The Stars and the Blackness Between Them

by Junauda Petrus

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “I, uh, live above you, and my name is Mahal,” a voice pure and deep and an accent rolling from underwater.

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “I a single woman, new to this neighborhood and ain’t got no friends here,” she said, smiling.

  “And so?”

  “And so, tonight what’tchu cooking made me need to know who was creating that smell. I could taste its healing in the air.” She grabbed her stomach to prove it was empty. Her eyes were laughing and unashamed, like they had only known yes she whole life. She spoke in an accent that wasn’t Yankee or West Indian. She look like she could be Trini but from the country, not a city girl like me, but she don’t feel quite like she from Trini neither. She wore a button-up shirt made of blue, green, and purple patterns and intricately beaded symbols on the chest, almost like Egyptian hieroglyphs. This shirt was tucked into dark-green slacks that fit better than Marvin Gaye’s on Soul Train and shiny white-leather shoes. And she smell like sweet fruit and a fresh, manly type a cologne.

  “Well, you ain’t even ask me my name before you come begging for me food?” I asked, remembering who I is and where I is from, but I feeling my tone is more nice than vex.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Queenie. What yuh fix upstairs?”

  She smiled and I could tell that smile ain’t know how to cook.

  “Well, nuh . . . so you come to make friends, ’cause you wan’ food, but yuh come wit’ yuh two arms swinging with nuttin’ for yuh new friend?” I put a hand on my hip and point with my wooden spoon.

  But somehow, I gave she a plate filled with curry chicken, curry melongene, and on a hill of rice, a sliver of avocado with plantain, and a dash of pepper sauce. We decide she would trade me a plate for an adventure.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day, I feeling excited and a little silly, but I is in front the little grocery on Fulton, down from the A train station, waiting for her end of the bargain. I ain’t tell Daphne where I is going because she always got something sensible to say that result in no blasted fun. Even though I is nineteen and have a baby of my own, she still treat me like I is a chile. Since we kids, she sniff and scare away fun. She always act like she ain’t know what it is like to be young and want to feel good and sweet tingling in your body, like when I used to climb trees, or swim out far and float in the water, or make a new friend for the purpose of unexpected joy. If I tell she I headed out to adventure with a strange stranger, who is more handsome than any man but is a woman, I would still be sitting in the apartment, hearing she mouth now.

  Mahal was from Brazil, foreign in this land like me. And maybe she could be my friend. I ain’t really have much friends ’cept some of the other West Indian women at my job at the hospital, but many of them are married or have kids and don’t always have time to lime. Maybe we both need a friend?

  Red apples are pile up high on the fruit stand, between oranges and green apples. The sun heating the sugar in the fruit and filling the air with they sweetness. The apples remind me of Daddy buying apples around Christmas as a special treat. He would bring them home after work, then pull his knife from his back pocket and would cut it in four, a piece for he, Daphne, Pearl, and me. I looking at the oranges and remember how he would peel skin off them in one long swirl for us to dry for tea for when we belly aching. I imagine Makeba, my daughter, hanging with him in the backyard, picking passion fruit and asking questions, and he patiently bending down and explaining all the different bush and herbs and what they do, like he did with us when we was little.

  I sense Mahal before I hear she footsteps, and then I see her. When I see she walk up, I realize I feel something. And I realize it’s I feel that I like she walk. Something about the way she move—strapping but also joyful, light. It reminded me of my favorite uncle Vincent who got the prettiest dance to his walk and the prettiest stutter when he talk, that all the women does love. When she come close, she smell like fresh shower and frankincense and swinging a small guitar on she back.

  “You know yuh late?” I say, but she face is full of joy and she walking free and then she get serious and sorry.

  “I know and I apologize. I no good with time,” she say, and I realize I ain’t really care. By how she face look, she seem sorry for real.

  “No worries. . . . I is usually the late one. Good morning, Mahal,” I say and try to be mellow.

