MAMACITA

By J.T. Dossett

Shyla McGilvery didn’t know how to be a girl. She never knew her mother and grew upwith two wild brothers, and a sickly twin in the grip of deep poverty in the mountains of North Carolina. The center of Shyla’s life was her twin, Ronald, whom she fiercely defendedfrom the callousness of life. She took care of the whole family as best she could, fulfilling the duties ofa mother, dressed in boy’s hand-me-down clothing, and was more likely to wrestle you to the ground than to greet you with a formal curtsey. She also wrestled with blame for her mother’s death, Ronald’s debilitating sickness, and accusations from members of ignorant society regarding her gender. Follow the Mamacita’s journey as she comes torealize an innate sense of her identity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Apr 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977274236

J.T. Dossett

Jim (J.T.) Dossett lives in East Tennessee and this is his ninth novel, MAMACITA. The characters in all of his books are colorful, and work well together to tell the story intriguingly. He delves into the human condition with clarity that is moving, leading the reader to empathize with his characters and the roles they play in the story. 

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

BABES IN THE WOODS

The wind gusts danced in a frenzy along the ridge and the trailer responded to the assault, shimmying, and quivering at the powerful invasions. It was cold in Western North Carolina, especially in mountainous Buncombe County in January; the temperature held a tenuous grip on 29 degrees Fahrenheit, as the promise of colder weather made itself known.

Oblivious to the wintry conditions, the babes slept peacefully, snuggled tightly against one another. It seemed like they slept a lot lately, but the time and the place weren’t right to play outside. So, they contented themselves with just being together. The girl was more active in their limited social interaction, and her brother would smile and suck his thumb as she caressed him gently and traced his delicate features with her miniature fingers.

Travis McGilvery trudged through the deepening snow and when he reached the woodpile dusted it off with thickly calloused, working man’s hands; gloveless, they seemed impervious to the cold, as he selected chunks of wood and stacked them on his makeshift canvas wood carrier. He wasn’t a big man, maybe 5’10, or 5’11. But he was all man; strong, thick chested, with ham hock forearms, and a bull neck. He was roughly handsome, with a face often compared to Merle Haggard’s contour; weathered and traced with lines of hard living, a face that seemed permanently tattooed with a five o’clock shadow.

Travis bulled through the front door, managing to balance his load and his body against the jostling blasts of wind.

Shut da doe, Daddy, it cold! demanded four-year-old Marvin, who was pissed that his tower of carefully stacked wooden blocks had collapsed in the stiff gust that followed Travis across the threshold.

Shut it yourself, you little peckerhead, I’ve got to load the stove before we all freeze to death, barked Travis as he heaved the wood carrier on the floor with a resonant thud.

I’m too little Daddy. Da win take me out in da yahd, yelped Marvin, who scurried to the couch and wrapped himself up in the colorful Afghan his Mother had painstakingly knitted for months.

You get that blanket dirty and your Mama will whoop your tail, griped Travis as he fought to shut the door,

It not a banket, it a Affican, reprimanded Marvin.

Marvin’s brother, three-year-old Wesley, interrupted the start of an inane argument when he entered the living room and stammered,

Daddy, come quick, Mama’s wet the bed.

Rachel McGilvery coughed, and a small cloud of condensation formed in the air of the freezing interior of the old Buick. The car was running, but it took a while for the heater to kick in. Her hands were numb and trembling as she attempted to light a cigarette. She could hardly wait to get a lungful of smoke, hoping that it would sedate her from the pain of her contractions.

Hurry, Travis, I don’t think I can hold on much longer, she yelled. She touched flame to the tip of the cigarette, which glowed weakly, an orange laser dot in the darkened car. The back door, deeply dented from a long ago accident complained loudly, as it was opened, and Travis inserted wiggly Marvin and Wesley through the breach.

I tried to call your mama to look after the boys, but she wasn’t home. We’ll have to take them with us.

It’s Wednesday. She’s at church,

I should have figured that. Hell, she might as well move in there, he said angrily, as he slipped the car into gear, and they rumbled out of the yard. The heater came alive, and a semblance of warmth sighed weakly from its mouth.

Less than an hour later, the twin sensed that his sibling had left and was showing signs of dismay, restlessness, unusual patterns of heart rate. He had memorized Rachel’s laugh which was very comforting, but he hadn’t heard from her in a while. He usually was the recipient of his siblings’ affection, and now that she was absent, he pawed at the uterine wall in search of her. He was weak, perhaps from not receiving enough oxygen through his placenta, and ceased his squirming, exhausted. As he wondered, as much as one wonders with an underdeveloped brain, the whereabouts of his womb mate, powerful forces carried him roughly along the path to his new and perplexing world.

