But then I realize, no, we’re gonna catch each other just right and I can’t explain it but my stomach flip-flops and I panic—because maybe I don’t wanna meet eyes like this. I start to turn away, but Mia’s eyes catch mine, and she waves at me. I grin hard at her and she grins right back. And because I’m corny I shoot her the thumbs-up sign, which she smartly does not return. She does me one better: her mouth opens but no sound comes out. Still, I know exactly what she’s saying. I’d walk over hot coals for you.
Save me a dance, I mouth back.
And she does, and it feels good, dancing with someone who is just as bad at dancing as I am. And also, it just feels good.
PERCIVAL AND THE JAB
BY P. DJÈLÍ CLARK
There’s a Jab living in my closet. I don’t mean some man in shorts and wearing a Viking helmet like at Carnival. That would be creepy. No, I mean a real Jab—glistening black with curving white horns on his head. I first noticed him on the plane, when my mother came to take me back to America. Just like that, I got a new set of grown-ups and a baby sister to boot. But one story at a time. Anyway, I look up and there he is, contorted between some luggage and grinning down at me. He follows us through customs and I glimpse white trousers and a barbed tail as he dives into the trunk of our car. When we get home, he moves into my closet. And he’s been there ever since.
“Lewee goh outside nah? Tired coop up here like fowl!”
Did I mention the Jab complains? C-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-l-y. He follows me everywhere, getting into mischief. Once at a restaurant in Brooklyn he stuck his whole face into a pot of oil down. Another time on the train he started jooking people with his pitchfork, laughing when they jumped. At a store he turned the speakers up all the way to blast a soca tune. And I get blamed each time.
“I’m fine right here,” I say, watching television. Back in Trinidad I mostly had BBC. In America, there are more channels than I can count.
“We goh pitch marble wit neighbor son!” He hops atop the TV, rattling the chains crisscrossing his bare chest to get my attention. “Or look for crapaud in dee canal!” His mouth stretches into a sharp smile, eyes bright.
“This isn’t Chaguanas. And I’m ten now. Too old to play marbles or in that dirty canal.”
The Jab’s smile drops. “We should goh back home.”
“This is my home now,” I retort. “Why don’t you go back?”
He doesn’t answer.
* * *
“Cereal again?” The Jab fumes at my breakfast. “What happen to saltfish? Zabuca? Bake?” He scrunches up his face. “And why lately yuh talking funny so?”
“I’m not talking funny. This is how people talk in America.”
He does a handstand on the counter. “Schupedness. Yuh sound like ah Yankee.”
“Good. I’m supposed to.”
His mouth makes a long “steuuuuuuups.” He doesn’t like my attempts at being American. But what does he know? School here starts in a few weeks. They’re talking about putting me back a grade. My mother isn’t having any of it. She makes me watch the news each day to talk like they do; Americans think people with accents aren’t as smart, she explains.
We meet with the principal—a man in a suit with slick hair that looks wet. My mother’s all smiles as they talk, flicking on her American like a light switch. The Jab is here of course, pretending to gag.
“Percival.” The principal smiles at me. “So you’re to be our newest pupil?”
“Yes,” I answer in my best American.
“You learned English back in your native country?”
I frown and nod. What does he think people speak in Trinidad?
“Can you recite the alphabet?”
I almost laugh as I do. What ten-year-old can’t recite the alphabet?
“And his reading skills? We expect higher than what is common in the third world.”
My mother’s face tightens, but her smile holds. She looks to a shelf.
“Oh no, those are my professional texts. My secretary can get—”
But my mother’s already selected a thick book. Setting it down, she opens and points. I walk over, looking at the page. The Jab, hanging upside down by his tail from the light fixture, sneers. As I read, the principal’s eyebrows rise. I don’t understand it all, but sounding out the words is easy. Would go better if the Jab stopped shaking his chains and singing:
Tingalayo! Come, little donkey, come!
Tingalayo! Come, little donkey, come!
