Papers For Doughnuts

By Karen S. Thompson

Eighteen-year-old Jane Carey has reached her breaking point and stands on a bridge with a gun in her hand and revenge in her heart.

Born into poverty, she has struggled to emotionally survive the unexpected death of the only parental love that she ever knew, the horrific, raging beatings and verbal abuse of her violent, addicted mother, the fear incurred by being stalked by the man who repeatedly sexually molested her in childhood, and learning of her mother’s unforgivable actions connected to the town’s serial rapist.

She must make a decision - it's a matter of survival.

This is her story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen S. Thompson
• Release date: May 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463197080

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Everybody liked Ike when Mama forced me out of her womb and into her world. I was born in Grayville, a small paper mill town in southwest Ohio, as several previous generations of my family had been. They’d died there, too.

All of them.

CHAPTER ONE

I was six years old when my father sold me to Charlie Price. At least, that’s the way that Mama told the story. I have a different recollection of how things happened that weekend.

A storm had been raging, and I was huddled in a corner rocking back and forth with my hands clasped over my ears. The windows rattled as thunder crashed and lightning cracked the air.

Mama was stretched out on the sofa engrossed in watching some preacher pacing back and forth behind a pulpit, his deep, baritone voice booming from the television. Oblivious to the intense storm and my whimpering, her hair hung limp and dirty, and she had on the same tattered pink robe that she wore every day. She inhaled deeply on the cigarette that she held between her index and middle fingers, pursed her thick, full lips, and slowly exhaled. Through bloodshot eyes, she watched the perfectly round blue-gray smoke ring slowly drift upward to the nicotine-stained ceiling.

Salivating, I watched her take a piece of candy from the dish that sat on the end table next to her and pop it into her mouth. She never allowed me to eat candy because she said that it would rot my teeth right out of my head.

The telephone rang, and it startled me. Get that, she said.

Another clap of thunder roared, and multiple flashes of lightning streaked the sky.

I pointed a trembling finger at the tree branches that were furiously slapping against the windowpane. I don’t want to, I said. I’m too scared.

Giving me a dirty look, she pulled off one of her shoes and threw it at me, and I ducked as it whizzed by my head. What have you been told about sassing me?

I darted across the floor and answered the telephone. Hello? I said.

Put Zella May on, replied the voice on the other end.

I handed her the receiver. It’s Coburn, I said. Uh, I mean Junior.

Mama referred to my father as Junior because he barely reached five feet tall and weighed next to nothing. She called people whatever she pleased, and that included me.

When I was born, my father had wanted to name me April Dawn — I was born at sunrise on the twentieth day of April in nineteen fifty-three — but Mama had said no. She declared that it was only fitting that I should be called Jane, considering that I had to be the plainest baby that she’d ever seen in all her born days on God’s green earth.

Muttering obscenities, she snatched the phone from my hand. Where’s my child support money? she screamed into the mouthpiece.

I went to cower in the corner again, but a huge cockroach had claimed my spot. Climbing into Charlie’s chair, I pretended that he was holding me as he always did whenever I was afraid. I hated it when he and Mama fought because he’d stomp out of the apartment and not come back for several hours. One time when he’d stayed gone all night, she’d accused him of being out catting around, but he had told her that he’d spent the night at Gary’s Garage, the auto repair shop on Marshall Avenue where he worked as a mechanic.

I don’t care what your sorry excuses are! You owe me five hundred dollars in back child support! Mama yelled at Coburn. Charlie Price has asked me to marry him, and he wants to adopt the brat. Her eyes became cold and calculating. She reached into the candy dish and extended her hand, offering me a piece of the forbidden sweetness. Want this? she asked.

I crossed the room and reached for the candy, and she grabbed my wrist and twisted it around. Gripping it tightly, she pressed the hot tip of the cigarette into my tender flesh.

I screamed in agony. It hurts! I wailed.

Do you hear that? she said to Coburn. I’ll tell the cops that you did it.

Making no effort to mask the contempt on her face, she shoved me away with such force that I fell backward onto the coffee table, and the lamp precariously swayed back and forth before it crashed to the floor and shattered the lightbulb.

Her face contorted, and the volume on her voice rose. You dim-witted moron, now look what you’ve done! she yelled.

Sobbing, I curled up in Charlie’s chair with Miss Agnes the headless doll. Mama had deliberately snapped its head off during a knock-down, drag-out fight with Charlie not too long after he’d given it to me for my third birthday. He’d tried his best to glue the doll’s head back on but was unsuccessful, and he’d told me that sometimes things were so badly broken that they couldn’t be fixed and that I needed to remember that or else I was sure to be sorely disappointed in life.