Doctor Ananya Chopra closely examined the high resolution Ultra Sound results and the biophysical profile of the preemie called Ronald, now struggling for life with the help of his NICU ventilator. The teeny boy, born at 28 weeks along with his sister, was suffering from a low birth rate (3 pounds), while his sibling, Shyla, (5 pounds) was steadily gaining weight and improving day by day. Dr. Chopra examined other data that reported Ronald’s asphyxia to be far from moderate and that he may be in his tent for a long time in order for his lungs to develop fully. Lack of oxygen was also the outlaw that stole nutrients to his heart, brain, kidneys and bowels and other organs, and Chopra sighed, knowing that Ronald may suffer for a lifetime from these maladies, if he lived at all.

She reviewed the backgrounds of Ronald and Shyla’s parents and fought back sadness to know that the rural couple who had two other children, were poverty stricken and ignorant of health procedures available to protect their offspring from birth defects. She also had empathy for the McGilvery’s, remembering that she had been raised in poverty in the state of Uttar Pradesh, India.

After sleuthing through medical records, and questioning the parents, she discovered that the mother, Rachel McGilvery, had been infected with Listeria during pregnancy. The family doctor, whom they rarely visited, reported that Mrs. McGilvery had ingested the bacteria from a glass of raw milk served to her by her mother. It is known that Listeria along with Rubella, and Chicken Pox Zoster can obstruct intrauterine growth and be the sources of abnormal brain development.

Chopra backed away from her computer, took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. It was almost time for hospital rounds, and she hoped to see improvements in her patients, including the mother of the twins who had been readmitted to the hospital.

No improvement in Ronald McGilvery’s condition. A cadre of somber faced nurses encircled the ventilator as Chopra reviewed the charts, examined, and re-examined the child. The boy was not happy at all, and his protestations were no louder than a kitten’s mewling as he angrily waved his acorn-sized fists in the air. As Chopra adjusted her stethoscope you could see his tiny chest rise and his brave heart present itself, beating slowly through his wafer-thin rib cage and nearly translucent skin. Instead of healthy pink, his wrinkled body was gray, and his face was scrunched into a caricature of a pain-ridden, time-worn old man. The only object of distinct color on him was the strawberry birthmark at the base of his skull.

God love him. He looks like he is demanding something that he’s been missing, said a nurse as she dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. Dr. Chopra had a eureka moment.

Missing? Help me move him! she ordered as she opened the door to the tent and started gathering his tangle of technical attachments. Three people followed Chopra to Shyla’s address, eased Ronald carefully into her tent and attached all of his gadgets to monitors.

Place him as close to her as possible, without enmeshing the equipment, directed Chopra, her hands clasped tightly, knuckles white as if in fervent prayer.

Shyla did not open her eyes but gurgled in welcome. Ronald continued whimpering but ceased struggling. There was a mutual gasp as Shyla turned as far as she was able, bumped him gently with her elbow, and placed her arm over his shoulder. Those present that afternoon reported that after a while, they watched in awe as Ronald’s skin attained a healthier blush. There was a huge cheer, led by Doctor Chopra, which was against the rules. But the only ones who complained were the chorus of crying babies. Perhaps their cries could be mistaken for cheering too.

Rachel McGilvery’s head felt like it would explode. She had been re-admitted to the hospital 2 days earlier after she had experienced a convulsive seizure. After extensive tests, she was diagnosed with postpartum preeclampsia. The young woman had suffered untreated diabetes since she was a teenager, and high blood pressure, which was now, even with medication, over the top. She had smoked throughout her pregnancy and wished she could light up a cigarette now; she was sure a smoke would calm her nerves and relieve her of her devious headache. She was startled when diagnostic equipment started beeping and buzzing in concert and a herd of hospital employees came thundering into her room. Then it was quiet, and thankfully, her dad-blasted headache had departed, accompanied by her soul.

As Doctor Chopra continued her rounds, the NICU nurse in charge dispatched two of her subordinates who were familiar with the twins’ history, to share the good news with Rachel and her family. The messengers chattered excitedly as they raced to the room two floors down. But their happiness was crushed when on their arrival, they were greeted with the vision of the gurney bearing the draped body of Rachel McGilvery posted outside of her room.

Wesley and Marvin stood next to their daddy and touched him lightly in an effort to console him. Their wide-eyed puzzled countenances were testament that they weren’t totally aware of what was going on. Travis was hunched over, his face covered by his hands, as relatives and friends hovered over him like angels, murmuring awkward, but sincere sympathies. The church was ancient, a picture of the quintessential little brown church in the wildwood and the warped floor boards creaked as mourners stepped heavily to the casket and beyond to where Travis was seated. His family, comprised of four sisters, tended to him like mother hens, and their spouses and children were attentive to his beck and call.

