New People

by Danzy Senna

  Maria frowned at her mother. Maybe you should see a real doctor. It sounds serious.

  Chuck is a real doctor. Well, he’s more than that. He’s a healer. I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make me sicker.

  Gloria drove Maria to the airport the next evening. They sat inside the Legal Seafood in the terminal. There was something heavy hanging over them. Gloria looked thin, delicate. She didn’t touch her chowder. She asked Maria questions about her classes but didn’t seem entirely there. At the gate, she told Maria, Marry the narcoleptic shvartze with the fancy hair. He comes from good stock.

  Back on campus, Maria found Khalil in his room in Ujamaa, fast asleep with Jimmy Cliff playing on the speakers and a copy of Wired magazine spread open on his lap. His dreadlocks reminded her of computer wires. She stared at his sleeping face. It really was remarkable, the way it held everything in it at once. She curled up beside him, hugging her own knees, feeling a wave of homesickness—a nameless dread.

  She would never see Gloria well again.

  There is a knocking on the bedroom door. She turns. It’s Elsa.

  We really should be getting to the circus, Maria. Did you pick out an outfit?

  Maria drops Gloria’s overalls onto the bed.

  Elsa laughs when she sees them. Now remember, it’s a circus, not a hayride.

  I know. I was just—clearing out some old things.

  Let me help you, okay?

  Elsa goes to the closet and begins to rifle through her things. She pulls out a pair of dark jeans and a red blouse Maria bought for a job interview once upon a time.

  This is totally perfect. Elegant but casual.

  Maria puts on the outfit. Elsa says she wants to put a little makeup on Maria. Maria sits at the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her face tilted up, while Elsa works on her face. She fixes her eyes on Elsa’s face, the spray of yellow curls and glassy blue eyes and toothy Scandinavian smile. She thinks about how lonely it must have been for Elsa growing up in the Era of Mulatto Martyrs. There aren’t many of them in Elsa’s age group, she’s only met a few, they are a rare and flightless, near-extinct bird. Every time Maria meets one she is aware of her own dumb luck.

  Are you doing okay, Maria? Elsa says, patting her face gently with a sponge dipped in foundation.

  Maria doesn’t want to go out today. She wants to stay home with Khalil. She is not so sure she wants to be in the movie anymore. She can’t explain why. But she knows also that it is too late. They are all waiting for her out there. They have brought equipment. They have spent hours already filming them. It is too late to pull out.

  It’s just— Maria says.

  Elsa is waiting. Just what?

  It’s just—they abuse animals in this circus, Maria says. I saw it on the news. They beat the elephants with steel poles.

  Elsa laughs as if it were a joke. She blends the foundation into Maria’s skin. Listen, she says, you look a little tired. Today is a cinch. You just have to walk around the edges of the tent holding hands with Khalil. Look surprised when you see Lisa. You don’t have to say anything deep. It’s footage. Filler. Just move your lips if you don’t feel like actually talking. Recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

  She steps back and cocks her head at Maria, sees something that needs fixing. Adds some more shadow to her eyes.

  That’s it. Lovely.

  She squats down and holds Maria’s hands, fixes her eyes on her. Maria feels like Elsa is her teacher and she is a child at a certain kind of school—one of those rich hippie schools where everyone seems so laid-back, but you end up feeling more ashamed.

  I know you’re nervous about the wedding. I can feel that. I mean, I’ve never been married myself, but it’s normal to be anxious before such a big day. Such a big life change. But—well, can I tell you something?

  Yeah.

  I envy you a little bit. I mean, Khalil? Come on. He’s a keeper. You couldn’t dream up a more perfect guy.

  Maria shifts a little, restless now. Well, okay.

  Don’t brush it off. Elsa’s voice has a little more edge now. It’s not something to shrug about. Not everyone gets so lucky. Not everyone gets to have the whole package. You and Khalil—you have a very important story to tell.

  Right. Sure. Maria scratches a patch of eczema on her hand and looks past Elsa at the door, eager now to actually be with Khalil.