Me donkey walk, me donkey talk,
Me donkey eat wit knife and fork!
* * *
“Nice Jab.”
I look up in surprise. With just weeks before school, I’m walking about the apartments my family lives in—hoping to find some other kids. I don’t expect the one person to wave at me to be a woman almost my mother’s age, standing by a doorway in a long red dress. I certainly don’t expect her to see the Jab trailing me like a shadow.
“I said nice Jab,” she repeats when I come over, her singsong accent tickling my ears. “And yes, I can see him fine. My name Miss Marabella. I sell sweeties.” She nods to her open door and I hesitate. My parents warned that strangers could be dangerous here. Only, she can see the Jab. And that’s big. I step inside and a thud follows from behind me. I turn to see the Jab pressed against an invisible wall. He tries again but hits it once more.
“No Jab in me house,” Miss Marabella says, closing the door in his face. I smile. No one’s ever done that! The brown skin around her cheeks lifts as she leans down to smile at me, and I catch familiar scents from back home—mauby root, wet earth after a heavy rain, and soursop. “You want some sweeties?” I nod. Who doesn’t? She seats me at a small table before disappearing. A scuffling sound makes me look up, where a small girl is peeking from the stairs.
“My daughter,” Miss Marabella says, returning. “She shy.” She sets down a plate heaped with sweeties—sugary tamarind balls, guava cheese, coconut fudge. My stomach growls and I begin stuffing my mouth.
She laughs. “You talk like ah Yankee, but yuh belly full Trini.”
“Have you always been able to see?” I ask between chews. “Like I do?”
Miss Marabella nods. “Make two of we with that gift, ent?”
I nod back. My grandmother was the one who explained my “gift.” She can see too. Back home, she taught me how to look for the things others couldn’t—witches out at night who make dogs start barking, soucouyant streaking in a fireball, looking to suck your breath away, little douen people with backward feet, and more. She also taught me rules—about not sleeping the same direction of the dead, unless you want jumbie in your bed. To stay away from cemeteries at night, where Lajabless the cowfoot woman and monstrous Lagahoo lurk. And to never say the name of the Chief Devil (Bazil, whose palace is in a giant silk-cotton tree) three times and truly mean it, lest you call him up!
“What’s your name?” Miss Marabella asks.
“Percival,” I answer.
“Percival,” she repeats. “The Trini boy with a Yankee accent. How that happen?”
“I got sent to live with my grandparents when I was small.”
“Ohh. One of those, eh? Now your mother and father bring you back.”
I nod. “Where in Trinidad are you from?”
She grins. “Arima. I come here to find new work. Didn’t like my boss. So I fool him and leave, without telling.”
I look out the window to the Jab, who’s drooling at the sweeties. “Why is he here?”
“That for you to find out,” Miss Marabella replies. “But be mindful. Jab dem can be mischievous, dangerous creatures. Watch you don’t lose control of him.”
Outside, the Jab puts on a devilish grin, his sharp teeth gleaming.
* * *
It’s my sister’s birthday. She’s three. T
he Jab sniffs the air, sensing the fete to come. He begs and whines to attend but I say no. I promise to bring him food—only if he behaves.
That afternoon, family arrives from all over. I endure hugs and Polaroids. From time to time I sneak upstairs, keeping my promise. The Jab is a bottomless pit. Roti, cookup, stew chicken, currants roll, and more go down his gullet. And he’s still hungry!
“You want what?” It’s my tenth trip.
“Just ah drink, little little,” he pleads, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
“They won’t let me have a drink.”
“Then sneak it nah. Do so, and I leave you be.”
I sigh. It’s late. I’m tired. And the birthday party is now a full fete, for adults only.
“Fine. But that’s it!”
I sneak downstairs and back up with a bottle of rum that’s near empty. The Jab grins. He pours a bit into the cap, offering it.
“Come nah, take ah little drink.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m ten?”
“But it sweet, sweet,” he purrs. “Take ah taste.”