Rachel’s family was unable to attend because they lived up north, where they migrated to work in the factories many years ago. Also, they had lost favor with their matriarch because they didn’t lead their lives in accordance with her religious dictates. The matriarch, Maude, was in attendance in all of her glory, accompanied by her church family, a severe-appearing clutch of sanctimonious, Bible-thumping women. Maude appeared the high priestess of the group, responding regally to the sentiments of her followers. She nodded solemnly to a late comer, who bent, not to kiss her ring, but to whisper in her ear.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted, said the woman righteously.

Maude nodded in approval of the remark. But she was not comforted; she was mourning the passing of her daughter, whom she considered to be one of the lost; a non-believer. Actually, Rachel was a believer, and was saved at an early age. But, like every human being, she was flawed, failing to meet her mother’s haughty standards and her interpretation of the words of God.

Later, Maude had to refrain from shouting, Hallelujah! and actually glowed when the preacher read the scripture, repeating the words of John: Whoever lives by believing in me will never die. She showed no emotion when the preacher asked for prayers for the family which included the two babies who are bereft of a mother’s love and care. In her twisted view, she believed that the twins were demons, sent here to deliver her daughter’s soul to the devil. In her heart, she abhorred them.

CHAPTER 2

HOUSEKEEPER AND OTHER DUTIES

Travis’ sister, Roseann McGilvery Davis watched intently from the trailer doorway as the fragile little boy picked his way carefully down the rutted hillside to the road below. She shook her head, noting his insistence on meeting the school bus every day, rain sleet or snow, she thought, quoting a portion of the mailman’s motto.

His battered bus emblazoned with the words Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church on the side usually arrived forty-five minutes to an hour, (depending on the weather) prior to the bus ferrying his beloved sister and brothers home. Today, on disembarking, he had labored up the hill to use the outhouse behind the trailer and had promptly returned to his vigil at the road.

Lord, he should get a job at the post office, thought Roseann. She and the rest of the family were flabbergasted that he had lived this long; ten years next week. In his short time on earth, he had endured five surgeries and innumerable procedures to repair his horribly broken heart, and other issues related to birth defects.

She immediately chastised herself, knowing that her nephew would never amount to much because of his disastrously poor and failing health. He rallied briefly from each surgery and the results of the operations were a mass of scars on his thin chest that appeared as though he’d been scourged.

Just like Jesus, she muttered, referring to Christ’s flagellation before his crucifixion. Ronald McGilvery was considered Godly by most of his family; a gift, and many in their small community felt the same way about the boy. He was admired for his stoicism and goodness in the face of horrific pain and constant discomfort, and his chief, and most fanatical admirer was his twin sister, Shyla.

Viola Baird’s guidepost to the McGilvery trailer on the twisty, graveled mountain road was the image of the emaciated boy waiting at the bottom of the hill for her bus. He was the greeter of the McGilvery siblings, usually the last of the passengers to disembark from their long journey home from school. The boys, Wesley and Marvin behaved badly, just like most of the other rough and tumble mountain boys, throwing things, yelling, and screaming like banshees at the idea of romping through the woods after a boring day at school.

Stop that screamin,’ we’ll be home soon! commanded their younger sister, Shyla, and they obeyed her admonition. She pressed her face to the window and smiled when she saw her sentinel waiting patiently by the road, pretending to read one of his school books. And her heart warmed.

Marvin and Wes raced to the door, virtually trembling to leap out of the bus and return to building their fort in the deep woods behind their dwelling. Shyla interrupted their exhilaration.

Wait a minute. You’uns got those pokes I packed your samwiches in this morning?

Marvin sighed deeply as did Wesley and both produced wrinkled sacks from their overalls and brought them back to Shyla. They supposed that if she didn’t have sacks to carry their meager lunches, she might not fix their meals.

When Viola opened the screechy door, the boys hardly acknowledged Ronald as they bolted, not for the trailer, but for the deep woods. Ronald didn’t mind. His thoughts were aimed directly at his beloved sister.

Hi, sweetie, how was your day? she said, as she stooped to hug his thin shoulders. Alright, he said, failing to report that today the story had been read for about the umpteenth time about Jesus feeding a bunch of people with one fish and turning water into wine.

Later, they used blunt tipped scissors to cut out some colorful leaves and pumpkins for a Halloween display and took extra-long naps as part of the modest curricula.

You are breathing hard, honey. Have you taken your medicines?

Yep, I just climbed this hill a couple of times, and it’s hard to get my breath.

It’ll come back, honey. Here, climb on my back and I’ll give you a pony ride up to the house, she said, bending over for him to climb on. He accepted her invitation gladly, and his sturdy sister fairly ran up the steep incline to their humble abode.

Roseann had her coat on and car keys in hand as Shyla and her rider burst through the entrance of the trailer. She had promised Travis that she would stay long enough for the children to get home. Now, she was eager to return to her home, and cook supper for her brood.

She tousled Ronald’s hair as he slid off his mount.