  “Good morning. Where I from, they say, ‘Bom Dia!’ or just ‘Dia.’” Her eyes was looking in mine and we both looking too long. “You look so beautiful. I love you hair and you dress. I can’t cook very good, but here is something I made after I ate you food.” And she hands me a handkerchief of fabric that matched her shirt and was tied in purple ribbon. I open it up slowly. Inside is a bracelet with yellow and golden beads in a simple pattern, fastened together by copper and leather. Different, yet so pretty. No one had ever made me something like that.

  “I sorry I late, I lose track of time. You like it?” she ask.

  “I love it,” and I really do. She offered to put it on my wrist and I let she.

  “Let me get you some fruit, pick whatever you want,” she say, waving her arm above the bounty and we pick out fruit for the adventure.

  On the way to the train, she bring us to a Trini spot that was really just a door, a window, and the smell of curry. There is a line down the street of empty bellies waiting for their turn to order. When we get close, I see on the other side of the glass stew chicken, curry chicken, plantain, provisions, pumpkin, channa, dal, macaroni pie. I wasn’t hungry till I see all my favorite food from home is there, even fry bake and okra.

  Mahal looks over at me and we smile at each other. Then we giggle. I feel shivers when she places her hand on my waist to guide me in the tight quarters.

  “How you know this place?”

  “One day, I was on the way to work in the city—I wash dishes at a nice soul food restaurant in Harlem. One day, I will bring you food—and anyway, I see a line down the block, I get nosy and see why,” she say. “Get what you want, I buy for you. Get drink too.”

  And suddenly I feelin’ shy or good or something strange. Like we on a date.

  “Please, let me. Remember I came to your door hungry last night? It’s the least I can do.”

  I smile and don’t refuse she. “Hmm. You know . . . I feel for some doubles.”

  “I love doubles,” she agrees and licks she pretty lips.

  “Mmm-hmmm, yuh love doubles?” I ask, surprise a little.

  When we get to the counter the woman working behind it had she hair tie up in a scarf, her cheeks and eyelids peppered in moles, her mouth pursed up, looking prepared to put someone in they place at any given moment. She had on a bright-red shirt, red apron, and a big, wide bum bum—a bum bum you could trust knew how to cook up something real good.

  “Eh-heh?” she said, impatient at us already. She unprovoked vexness made me miss home bad.

  “Two doubles, please.”

  “Wit’ pepper?”

  “Slight.” My mouth feeling ready to eat.

  The lady grabbed two pieces of wax paper, and put two barra bread on each of them and then scooped up channa and pour it on top of the barra and then she put tamarind sauce and pepper on them. Everything she doing, my eyes chasing and seeing. Then in one move, she grabs the edges of the wax paper and flips and twists them into little soft pockets, just like back home.

  “Umm, actually two more, please, same everything,” says Mahal, looking at the magic trick and leaning over like a hungry child. She then looks back at me and we giggle at each other for no reason. We just happy. The woman behind the counter look like she thinking to be annoyed with us, but then she face make a little giggle at us, like she catch we happiness too.

  “What you wanna drink?” Mahal asks. I say water is fine. Mahal orders a sorre
l and a limeade, which is actually what I did want. Mahal hands the auntie her money and a tip in exchange for the warm bag filled with home. We head to the train.

  * * *

  • • •

  Our walk in the park feels good. To be sweaty and be breathing deep good clean air and be amongst trees feel good to my soul in a way I ain’t know I was missing. Once we reach the top of the hill and settle in, I take my first bite into my doubles, and I feel as if I is going to cry for some reason. I feeling emotional and foolish for it. For all the cooking I do, I almost never fix doubles and I think this is why. It reminds me of Bamba Rose, who help raise us. She pass a few years ago. She made she money selling doubles in the market and Daphne, Pearl, and I would go along with she while our parents was at work. Each bite, I overcome with missing home and Bamba.

  After a bite, I chewing and I look up and see Mahal smiling at me like she know a secret.

  “You look like you travelin’ inside yourself,” she say.