  Elsa smiles at her with all her Scandinavian teeth. Okay, let’s move it. Lisa is meeting us soon. We can’t have her waiting. You know how fierce Lisa can be when she’s mad.

  They both laugh and shake their heads. They have both been on the other end of Lisa’s fire.

  They walk the ten blocks to the circus.

  Elsa explains along the way what her plan is. When they get to the circus, Maria and Khalil will “accidentally” bump into Lisa.

  Act surprised when you see Lisa, okay? Elsa says.

  You mean like this? Khalil says. Then in a high voice from the old Doug E. Fresh song: Oh, oh, oh my God!

  Elsa laughs. Yeah, just like that. You are too funny, Khalil.

  They arrive at the circus entrance. Maria is somehow surprised to see it is a real circus in the middle of Brooklyn. Outside the big tent are all the ingredients that make it a real circus: juggling clowns, a dunking booth, a mime in a tuxedo, a cage holding an anemic alligator.

  Maria holds Khalil’s hand as they meander through the crowd. Elsa and Ansel and Heather (whom everyone keeps calling Heidi) shadow them, filming. People in the crowd notice the camera crew, crane their necks, then fade to that dull look of disappointment when they see it’s nobody famous.

  Khalil does all the talking. He waves his hands around, while Maria smiles and nods and mutters encouragement. He’s talking about his fledgling company, Brooklyn Renaissance. How he thinks it’s going to blow up. How in five years it will go public. How they will be mad rich if that happens.

  He slows his pace.

  Hey, he says, squinting into the distance. What the—?

  Maria laughs. You’re a pretty good actor, she says. Is that your surprised look? I mean, if the computer mogul thing doesn’t work out, you could be in movies for real.

  He’s points ahead. No, seriously. Look. It’s Lisa—and she brought a man. Lisa got a man.

  Maria sees through the crowd that it’s true. There is Lisa in a head wrap. It is a bright Kenyan print today. The real shocker is that she’s with a black man. Lisa with a black man. He is wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Lisa is standing on tiptoe giving him a kiss. He’s kissing her back. Maria can’t see his face, but she can see enough to know he’s no willowy white boy. She is amused. Maybe the times really are a-changin’, she says. I mean, if an inveterate honky-lover like Lisa can go black.

  Khalil ignores her. Sometimes he doesn’t think she’s funny. She’s noticed this.

  He calls out his sister’s name. Lisa hears them and pulls away from the kiss and looks in their direction, waves. She wears a hapless, blushing grin.

  Her man turns to look at them too, and at the sight of his face—for a brief moment—Maria is confused. She thinks he’s a famous person. Lisa is kissing a famous person. She thinks he is an actor she has seen in a movie. Was it a Spike Lee movie?

  But it’s not an actor and he was never in a Spike Lee movie, and when she realizes her mistake, she stops in her tracks.

  Wait, she says. Wait.

  Everything is crazy. A little boy rushes past carrying a giant teddy bear, followed by an angry teenaged girl. Motherfucker, motherfucker, the girl is shouting at the boy. A clown on stilts teeters toward them wearing a rainbow Afro and a blue tuxedo, a red smile painted around the outline of his lips. Maria feels the earth tilting left, then right.

  She does not understand. And then she does. Perfectly. How did she not see it earlier? How did she not know at th
e birthday dinner that it was heading in this direction? How did she not know that night at the bar that it was Lisa the poet was going to meet for dinner?

  Khalil is looking back at her, his face tense.

  What’s wrong with you? he hisses. We’re on camera. Keep walking.

  He pulls her forward. Ansel’s camera is pointed at her face. She senses him zooming in on her and she fixes her expression into what she hopes is a smile.

  Lisa is still waving at them.

  The poet, beneath his baseball cap, wears a small sly smile. A faintly sadistic smile. Maria wonders if those are folds in the denim of his pants or if he has an erection from kissing Lisa.

  Ansel is capturing everything on camera—Lisa hugging Maria before she can slide away. Lisa whispering in her ear, I was going to tell you about—this. Lisa glancing up at the poet and saying to him, You know Maria, right?

