by Julie Smith
“Earl Theophilus Jackson?”
“That’s him, but—”
“You sound so nice. I know a boy from Savannah— Charlie Kendall? You know Charlie?”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“He goes to Georgia Tech. Unless he’s flunked out by now. I went to Agnes Scott.”
“Really? You know Patsy Scarborough?”
“Patsy! She used to live right down the hall from me. Nice girl. Real nice girl.”
“My roommate used to go out with her. We go to Georgia.”
“Oh, yeah, I think I met him. Mike, uh … no, that’s not right…”
“Jim. Jim Halsey.”
“Oh, yeah. I think we all went tubing together once. You sound so nice. I can’t believe your uncle isn’t nice, too.”
“I never knew him, to tell you the truth, but I’ve heard stories about him all my life. He was kind of the bad boy of the family. Oh, Lord! Know what he’s supposed to have done? I hope this doesn’t gross you out.”
“Omigod. What?” She tried to get her voice to convey wide-eyed innocence.
“He buried baby chicks up to their necks and then mowed their heads off with a lawn mower.”
“You’re kidding! He couldn’t have done that.”
“My dad and my great Aunt Alice swear he did. And that’s not all. He fried goldfish alive—”
“In corn meal batter or what?” She managed a little giggle.
“I think he just sautéed them with a little butter and garlic.”
“I bet they flipped their little tails around like baby whales.”
Both of them got a fit of the giggles. “Oh, you’re so baaad.”
“You’re pretty bad yourself.”
“Know what else he did? He put a cat and a litter of kittens through an entire dryer cycle.”
“Gross! Little bitty kittens—how could he?”
“I see you’re a cat lover.”
“I just don’t see how anybody could be so mean, that’s all.”
“What about the fish?”
“Well, it’s not like they have fur or anything! Somebody who’d hurt kittens would probably …”
“What?”
“Well, I’m wondering. Did he ever get in trouble with other kids or anything?”
“What kind of trouble?”
“You know. Fights maybe. I don’t know. Maybe he built a tiny little guillotine.”
“Oh, come on. He was just mischievous, that’s all.”
“You know, I think this could really be a fun story.”
“Oh, yeah! Think how embarrassed he’d be.”
“It’d be kind of like a roast. I wonder if I could talk to your dad about him?”
“Well, mom and dad are in North Carolina right now. I kind of have the house to myself. Listen, I was wondering, do you ever get over this far? We’ve got a great beach here.”
“Gosh, I don’t think I could right now. I’ve only had this job two weeks.”
“Damn!”
“Is there anybody else who knew your uncle? Maybe I could talk to them.”
“Well, there’s Aunt Alice, but she’s so deaf you have to write to communicate with her.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Sherman, but…”
“Oh, damn! A five-alarm fire. Listen, nice talking with you. Can I call you back?”
Chapter Fifteen
THROWING SOME CLOTHES in a backpack, Torian thought she had never met a man like Reverend Jacomine. Someone who almost read her thoughts, who treated her like an adult—more so than Noel did.
She could have gone to her father; certainly she could have. But she didn’t think that was the best strategy at this point. She wanted to up the ante on them both—her mother and her father. She could go to her dad now, with her slightly bruised nose—face it, despite her first fears, it wasn’t broken or anything—and he might or might not take it seriously.
Maybe he’d use it as an excuse to try to get Torian back from Lise, and maybe he’d succeed and maybe he wouldn’t; or maybe he’d just say Lise was high-strung and give her another chance. She wanted to do something he couldn’t ignore. She wanted him to hear her cry for help loud and clear.
And if she ended up staying with Lise, she wanted to make sure it was on better terms.
I’m at the end of my rope, goddammit—nobody believes it because I’m only fifteen.
But I can’t do this; I can’t live like this, even if I do have Noel.
There were adults in the world who would have nit-picked about logic and reason, but Reverend Jacomine had cut right through the bullshit, exactly as if he had known what she knew—that she had to make a statement. A big statement.
