She struggled out of the taxi with our street mom & the nice police lady – walking barefoot – itchy, scratchy, but not hunched over, not afraid, not like a six-year-old they just dragged out of the thorns & thistles & that other stuff: stinging nettles. Or just as bad, from pavement sleeping in a patrol station while her parents pumped gas.
Her little girl complexion: imagine: buying a package of used mosquito bites at your neighborhood supermarket store – plus a full head over-loaded with lice.
She was tears galore, but if you listened hard, you could make out her whisper, over and over, as tough as a five-year-old in rags can whisper; “ I won’t cry’ no matter how you hurt me, you can’t make me cry.’ – I promised - only nice girls who have mommies to hold them can cry & I don’t get no mommy to tell me she loves me.
Actually, her tears are what saved her. A couple of our slum lads “the bhoys” as the Irish call their special lads happen to be riding by on their motorcycle: …saw her dad slap his daughter/ Slap her too much, too hard, shouldn’t have slapped her at all, but it was a habit with him. Mom just watched afraid. He slapped her all the time also. The ‘bhoys’ stopped & slapped dad too much & too hard until his eyes jiggled. He agreed to take daughter to hospital right then and there.
We call it: the Miss Brown Rice Petrol Station Miracle. This is how ‘it went down.’ Our ‘bhoys’