One of these days, I won’t feel the need to add disclaimers. For now, I’m trying to stay out of trouble. This is not my mother or father. It is fiction. But “Cully Jean” is a very real woman. I love her dearly.
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Red and White
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
.
My sister is graduating today. I sit on a sweaty, metal folding chair at
the community center and wait to hear them call her name. Cully Jean sits
on a folding chair across the room beside ten other GED graduates. Nobody
wears a cap and gown. The air conditioner’s not working well, and the small
room smells strongly of felt tipped pens and hot bodies that are too close
together. Babies cry and little kids squirm on the floor. An administrator in
a cheap green suit stands up and looks at his watch. He wipes his forehead
with a handkerchief and reads a speech called It’s A Brand New Day.
.
Cully rolls her eyes and looks like she really wants a cigarette. She is
dark and beautiful like her Cherokee mama. Cully is thirty four, but she
already has stripes of white in her long black hair and dark half moons
under her eyes. Her breasts are large. She has one good arm and one
stubby arm. Her stubby arm ends where her elbow should be and has three
small, working fingers on it.
.
My legs are sticking to the metal chair, and I wish I had worn pants
instead of a skirt. Cully is wearing black jeans and the cute new top we
picked out at Wal-Mart today. It is dark red with short puffy sleeves and is
covered with tiny white dots. Cully points to her top and mouths the word
RED. Then she flips me off with her good hand and grins.
.
The women at social services nicknamed us Red and White. We were
born on the same day, but we’re not twins. We have the same white father.
He was almost fifty and already had a bunch of abused and abandoned kids
by the time he got our mothers pregnant.
.
My mother was white. She turned fourteen on the day I was born.
Cully’s mother was full-blooded Cherokee and a little older, maybe sixteen
or seventeen. Our father wanted to look noble for once in his life, so he
allowed both of his pregnant girlfriends to move in with him. He lived in a
dumpy little house on the outskirts of town. That’s where Cully and I were
born.
.
Social Services took us away when we were eight. I was small for my
age. Once my blond, curly hair was deloused and combed, I became a hot
commodity. I was placed with an older couple who live in a large Victorian
house on the good side of town. Eventually, they adopted me. Cully got
bounced around to different foster homes on the bad side of town.
.
When we were kids, our town was relatively small, and Cully could ride
her bike to my house. She showed up once or twice a week after midnight
and threw rocks at my window until I climbed down the trellis from my
second story room. The last time I snuck out with Cully Jean, we were
eleven. I didn’t really want to go anywhere. I was in a comfortable bed. I
liked my life and didn’t want to mess it up. But she kept throwing rocks, and
I was afraid she’d break the window. So, down I went.
.
Once my feet hit the ground, I turned around and saw Cully leaning
against a maple tree, smoking a cigarette. The rows of lights that framed the
lawn cast weird shadows on Cully’s face, and it made her look like she
had no eyes. What the frig took you so long? she asked. Little puffs of
smoke came out with her words.
.
We rode our bikes down Oak Street with its respectable rows of ivy
covered houses. We passed the Episcopal church and the new Elmwood
Elementary building where I went to school. After a while, we came to a
twin set of railroad tracks. We rode over the tracks and through the housing
projects and trailer courts. We passed the shabby little Ridgerock
Elementary school, where Cully may or may not be the next morning. We
passed the non-denominational church with Good News! spray painted in
neon yellow across its gray, windowless building.
.
We finally came to an abandoned gas station that was next to a row of
empty buildings. This was Cully’s favorite spot to hang, especially when her
foster father was in town. The street lights were still intact. We saw bullets
and needles on the ground. Sometimes, there were stray cats who would
let us pet them. When we got tired of sitting out front, we could slip inside
the gas station through a broken door in the back. There was an old, dust
covered cash register still on the counter. One time, we found a box full
of comic books.
.
Instead of going inside the gas station, we decided to sit down on a
rickety bench in front of the building. Cully pulled a joint out of her pocket
and lit it. We took little puffs and coughed until we gagged. The weed made
our heads feel big and put us in a silly mood. Broken glass sparkled on the
asphalt. We started doing hand clap games and laughing at how hard it was
to keep a rhythm, because we were stoned.
.
All of a sudden, a car pulled up. I didn’t hear it coming. I was laughing
too hard. Cully’s eyes got real big, and I laughed some more. Oh, shit, she
said. The car was a banged up piece of junk, and it squeaked and rattled to a
stop. A big man with a pot belly got out of the car. You little bitch! he
screamed. The state don’t pay us enough to put up with your crap!