And he had been willing to help. How many adults would have done that? Not even Noel. Noel wasn’t going to send her to Paulette until the Rev had suggested it.
He might be a great man. I don’t think I ever met one before.
I’m so proud to have worked for him, to be associated with him.
When I go home, I’ll join his church. I’ll work for him that way.
She went outside to find a cab, too impatient to call one and wait for it.
* * *
A young woman was sitting on the porch when she arrived. Her house had once been painted gray, but it was peeling now. Still, it looked cozy and welcoming, perhaps because of copious petunias growing in large pots.
The woman on the porch stood up and waved. Torian couldn’t imagine who she might be—she was too old to be another runaway, yet not nearly old enough to be the proprietor.
She wore jeans and a tank top that showed off heavily muscled arms. She was dark, with short hair, slightly sharp features, a benign demeanor.
Cajun, Torian thought. She had met only a few Cajuns, but she was always drawn to them—they seemed so gentle and soft-spoken; so friendly. She was drawn to Jews, too— and Italians. To almost anyone different from Lise.
“Torian? Paulette Thibodeaux. Do ya need me to cover the taxi?” Paulette started down the walk.
“No. I’m fine.” She paid the driver and turned to face the woman. She was shocked that Paulette was so tall—as tall as Noel, and probably about as solid. She had a certain amount of weight on her, but she had muscles, too. Either she did manual labor every day or she worked out.
She looks like a goddess, Torian thought, feeling young and small beside her.
She blurted: “I didn’t know you’d be so young.”
Paulette laughed, and her laugh was rich, resonant, almost bass. “Everybody expects a mother. I’m more like an older sister. Is ‘at good enough?”
Torian looked at her, instantly loving her. She nodded, smiling, realizing she hadn’t meant to smile, just couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Sure.” She felt suddenly shy.
Paulette turned and led her up the walk. “Ya hungry? I got some ice cream bars. We don’t eat supper till later.” She looked at her watch. “We havin’ gumbo tonight. Ya like gumbo?”
“Who doesn’t like gumbo?”
“Tha’s right. Nobody dodn’t like gumbo.” She laughed her rich laugh again.
Inside, the house was utilitarian, apparently furnished much like Lise’s apartment—with whatever could be gleaned from Goodwill or Volunteers of America.
“Ya room’s upstairs. Ya gon’ stay with Faylice. She’s makin’ the gumbo right now.” Paulette led her up to a greenish room with marks on the walls, many looking as if they’d been put there by hands. There was a rain forest poster on one wall, and a framed print of The Last Supper on another. Two single beds were covered with Indian print bedspreads, and a beat-up chest of drawers completed the furnishings.
“It’s not fancy, but I think it’s kinda cheery, don’t you?” said Paulette. “Ya wanna wash up or anything? Then come to the kitchen. I’m fixin’ Faylice some iced tea.”
Torian turned to thank her, but Paulette was gone. She was glad to have a few moments alone, to assimilate what she’d gotten into. This place was
worse than Lise’s.
But probably not worse than Covenant House.
She shuddered. She’d thought about Covenant House a lot. It was where runaways went, but surely they were runaways from Kansas or Missouri. Nobody ran away from the French Quarter; it was where you ran to.
Well, I did. I pulled it off, and I’m even in a place where they don’t have to call my parents after three days. Maybe I could stay here awhile.
She was surprised at the thought.
Maybe I’m getting used to it.
Oh, hell, it doesn’t matter. It’s really no worse than Lise’s—the main thing is, Lise isn’t here.
She checked out the barely adequate bathroom (nothing interesting in the medicine cabinet), then the other two bedrooms. One, she thought, must be Paulette’s, because it had a double bed and some cosmetics lying around, as if someone lived there full time. The other was much like Torian’s. There was a suitcase on the floor, and underwear had been tossed on the bed. So there was probably at least one other kid there.
She wondered if Paulette had a lover.
Maybe the Rev.
She felt her cheeks go hot the minute she thought it. Well, she couldn’t help it if she thought older men were more mature, and that the Rev was practically God.
