Mary Jane

by Jessica Anya Blau

  “What are the herbs?” Mrs. Cone poked a piece of chicken with her finger and then stuck her finger in her mouth.

  “Rosemary, garlic, thyme, and salt. Izzy sprinkled all of it on top.” Just like I did for my mother, though my mother premeasured the portions before handing them over.

  “Mary Jane,” Mrs. Cone said, “you are a gift to us all.” She leaned in and kissed me. I was starting to get used to all the kisses around here.

  I picked up the chicken platter and carried it out to the dining room table. Izzy was standing on a chair, with Sheba behind her. They were holding a match together, lighting candles in tall silver candlesticks.

  “We’re doing candles tonight!” Izzy said.

  “That’s beautiful.” I placed the platter on the table. Mrs. Cone followed behind with the bowl of rice in one hand and the green beans in the other.

  Sheba looked down at the chicken. “No, that’s beautiful.”

  “Izzy did the spices.”

  “I put on the mary rose,” Izzy agreed.

  “Rosemary.”

  “ROSEMARY!”

  “Go get your dad and Jimmy.” Mrs. Cone put Izzy on the ground and gave her a little pat on the bottom to help her get moving. Izzy ran out, and then Mrs. Cone moved in closer to Sheba. The two of them started talking about something that had happened earlier in the day, the town they had visited, the little inn they had seen, a restaurant they both liked. Their voices were low and humming, like they were talking during the opening credits of a movie. I pretended to be straightening the place settings on the table, but really I was just listening in.

  Dr. Cone, Jimmy, and Izzy came in. Izzy and Jimmy were making screeching monkey sounds, as if they were in the jungle and could only communicate with long-held vowels: eeee oooo eeee! Dr. Cone’s brow was furrowed. He looked tired and maybe angry.

  Jimmy lifted his hands in the air above the chicken, like a preacher, and said, “Lord have mercy! What hath Mary Jane and Izzy made for us tonight?!”

  “Chicken with mary rose!!” Izzy shouted. She clapped her hands and jumped up and down.

  “Chicken with mary rose! Well then, this needs a song of praise.” Jimmy left the room and Izzy ran behind him. The rest of us sat at our usual places at the table.

  Dr. Cone reached for the chicken and Mrs. Cone said, “No, dear! Wait until everyone’s seated.”

  Dr. Cone huffed out a breath but withdrew his hand. He leaned back in his seat, looking for Jimmy and Izzy to return.

  “Do you like our hair?” Sheba asked.

  “Isn’t it the same hair you two had on this morning?” Dr. Cone asked.

  “Maybe.” Mrs. Cone threw her hair over her shoulder, Sheba style. She winked.

  Dr. Cone didn’t seem in the mood to play games. “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “Lighten up,” Mrs. Cone said.

  “Or light up,” Sheba said, and she and Mrs. Cone laughed.

  I didn’t get the joke, and Dr. Cone didn’t seem amused by it. “How long do we have to wait for this song?” He drummed his fingers on the table, and as if that movement were magic, Jimmy marched into the room with Izzy sitting on his shoulders. He had a guitar strapped across his chest, hanging on his back, and his hands on Izzy’s ankles.

  “We’re going to sing for our supper!” Izzy said. Still, Dr. Cone seemed hungry, or angry. I worried I had done something wrong.

  I stood and helped Izzy off Jimmy’s back. Then I pulled her into my lap.

  Jimmy put one foot on his chair, laid the guitar across his knee, and started strumming and singing. It was a Cat Stevens song, I knew, because we had learned it in choir at school. “Morning has bro-ken. . . .”

  Sheba jumped in and sang with him. Then she reached over and pinched my arm to get me to sing. I looked at Dr. Cone, who had his arms crossed over his chest and a half frown on his face.

  “Come on, Mary Jane. We need you on harmony,” Sheba said, and I looked away from Dr. Cone and jumped in. “Praise for the singing . . .”

  Mrs. Cone turned her head in my direction. Dr. Cone looked up. His face relaxed a little.

  When the song was over, everyone clapped. Jimmy set the guitar against the wall and then sat down. “I just feel so grateful. I’m grateful for you, Richard.”