Mama pulled the receiver away from her ear, and my father was yelling up a storm. Whatever he was saying was making her livid, and she abruptly tossed the telephone down and went into the bathroom.

I tiptoed across the room and picked it up, and heard Coburn ranting and raving about Charlie Damn Price not being my daddy. Quickly laying it back down on the couch, I scrambled to my chair about a second before Mama opened the bathroom door.

She crossed the room and snatched up the phone. Don’t kid yourself, they always believe the mother over the father, she said to Coburn. Here’s how it’s going to happen, Carey. I won’t tell the cops that you abuse the brat, and I’ll forget about the money you owe me if you sign a paper agreeing to the adoption.

Mama couldn’t be trusted — she’d throw you under a bus in a heartbeat.

I knew that you’d see things my way, she said. Pick her up tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and don’t be late. Smirking, she hung up on him and gulped down the rest of her Bloody Mary before snuffing out her half-smoked cigarette and lighting another one.

Anyone here? the landlady’s voice called from the bottom of the stairwell. She lived in the downstairs apartment and rented out the top floor to tenants.

Come on up, Mama said.

She whirled her head toward me. Stop that crying before she gets up here.

I obediently swallowed the sobs and silenced my pain.

Mrs. Lewis stomped up the stairs and marched into the living room. I want the back rent that you owe me, she said. Now.

I’m sorry, Von, Mama replied. I had the money for you, but Jane got sick.

Mrs. Lewis glanced in my direction. She looks fine to me.

That’s because I’m not sick, I said.

Mama’s jaw muscles tightened. Yes, you are, she said. Doc Burns said so.

Nuh-uh, liar, I said.

Zella May, I’m running out of patience with you, said Mrs. Lewis. If I don’t have the full amount by the end of the week, I’m issuing an eviction notice.

Mama shrugged her shoulders. Hey, it’s not my fault that the kid got sick.

The landlady stomped down the stairs and slammed the door so hard that it made the glasses in the kitchen cupboard rattle. Tattletale! Mama said. You got me in trouble.

I picked at a chip of paint that was peeling from the wall. You said that God hates little girls who lie, I said. Doesn’t He hate the big ones, too?

Charging across the room, she grabbed me by the shoulders. That’s it! she said. You’re going into the closet.

Please no, Mama, I whimpered. I’ll be good.

Jerking me out of the chair, she dragged me across the living room and locked me inside the dark, tiny closet. I sat down on the floor and wrapped my arms around myself. The hammering of the rain grew louder and louder, and a roach crawled across my bare feet.

Out in the kitchen, Mama turned on the country radio station and sang along with some lady who was walking after midnight to see her man.

Rocking back and forth to soothe myself, I whispered into the darkness. Beth?

It’s okay, Jane, she said. I’m here.

The storm was over.

***

The next morning, the sound of the closet door opening woke me. Recoiling from the sudden light, I shielded my eyes and struggled to my feet.

Get out of there and make it snappy, Mama said. She grabbed me by the arm and jerked me out of the closet, quickly slapping a Band-Aid over the cigarette burn.

Someone was sobbing in the kitchen. Is that Charlie? I asked.

No, it’s Junior. He’s going to take you to Nonna’s.

Where’s Charlie?

I don’t know, and I don’t care, she replied.

I heard my father blow his nose. Why’s he crying? I said.

Because he signed the adoption agreement.

Is Charlie my daddy now?

Not yet, but he will be, she replied.

I loved Charlie with all my heart, and I jumped up and down in excitement. Yay!

Quit acting like an idiot! said Mama. Stop that nonsense.

My heart racing in fear, I stopped jumping. Yes, ma’am, I replied. I’m sorry.

If Nonna asks you about the burn, tell her that you were running and tripped into my cigarette, Mama said. Do you understand me?

I nodded. Yes.

She slowly bent my fingers backward. "Tell me exactly what you’re going to say."

I was running and tripped into your cigarette.

She released my fingers. Damn right you did.

I followed her into the kitchen. My father sat at the table with his head hanging down, and I walked over and kissed him on the cheek.

Hi, Coburn, I said.

Taking me by the arm, he carefully lifted one end of the Band-Aid and shot daggers at Mama with pure contempt in his eyes. How could you? he said.

