by Alex White
“What’s wrong with this one?” asked the cook. “She’s covering her ears.”
“You’re talking to her, that’s what’s wrong,” said Jayla, returning with a heaping plate and shoving it in front of Loxley. “I’d cover my ears every time you started yapping if I could get away with it.”
Loxley inspected her plate. White sauce with brown bits smothered two golden biscuits. Thick slices of bacon lay next to the biscuits, touching the sauce. She picked up her fork and pushed some of the gravy off the top of the nearest biscuit. People began to laugh and talk amongst themselves.
“What do you think?” asked Jayla. “Be honest.”
“We used to have this mad dog in our neighborhood,” said Loxley. “One summer, I saw him eating a bunch of milkweed that was growing up through the pavement, and I think he was sick because he was panting real hard. He kept wandering back and forth outside of our building, and I wanted to go outside, but I couldn’t because he was out there, and I was scared of him. He bit me one time and I thought he might bite me again. Just before the sun went down, the dog came up to the door, threw up and died.”
Silence descended over the table once more.
Loxley pointed to her gravy. “This kind of looks like that.”
When the shouting and laughing resumed, she realized she’d said something wrong. Some people sounded angry, and others sounded amused. She didn’t eat foods together – at home, her biscuits didn’t ever touch her vegetables; she didn’t like the look of the gravy, but she’d embarrassed herself once again. Loxley pushed her fork into one of the biscuits and took a big bite. Butter, salt and the cake texture of the biscuits flooded her mouth, balanced against the sausage and fat of the gravy. With so many different flavors, it was impossible for her to answer the most important question of all: did Jayla make better biscuits than her mother?
“It’s good,” said Loxley.
It’s good? You like dog vomit, girl? She’s crazy! Jayla who is this? Her hands went to her ears, but this time, they murmured to one another without paying her any mind. Loxley stood, pushing back from the table and Jayla took hold of her shoulders. With a few unintelligible parting words, Jayla pushed her back out the kitchen door and to the stairs.
“Why are we leaving?” asked Loxley.
“They’re rowdy as fuck for a morning crew. Sorry if they bothered you.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I know, sugar, I know. I’ll bring up your biscuits in a moment,” said Jayla, following her upstairs. “First, I’ve got to show you your room. You can take your breakfast up there.”
They crossed onto the second floor landing and into the hallway. Loxley pointed up the next flight. “Who lives up there, besides Tailypo?”
“Each one of those apartments belonged to one of Tee’s wives before she left him. We’ve been told never to go up there, not even for cleaning.” Jayla held up a hand to interrupt Loxley before she could talk. “And yes, I know what that sounds like, and no, Tee didn’t murder his wives. Some of us have personally seen them run out on him.”
“You shouldn’t go up there, ever. Tailypo isn’t good.”
“He gave me a job when no one else would, and he didn’t ask me for hooking money,” said Jayla. “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t talk about him like that, because a lot of folks depend on him.”
“Yeah, but he’s not good. He’s a ghost.”
“What? I don’t give a fuck what he is. He keeps me and my friends off the streets, and he’s buying your clothes. If you want this conversation to get ugly, keep this up and we can get ugly.” Her voice sounded tense, but she was smiling. Why would she smile if she was mad?
“It’s the truth.”
The smile disappeared. “Last warning, Loxley. You shut your mouth about our boss.”
Loxley’s gaze fell to the ground, and she didn’t speak again as they roamed around the eastern wing. Her stomach tensed, and she flexed her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“It’s already forgotten,” said Jayla, never looking back.
“I have... trouble with faces. You smiled when I made you mad.”
“Just listen to what I’m saying next time.”
“Yeah, but you said you’d cover your ears every time that fat guy talked to you, and you don’t do that. If I only listened to what you were saying, I might think you did.”
Jayla glanced back at her. “You retarded or something?”
“No. Don’t call me that.”
“All right. I’m sorry I confused you.” They stopped outside a door. “It’s just, Tee has done a lot for everybody here. We all owe him a lot, so I’d be careful going around saying bad shit about him. Most of us won’t take too kindly to that.”
Jayla pushed open the door. It opened onto a plain enough space, with two twin beds on chipped steel frames. Scuffed, wooden floors were hidden by a rug that had seen better days. Striped beige and blueberry wallpaper bore old water stains, and exposed beams formed the ceiling. A fan buzzed overhead, preventing the air from growing stale, but with a nagging, off-kilter pattern that grated on Loxley’s nerves.
In addition to the two beds, there were two nightstands, two vanities and two tallboys. One set of furniture already had occupants, like makeup, clothing and an empty vase.
“Why is there two of everything in here?” asked Loxley, walking to the vanity and picking up a tube of lipstick. The rows of makeup were arranged perfectly, according to color, and she appreciated the layout.
“That’s because I’m your roommate, Loxley.”
Loxley dropped the tube to the table, where it bounced onto the floor. Whereas before, Jayla had been a minor curiosity, she now became a much more imminent threat. Loxley had only ever lived with her mother, and that hadn’t always gone well. Now, here was this black woman who thought they could share a room. Loxley would have preferred a white roommate, but more than anything, she wanted to be alone. Why hadn’t Tailypo told her of these arrangements? Why hadn’t he told her of any arrangements?