  The poet’s smile is false, uneasy. Yeah, we’ve met before.

  He knows, Maria thinks. He knows. He has always known. He’s a goddamned poet. Poets know.

  Maria is about to join our family, Lisa says. She and Khalil are getting hitched in June. Did you know?

  Yeah, the poet says. I saw it on the news.

  Lisa laughs, swats his arm. Seriously though, she says, with unnecessary jubilance. I can’t think of anybody I’d rather have for a sister.

  She squeezes Maria’s hand. Maria pulls hers away and sticks it in her pocket. Tonight she will wash it over and over again with dish detergent until her eczema patch is a weeping red thing.

  Lisa has never been so nice to her before, never shown so much affection. She is brimming over with generosity because she’s in love. She’s got love to spare.

  Khalil whispers to Maria, Say something. We’re supposed to be talking. We’re on film. Remember?

  Maria recites in a flat voice: I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all—

  Are you okay? Lisa says.

  I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?

  You look pale.

  I am pale. Or did you forget that fact about me?

  After she says it, she looks down, studies her shoes. She can’t stand to look at Lisa. It’s all fake. A fake frown, a fake arm squeeze, fake concern done for the benefit of the camera. Lisa is only pretending to care how Maria is doing. Beneath her frown, Maria can see that her face is aglow. She has the poet. She is in love. Maria feels the blood rushing to her forehead, smashing in waves against her skull. She thinks that the truth is Lisa doesn’t care how anybody else is doing or what they are feeling. If Maria were to throw herself into the pit with the lions right now and get torn to bloody pieces, Lisa would have to pretend to be sad. Because she is in love. Nobody gives a damn about anybody else when they are in love.

  Lisa and the poet are whispering to each other now, smiling into each other’s eyes. Maria hears the words semblance and hijinks and she thinks maybe they are laughing at her. Elsa told them to pretend the cameras were not there, but now Maria turns and stares straight into the black circular eye of the lens and says, Stop, Ansel, please stop. Ansel keeps filming as if it hasn’t heard her.

  She says more loudly into the lens, I feel sick.

  Elsa hears her this time. She steps forward.

  Cut, cut. Looks like Maria’s having a problem.

  Elsa isn’t baring those big teeth for once.

  Khalil speaks to Elsa and Ansel and Heather in a whispered tone and Maria thinks he’s explaining something about Maria. Apologizing for Maria having ruined all the fun. Maria wonders if she will be that kind of spouse—the one who makes it necessary for Khalil to whisper apologies as they rush home from gatherings. Will she be that spouse, that wife, who always ruins the dinner party?

  Elsa nods and touches Khalil’s arm, understanding. She says to her crew: Okay, Ansel, Heidi, Maria is feeling sick. We’re going to need to wrap up. We can get something next weekend.

  Heather seems to have given up on correcting everyone about her name. In a glum silence, she gathers the cables and loops them around her arm. Ansel looks like he wants to be somewhere very far away from this whole production, and Maria wonders if he’s actually getting paid for his work. Khalil is slapping palms with the poet. Maria wonders where he learned to do that with his hands. She has never seen him so adept at the palm slapping.

  Lisa steps toward Maria, her arms open, a worried look on her face. She wants another hug, even though they hugged just minutes ago. Maria shrinks away from Lisa’s open arms and says, I might be catching.

  Lisa nods, pretends to look concerned again. The poet avoids Maria’s eyes, mutters goodbye. He and Lisa move away, arm in arm, swallowed into the crowd. Elsa, her mouth fixed in an angry line, wanders off with the crew.

  Maria is alone with Khalil. They walk back the way they came, through the neighborhood. Maria’s bones feel tired, as if she is a much older woman. Arthritic. They pass a pizza joint. Moon faces stare out, chewing, from behind the glass. A little girl’s voice somewhere out there says, That’s disgusting, and her mother’s voice says, It’s rude to stare.

  Earth to Maria. Earth to Maria.

  Khalil is calling her.

  What did you say?

  I asked if you’re going to be all right alone till Tuesday, Khalil says.

