Jump

by Terra Little

  “You keep this up and we’re going to have problems,” Aaron says as soon as I open the door and find him on the other side. He leans there and smiles engagingly. Looks over my head, into my space, and sucks in a deep breath. “My mother is from the South, and she can cook her ass off. Judging from the smells coming through my vents, you can too. You have to either cut it out or feed me. Either way, I’m not leaving until you tell me which it’s going to be.” I lift the bowl I’m holding and bring a forkful of vegetables to my mouth and hold his eyes as I chew slowly. He laughs and shakes his head. “You ain’t right.”

  “I’m not trying to be,” I say and leave him standing in the doorway. I hear the door close and then he finds me in the kitchen that isn’t really a kitchen. “It’s just brown rice and steamed vegetables in a Creole sauce.” I start to fill a bowl, think better of it, and reach for a plate.

  “Whatever it is smells good as hell, and beggars can’t be choosy.” He helps himself to a fork from the dish drain and takes his plate over to the futon. The television is on, and he sits back to eat and watch it. There is no place else to sit, so I move to the other end of the futon and perch on the edge.

  He eats like he is starving, pausing every few seconds to make an appreciative sound and to shake his head as if he is having a silent conversation with himself. It’s funny to watch and I laugh. “Were you hungry?”

  “Hungry isn’t the word,” he says. “Been up all night working on a story. Think the last time I ate was sometime yesterday afternoon. I forget food exists when I’m in my zone.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “Columnist.” He waits for recognition to light my face but it doesn’t. “I write a column for a local newspaper. The Sentinel. You ever read the business commentary section?”

  “I’ve never read the Sentinel.”

  Aaron looks at me like I am crazy. “Woman, where have you been?”

  I almost tell him where I’ve been, and then I catch myself. I reach for his empty plate and take it to the kitchen. “You been doing that long? Writing?”

  “As long as I can remember. Been with the Sentinel for six years now, but I’m thinking it might be time for a change.”

  “Another newspaper?” I hand him a bottle of water and sit down again.

  “Another type of writing. I’m playing around with an idea for a novel, but then again, who isn’t?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “What do you want to write about?”

  “That’s the thing—I don’t know yet. I just know I want to write about something. Maybe science fiction or true crime. I’m still figuring it out. What about you, what do you do?”

  “Squeeze cream into snack cakes,” I say sarcastically. It is easier than being embarrassed, which is an emotion I have little time for. “I’m on a temporary assignment at the Snack-Rite factory.”

  “You like it?”

  “I hate it.”

  “So quit. Find something else.”

  “It’s not that simple. I’m working on it though. I know a little something about computers, and I’m hoping I can make something happen with that. I’d be happy if I could get a job that allows me to just look at them all day.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a computer geek,” he teases.

  “Nothing but. I used to do it all—build them, take them apart, graphic design, whatever. Now I’m in charge of sticky goo and fake Twinkies.”

  “It’s never too late to make a change.”

  I look at him long and hard. “Sometimes it is too late.”

  He tells me more about himself. That he grew up in Mississippi and was a registered nurse for nine years before deciding that journalism was his true calling. He wasted three years, he says, at a smaller newspaper and then he moved here to take the job at the Sentinel. I tell him that I will get a newspaper as soon as I can and check out his column.

  I tell him as little as possible about me. That I recently moved to the city and that my sister lives nearby. He doesn’t press for more information, and I am relieved. I haven’t taken the time to think up stories to fill in the blank spaces in my life. Haven’t needed to until now, and I think that if it is not him who asks questions, it will be someone else, somewhere down the line.

  I need to have plausible answers ready.

  I start to relax and get into the conversation. Then Aaron reaches out and touches my hair. I freeze and stare at him. “How long have you been growing your locks?”

  “Almost four years.” I can’t take the invasion of my personal space any longer and I lean away from him. “Please don’t.”

  “I like the shells,” he says as his hand retreats.

  “Thanks.”

  “So . . . I should go.” He stands and stretches like a panther. “Thanks for breakfast. I think I can sleep now.”

  “I’m not looking for a man,” I blurt out and take him by surprise. “A boyfriend, I mean. I’m not looking for that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just thought you should know.”

  “I didn’t ask, but if you thought I should know . . .”

  “You touched my hair.”

  “Is that secret code for asking you to be my girlfriend? Because if it is, I didn’t know.”

  “I’m just saying,” I say, starting to feel silly. He is watching me like he thinks I might be developmentally delayed, and I am not helping my case. “I don’t want any problems with you.”

  “What kinds of problems?”

  “Just . . . problems.”

  “No problems here. Except for when you cook.” Aaron laughs. “I can’t be responsible for my actions then.”

  “I’ll make you a plate and leave it outside the door.”

  “Cool. I’ll let you lift when you want to.”

  “Promise?” Instantly my eyes are liquid and pleading. He hits me where it hurts and I think he knows it. He sees the raw yearning on my face that I don’t try to hide, that I cannot hide, and knows we have struck a deal. I am already planning tomorrow’s menu.