I bite my lip. Taking the cap, I sniff and make a face. People drink this? I push it back.
“No thanks.”
The Jab shrugs. He tilts the bottle back and gulps—shivering to make his chains rattle. I roll my eyes, then lie down to sleep.
It’s much later when I wake up. I can hear people—laughing, shouting. My eyes go to the clock. Past three a.m. How long is this party going? A sudden sound makes me sit straight up. A conch shell. And my closet door is wide open. Empty.
Jumping from bed I make it out my room and halfway downstairs before I stop.
The world’s gone crazy.
People are dancing, wildly, jumping and winding up their hips. Their clothes are smeared in syrup and birthday cake and soil from potted plants. Someone’s beating spoons on bottles and pots. I see my parents, their eyes glazed over like the rest. An uncle is the one blowing the conch shell, calling out while people shout in answer.
Oy yo yoi!
Aye ya yi!
Oy yo yoi!
Aye ya yi!
Then I see the Jab.
He’s the eye of this storm, his body and arms swaying in a dance. All the people move with him, like he’s the conductor of a mad orchestra. I rush down, pushing my way through.
“Stop it!”
The Jab ignores me.
I reach to yank his arm and he shoves me back. “Leave me lone nah!”
He laughs as the music grows louder, his dark lips spitting flames into the air.
For the first time, he is truly terrifying.
I reach for him again—grabbing at his chains. He howls, but stumbles along as I drag him back upstairs. When we reach the top I look down.
The conch blowing and chanting has stopped. People stare around in confusion, coming out of their daze. My mother wails when she sees the wreckage of our house. I pull the Jab into my room, shutting the door.
“What was that?” I ask angrily.
The Jab kisses his teeth. “Allyuh forget how to fete or whut? Allyuh come here and lose everyting! Lose who allyuh is!”
“I know who I am!” I shoot back. “I don’t want to hear any more about back home! Just go away! All you do is cause me trouble! Go away!”
The Jab is quiet. Turning, he walks into the closet and slams the door behind him.
* * *
“You must get rid of that Jab,” Miss Marabella says.
I’m sitting at her table, glumly crunching some kurma. It’s the Monday after the party. My parents don’t suspect me of anything. But they found the empty rum bottle in my room. And that didn’t go well.
“I don’t know what to do.” I look to the Jab, who paces outside the window. “School starts soon, and if he follows me there…” I shudder, thinking of all the trouble the Jab will get into. What he’ll get me into.
“Maybe I can help.” She gets up and goes to the back. My eyes flick to the stairs, where I glimpse her daughter—who promptly runs away. Strange girl. When Miss Marabella returns, she’s holding something small and black.
I stare at the molasses treat. “A toolum?” I ask.
“This toolum special. Give it to yuh Jab.” I reach out but she pulls back. “You do this, you does have to mean it, hear? It not going to work otherwise.”
I nod, taking the toolum. I plan on meaning it very much.
That night, I knock on my closet door. The Jab pokes his head out.
“Got you something.” I hold out the toolum. “You always wanting sweeties. Here.”
The Jab’s eyes go big. He snatches the toolum, stuffing it in his mouth. I breathe in relief.
The next day the Jab isn’t gone. But there’s something strange to him. He’s still sucking on that toolum for one, working hard too. He’s so consumed by it, he doesn’t bother to follow me. He just sits in the closet, sucking away. Another day goes by and I notice he’s thinner, his skin and eyes gone dull. Three more days and I can see his ribs. He’s almost sagging under his chains and his trousers fit him baggy. I’m surprised I’m not happier. I want to see him go, but watching him waste away like this is troubling. Like I’m losing something. A week after giving him the cursed toolum, I lie in bed at night staring at my closet, listening to that constant sucking—wondering if anything will be left of the Jab come morning.
“Percy…Perrrrciivaaal.”
I wake up, thinking it’s the Jab. But this is a woman’s voice—someone standing over me.