Though of course, she thought, I’m not attracted to him. Anyway, would you do it with God? The Rev’s not eligible.
She went downstairs, to find Paulette and a fat black girl sitting at the table. Both were drinking iced tea and the girl was also chopping vegetables and sausage, neat piles of which lay on the table in bowls.
A third glass of tea, its ice cubes starting to melt, had been set out on a napkin.
Paulette pointed to it. “For you. Torian, this is Faylice.”
Torian turned to the black girl, about to extend her hand, but she realized the girl’s hands were gummy from cooking, and that anyway this might not be behavior she’d learned in her neighborhood.
Faylice was very dark, one of the darkest people Torian had ever seen. Her hair was pulled back some way or other, out of her face, but it had no style and apparently hadn’t been intended to. She had large boobs and she was big around, but not obese. Since she wore shorts, Torian could see that she had tree-trunk thighs and knees so well padded they hardly showed.
Her strong healthy teeth were lovely against her dark skin; indeed there was something about her smile that Torian found touching. Something sweet, something vulnerable, something needy—Torian couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps it was the thing that Anne Frank wrote about—the faith that things would be okay, that people weren’t so bad, despite all evidence to the contrary.
She was only thirteen or fourteen, Torian thought.
“How you?” said Faylice.
“I’m okay. You need some help?”
“No, I’m ‘bout to make my roux soon as I finish my tea. It’s a one-person job, but boring as shit.”
“You stir awhile and then I will.”
“No, I don’t trust nobody to get it right but me.” She smiled to show she meant no harm. Torian was starting to warm up to her in a big way.
She felt a tinge of excitement as she realized, I’ve never met anyone like this.
“How’d you learn to make gumbo?” she asked. “I don’t know how.”
Why didn’t Lise teach me? What are mothers for?
“My ontee teach me. Way a long time ago—before I start school.”
“Your ontee?”
Faylice nodded. “Auntie Shaunna.” Torian finally got it. “My mama’s baby sister. Ain’t it funny she be the one?”
“Your mom doesn’t cook? Mine doesn’t either.”
Faylice was stirring the roux now, her back to the table, so that Torian couldn’t see her face. “Nooooo, my mama don’t cook. My mama too busy with her rock and her men frien’s. My mama sho’ don’ cook.”
Torian was dying to know everything about this girl who was younger than she was and even more alone in the world—except perhaps for a nice aunt. “What about your dad?”
“Ain’t got no dad. Ain’t got no brothers, ain’t got no sisters. I did have a baby brother, but he die.”
Torian looked at Paulette, needing some kind of grounding. She nodded. “Tha’s right. Faylice has had it real hard. And no matter what happens, she always makes straight A’s. Idn’t that right, Faylice?”
“Well, I try. I shore do try.” Something in her voice— so unsure of herself, so unaware of what a miracle she was—devastated Torian.
Paulette said, “What’sa matter, chile?”
Humiliated, Torian picked up her paper napkin and swiped at the tears that had run down her cheeks. “I don’t know. I… nothing, I guess.”
Paulette patted her wrist. “It’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
Torian said, “Faylice. I have two baby sisters.” That was funny—Joy certainly wasn’t her sister. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to them.”
“I had a real hard time when Demas died. We woke up one mornin’ and he was dead in his bed. Jus’ like that. No reason for it.”
“I’ve heard of that. Sudden infant death.”
“That’s what they call it. Sometime, I think it jus’ be the Lord lookin’ after him.”
Is she saying what I think she’s saying?
Torian waited for her to go on, but Faylice just kept stirring the roux. She said, “You mean you think he’s better off dead?”
“Sometime I do. Sometime I don’ know how he would have made it. My mama didn’t have no milk to nurse him. She had to give him a bottle and sometimes she forget; most times she forget. And I was just a little bitty girl—eight years old then—and they make me go to school. How’m I gon’ take care of him when I’m at school?”