.
Cully jumped up and started to run, but the man caught her by the hair
and flung her on the ground. He pulled off his belt and swung it high in the
air behind his head. Cully sat up and tried to get away. The belt came down
across her face with a snap. Cully screamed and fell back on the ground,
holding her face with her good hand. I jumped up and ran behind a pile of
wooden pallets while the man continued to beat Cully Jean.
.
I peeped around the pallets. I was so afraid the man would kill her. He
grabbed Cully by the hair and dragged her behind the gas station. I could
hear the sickening sound of his belt on Cully Jean’s skin. She screamed a
few more times. Then I heard nothing, except for the sound of my own
loud heart.
.
I waited for what seemed like forever. When I couldn’t stand waiting
any longer, I snuck to the side of the building and looked around back. The
man was sitting down on something. Cully Jean was on her knees in front of
the man. He was holding Cully’s head between his legs. Her shirt was off.
.
I was too terrified to run. I walked backward until I couldn’t see the
man or Cully anymore. I found a huge cardboard box on the side of the
building. I hid under the box. My pulse was beating loudly in my ears.
Something skittered by my arm, and I clapped my hand over my mouth so
I wouldn’t scream.
.
Eventually, I heard his heavy footsteps go past. The car door creaked
open. Then the car gurgled to a start and sped away. A few minutes later, I
crept out, and Cully’s bike was still there. I found her behind the gas station
on her hands and knees. She was crying and throwing up. Cully struggled to
her feet, still crying, and I helped her put on her shirt. Cully’s cheek was
bleeding. One of her eyes was closed shut. I didn’t know what to do, so I
reached out and tried to brush her hair away from her eyes. Cully Jean
spat in my face. Get away from me, bitch. I hate you, she hissed. Then she
got on her bike and slowly rode away.
.
I didn’t see Cully Jean for a long time after that. The next time we met,
we were thirteen. I was standing in front of the 7-11 store, and Cully came
whizzing up on a brand new skateboard and slammed into me. She told me
her mother had bought it for her. It still had the price tag on it. I doubted
what she said, but I tried to act impressed for her sake.
.
Then high school came along. People said I was a hottie. I got invited
to dances and had a lot of friends. Cully dropped out of her school midway
through freshman year. She was already addicted to crack. Once I saw her
when some friends and I went to a bar where underage kids could drink
without question. The place was a pit, and it reeked of underarms and
hot beer. Cully was working as a bar maid. She wore a short skirt and fish
net stockings. Old men slapped her on the ass and made mean remarks
about her stumpy arm. We pretended not to know each other.
.
I joined the debate team and the chess club. I graduated with honors.
Then I went to college and started drinking for real. Somehow, I managed
to get a degree in business. I put on a fairy tale wedding gown and married
a good looking bastard named Jim. He and I partied and fought our way
through our twenties. We cashed in my trust fund and bought a
condominium in Fort Lauderdale.
.
I moved back home when I was twenty nine and went into my adopted
father’s business. Now my ex is suing me for alimony. I make a lot of money
in real estate. My teeth are capped and bright white, and my face is on
billboards all over town, smiling like a fool. Cully won’t take a dime of my
money. If I mail her a check, she mails it back to me with cram it up your
ass written in big red letters across the front of the check.
.
Cully and I reconnected four years ago. She had just finished her last
session of rehab. Our reunion wasn’t a tearful one. We just saw each other
at the mall and started hanging out. Now we’re together most of the time.
If I don’t come around for a day, Cully calls and demands to know where the
hell I am.
.
But we don’t have long, meaningful conversations. We reveal ourselves
to each other cautiously and quickly, bit by bit. I told Cully about my
nervous breakdown while we were watching a sit com on television. When
we were waiting in line at the frozen yogurt stand, Cully told me she had
spent two years in jail.
.
Now Cully lives in public housing with her three youngest kids–two
girls and a boy. The apartment walls are thin, and we can hear people
arguing or having sex next door. Teenagers sell crack in front of the
apartments, and Cully yells at them until they leave.
.
Cully’s three kids are all under the age of five and have different fathers
they have never met. Cully has never gotten any child support. Two of the
fathers are dead, and she doesn’t know where the other one is. The kids are
sweet, but they’re a handful. They scream a lot and run around the
apartment, banging into walls. They leap on the kitchen counters like cats
and pour cereal all over the floor.
.