My stomach rumbled. The cupboards were bare, and I hadn’t eaten much for several days. Coburn, I’m hungry.

He rose from the chair. Let’s get out of here, he said. Nonna will feed you when we get to the farm.

I adored Nonna. My great-grandmother had a heart of gold and was the only person that I knew that was sincerely happy and not fake happy. A simple woman full of the wisdom of the ages, her eyes and wit were still sharp and clear although she was approaching her senior years.

I followed Coburn down the stairs and outside to where his rattletrap of a car was parked in the alley that ran behind Mullaney Street. Opening the door, he stared intently into my eyes. Promise that you’ll never forget that I’m your real father, he said.

I slid into the passenger’s seat. I won’t, I replied.

I didn’t want to sign the adoption papers, he said, but with your mother, I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.

On the way to Nonna’s farm, I had a great time waving to the people as the automobile slowly made its way down Grayville’s main thoroughfare that was appropriately named Main Street. Always bustling, the downtown area was a dozen blocks long and ran from Twelfth Street to the bridge that crossed the Great Miami River.

As we approached the traffic light at Sixth and Main, it turned red, and so did Coburn’s face when a plump woman standing at the crosswalk by the Southwest Ohio Auto and Life building smiled and waved at him.

Hi there, Coburn! she called.

He ignored her, and the light turned green. He pressed the accelerator, and I turned around in the seat to look out the back window. Who was that? I asked.

Just a lady friend, he said. She works at the agency.

The insurance agency and Beckin Paper Mill were Grayville’s two largest employers, filling the billfolds and cupboards of most of its residents. However, some of the townspeople worked at the steel mill located in Dogwood, and a handful worked at Beecher Body, the large automobile plant located in Cherryville. The less fortunate had to make the long commute back and forth to Cincinnati whenever the lack of local employment opportunities forced them to accept jobs in the Queen City.

When the car reached the outskirts of town, I watched the gentle, rolling hills of the lush green countryside pass by for what seemed like an eternity.

I finally spotted the entrance to Nonna’s farm. We’re here! I shouted in excitement.

Coburn turned off the main road, and his clunker kicked up the dust as it rumbled and sputtered along the rutted dirt lane that led to the farmhouse.

I sucked in my breath at the beauty that my eyes beheld. It looked as if an artist had taken his brush and painted the picturesque scene. The stark whiteness of the farmhouse stood out amidst the sea of color that surrounded it in all directions — the sapphire blue of the expansive sky overhead, the leafy rows of golden corn, the verdant fields of vegetables, and the literal rainbow of colors in the flowers and shrubs planted around the farmhouse and property.

Nonna’s dog Digger bounded up to the car and barked a greeting, and I quickly opened the door and ran straight up the porch steps.

A hefty Italian woman who was as strong as an ox, Nonna grabbed me in a bear hug. How are you, sweetie? she asked.

I . . . can’t . . . breathe, I gasped.

She released her grip on me, and we walked over to where Coburn sat with his head lowered on the steering wheel and the engine still running.

I need to be alone right now, he said to Nonna. I’ll be back later.

I watched him drive away. Where’s he going? I asked.

Never you mind, she said. How about I get you some ice cream?

I clapped my hands. Oh, yes! I said. I never get ice cream at home!

I followed her into the house and sat down in the kitchen chair that was reserved for me whenever I visited, and Digger stretched out on the floor next to my feet. Opening the freezer door, Nonna removed a container of chocolate ice cream and dished several scoops into a bowl and handed it to me. Taking a giant bite of the cold and creamy treat, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen her farmhand George since my arrival.

Where’s your nigger? I asked.

Please don’t say that word, Jane, she said.

What word?

Nigger.

Why?

It’s not a nice word.

Mama says it all the time, I replied.

Your mother’s not a nice person, she said.

I vigorously bobbed my head up and down in agreement.

Promise me that you won’t ever say it again, Nonna said.

I shoved another big blob of ice cream into my mouth and swallowed. I promise.

The front door slammed, and Uncle Vinny appeared in the kitchen doorway. Crossing the room, he wrapped his arms around Nonna’s shoulders and kissed her cheek.

She gave him a stern look. You’re late, Vincenzo, she said.

Sorry, Mammina, but traffic was at a standstill, he replied. A train stopped next to the lumber mill and backed up traffic on Keaton Street for a good twenty minutes.