  “Fish,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

  “Fried?”

  “Baked.”

  “Whiting?”

  “Orange roughy.”

  “Damn, you make it hard for a brotha. Did I mention that I also own a Bowflex?”

  I lay my head back and laugh.

  Vicky is the worst kind of backseat driver imaginable. All I have to do is blink and she is screeching like a banshee and working my nerves. I remember that she is the one who taught me how to drive years ago and that I swore I would never ask her to teach me anything again, ever. I don’t know how I managed to forget and let her talk me into getting behind the wheel of her car. She is even getting on Beige’s nerves, and we share exasperated looks in the rearview mirror every few minutes.

  “I can’t concentrate with you screaming like a damn fool,” I say as I ease to a stop at a red light. “Please shut the fuck up or else take the wheel yourself.” We are on our way to my mother’s house, to get the things she has that belong to me, and we are still a couple of hours away. I don’t think I can last that long.

  Beige snickers and earns herself a roll of the eyes. “These interstate cops don’t play around, Leenie. You need to pay attention to the speed limit. That’s all we need is to get pulled over and you don’t even have a license.”

  “I have my learner’s permit and there’s a licensed driver in the car with me. Everything is under control. Did you forget that I have driven a car before, Vicky?”

  “Things have changed since the last time you drove. People drive crazy these days.”

  “I know about crazy, so just relax. Take a nap or something.”

  “A nap?” Her voice is suddenly soprano and it makes my head hurt. She is such a drama queen. “That’s your idea of a joke, right? I go to sleep and wake up and we’re in Florida somewhere.”

  “Florida is back the other way,” I remind her.

  “My point exactly.”

  We stop at a service statio
n to use the restroom and fill up on snacks for the road. Beige and I leave the mini-mart at the same time, carrying tall sodas and bags of sour cream and onion chips. She waits until Vicky goes to the restroom and then parks her lips close to my ear.

  “Do you think we’d get in trouble if we threw her out of the car and left her stranded on the side of the road? She could hitchhike to Grandma’s house, couldn’t she?”

  I almost choke on a swig of soda. “The Lord doesn’t like ugly, Beige.” But I am seriously considering her question. We could possibly make it work.

  “The Lord doesn’t have to ride in a car with her. Who’s driving the U-Haul truck back?”

  “She doesn’t know it yet, but I am.”

  “Well then, I’m riding back with you.” We both stare at the restroom door through narrowed eyes. She wishes she were Samantha Stevens so she could wiggle her nose and zap Vicky back home, and I wish I were Jeannie, so I could banish her to a bottle for the remainder of the trip.

  “We could stuff her in the trunk,” I suggest playfully.

  “We’d still be able to hear her through the seats though.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  Stella is a mess, I think as I listen to her talk nonstop. She manages to sound serious as a heart attack as she is talking much shit and making me laugh until my sides hurt. I wonder why she hasn’t made it big as a stand-up comedienne, she is that funny. I suck in mouthfuls of second-hand smoke as I throw my head back and howl like an idiot the entire time it takes us to reach our destination.

  The bond of prison time has glued itself between us, so we have become something like friends. With her, I will go into the ladies restroom and outside to keep her company while she kills herself, one cigarette at a time. We don’t go deep with each other, don’t talk about our past lives, and I still don’t know what her crime is. She doesn’t question me about my crime, and the absence of this information, on both of our parts, keeps our friendship superficial and comfortable. It is all I’m equipped to deal with right now.

  She owns a beat-up pickup truck that is on its last leg but that she swears runs like a top. I don’t argue with her as I crawl across the bench seat and unfold myself on the passenger side. I have done it so many times that it is no longer awkward but slightly funny. I ride home from work with her every morning, and sometimes we stop for breakfast or to do some shopping. She reminds me of Yo-Yo, and I can be myself with her.

  This morning she is not taking me straight home though. Somehow she has talked me into coming along with her to have her future predicted. There is a psychic in town, one she heard about on the radio, of all places, and she is eager to know what the woman will tell her. I agree to go along just in case she learns something that messes her up so badly that she needs me to take control of her piece of shit truck and drive her home.

  We pull up just in time to see a woman rushing out of the house, crying uncontrollably, and we take a second to look at each other.

  “What the hell is that about?” Stella wonders out loud.

  “Maybe she just found out her husband is leaving her,” I speculate.

  “Shit.” She flaps a hand. “She should be scratching her ass and thanking whatever the hell god she believes in. That’s good news, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t think she asked you.”

  “Remind me to tell you to kiss my ass when we leave out of here, okay?”

  “First thing.”

  Inside the house, the living room has been converted into a waiting area. Stella gives her name to a teenage girl who looks like she should be in school and takes a seat next to an anxious-looking woman with a fidgeting toddler on her lap. I sit in the middle of a row of empty chairs and dig the business commentary section out of my bag, settle in for a long wait.

  “Lucky,” Stella snaps. I look up and see her pointing to the empty chair next to her. I roll my eyes and slink over to her. “Eat this and act like you have some sense.” She takes an orange from her purse and pushes it in my hands.