  Alone? Why would I be alone?

  Um, because I’m going away.

  Where are you going?

  Don’t you listen to a word I say?

  Khalil rarely gets angry at Maria, just like Elsa rarely stops smiling. But he sounds angry now. He says she needs to get her ears checked. He says she’s known he was going away for weeks. He and Ethan are going away together for the next few days to meet with investors in San Francisco. He won’t return until Tuesday night. He’s leaving this evening. They have discussed this more than once. Earth to Maria?

  Back at the apartment, Khalil disappears into the bedroom, saying he has to pack for his trip. She paces around, chewing on her cuticles, trying not to think about what she saw at the circus. She can smell her own body odor. She can hear Khalil in the bedroom, zipping up a bag. He’s whistling a tune; he always gets cheerful before trips.

  She thinks sometimes that if she and Khalil had met a long time ago, when they were younger, they would never have been friends, and certainly would never have become lovers. While he was learning to code on his father’s ancient Commodore 64, she was playing hours of Donkey Kong at her local arcade, snapping Bubble Yum with a group of ne’er-do-wells. While he was listening to the 2 Tones, she was listening to Mtume’s Juicy Fruit. While he was reading Mad magazine, she was reading Essence. She thinks sometimes that had they met at any other moment than the Stanford Quad on that Thanksgiving Day, they would have looked past each other, through each other, as if they were each invisible.

  Maria goes to the couch and pulls an afghan over her head. It is literally an afghan, a blanket Khalil’s parents brought back from their travels to Afghanistan last summer. It still smells like another country. She sits beneath it for what feels like a long time, hugging her knees to her chest, trying to control her breathing.

  There is still so much to uncover. Some days it feels like she will never be done with Jonestown. She will never get out alive. Just last week she learned about Hyacinth, a seventy-six-year-old black woman, born at the turn of the century, the daughter of a former slave. Hyacinth joined Jim Jones with her sister back in Indianapolis during the church’s early days. She called him Father, sometimes Dad. She followed him out to California. She signed over her home to Jim Jones, signed over her social security checks and all her worldly possessions. She followed him to a foreign land, where she hoped to finally be free.

  But from the time she arrived in Guyana, Hyacinth began to lose faith. Jonestown wa
sn’t what she thought it would be. And on the last night, when he called everyone to the pavilion, she decided she was tired of his voice. She didn’t believe in Jim Jones anymore. Her sister went to the meeting, but Hyacinth stayed in her room. And when she heard the armed guards moving around the compound in gangs, searching for stragglers to lead them to the pavilion, she lay down flat on the floor and scooted beneath her bed. The guards opened the door but did not see her there.

  She waited for her sister and friends to come back from the meeting, but they stayed so late that eventually she fell asleep. When she woke up, it was Sunday morning. Jim Jones’s voice was for once not booming over the loudspeakers. Hyacinth put on her glasses and rose and went outside to search for her sister. She said in her testimony that the sky that morning was so bright and clear. The storm of the day before had passed. The silence was unusual. She heard only parrots and macaws squawking. Even Mr. Muggs, the Jonestown mascot, that ever-grunting chimpanzee, had gone quiet. She made her way down the footbridge to the senior citizens’ center where she usually got breakfast. It was there that she found the bodies.

  Some were propped in sitting positions, covered in sheets, others lay flat on the ground on their faces. She moved around them until she found her sister. Hyacinth sat down beside her. For a while she thought maybe she herself was dead and this was the afterworld. And for a while she thought maybe the others were just sleeping.

  For two days, Hyacinth wandered amongst the bodies. They were beginning to bloat and stink under the hot sun. Then one morning she heard the whir of a helicopter overhead and the voices of men on the ground.

  In news reports later, the men—members of the Guyanese Defense Force—reported their shock at finding her there, an ancient woman, tiny and brown, blinking up at them from a sea of death.

  Maria hears the car service beeping outside, Khalil rolling his bag into the hallway, the click of him opening the front door. She rises and heads outside in her socks, the afghan now draped over her shoulders. The air has the electric feeling of impending rain.