  “I feel grateful for Mary Jane’s voice.” Sheba put her hand on my leg and said, “If I weren’t me, I’d be jealous of you.”

  I smiled and worked through the puzzle of that compliment. Did Sheba mean she was so content with herself that the only way for her to be jealous of another person would be if she already were another person? Maybe being famous like Sheba gave you so many advantages that you knew there was no point in wishing you were someone else. I spent a lot of time wondering what it would be like to be someone else. At school, I watched the cool girls with tube-curled hair and Bonnie Bell glossed lips and thought it would be thrilling to be one of them, clumped together in the dining hall, laughing and tossing their hair around. But now that I knew Sheba, those girls seemed as human and normal as . . . well, as me.

  Dr. Cone was talking. I tuned in just as he said, “Jimmy, you need to tell everyone what happened.”

  “What happened?” Sheba’s voice was sharp.

  “Wait. Richard, what happened?” Now Mrs. Cone’s voice was sharp too.

  “Can we eat first?” Jimmy said. “We skipped lunch today.”

  “Didn’t you have Screaming Yellow Zonkers?” Izzy asked.

  Jimmy took a chicken breast and placed it on his plate. “No Zonkers today. Today was BONKERS, so we had no ZONKERS!”

  Everyone was serving themselves, but suddenly nothing felt right. Dr. Cone seemed angry, Jimmy was overly cheerful to make up for it, and Sheba and Mrs. Cone both looked tentative and concerned. Izzy climbed off my lap and went to her seat across the table, beside her mother.

  I tried to separate from whatever was going on. I reminded myself that it probably had nothing to do with me. Instead of watching the adults, I focused on Izzy. First, I cut a breast in two and put half on Izzy’s plate and half on mine. Then I put a spoonful of rice on her plate, on top of which I placed three string beans. We had negotiated the eating of the beans while preparing them. Dr. and Mrs. Cone never seemed to pay attention to what Izzy did or didn’t eat, but I wanted her to be as healthy as possible, so I made it a point to get something green inside her body every day.

  There was tense, sporadic chatter once everyone started eating. It seemed to take a lot of effort to not talk about whatever Dr. Cone had been referencing earlier. And then there was a second of silence in which Dr. Cone made a long hum, like he was holding a note. I looked up at him. He was chewing the chicken and humming and moving his head as if it were the most spectacular thing he’d ever eaten. Jimmy took a bite and started humming too, but in a more exaggerated way so that we knew it was intentional. Then Sheba and Mrs. Cone took bites, and they, too, did moaning hums—chewing, humming, smiling. Izzy picked up her half breast with her hands and bit into it and she started humming, imitating the mmm, mmm, mmm sounds from the adults. I hadn’t even tasted the chicken yet, but the group stared at me for a reaction, smiling, humming.

  “Is it really that good?” I asked, and they all broke apart laughing. It was like a bubble had popped and released something that created relief, lightness. Dr. Cone no longer appeared angry; Mrs. Cone no longer appeared worried; Sheba appeared to have forgotten there was something to worry about.

  “Dang, Mary Jane,” Jimmy said. “It is that motherfuckin’ good.”

  “Holy moly, Mary Jane.” Dr. Cone took another bite.

  “Incredible,” Sheba said.

  “Incredible!” Dr. Cone repeated.

  Mrs. Cone nodded in agreement, her mouth full.

  Izzy and I were serving the angel food cake with strawberries and whipped cream when Sheba said, “So what happened today? Why was it so rough?”

  Dr. Cone wiped his lips, put his napkin on his lap, and looked at Jimmy.

  �
��You make this cake?” Jimmy asked Izzy.

  “Beanie did,” Izzy said. “She brought it over today.”

  “Beanie Jones?” Mrs. Cone’s brow knit into folds. She suddenly looked ten years older. “Is she that new woman who moved in down the street?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She dropped it off. I tried to keep her out of the house, but she barged right in.”

  “Beanie?” Jimmy said. “We met Beanie.”

  “Oh yeah, Beanie,” Sheba said.

  “When did you meet Beanie?” Dr. Cone looked unhappy again.

  “We were dropping Mary Jane off one night and Beanie popped her head in the window. Nosy little thing,” Jimmy said. “But pretty as a picture.”

