna’s head and try to hold in a ropey mess in my throat of sobs and tears.

“Now she’s doing it to Donna,” said Mom.

I can feel her eyes on me.  I dare not look.  She’s riled up and wants to keep at it.

“No, she’s not!”

A silent thanks to my sister, I keep my eyes on the bowl, my long, dark hair hides my red-streaked cheeks.

Sometimes, I don’t know who is my best friend.  Sometimes, my best friend is LoLa, an Italian girl who lives in a house around the corner, a Victorian with a creamy-colored rooftop, spirally like an ice cream cone.  We hold hands, skip along Elm Street, to our first-grade class at St. Mary’s school.

Sometimes, my best friend is our grey-striped tomcat, Twinkles.  Behind Joshu’s rocking chair, on the upstairs porch, I crouch and stroke him as he lay still at my feet.

“God, why are Daddy and Mom so mean to me?  What did I do wrong?  Why don’t they love me?”

His big, gray eyes glue to my eyes, he listens, twitches a peaked ear, and his soft, sweet, friendship assuages little girl talk of confusion, prayer, and tears.