Juma

by Madhuri Pavamani

  The one where everything changed. When we realized we mattered little in this game of bullshit and murder and we succumbed. Not to each other but to outside forces, to the fuckery, to the crap. I told Frist everything and then I told her more.

  Hello, other side.

  She had no warning, no idea I was about to lay the horrors of my life at her feet. But she was Frist. I trusted she could handle it.

  “I told her not to touch me and then I left.” I drew on my smoke, the burn not enough to kill whatever I wanted dead. “And she had this look on her face. So broken and confused, but it was the only way to save myself. It was the only way to save her.”

  “From?” Frist asked.

  “Death.”

  Frist shot me a look.

  “Even Dutch Mathew cannot hold off Death.”

  “And yet, I did.”

  Frist pushed my hair out of my eyes and smiled, her eyes studying me, knowing me.

  “Did you, Dutch? Because you look a little dead to me.”

  I closed my eyes and escaped myself for a second, Frist’s words hitting me hard, full impact, right where she wanted. One, two, three. I gathered myself, I breathed deeply.

  “Fuck you, Frist.”

  She ignored me, as I knew she would, because she was Frist and a few choice words weren’t going to deter her, but also because she was Frist and she knew me. Like really knew me. Deep. All the ugly shit, the shit I tried to hide. She knew all of it. And maybe things had changed between us since Juma crossed my path, maybe I no longer came around late at night when I needed to fuck someone who mattered, when I needed to be reminded I still had a soul, regardless of how black and fucked-up it was, but that didn’t mean Frist couldn’t still read me like a book. That didn’t mean she was suddenly going to stop calling me on my bullshit.

  “Something tells me your girl in the red dress would hardly appreciate you ‘saving her.’ She sounds plenty capable of taking care of herself.”

  “You sound like her now,” I leaned into the back of the couch and closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted.

  “I’m just saying, Dutch”—Frist reached over and almost-touched my leg—“you like to play this whole cold-hearted killer thing. This don’t-fuck-with-me-because-my-shit-is-cursed-and-demented. But then you’ve gone and collected a little crew. Me and Avery and Kash and now red-dress girl.”

  I raised a brow in Frist’s direction.

  “All right, all right,” Frist conceded, “Juma. You’ve got Juma. And the Dosha, that entire gang of gatekeepers love you. Even Death. You’ve collected this bizarre consortium of motherfuckers who love you and regardless of what you say, you love us. We know this. We also know you will take a beating to the bloody death before you allow anything to happen to any of us. But guess what, sweetheart? That love is a two-way street. What you would do for us, we’d do the same for you.”

  I stood and shook my head.

  “No.”

  “Sorry babe, nothing you can do about it. That’s just the way it works when you love someone,” Frist continued, “so trust me when I say whatever you did back there to ‘save’ Juma, you should probably have let her in on the plan.”

  “That’s easy for you to say because you have no idea of the stakes.”

  Frist let my words hang between us for a few seconds, her expression difficult to read, oscillating between mild irritation and just plain pissed.

  “Bullshit I ‘don’t know the stakes,’ asshole.” Frist stood and glared at me. “I know the goddamned stakes. I’ve been watching the stakes etched all over your body for years—the broken bones and lacerations, the sick and twisted head games, the stench of death. You don’t think I saw that all over you? The crushing toll on your soul? All those nights you came to me, silent and grieving, and so fucking twisted? If there’s anything I know, it’s the stakes.

  “But what I also know is now you have her—red dress woman, Juma—and you need to work together because the stakes involve both of you, and they are so goddamned high. You two, whether you want to be or not, are intertwined. So let her help you. You no longer have to bear this burden alone.”

  “You’re wrong, Frist. And even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. This is the plan. My plan. It was the best way at the time and now it’s the only way.”

  I moved for the door, Frist’s eyes on my back, fully aware that if I met her gaze, it would flash all kinds of rage.

  “You need to tell her, Dutch, let her help you with whatever you’re going to do,” she called to me. “Let us help you.”

  I stopped at the door and turned back to face her, my stare hard and cold. “No. I’m not telling her shit and neither are you. What you’re going to do is exactly what I asked. Keep an eye on her, don’t let anything happen to her, and if you catch wind of anything resembling The Gate coming for her, or you, or anyone else we love, this time use your fucking smarts and let me know. It’s goddamned simple, Frist. Just do it.”

  I’d never taken such a tone with her before, definitely not in anger, but in every relationship there was a first time for everything.

  Frist took my anger and rage and frustration, my raised voice and harsh tone, and she glared right back at me, her gorgeous face all black and blue and pissed off, because of me and all of my fuckery.

  “Get the fuck out of my house, Dutch.”

  There was no hint of laughter in her voice, no smirk, no amusement.

  Another first for us.

  “Just fucking do what I said, Frist.”

  And with those words, I turned the locks and left.

  6: JUMA

  There is a sound one makes when suffering something unimaginable, brutal, horrific—a keening, a dirge of the soul—and it is haunting. The sort of sound that creeps into your blood, gets into your bones, and finds a dark place deep in your being, a seat of remembrance, as if to say: Don’t you fucking forget me.

  That was my da when I found him, bent over my ma’s body in that Atlanta hospital room, begging God to leave her with him for just one more day, one more minute, one more fraction of a second. Little did he know that God had nothing to do with this passion play.

  This was Death’s aria, her operatic masterpiece, the one to bring me to my knees and make me hers once and for all. My ma was a sideshow in this whirlwind, a bone to toss my way, like Here Juma, look. I can be nice when I want to be.

