The Darkest Child

by Delores Phillips

Skeeter’s house and I purposely avoided glancing in that direction. I was captivated by this loquacious side of Tarabelle, by her having taken me into her confidence. “Sometimes, Tan, I be walking to work and I go by that creek. I be thinking ’bout walking right on out in it. Then I think the water ain’t gon’ cover my head, and I’m just gon’ be wet and look stupid and won’t even be dead.You ever think about dying?” she asked.“When Judy died, I wished it was me.” “Why do you wanna die, Tara?” I asked. “I wanna live to get old—older than Miss Janie. I wanna do things.” “Ain’t nothing to do.And anyway, I’m too tired to do anything. Sometimes I think I won’t take another breath, but then I do, and I don’t even know why.” “Maybe you wouldn’t feel that way if you could get out of Pakersfield. If Mama hadn’t torn up your ticket and you could have left, maybe you wouldn’t feel that way.” Tarabelle blew a quick breath through pursed lips. “Shoot,” she said, “Pakersfield ain’t got nothing to do wit’ nothing. I’m glad Mama did it. First, I was mad, but after I thought about it, I didn’t even care. I don’t wanna go nowhere and live wit’ Mushy. She just like Mama. Just like her.”