She still had no replacement clothes, no food and no instrument. Even if she played onstage, she couldn’t use her real name because Duke’s men were looking for her. And when she made money with Tailypo, what then? How was she going to kill the man from Edgewood? And one floor up, a ghost lurked, waiting for her.
“I’ve made a mistake,” said Loxley, marching for the door.
Jayla moved to block her. “Okay, no ma’am. We are not doing that.”
She weaved, trying to pass. “Please move.”
“No.”
But Loxley refused to give up. She pressed forward, surprised when the larger woman’s hands fell on her to hold her back. Still, Loxley tried to circle around.
“No!” Jayla gave her a big shove and shouted, “Sit down!” as Loxley stumbled back onto the bed. In a flash, the black woman was standing over her, jabbing a finger down at her. “Now you listen here, touched or not, you are going to accept our hospitality, sister! You smell like a sewer, you look like hell, and Quentin stuck his neck out for you to get you a spot here. You should have heard the way he begged Tee for a job for you! I’m not going to let you walk out of here until you have eaten, dressed and played at least one show for our troubles. And no, I am not going to let you walk around like you own the place just because Quentin thinks you’re some big deal.”
Loxley glared up at her. “I don’t like you.”
“Ain’t that something special? I tell you what, Miss Thing: I’m going to go get you your breakfast so you’ve got something to eat, and then I’m going to serve it to you in here so you don’t get too scared of people talking or whatever. Then I’m going to go get you some clothes to wear while you’re eating the food I made for you. Is that going to suit you okay?”
“Yes. Where’s Quentin?”
Jayla sighed and shook her head. “He’s in town, buying you a brand-new violin. Because of that, maybe you could be nice when you see him.”
“I’ve got more biscuits and gravy, but why can’t you eat the ones I gave you before?”
“Because, to me, biscuits aren’t supposed to be covered in anything. I like to put things on biscuits, like jelly, but they aren’t supposed to come that way. I don’t like to have my foods touching.”
“What if you think of it all as a single food, like you would with a sandwich?”
“I could call it something else, like Jaylabiscuits, because it’s not really biscuits.”
“If that works for you.”
Loxley watched her turn to go. “I like Jaylabiscuits a lot.”
Her new roommate smiled. “Oh, yeah? More than regular biscuits?”
That was like asking whether someone liked frogs more than rocks. They were two completely different things. However, Loxley had messed up so much already, and she was a little afraid of Jayla, so she nodded.
“All right, then.”
“One more thing: can I get some more bacon that didn’t touch the gravy?”
The smile disappeared. “’Jaylabacon.’”
“That’s weird,” said Loxley.
Jayla left the room without saying another word. The artifacts of someone else’s life, little trinkets and everyday objects, unsettled Loxley like the steel worker’s uniform she wore. It was one thing to wear someone else’s things for a little while; it was another to live in them.
But all of her old clothes were gone, along with her book and greenhouse, all her tools. She surveyed her new surroundings with the sinking feeling that this truly was her new home.
The Gift
THAT NIGHT, LOXLEY slept naked under the covers, happy that she wasn’t at Don’s house, on the street – or lying on her belly with a bullet in her head. When she awoke, her Foundry uniform had been taken from the floor and replaced with a stack of fresh clothes – a white, cotton button-up shirt and black slacks with a shiny stripe that ran down the sides. Her shoes had been replaced, too, with a pair of gleaming black leather loafers. She found a note in her pants pocket
No dresses, no silk.
–T.
After she’d slipped into her clothes, she pulled back her hair and tucked in her shirt. She looked funny: rich, but not Edgewood-rich. Jayla later told her she was very dashing in her new clothes, but that she needed makeup. Loxley thought of the way tape felt against her skin and said no thanks.
It would be two days before Loxley saw Quentin again. She asked after him at every opportunity, but he was always “out” or “making deals” or “way too busy for whatever the fuck you could want.” This last one had come from the fat cook, who identified as Cap.
Whenever Cap spotted her in the halls or the kitchen, he’d pepper her with questions, chuckling at every response. The less funny they seemed, the more he would laugh. He wanted to know when people were too loud, what sorts of things made her angry, what scared her, who she liked (Quentin), who she didn’t like (Cap). When she’d told him she liked Quentin, he wanted to know everything about why, and kept telling the other staffers that she was “sweet on Quentin.”
Cap liked to laugh at her, that much was clear. Loxley had a difficult time with subtleties of expression, but she knew when people were laughing at her. Loads of people thought she was funny, even when she had panic attacks. She’d been trained to recognize that expression of amusement her whole life; she knew exactly what people like Cap were thinking.
Loxley learned something important over those two days: Jayla didn’t think Cap was funny at all. She didn’t like his face, how he smelled or looked. She’d say mean things behind his back, and when he appeared, she’d say mean things to his face. So whenever Cap started to bother Loxley, she’d make her way toward Jayla with all speed. The strategy worked, and Loxley had much more free time to wander the grounds and learn about the Hound’s Tail.