“Miss Marabella?” I ask in surprise.
She smiles, and I’m wondering if this is a dream—but then I catch those familiar scents of home and I know I’m awake. But why is she here? How did she get into my room?
“Percival, I wanted to come and thank you.”
Thank me? A small face peeks out from behind her red dress—her daughter.
Miss Marabella hums. “I come here all the way from Arima, so I can do my business how I want. This place have so much sweetness for me. Then you show up with that Jab. And I know he gon’ be trouble. Take a while, but I figure out a way to be rid of him—thanks to you.”
Now I’m more confused. “Why would the Jab be trouble for you?”
She smiles in a way that’s no longer pleasant. “Because me and devils don’t get along. And he not the only wicked thing come up here from Trinidad.” Then, just like that, she steps out of her skin. It’s like she was wearing a suit that fell off along with her clothes. What’s standing before me now is shaped like a woman, but made up all of fire.
“You know what I am?” the fire woman asks.
I nod, my eyes wide. A soucouyant! A fire vampire who steals the breath from children! This whole time, Miss Marabella was a spirit too!
The soucouyant cackles. “Allyuh children is so sweet. Sweeter than my sweeties. And you, little Trini boy who want to be American so bad—you have a special sweetness I can’t wait to taste. When I finish, I gon’ find your little sister and eat she up too. Don’t bother screaming. I make it so everybody sleep. It’s just you and me.”
I’m shaking. But I manage to talk. “You got that wrong. It’s not just you and me.”
The soucouyant frowns before the Jab lashes her with his chains. She was so busy gloating, she didn’t see him limp from the closet. She shrieks when those chains hit her and spins about. The Jab is standing there, frail but not gone. I jump up on my bed, never knowing I could be so happy to see him again. Then I remember the toolum.
“Spit it out!” I yell. He tries but can’t. The soucouyant screeches and her daughter flies at the Jab. Not a girl I realize now, a douen! It jumps up with backward feet to land on the Jab, biting and scratching black flakes from his skin.
“Spit out the tool
um!” I cry again. But he can’t—and it’s keeping him weak. No, keeping us weak. Why I’ve been feeling so troubled lately. Because he’s not just a Jab. He’s my Jab.
Thinking hard, I imagine chewing the toolum and can suddenly taste it in my mouth—sweet sugar and dark molasses with bits of coconut coating my tongue. Its cursed magic tries to take hold of me. Suddenly all I want to do is to try to get at the heart of it, sucking forever and ever. But no! I won’t let it! Instead I force myself to stop and imagine spitting it out.
The toolum flies from my Jab’s mouth and we both whoop!
In moments his skin is shiny and black again, dripping and boiling with syrupy goo, as he grows before my eyes. A clawed hand flings away the douen. Then he rounds on the soucouyant, holding a pitchfork as his barbed tail twitches. She screeches and roars into flames—as the two clash!
Their fight rages across my bedroom—my Jab with his pitchfork and the soucouyant hurling fireballs. The walls rattle and I wonder if they might not bring the whole apartment down. My Jab is a wonder to watch, but he’s still weak. And it’s not just from the toolum, I realize. It’s me, trying so hard to forget who I was to be someone new here. I’ve made him weaker too. The soucouyant cackles.
“No devil can hold me! I leave that fool me boss and work for me own self!”
I blink. Her boss. That can only be one person. And I know how to call him.
Closing my eyes, I do what my grandmother warned I should never do—saying his name three times and truly meaning it. “Bazil! Bazil! Bazil!”
A whoosh of green flames flares, and the Chief Devil of the Silk-Cotton Tree appears in my bedroom. He’s as fearsome as I imagined, a tall and broad monster in a red suit. He pushes up a red bowler sitting between two horns and plucks a thick cigar from his jaws. “Who fool enough to call up Bazil, Chief Devil of—” He stops, noticing my Jab and the soucouyant—who have both gone still. “What happening here?”
Black Boy Joy Page 18