Uncle Vinny lived on the east side of town at a place known as Phillips Corner. He had been a press operator for the town’s newspaper for over a decade but had recently quit his job because he’d been passed over for a promotion that he felt should have gone to him. He said that he was tired of working for the man and that he was perfectly capable of making his own money, so he’d been tossing around the idea of starting a printing company.

He playfully tousled my hair. Who’s my favorite little girl? he asked.

I am! I said, squealing in delight at the attention.

Jane, go tell George that lunch will be served promptly at noon, said Nonna.

I licked the last of the ice cream out of the bowl and rose from the chair, and the Band-Aid fell off my arm and landed on the floor. I hurriedly covered the burn mark, and Nonna reached out and pulled my hand away.

What happened here? she asked.

I tripped and fell into Mama’s cigarette, I said.

Exchanging glances with Uncle Vinny, she opened one of the cabinets and returned with some ointment and a fresh Band-Aid that she gently applied to the area.

Go tell George about lunch now, please, she said.

I ran outside and found the farmhand snoring behind the corncrib. For whatever reason, he always came up fighting whenever he was awakened, so I picked up a pitchfork that was lying nearby and gave him a few good pokes.

After relaying Nonna’s message, I sat down under the shade of the sawtooth oak tree and watched Digger wear himself out chasing the chickens around the barnyard. A few minutes later, the canine laid down on the ground next to me and rested his head in my lap. He looked up at me with cute puppy-dog eyes, and my heart melted. Mama wouldn’t let me have a pet because she said that they were just another mouth to feed and weren’t worth the trouble.

The rest of the day passed quickly, and by eight o’clock, I could barely keep my eyes open. Knowing that I’d soon be going hungry again, I’d stuffed down two heaping helpings of lasagna at suppertime.

Nonna, I’m ready for bed, I said.

Looking worried, she kissed my forehead to check for a fever. Are you sick?

I yawned. I’m just sleepy.

Taking me by the hand, she led me to the bedroom next to hers, and the lace curtains rustled as a soft breeze blew through the opened window. At home, I slept on a urine-stained cot with a thin, lumpy mattress that reeked of Mama’s cigarettes, so I was more than happy to crawl into the soft, comfortable bed.

Tucking me into the patchwork quilt, she gently kissed my cheek, and I encircled my arms around her neck. Goodnight, I said. I love you.

Sweet dreams, she whispered. May the fairies keep watch over you.

Fairies aren’t real, Nonna, I said. They’re make-believe.

They surely are real, she said. Every day I talk to the ones that live here on the farm.

My eyes widened. Where are they?

They live beneath the mushroom caps.

Blowing me a kiss from the doorway, she turned off the light and shut the door.

As soon as I heard her footsteps disappear down the hall, I rushed across the room, turned on the light, and jumped back into the bed. Snuggling under the covers with Beth by my side, I listened to the night sounds of the farm. The bees buzzed in their hives, the tree toads croaked their nightly chorus, and an owl hooted off in the distance.

Lulled to sleep by nature’s lullaby, I dreamt of flying to the moon on fairy wings.

CHAPTER TWO

On Sunday morning, I woke up feeling well-rested and happy despite all the events that had happened on Friday with Mama. The comforting aroma of bacon sizzling in the kitchen created a rumbling in my stomach, so I jumped out of bed and trotted down the stairs toward the mouth-watering smell.

Uncle Vinny stood at the stove, intently scrutinizing each slice of bacon as he pierced it with a fork and turned it over.

Sneaking up behind him, I wrapped my arms around his waist. Good morning, Uncle Vinny! I said.

Visibly shaken, he almost knocked the hot skillet off the stove. Holy crap! he shrieked.

I broke into a fit of laughter, and he glowered at me and angrily waved the fork in my face. That wasn’t a shittin’ bit funny!

Language, Uncle Vinny! I said. You shouldn’t use bad words in front of a little kid, you know.

He turned off the burner under the skillet. Make your own damn breakfast! he yelled.

Nonna placed a basket of hot, steaming biscuits slathered with freshly-churned butter and homemade jam onto the table. Language, Vincenzo, she said.

He stomped out of the kitchen, and she began cracking eggs into the skillet. Good morning, sleepyhead, she said. Would you like some scrambled eggs to go with your bacon?

Could I have them the Italian way? I asked.

She bowed dramatically. Anything for my sweet Jane — your wish is my command. Picking up the kitchen shears, she snipped several leaves from the basil plant that sat on the windowsill and stirred them into the eggs.

Uncle Vinny returned a few minutes later, apparently over his temper tantrum. After pulling out the chair for Nonna, he sat down at the table and solemnly lowered his head. Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub! Yay God!