Shyla girl, I swear that you are as strong as an ox.

You ought to see her run. The other day she beat Marvin and Wes in a footrace. And boy was they pissed!

You’d better watch your mouth boy, or someone will tell your daddy, won’t you Shyla?

No, I won’t. I don’t squeal on nobody, especially Ronald, said Shyla firmly. Roseann changed the subject.

I didn’t have time to straighten up this place, it’s a mess round here, lamented Roseann. Shyla smiled, remembering that she cleaned up the trailer before she went to school, not spit and polish, but better than it appeared at the present; several thumbed-through magazines spread across the rumpled couch, the indent of Roseann’s big bottom in the couch cushion and the overflowing ash tray with the remnants of Roseann’s brand, still smoking in the fluffy mound of ashes and butts.

Roseann continued.

Your daddy said he would be home from the palette factory in about an hour from now, so you’d better git busy, said Roseann, as she headed out the door, a bit miffed at the time she’d lost catering to these people.

The mere girl had Roseann’s mess cleaned up in no time. She had a plan for the evening that included Ronald’s help.

Ronald, if you feel like it, will you get a big can of pinto beans, a box of macaroni, and a jar of plum maters out of the pantry, while I get supper started? You can make two or three trips if you have to darlin’.

Ronald did her bidding gladly and discovered a jar of canned peppers as well.

Way to go, baby, Daddy loves them peppers with beans, so do I, she said, taking time from rattling pots and pans to hug her brother for his efforts.

Travis grimaced in pain as he drove home from his job in Candler. His injured hand was swollen, and blood was seeping through his clumsily wrapped bandage. Through his pain, he recalled his chaotic day.

It was near quitting time, and he looked forward to receiving his pay check documenting the hours of overtime he had accrued from last week. He had just completed loading a truck with pallets for delivery to Asheville on Monday morning, when the load shifted, and he instinctively attempted to catch it. The action resulted in a huge gash on the back of his hand and splinters plentiful as porcupine quills lodged in his hand and forearm. He was tempted to stop at a hospital but shelved the idea because he had no insurance.

The boys traipsed through the darkening woods towards home. They had recently seen the movie, Last of the Mohicans, and they had built a fort in the thickets they believed to be similar to the fort defended by Uncas, Chingachgook, and his adopted white brother, Hawkeye against the French, and their Huron mercenaries. Their imaginations were stoked by their creative efforts, and they were stealthy as they slinked through the forest, pausing periodically to listen and watch for signs of evil Magua, the Huron and his vile compatriots. Later, they discussed that had Shyla had been with them, she would have gladly portrayed Magua, just for the opportunity to leap out of the bushes and pretend to scalp her brothers.

Lordy, Daddy, that looks like it hurts, said Shyla, as she examined Travis’ wound. Ronald placed a hand on his father’s shoulder with knowing compassion. Hit’ll be alright, said Travis, who winced as Shyla gently removed a wooden quill from his leathery hand with tweezers. She had received a first aid kit as a prize for excellent grades in health class and was eager to use the contents of the kit to offer healing and relief of pain, which was her God-given nature.

Dadgum, who wrapped this bandage, she queried as she used scissors to cut the tangle of blood-encrusted binding from his swollen hand."

I ain’t too good with my left hand and I guess I wrapped it kind of loose, answered Travis sheepishly.

When she had removed most of the splinters, she dug a worn porcelain basin from beneath the cupboards and filled it with warm water.

This ain’t gonna’ feel good, Daddy, but put your hand in here and let me wash your hand and arm good with soap and water. You don’t have to leave it in there long if it hurts too much. Travis obeyed and it took a while for Shyla to bathe and clean the wounds, empty the blood-muddied bowl, and replenish the water, several times. He fought not to yell when she drenched his wound with hydrogen peroxide and alcohol, rubbed his forearm and hand with antiseptic ointment, and wrapped the wounds with sterile gauze.

Daddy, I’m afraid we don’t have any aspirin for the pain, but I can run over to the Blackstone’s place and ask if they got anything.

That’s ok, honey, I got somethin’ that’ll take care of it. Retch down at the bottom of the cupboard Ronald and get me that bottle.

Ronald gleefully followed his direction, eager to be of help. He returned soon with a pint of Old Crow.

Pour me about two inches of that in a coffee cup, will you Shyla?

Seeing her father in painful distress, she readily complied.

Later, when the boys arrived home, they devoured her supper. Their daddy didn’t feel like eating, but they were delighted as he sang songs to them during the meal. None of them could remember ever hearing him sing.

Wake up, Shyla, Daddy’s sick, said Ronald, pale, his face awash in worry.

Shyla, sleep-dopey with a bad case of bedhead, half-fell out of bed to answer the call. As she rushed to her father’s room on the living room couch, she figured that he was suffering from the Old Crow curse, but she