  “You act like we’re in church or something.”

  “This is a sacred place.”

  “Pfft, this is a con game gone horribly wrong. Can’t believe you’re spending money on this shit. When we leave, I got a bridge I want to show you. You might want to buy it and I’ll give you a good deal.” I break off a section of orange and pop it in my mouth, wink at her when she scowls at me.

  “Keep playing with the spirits, if you bad.”

  “What’s going to happen? Madam Sula’s coming out here to put a hex on me?”

  She doesn’t have time to answer me because we are interrupted by the woman of the hour and we stare for long seconds. Stella’s psychic is round like a statue of Buddha and dark like my television remote. Her hair flows down her back and over her shoulders like water. She wears the ugliest muu muu I’ve ever seen, which is cause enough to stare, but what catches my attention are her eyes. They are almost translucent, a light gray color, and focused on my face.

  “Who is talking about me?” she asks, but she already knows.

  I am pinned to my chair, convicted. And Stella gambles with her life. “She is,” she says, pointing at me. “But I got a feeling you already knew that.”

  “Are you here for a reading?” the woman asks me.

  “No, she is.” It is my turn to point.

  “Come with me,” she orders me and like a fool, I go.

  I follow her into her inner sanctum, sit in a straightbacked wooden chair that isn’t designed for comfort when she waves her hand and tells me I should do so, and watch her carefully. The room is cold, unnaturally so, and I find myself balling one hand around the other and stuffing them between my thighs. The tips of my fingers are freezing and so is my nose.

  “You don’t believe in heat?” I ask, meaning to sound like a bitch and pulling it off quite nicely.

  “Circles, not squares,” she says. She sits across from me at a wooden table and tunes me out while she prays. I wait impatiently, and she finally opens her eyes on my face. “Never squares again. Am I right?”

  “No, no squares. I mean, yes, you’re right.” I have vowed never again to be forced into the middle of a square, with no way out. I nod my head and give her one bonus point.

  “Circles don’t have corners, where you can be trapped, but circles go on forever. You could find yourself running around in circles, if you’re not careful.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Where do you want me to go? You want me to tell you about your grandmother? If her soul is burning in hell?”

  “I already know it is.”

  Voodoo woman shuffles a deck of tarot cards and slaps them down on the table like she is dealing blackjack. “Usually I have to use these at some point, to give my clients the most accurate reading possible. Plus, it makes them feel like something is really happening out here when what is going on up here is what it’s really about.” She taps her temple with a curled finger. “But I don’t feel like I need to use these with you. I can read you like a book.”

  “The cards are for show, just like that crystal ball over there. And where did you manage to buy a degree in metaphysical science?” It is framed and hanging on the wall behind her, directly in my line of vision. I squint and try to make out the name of the college or university, but I can’t make the words jump off the paper and meet me halfway.

  “Same place I bought the tarot cards, where else? Who is Victoria?”

  “My sister.”

  “And Beige?”

  She pronounces my daughter’s name wrong, like the first syllable of the bread roll with a hole in the middle of it. Baygue. “Beige,” I sound it out for her. “My daughter.”

  “I want you to listen to me, all right? Because as sure as your sister’s name is Victoria and your mother’s name is Ellen,”—she sees my eyes widen and smiles, but does not pause—“I can read you. I know what you did and I know why you did it. There is one who doesn’t know though, isn’t t
here?”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. Convince me you’re not a con artist and tell me something I don’t know.” But I am already convinced. I don’t like this woman’s aura, don’t like the way her eyes seem to light up in her face. She scares the shit out of me, and I don’t like feeling scared.

  “Did you know your grandmama is here with you right now?”

  I suck in a breath. Just like that, there are tears in my eyes and rage on my face. “Go to hell.”

  “You wear her like a cloak. Everywhere you go, she goes, because you take her with you. She let you go a long time ago, but you can’t do the same for her. You need to ask yourself why . . . Leenie.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Can I call you Lucky?”

  “No. If she’s here, ask her why she did it.”

  “She says she doesn’t know.”

  “She’s lying.” My voice is hot and hard, sharp like a razor and shaky like an earthquake. I think about lunging across the table and taking voodoo woman down. She is the closest target and the one who speaks complete and total bullshit to me. “Ask her how she could do that to me.”

  “She says you should let her go.” She pauses to listen to voices that I cannot hear, looks like she is allowing something or someone to whisper in her ear. “Something about being trapped right along with you. Set her free and set yourself free at the same time.”

  “Is she in hell?” I need her to be in hell, need to know she is suffering.

  “You are.”

  “You don’t know shit about me.”

  “You turned out all right.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what she says, that you turned out all right. She says she has watched over you through your hell. Now she needs you to let her go, so she can go through hers.”

  “Whatever,” I spit out, leaning toward her aggressively. “What the fuck ever, okay? Is she in hell? That’s all I need you to tell me.”

  “She comes to me in black and she is anguished. In pain. Her soul has been requested in hell, but you won’t let her go.”