  “Hush!” Sheba said. “Stop looking!”

  “She’s not as pretty as you,” I whispered to Sheba, but I didn’t think she heard me.

  “Christ, I hope she doesn’t start spreading the word,” Dr. Cone said. “It’s hard enough as it is.”

  “Exactly what happened today?” Sheba asked.

  Jimmy had a huge hunk of cake in his mouth. He spoke around it. “I relapsed.”

  “What do you mean you relapsed?” Sheba turned in her chair so she was facing Jimmy.

  “I used.”

  “What do you mean you used? How did you use?”

  “I got some junk.”

  “WHAT THE FUCK, JIMMY!” Sheba slapped Jimmy’s upper arm with the back of her hand. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” She slapped him again. Harder.

  I knew I should pick up Izzy and take her upstairs for her bath, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk away from this scene. Also, I was just as angry as Sheba. It felt like Jimmy had betrayed me by relapsing.

  Mrs. Cone pushed her half-eaten cake away, and watched Jimmy and Sheba.

  “Don has a friend who has a friend who has a friend.” Jimmy shrugged.

  Dr. Cone said, “He met someone in the back alley when we were taking a break, got a bag of heroin, and snorted it.”

  “Didn’t have a needle,” Jimmy said.

  “What the fuck, Jimmy?!” Sheba’s eyes were flooded, though no tears fell. “I thought we were isolated! I thought you didn’t know a soul in Baltimore! How can you do this?! After all everyone’s done! Richard canceling all his other patients for the summer! Mary Jane making fucking dinner every night! Fucking chicken à l’orange, you ungrateful fuck!”

  I looked at my lap and replayed Sheba’s words in my head. This was more yelling than even Dr. and Mrs. Cone had ever done. And Sheba had used the term chicken à l’orange, when all night long we’d been calling it orange chicken, as was written on my mother’s recipe card. Also, she called Jimmy a fuck. I couldn’t imagine ever calling another human, or even a dog, a fuck. I didn’t even know the word could be used that way. Yet it seemed effective. Jimmy appeared to be shrinking into his skin. He was too small for his casing, like a Ping-Pong ball in a bowling ball bag.

  “Are you in trouble?” Izzy asked Jimmy.

  Jimmy smiled at Izzy. It was a sad smile. “Yeah. I’m in trouble.”

  Everyone was silent. Sheba dropped her head into her hands. Her back bumped up and down and I wasn’t sure if she was breathing heavily or silently crying. Mrs. Cone pulled her plate back toward herself and finished the half slice she had abandoned only a few minutes ago. Dr. Cone had that scowl again. And Izzy stared at me with giant circular eyes.

  “Let’s clear,” I said.

  Izzy clambered out of her chair and helped me clear the table as the adults sat in silence. Jimmy stared at Sheba like he was waiting for her to look up at him, but her head remained in her hands.

  Izzy and I moved most of the dishes into the kitchen and stacked them on the counter. Then I picked her up and headed upstairs. That was when the shouting started. Sheba mostly, with Jimmy shouting back in short barking sentences of two or three words. Izzy pushed her head into my neck and clung to me like I might drop her.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m worried about Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy will be okay.”

  “But Sheba’s so mad.”

  “Yeah, but your dad’s taking care of him. He’ll be okay again.”

  “Was he doing his addict?”

  “Yes. He was doing his addict.”

  The shouting continued as I put Izzy in her pajamas. Dr. Cone’s voice appeared like parenthetical words inserted between Sheba’s and Jimmy’s bursts of yelling. He wasn’t shouting, but his voice carried up in a steady, stern grumbling. Mrs. Cone was either remaining silent or had left the dining room. After Izzy peed, when she was brushing her teeth, we heard the sound of something crashing: the thick clunking sound of ceramic breaking, rather than the tinkling shrill of glass.

  Izzy held her toothbrush with her teeth. Foam dripped down her chin and into the sink. We stared at each other in the mirror, waiting for the next sound. There was absolute silence for ten seconds, and then Sheba began yelling again.