  “Yes, whoever make dis, hand is real sweet. It’s just like home, yes.” I finish my first double.

  “I like watching you eat. You eat like you know hunger for real. Me too. I love to eat. Food is a good healer. Make you feel like you have love.” She fills she face with smile. “Like your food last night. Food made from a soulful place, is always healing.” Then, after she finishes her own first doubles. “Do you miss Trinidad?”

  I pause and think about it. I think about all of the sacrifices I had to make to be here, all what people had to say about me, mainly Makeba father. “I miss my daughter so bad, how she does smell and how we snuggle up. She laugh. I miss my mommy and being up early with she and walking by the ocean. I miss walking with my daddy up in the hills and picking herbs.” I feeling my heart getting heavy thinking of Trinidad.

  “What make you decide to move to New York?” she asks.

  “My father and mother knew I had always wanted to see New York with my sister. They said since me and Ivan done—my daughter’s father—if I wanted to try New York out, they would watch Makeba until I get settled and I could send for she. They ain’t ever like Ivan since he is a bit of a ass. I think they knew he was the only reason I ain’t travel the world. My mommy say, she knew I always have a spirit that want to travel, since I a little girl. I would look in my tantie’s National Geographic and seein’ all kinds of places and I want to feel how other worlds feel like. I is want to ride camels and play by the pyramids, I is wanting to go to China and walk all a the Great Wall and eat duck. When I little, I is dreaming of going skiing in Switzerland zooming down them mountains, boy.” I wonder if Mahal think I sound foolish. Daphne think I is too dreamy and strange, and Pearl think I is always being too risky for no reason, chasing too much tings. I watch she face and she is watching me and I feel a zooook!!!! in my body. Like a feeling between us.

  “I love how you envision yourself . . . Back in Bahia, I play my cavaquinho and dream of soul music. I come here ’cause I wanna play music wit’ my Black soul sisters and brothers in America. But, I also still sing Samba to myself, ’cause it remind me of home,” she say.

  She start singing a song in she language, and her deep voice become tender and full of emotion. I close my eyes and fall into she singing and the warm outdoor feeling.

  “Why you choose New York City?” she asks.

  “I always dream I would come here to dance. I love dancin’ since back home. I taking dance classes and teaching myself moves I see on Soul Train and at fetes. I always have my own style and pick tings up real fast. My tantie help me pay for my own ballet and modern-dance lessons in downtown Port of Spain, when I was a kid. I always wanted to dance in New York. Everybody go to New York and come back talking like a Yankee and making style with new clothes like it a perfect paradise. It ain’t, I found out. But at least I dancing. I in dance class at least four times a week and I is going to start auditioning soon for a company. As hard as it is, I feel like it was meant for me to be here. I’m going to send for my daughter soon and then everything will be good.” She so easy to talk to and I realize since I been here, I ain’t really have anyone to talk to.

  “What’s your daughter like?” Mahal asks me.

  “You ain’t tired of hearing me talk, yet? Goooosh, I feel I been talking your ear off, nuh.”

  “I don’t want you to stop. The way you talk is pretty and what you have to say is helping me get to know you. So what’s your daughter like? Is she like you?” She brown eyes blink slow and sweet.

  “Makeba. She strong like she name. She a smart child. She understand so much even though she was only a little bit over two when I left home. She loves to snuggle and she smells like baby and fresh coconut oil. I miss holding she.” My mom say how she would cry and look out the window for me after I leave for the States.

  “I can feel how you miss her,” Mahal say.

  “Miss ain’t the word. I feel lonely for her laughter. She laugh is so miraculous. I still can’t believe this angel came through my body,” I say. “She with my parents and she also spends time with she daddy, Ivan, sometime too. This is just until I can afford to bring she up here with me,” I say. We are both lying down on the quilt Mahal spread down for us. We is looking up at the sky, breathing under its belly. It quiet and I cherishing every moment, being up there with she.