Five mornings a week, the kids take a little purple bus to daycare. Then
Cully takes the city bus to Wal-Mart, where she works all day. She goes to
school after work. At night, they all come home and run around the
apartment like crazy. Cully sings while she stirs spaghetti in a big, black
pot. She taught the kids how to write their names. She frames all of their
work and hangs it on the apartment wall.
.
In just a few minutes, Cully will have a high school diploma to hang on
her wall. The man in the green suit has finished reading his speech. The
folding chair hurts my ass. It feels like the air conditioner is completely
broken now. Cully is standing up with the other graduates, and I lean
forward to take her picture. The man in green has visible beads of sweat
running down the side of his face. He calls out the names quickly. Cully is
the last name on the list–Culletta Jean Whittaker.
.
Cully walks the few steps with her head held up. The man reaches out
and holds Cully’s good hand to shake it. There is an awkward moment when
he looks at her arm and is not sure where to put her diploma. Cully takes
the diploma with the three fingers on her stumpy arm and holds it up as
high as she can. Somebody behind me snickers.
.
I clap loudly for my dark sister. Tonight, we will go to Chuckie Cheese
to celebrate. She will show her kids how to spit wads of paper through their
straws. She will talk loudly and call me a dork. She won’t let me pay the bill.
.
We will go back to her apartment, and the kids will be high on
Mountain Dew. They will run and jump and break things until Cully
screams. Then they will put on their footie pajamas and settle down on her
bed, sucking their thumbs.
.
Cully will read a pile of books to them. The kids will fall asleep, but
Cully won’t stop reading until she finishes the last page of Good Night
Moon. When I wake up in the morning, I will be on the couch, covered with
Cully’s soft blanket. She will already be up, dressed in her Wal-Mart
uniform, ready for a brand new day.
.
.
Hi Julie,
The story events and Cully Jean’s character are memorable. I’m curious about the formatting, lending it the quality of a poem/short story hybrid, both in content and form. If you’d like to talk more about the story, please write to me at the e-mail address linked to my profile.
Hi, Annie. The formatting is for a “quiet” reader who has challenges with his vision. He’s okay when reading poems, but large blocks of type are difficult for him to see. Sometimes I forget, but he gently reminds me:) He is a wonderful reader and person.
P.S. – I’m assuming you’re referring to the spacing. If not, please feel free to correct me. Thanks so much, Annie.
julie,
Would-be story writers often lack a thing that you already have. something that’s more difficult to come by than technique – and that’s stories to tell.
keep ’em coming.
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Thank you, Jack. Your comments mean a lot to me. I appreciate good readers more than I can even express. -J
What a treat. Its so rare to get your fiction but the strength of your characters shine through no matter what the format.
Hello, Brigindo. Thank you! It’s tough to find places that will accept “previously published” fiction, but I’ve been finding some great ones lately. I think the old school way of thinking is changing, slowly but surely. I hope your week’s going well.
Miss Julie, you always impress me with your candid stories and unforgettable characters. – All so thought provoking! Your present these gutsy narratives with images and realities that snap us to attention – funny and unnerving at the same time. This one ranks among my favorites. Again -reminiscent of those great Southern Gothic writers. Apart from that – of course, this one made me mad and sad. I also feel very proud of Cully, as she aspires to motherhood and self-reliance. 😉 Three cheers for her indelible spirit, as she rises above her circumstances.
Hello, Kaye. It’s so good to see you:) I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been missing you since your break. It’s great to have you back, sis.
You may notice I used the name Cully before. This time, she’s a woman. I won’t go into all the details of the name…ha!
One thing I should mention about the “real life Cully” is that she continues her education. Her dream is to be a paralegal and maybe someday a lawyer. I have no doubt that she can do it. Her children are smart, too. They have also come a long way socially.
I cheer for people like Cully, because they are now trying to break the cycle of drugs and poverty. Her kids will have more opportunities than she did. If they continue the pattern, their kids will have it even better. It takes a lot of guts for a person to do what she has done.
Thanks again, K! Just seeing you again got me revved up. Lol! I’m feeling a little worn out tonight, though. Will talk again tomorrow. Have a good night.
Hi Julie,
I’m so sorry! I was viewing your story on my lap top, and for some reason, with its odd screen, it broke your text up as if it were a poem and the line breaks were deliberately entered. I have to say, it was interesting to read that way, and it did create that effect: a hybrid between story and poem, but every poem is a story, condensed, and good prose always has elements of poetry. Actually, I appreciate the spacing, and on my desktop, I’m viewing it the way you intended.
