Double Dippin' Read Free

his mother’s left leg; Shane pressed into her right. They burrowed their teary faces into the warmth of her soft thighs, and despite Miss Janie’s loud bickering and their mother’s urgent pleas, the boys dozed off.
    They were jarred awake by the sound of the slamming door followed by locks turning and creaky sliding bolts.
    Hugging herself, Marguerite hung her head and let the tears flow.
Lord help me, what am I gonna do now?
She bit her bottom lip hard to stifle the screams that wanted to escape. Panting, she lifted her head. Just as she turned to descend the steps and head into the night, Marguerite heard the sound of the door being unlocked. Miss Janie had a change of heart.
Thank God!
    “One more thing…” Janie said with her head cocked and wearing a sour expression, “The front of your robe is soaking wet, so I guess you’re still breastfeeding them boys. They four years old and you got them sucking off your nasty tits. Now, that’s a goddamn disgrace. If you don’t give them kids some regular milk, I’m gonna call them people at Children and Youth and make sure they take these children away from you.”
    The door slammed in her face before Marguerite could open her mouth to explain that she had to breastfeed her boys because she was certain that store-bought milk was poisoned by the CIA.

CHAPTER 2
    A n hour later Marguerite and the twins trudged into Washington Square Park and curled up together on a bench. The boys were tired and hungry. She pulled Tariq onto her lap, opened her robe, and pulled up her top. Too tired to nurse the twins separately as she normally did, she slid Tariq over to her left thigh and then yanked Shane up by his arm and roughly plopped him onto her right thigh. Leaning against the park bench; Marguerite closed her eyes and relaxed while her twins breastfed.
    They were lucky to find an empty bench, for during the late-night hours the park was inhabited by homeless people who used the Seventh and Walnut Street location as a communal bedroom; the benches serving as beds. Old newspapers or rags blanketed the weary bodies of the displaced persons.
    Since the recent closing of Byberry State Mental Hospital, the homeless and mentally ill had invaded downtown Philadelphia. Their presence was usually preceded by a stench so strong it parted crowds of center-city wage earners who ambled along Market, Chestnut, or Walnut Street during their lunch hour. If not hit by the odor, workers were often assaulted by the shopping carts (filled with cans, rags, and all manner of trash) that the homeless often wielded like weapons as they zigzagged through the throng of working people.
    Marguerite recognized her own kind; she spoke the language also. The verbal communication of the insane was often angry utterances or frightful gibberish that would keep a sane person at a distance.
    A slovenly dressed man with a dark-brown complexion, high cheekbones,and prominent nose marched as straight as a soldier down the paved path that led inside the park. Instead of wearing shoes, his feet were wrapped with rags.
    Tall, lean, and naturally muscular, the man had probably been considered handsome once upon a time. If cleaned up and on medication, he could most likely still turn a few heads. But at this moment, he looked like a dangerous madman—a scary figure. His hair was long, dusty, and matted together, giving the appearance of a crown of angry spikes.
    With crazed, recessed eyes, he assessed the bench situation. Finding nothing to rest upon, he saluted the fortunate bench occupants, clicked together his shoeless heels, and let out a litany of coherent cuss words before rapidly switching to the other language—a low-toned gibberish. The language of the insane.
    Marguerite gazed at the deranged man with great interest and felt a profound letdown when he clicked his heels again, gestured a farewell salute, and marched out of the park.
    However, when he returned a few minutes later, lugging a huge cardboard box,