She gave him a look. I don’t like that, Vincenzo, she said. It’s irreverent.

He laughed. How about this one instead? Good veggies, good meat, good God, let’s eat!

A word in your ear, son, she said. I’m about to get the wooden spoon after you.

My father entered the kitchen and flopped down in the chair directly across from me. His hair was disheveled, and he had dark circles underneath his lower lashes. Good morning, Coburn, I said.

He lit a cigarette with shaking, yellow-stained fingers and tilted his head at me. Well, lookee-lookee, it’s the whole fam-damily! he said. When did you get here?

You brought me yesterday, I said. Don’t you remember?

Can’t say that I do, he replied.

I took a bite of the bacon. Because you’re a drunk, huh?

Who told you that?

Mama.

Oh, really? he said. What else did she say?

That you’re a good-for-nothing lazy bum and have a wandering eye.

Anything else?

I shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth and thought for a moment. I guess that’s about it, I said.

The clatter of Digger’s toenails on the wooden floorboards announced his impending arrival. Leaving a trail of slobber behind him, he sat down by the table and wagged his tail.

Uncle Vinny raised a piece of bacon over the dog’s head. Dance, Digger, dance! he commanded, and the dog rose up on its hind legs and twirled around in circles until the bacon dropped into its eager mouth.

I looked at Coburn. I just remembered something else that Mama said.

He massaged his temples. Yeah? What’s that, kid?

She said that if you were on fire, she wouldn’t piss on you to put you out.

Uncle Vinny guffawed, and Nonna quickly suggested that we all go outside and enjoy the beautiful morning that God had given us.

No thanks, said Coburn. I have one helluva hangover, and I’m staying put.

When we got outside, I sat down on the porch swing with Uncle Vinny, and Nonna settled into her rocking chair. Enjoying the misty solitude and serenity of the fields in the early-morning fog, she took a sip of her coffee. Morning’s my favorite time of day, she stated.

Why, Nonna? I asked.

She smiled and her eyes crinkled at the corners. Because with each sunrise God gives an offering of new beginnings and fresh starts.

Where is He? I asked. I’ve never seen Him.

He’s everywhere, but you must watch for Him, she replied. He’s in the sunrises and the blowing winds.

I caught a glimpse of Beth frolicking through the rows of corn and chuckled when Digger came out of nowhere and scared the heck out of her, but I still didn’t see God anywhere.

Can you hear Him? I asked Nonna.

If you listen for Him, you can, she said. He’s a voice within your soul and the gentle whispers in your heart.

George was standing next to the barn and waved to us. Nonna depended on him for everything since she was getting older and couldn’t run the farm by herself anymore. She considered him family and insisted that he stayed in the downstairs bedroom that ran off the kitchen.

Mama said that it wasn’t proper for Nonna to have a man of color living under the same roof and that people all over town were talking about it.

I couldn’t see Nonna caring one bit about what people said.

I got a naked lady tattoo, said Uncle Vinny.

Showing it to me, he moved his upper arm muscles so that it looked like she was doing a hoochie-coochie dance. It isn’t appropriate for a child to see that, Vincenzo, Nonna said.

Yeah, I said. Why don’t you ever act like a grownup?

He picked up the morning edition of the Grayville Journal and began scanning it, the pages crinkling as he turned them. Pfft, there’s no fun in that.

Nonna rose from her chair. Jane, come along with me, she said. I need to talk to George about some farm business.

She held my hand as we crossed the field, but I yanked it away and made a run for the barn when a swarm of bees headed for the hives buzzed by us.

Nonna kept them for garden pollination and for the cash crop that she got from the honey, and I was terrified of them.

Out of breath and gasping, I leaned against the roughhewn wood of the rustic, weather-beaten barn. A soft breeze blew, and the earthy smell of compost permeated the air.

After seeing that I was okay, Nonna began asking George questions about the upcoming harvest, and he slowly rubbed the back of his neck with dirt-encrusted hands.

Well, Miss Caterina, he said, we’re going to need drier weather for a good harvest, and we’re going to have to hire help for both the harvesting and the gleaning of the fields.

Talk of corn pickers, combines, and John Deere tractors bored me, so I walked away and began searching for cloud formations in the sapphire-blue sky. Gasping in awe, I quickly spotted a perfectly formed heart-shaped cloud with what appeared to be the letter C centered in the middle.

An injured rabbit limped across the grass, and the dog barked at