The love for Cully shines through in this story; yet, it’s not a sentimental portrayal. Without editorializing by the first person narrator, the reader is allowed to form their own opinion, a mark of quality fiction. You understate the horrific things that happen to Cully, which gives them even greater impact. Thank you for publishing it, and letting us know about the real life Cully. I’m glad she’s moving forward.
Hi Julie, I just realized how much I like the title for your post entry, too: Success is Relative. The multiple meanings shine through, once you’ve read the whole story.
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Thanks, Annie! I appreciate all of your kind comments and support.
And thanks for telling me about the laptop spacing. I wonder if by adding spaces, I cause it to look like gobbledygook on some computers? I know very little about the technical side of computers, obviously…LOL! If anybody else sees it in a weird way, please let me know. -Julie
I loathed particular portions of the story while becoming enamored of Cully Jean. You were able to impart a sense of the quality of her character and make her the hero to her sisters more accomplished lesser life.
Technically Julie, I loved the short sentences and the way they fed on to the other. All in all a HUGE well done.
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Thanks, WM! I loathe those parts, too. I have very little sympathy for the devils of the world. I also get angry when I read reports about child rapists who walk free. It’s a touchy subject, I know.
I just typed and then deleted a five paragraph rant about the devils…argh. Maybe I should have left it, but I get very emotional. It gets me fired up when children are hurt. Thanks again for the kind words! -Julie
I want to stand up and cheer for Cully and what she has accomplished. You do such a wonderful job in revealing both the reasons for her being where she is and the stubborn spirit that has allowed her to survive and get to this place. I love the place of the narrator, too, all over town with her chiclet teeth but right there on those metal seats and asleep on that cheap couch with Cully.
I love the depiction of Cully’s children and her relationship with them. In that, we can see their destinies – not the continuation of a cycle of abuse but the love and push that she’ll give them to make them graduate from high school. That may be as much as they accomplish, but their lives will be on that path, which as you said above, will continue a pattern for their own children. It’s the only way to break out – to have a strong person who is determined not to allow the past to be repeated. This ends wonderfully.
I also want to say something about Cully’s foster father. There is no place worthy of these kind of people. Not the jail, not under it. There’s a special place in Hell for child molesters and abusers – it must be the farthest reaches.
I am unable to express how this story moves me. You have created a little world here, Julie. I’m glad to share it for a while.
Hi, Karen! Thank you so much. I just typed the comment above to WM and then read your last two paragraphs. You and I sure do think alike! You say it much better than I did, though. So I’m glad you commented next. Under the jail is the perfect way to put it. I do get very emotional about the devils of the world.
And thank you for the good comments about Cully. Yes, it is amazing where she came from and where she is going. I think it would be interesting to read a story from the generational perspectives, one that shows the progression of a family. Maybe begin with Cully’s mother, then Cully, then her children and grandchildren. It’s never a straight road, though. It’s never simple.
Well, before I add another speech, I’d better stop myself:) Thank you, Karen! I always appreciate you very much.
Thank you, dear, for a terrific story. I would never for a second need the disclaimer. I am however profoundly moved because even without you saying so I know Cully is a real person who actually is a stand in for people I know out here in Oregon. That is the truth of the thing. There are so many. For every Cully fighting to make it there are perhaps thirty who gave up the fight and just get by somehow until they don’t. And that count is here in the US. Imagine what it is like in Africa, for example.
It is true that where traditional societies are not disrupted, then there is family protection where poverty like this exists.
This story made me cry. Not really for Cully, but for the people like her I know in AA these days. I know a few.
Thank you very much, Christopher. Your comment touched me deeply, especially “for every Cully fighting to make it there are perhaps thirty who gave up the fight and just get by somehow until they don’t.” That is so true! I don’t know what the numbers are, but I imagine it is a lot.
It’s also why I’m so very proud of “my” Cully. People who have never experienced it have no idea how hard it is. She still craves the drugs, and it would be so easy on a bad day to say to heck with it and fall back into that life. Just one mistake… Every day is a battle.
I appreciate your thoughtful comments, Christopher. Have a beautiful day:)
I enjoyed the image of Cully reading to her children late in the night, there is so much tenderness in it…She is a strong, good person “your” Cully.
Thank you, Ana! I like that image, too. It’s just a simple little image, but it says so much about Cully. And really…about any mother.