  “Finish up. Let’s go to bed.” I stroked Izzy’s hair while she spit and rinsed, and then I picked her up and carried her to her room. Just as we were in the hallway, another sequence of crashes began. This time it did sound like glass. Or a series of glasses being thrown against a wall. My stomach clenched and I felt my heart beating in my throat. The crashing went on. And on. And on.

  I carried Izzy into her room and kicked the door shut behind me. The yelling was more muted now, but we could still hear it, punctuated every now and then with another crash.

  “Will you stay with me tonight?” Izzy asked.

  I put Izzy in bed and got under the covers with her. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t spend the night. My mother expected me home.

  “Please. I don’t want to be alone here. What if the witch comes?” Izzy blinked rapidly. She’d rarely cried since I’d started taking care of her, but the couple of times she had—when she fell on the sidewalk once, and when we couldn’t find her favorite stuffed animal—she’d blinked like this before bursting into tears.

  “The witch won’t come.” I leaned over the edge of the bed and picked up Madeline.

  “But the witch will know that the grown-ups are angry and that the grown-ups aren’t watching out for me, so she’ll come and—”

  “I’ll stay.” Her panic fed my panic. I may have needed Izzy then just as much as she needed me. “Let me go call my mom. I’ll shut the door behind me so the witch doesn’t come in while I’m on the phone.”

  “Hurry back.” Izzy blinked and tears painted her cheeks. But she didn’t cry. She didn’t make a noise.

  When I opened the door, I heard a chuk-chuk-chuk sound of things being thrown but not breaking. The adults had moved to the living room; their voices were louder and closer.

  “Stupid fucking fuck!” Sheba screamed. I rushed into Dr. and Mrs. Cone’s room and closed the door behind me, dulling the yelling sounds.

  The bed was unmade and the Cones’ clothes were heaped on the quilted blue love seat at the end of it and on the armchair in the corner. The nightstands on either side of the bed were covered with books, drinking glasses, a small jade Buddha, and magazines. There was a red telephone sitting next to the Buddha and an issue of The American Journal of Psychiatry on what I assumed was Dr. Cone’s nightstand. I picked up the receiver and waited for more screaming. It seemed safer if I called in the silence right after a session. Jimmy was hollering now, so I dialed all the numbers but the last. Sheba picked up where Jimmy had left off. And then I could hear Dr. Cone’s voice chopping through.

  I stretched the phone cord and crawled down to the ground. The sound only seemed louder there; it was coming up straight through the floor. I stood again, and then looked at the Cones’ bed. Dr. and Mrs. Cone kissed often, on the lips, and sometimes I could see their tongues. And they touched each other in ways that made my brain think of sex even when it was only Dr. Cone’s fingertips on Mrs. Cone’s lower back. I didn’t want to get in their bed. I didn’t want my body to touch their sheets. I couldn’t stop
myself imagining them having sex on and beneath those sheets. Still, I had to muffle the noise somehow. If my mother heard anything suspicious, she would get in the car and drag me home.

  I picked up the body of the phone and held it against my belly. Then, as if I were about to go underwater, I took a deep breath and got in the Cones’ bed, under the quilted orange bedspread. I pulled the bedspread over my head. It smelled loamy and warm, like a wet towel that had been left in a closed-up car. There was quiet for a second, and then faint grumbling from Dr. Cone. I dialed the last number and said a prayer, Please, God, may no one yell while I’m on the phone.

  My mother answered on the first ring.

  “Mom,” I whispered.

  “Is everything okay?” I imagined my mother standing up straight in the kitchen, the white floor mopped so clean you could see your reflection in the tile, the avocado-colored appliances gleaming from a spray-down with Windex.

  I made myself speak in a regular voice. “Mrs. Cone is really sick and Dr. Cone asked if I could stay the night. Izzy seems scared and upset.” Lie four. The most complex and complete of the bunch.

  “Is she vomiting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chemo,” my mother said.

  “I don’t know. They don’t tell me.”

  “I’ll drive up and bring you an overnight bag with a nightgown and a toothbrush.”

  “Dr. Cone gave me one of Mrs. Cone’s clean nightgowns. And he gave me a brand-new toothbrush and my own tube of toothpaste, too.” When my best friends slept over, my mother asked them to bring their own toothpaste, as she didn’t think it was sanitary for people to slide their brushes over the same spot on the tube.