  “Now that I tell you all my business, what bring you, Mahal?” I ask, leaning closer to her and holding my hand back from caressing her curls.

  “When I thirteen, all records I listen to over and over, until it make me go crazy, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Nina Simone, James Brown. I would be so full of hurt in my heart, I would walk in the woods and sing all night long praying for hope. I sing and I pray to feel heal after my parents were gone. I begin to have visions when I sing. Like I can communicate beyond what I can see. That my parents could hear me and I could see them. My dreams started to change and I was hearing and feeling things from a place deep inside of me and far away into other worlds. Sometimes, I would just close my eyes and all of these stories and voices and songs would come inside me, until all I could do was cry. I can see things in my dreams that tell me messages and no matter where I is, I feel I is being guided by a deep knowing inside of me. Like a old bush woman talk to me, like I is an instrument for the divine,” she say, looking unsure of me.

  “You is special,” I tell she. “From when I first see you, I know that. When I was young in Trinidad, I see so much tings wit’ my own eyes and in my own soul, that you would tink I telling stories. But I always knowing and tinking I was special too,” I say.

  “Can I tell you something else?” she say.

  “Yes,” I say, and Mahal smile and laugh a little bit, and she stay quiet and close she eyes. I close my eyes as well, liking that she silly and different like me.

  I is there, behind my eyelids and breathing the stillness. And when I ain’t seeing nothing, I feeling the thick heat on my skin, then breeze on my spirit. It feel so good to be still and quiet in creation. I feel my chest get quiet too, not racing and scared. Then I hearing Mahal, like she is singing from afar. And she voice ain’t just human, but it from a bird that I feelin’ trilling deep inside me. And there is a sadness there, a deep undersea sad. Without a seam, I fade into she voice itself. And then I is hearing ocean water and I feel I is lying beside it. And I is feeling the trees move in a gust, leaves singing a song about a child who is feeling abandoned by God and love and parents. A song of rainforests. A tree is a father in a long sad night. A night lasting weeks and months of tears and grief. The ocean becomes mother, and birth is the sun on the water. Mother let me float on she surface and I crying tears to add to she body and she rock me in love and say it okay for me to bawl, and she carry me to the edge of she wet, never-endingness. And then that opens up from somewhere and I feel waterfall and the cool and everlasting healing of sky baptism, of good feelings opened in love. And I is in love with my own self. And I
’m in water I can drink, and it sweet, like it got sugarcane soak in it. I start to giggle, ’cause I is almost drunk from its honeyness.

  I open my eyes and Mahal is giggling too. We look at each other.

  I feel her hand find mine and when it does I settle my palm in hers. I is feeling her song in my chest and the breeze above me, and where she took me. I look over at she and she eyes is closed and she singing toward the cloudfull and unending blue above us.

  MABEL

  I DON’T TELL AUDRE ALL ABOUT MY QUEENIE DREAMS. Not yet at least. I got more to figure out first before I tell her about the potential side effects of her dreamo treatments. I use my chemistry notebook for my astrology notes and studies. It only has a few pages of notes in it from before I got sick and stopped being interested in doing homework. On the cover, it has Whitney and Robyn as teens sitting on a couch giggling. I pull out the two books I got on astrology from the library. One is The Black Woman’s Guide to Love Astrology and the other is Astrology Forever: A Complete and Comprehensive Guide. I open up the first, which is poetic and easier to understand, with a lot of interesting pictures. I find the pages with my sign, Scorpio, and there is a painting of a brown woman with an ornate outfit and the pattern of a scorpion around her big Afro as well as beautiful beetles and bright red-orange flowers. I’m almost afraid to read about my sign because it’s supposed to be the sexual and secretive one, and I always thought that was embarrassing. I remember the first time I met Jazzy, she was like, “Before we are friends, I need to know what sign you are.” And when I was like “Scorpio?” she said, “Ooooh, girl, you a secret freak, ain’t you?!” real loud in the lunchroom, which was so embarrassing because at that time I ain’t even kiss anyone yet.