Oh Julie, this is powerful …
Hi, Michelle! Thanks so much. It’s great to see your beautiful face.
Julie, you had me enthralled the whole way through. What a wonderful ending to the story. Go, Cully!!
Hi, Rachel. I just came in to turn off the computer, and now I’m glad I didn’t. It always makes my day to see you. Thank you! I hope you’re having a great weekend:)
oh julie, your characters are just beautiful in every way and i want to know more…or maybe its just the way you write about them? you certainly have the gift to draw us readers into their lives. and yes, i’m rooting for cully too! 🙂
p.s. have been gone for awhile, its good to be back here and read your writing. always makes me smile.
Hi, Odessa! It’s always so good to see you. I enjoy hearing about your adventures and seeing your pictures. Thanks so much for the good words.
What stood out in this story for me was those “twin set of railroad tracks.” Your portrayal of these half-sisters shows just how much alike they truly are; even though their upbringing is very much different.
Thanks for your comment, JR. I appreciate it when people notice those details. You’re right. In some ways, they are very much alike. In some ways, they are worlds apart. The narrator has had more opportunity, help, moral support, etc. They both struggle with the first eight years of their lives. At the end of the story, Cully Jean probably has a better handle on it than the narrator does.
Spectacularly good.
Hi, Jo! Thanks so much:)
there is almost always a story in your poems, and there is certainly a wonderful poetry in your stories.
this one is alive. both characters are amazing. both hauling their baggage as best they can, both conflicted and complicated, both seeming to know that the best way to take care of themselves is to take care of each other.
and i love cully’s reading through the last page even though the kids are zonked – a detail like that is easlily a paragraph for a lesser writer. part of why i can read about the worst bits of her life and still feel good about her at the end.
stunning.
(as an aside, if i was ever in a band, i’d fight tooth & nail that we call ourselves “a good looking bastard named Jim”)
Hi, Joaquin! I’d go see that band…ha! ha! Thanks so much for all of your kind words. I feel like I always say the same thing to you, and I don’t mean to be so dull in my comments to you. But I really appreciate your support more than you’ll ever know. I can’t say that enough:) Have a great week!
Julie, this poem is amazing. At first I thought the ‘I’ in the story was actually you, but I realized as I read that you just did a hell of an amazing job putting yourself in that person’s place. What a story, an amazing story, and you tell it so very well.
Poem, story, whatever. You know what I meant. 🙂
No problem, Cat. Thanks so much. It’s good to see you:)
Incredible, Julie. Just wonderful.
Hi, Ruth! Thank you very much!
amazing!!!!
Hi, Jorc and thank you! I sound like a broken record again today, but I sure do appreciate you all.
Wonderful. Your characters are so vibrant. I feel like I know Cully, and that’s not just because I think I really do know a Cully, someone a lot like her.
Thanks for this. I rarely read short stories online, because it tends to hurt my eyes, but I read this. haha. That’s more of a compliment than it sounds, I swear. 😛
Thanks, Keith. I believe you. Ha! Ha! Actually, I know what you mean about the eyes. One of my readers has very limited vision, which is why I try to remember to include lots of spacing. But it helps me, too. I’m prone to migraines…yuck…and eye strain can prompt one.
So, I’m especially pleased that you took the time to read it. I appreciate it very much!
There’s so much here I don’t even no where to begin gushing! An amazing story, Julie. What a saga from the heart. It also makes me think about the role of fate in our lives, or chance. Cully Jean is real.
Hi, Christine. Thank you for the very kind words. I like what you say about fate or chance. I think about that a lot, and yes, it does play a big role in Cully’s story. We have no control over where we’re born or what our parents will be like. I’m so proud that the “real life” Cully took control over her own destiny. Slowly but surely, she’s changing the vicious cycle.
Thanks again, Christine. It’s awesome to see you.
Julie, oh I love this. Although you posted a disclaimer, it’s the empathy is palpable and pervasive. Like others, all I can do is compliment because to pick one part, means another area just as amazing, is omitted. I do hope you’ll submit this somewhere for publication. How you get into the heads of your characters no matter what age, is a gift. Plus, pushing me to think more about life’s choices, paths, experiences, changes…is one of the key reasons I adore reading you.
Oh and ironically, I’ve been trying to put a widget badge (blue ribbon with link to the national org) on my new blog called “Stop Child Abuse Now” long before reading this, but I haven’t been able to reduce the image yet.
Thank you, Gel. I appreciate the good words and look forward to seeing what you’ve done:)