“Your aunt—um—”
“Oh, Auntie move away just as soon as she get married. And when she move, she say, ‘Faylice, honey, I wish I could take you with me, but I can’t right now. I gotta go, I’m real sorry, but you promise me one thing. You promise you’ll always make all A’s, and then I know you gon’ get a good job and I rest easy.’ ”
Faylice turned to face her. “See, we live in St. Thomas.” One of the city’s worst slums. “She want me to get out. She couldn’t take me, but she want to let me know I can do it myself. So I say to myself, ‘Okay, I will. Faylice ain’ gon’ be no crack whore. Faylice gon’ get a job and go to a office and wear nice clothes.’ Auntie Shaunna, she be a insurance adjuster. Maybe tha’s what I be one day.”
“That’s what my mom is.”
Faylice turned around again, face animated. “Oh, yeah? She like her job?”
Torian stared at the floor. Lise called it “a piddlin’ little job a twelve-year-old could do.” “I don’t think so,” she said. “My mom doesn’t like much of anything.”
“Mmmph. Maybe she on drugs.”
“Alcohol.”
Faylice nodded. “Tha’s no good. Mmmm, mmm. Tha’s no good.”
Torian realized Faylice talked like a much older person. She said, “Faylice, how old are you?”
“Thirteen and a half. You?”
“Fifteen. But I don’t think I know as much as you.”
Paulette snorted. “Honey, you don’ want to.”
Faylice said. “No, you don’t. ‘Specially as much as I learn last couple days.”
Torian was dying to know what had happened, what had finally pushed her over the edge and made her leave home, but she didn’t feel she could ask. Maybe it was too painful, or too private.
But Faylice said, still stirring the roux, “My mama boyfrien’ rape me and beat me up day before yesterday.” She turned around and raised her T-shirt, showing a bandage on her midriff. “He try to cut me too, only I got the knife. I jus’ get a scratch. But then he knock the knife out of my hand, and he so mad he pull off my clothes and stick his thing in me.”
Torian gasped. “Where was your mom?”
“Oh, she went out
to the store. They smokin’ rock together, then she go out to get cigarettes, and he start tearin’ the house apart, lookin’ for money. I come home from school ‘bout that time, and he start beatin’ me and…the rest of it.”
She had been matter-of-fact up to that point, but Torian noticed her voice getting lower on the last phrase, as if she were deeply ashamed. “My mama come home and start beatin’ on him with her hands, her fists, some ol’ ashtray she pick up, anything she can, and I run away. I jus’ run away without a stitch on. Neighbor lady let me in, and I call my auntie. She say her church take care of me, and tha’s how I got here.”
She had added her vegetables to the roux—all but her tomatoes and okra—and there was a great sizzling and smoking.
Torian said, “Faylice? Could you teach me to make gumbo?”
“Sho’, girl. You didn’t have no auntie?”
Torian shook her head, feeling inadequate, unable to speak. Finally she said, “I’ve got a stepmother.”
“See, your vegetables have to wilt. You like her better’n your mama?”
Torian stared into the pot, as if the green peppers and onions would give up the secrets of the universe along with their fragrance.
“Well?” said Faylice. “You don’t like her either?”
“Sure I like her. I like Carol.”
“Okay, now the tomatoes.”
“What?”
Faylice nodded at the kitchen counter. “The tomatoes. And that pile of sausage.”
Finally comprehending, Torian began tossing the piles into the pot. For the first time it occurred to her that she really didn’t like Carol.
She’s better than Lise. At least she doesn’t hit me.
But I don’t think she loves me, I really don’t.
Nobody does.
Noel did, she was pretty sure, and her dad and Joy and Marly to the extent that they were capable, but at the moment she doubted them all.
Sheila! Sheila loves me.
Well, at least she likes me a lot. She’s a true friend, she’d do anything for me.
She wasn’t entirely sure of that, it hadn’t been tested, but she needed to think it right now.
I’d do anything for her. She knows that, doesn’t she?
“Now we gon’ put in the water. And the okra and some of the shrimp; and we gon’ season it.”