No one asked anything of her. Aside from Cap and Jayla, they maintained a comfortable distance that Loxley enjoyed. She was allowed to come and go as she pleased, and Jayla took special care to ask her what she wanted to eat before cooking. Sometimes, Loxley’s requests were even heeded.
The building had more than twenty rooms, some more lavish than others. Loxley found many a broom closet, languishing with nothing but spiders and dust for company, but found just as many places like the green room – a gorgeous whirlwind of finely – crafted furniture and glass. It was not, contrary to the name, green. Jayla told her that was where actors normally waited before going onstage, leading Loxley to wonder whether or not actors had an affinity for green, and whether or not they found the green room of the Hound’s Tail disappointing.
The stage was in a great hall filled with dining tables. The dining area was stepped, like the Hole itself, and upholstered walls ran around the edge of each level. Atop these walls were blooming flowers of blue and white. Loxley had never seen them before, but admired the way they glowed in the soft incandescence of their lit planters. She was told Tailypo personally tended the flowers and employees were not to touch them. If customers wanted to ruin the plants, that was their business. Loxley would have protested that she was a farmer, but she had no training in these flowers, which grew in almost complete shadow.
Long, rectangular panes of glass twinkled in the chandelier above, fitted into brass rings. The prisms provided a sense of purpose and guidance to the room, creating a lit halo in the center of the floor. Loxley stood in the middle of the halo and looked straight up, imagining the panes drooping down to create a golden forest of warm glass.
The actual stage was a circular affair made of polished maple and rimed with limelights. From the stage, it was easier to see the various can lights dangling from the rafters. When she spoke, it bounced back at her as though she was standing behind herself. She couldn’t imagine a fully-packed room, bristling with starbursts of stage light. Just the thought of all of those shadowy faces made her heart race.
When she finally saw Quentin again, she was standing in the middle of the stage, looking out on the dining room. He wore the same sharp suit she had seen him in before, his shoulders dappled with mist from the rain outside. He held a brown paper package at his side and wore a wide smile.
“Taking a liking to the stage, Pumpkin?” he called.
“A little scared.”
“That’s normal, but pointless. I’ve seen you play. I know you can do a good job.”
“I’m not scared of that. I don’t want all of those people looking at me.”
“Imagine how I feel. I have to greet all of those motherfuckers at the door,” he laughed. He brushed his shoulders off with a gloved hand.
“What’s that?” She pointed to the package.
“This is your violin. You want to see it?”
She nodded, and he brought it to her. Together, they sat down on the stage and tore the paper and packing twine away. The case underneath shocked her with its newness. She’d become accustomed to her old case with its myriad dents and scuffs, but the black faux leather covering this case was like Nora’s Bible – untouched and perfectly preserved. She ran her fingers over the bumpy surface, coming to rest at the first brass latch, still cold from the chilly air outside. She looked to Quentin, who nodded it was okay.
She barely recognized the instrument inside as a violin. It was an ashen brown, almost gray, with a satin sheen across its surface that seemed to glow at the edges. The ebony fingerboard and tailpiece felt as smooth as Tailypo’s silks, with no nicks from decades of hammering fingers. The tuning pegs, string nut and saddle were solid silver, and flashed as the lights traveled across them. She flipped the instrument over and found the maker’s mark, along with a tiny emblem of a spider’s web notched into the wood.
It would have been something beautiful to see in a shop window on Edgewood, or perhaps in a far-off city across the ocean. She didn’t own anything even remotely so fine as that violin, and now that Duke’s men knew where she lived, she didn’t truly own anything at all. Holding an object that elegant felt like a dream, like Nora’s day at Bellebrook – something that could never happen to Loxley.
“This is mine?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“That’s what I said. Yours.”
In a split-second, she’d gone from being worthless to holding something worth more than her entire old life. She felt an unexplainable fullness of being, and she began to rock back and forth on her knees, the dizzy world spinning past. Her voice came out in happy sighs with each back-and-forth motion, and she clutched the instrument to her chest. Static nipped at her brain, but she rode the crackles and ants, her knuckles white against the poplar housing. Quentin was talking, but his words dissipated like smoke in the thunderstorm of her mind.
Warmth fell across her shoulders as Quentin wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice soothing as a cat’s purr. “Let’s calm down, Loxley. I’m worried you’re going to break it, you’re squeezing so tight.”
Her jaw relaxed; she’d been clenching her teeth. She loosened her grip and swallowed. “I’m so happy right now.”
“I can see that. You’re something else, and I wanted you to have an instrument that showed the crowd just how special you are. Had to personally go all the way to a luthier in Nashville to get it.”
“What’s a luthier?”
“Person who makes violins. This one was a strange woman – a little bit like you, but I guess you have to be strange to make violins.”
She turned it over to look at the maker’s mark once again: Kate Batts. It was a scrawled signature embossed into the wood, almost clumsy, compared to the rest of the instrument. The luthier was meticulous in her craft, yet sloppy in her identity. Black ink had been painted into the notches of the spider’s web before applying the finish, and looking closer, Loxley spied hairline strands of dyed wood poking out from each line.