  What mattered, the real shit, the nitty gritty that kept Death up at night, pacing, incapable of focusing, that shit was me and Dutch.

  Poocha and Keeper.

  The unlikeliest of likely pairs.

  The deadliest of love matches.

  The foulest of fuckups in the history of fucking up.

  And there, at the memory of him, his dark and danger, his desperate touch and soul-stirring kiss, his low laugh and warm breath, I had to pause and gather myself, teach myself to breathe again my heart to pump the blood through my veins my eyes to refocus and see a world devoid of his everything. Because a choice placed at my feet ripped me from his arms his touch his love and even though it couldn’t be helped, it devastated in ways foreign to my being.

  So yeah, I needed a moment to remember him and us and love.

  And then the moment passed and I was still Juma Landry, my da was still filling my ears with his desperation, my ma was still dead.

  Dying.

  Dead.

  Whatever. You say tom-ah-to, I say tom-ay-to.

  She had to go through a process, a very human process of passing from one life to another, but I already knew the end result and from where I stood, she was already dead. Even if some little part of her was still thump-thumping, I knew better.

  I watched my da hunched over the love of his life as her life ceased to exist on the same continuum as his and thought on the chaos unleashed upon the two of them. Again and again and again. How much were two people expected to absorb in one lifetime? But this was Death’s game and she was realigning the stars as she saw fit, moving the pieces into the
positions she chose, those she preferred, those she controlled. This was Death reestablishing who was the Head Bitch in Charge.

  And making sure I knew it and Dutch knew it.

  Pause as reality sank into every crack and fissure of my soul.

  I sucked in deep calming breaths.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Moments

  of

  utter

  quiet.

  I stood in the corner for long seconds, just breathing, silent, motionless, allowing my da’s grief to wash over me. I felt it in my bones, deep in those crevices reserved for jazz and love and light and I became one with the rawness of his cries his sobs his pleas, I became them and they became me and together I metamorphosed into something altogether deadly and horrific and beautiful. There were no ashes from which I rose, no magic unsheathed from a sword in a stone, no braying at a pregnant moon, but I was reborn and it was so goddamned breathtaking.

  Death could play her games, and Dutch his.

  Neither of them knew me.

  Not this me.

  They knew Juma the wondrous, the woman the lover the divine fuck. The tits the pussy the ass. The voice made for seduction and the hips made for wrapping your hands around and holding on tight because the ride was about to begin and once it did you sure as hell didn’t want to get off, until you got off, and fuck yeah you were going to get off. You were going to come until you couldn’t come anymore and then you were going to beg her to do it all again.

  They knew Juma the Poocha, the unstoppable giver-of-second-life, the undetected, the perfectionist. The woman who slipped between the shadowy worlds of the living and dead to dance a tango performed like no other, with precision and style, cunning and charm, returning those deserved souls back into the arms of their loved ones while remaining invisible and aloof and ten steps ahead of The Gate.

  They knew Juma the lovelorn, the free spirit moving through men and women around them inside them, devouring them and leaving them wanting needing craving more more more, never staying long enough in one place with one soul—until him. His darkness captivated and she was done. He walked into that bar and owned her, his growl of a voice and flash of despair hidden under layers of anger, begging for love and light, waiting to be wrapped in all of her. And she needed him wanted him cried for him.

  What they did not know was Juma the killer.

  The deadly weapon willing to unleash rivers of blood to protect those she loved from the madness. The horrific beast chomping at a bit made of fire and rage and all things grotesque. The murderous Valkyrie itching to unleash every revenge fantasy possible upon those responsible for the terror. The determined woman forced into postures and positions outside of her control or desire. The wretched girl dying a slow death with the cold black heart and his name scrawled all over it.

  Dutch’s decision—don’t touch me, Juma—that evening in my apartment touched every corner of my soul, killing me slowly from the inside out. Those hardest parts of my being to reach, the parts only he could, succumbed first for they had little protection had never learned to shield themselves because from most, I kept them so well hidden. It was only a matter of time before the rest of me followed suit because no matter how hard I fought the devastation, I could not cleanse myself of the memory of his tone his chill his words—don’t touch me, Juma.

  They burrowed themselves into my heart and lungs, my skin and blood, haunting my everything until I had little choice but to metamorphose into another being altogether—a cold-hearted magnificent terrifying killing machine—lest I, too, succumb to his darkness.

  It was inevitable. It was necessary. It was the only way to survive. And I was a survivor, of that I was certain.

  His decision made no sense when viewed through the prism of our plans our strategies his promise to The Gate. His decision was bullshit and childish and, from where I stood, incredibly fucking selfish. And even though his decision might have killed my light my softer parts my laughter, in their place grew another being from the loss and despair and she was fierce.

  She was dark.

  She was deadly.

  I sighed and stilled and closed my eyes as filtered evening light from the hospital window warmed my lids, a soft reminder of another life lived, one full of love and passion and kisses.

  Tenderness.

  And just as his low laugh invaded my space, his warm brown skin and full mouth made for pressing points of wet heat along my throat and up my thighs and all over my pussy, just as he returned to me, I pushed him away and succumbed to the black.

  Tenderness became chill.

  Life became death.

  “Da,” I whispered as I closed the space between my da and me, keenly aware of his unawareness of me. He was too locked in his grief to pay my arrival a bit of mind, so I stood in the corner and watched, hidden in plain sight. I danced along the fringes of my da’s awareness, the blurred edges, the maybe–maybe nots of his mind because at this very moment all that mattered was her.

  Mimi Landry.

  Lover.

  Poet.

  Beauty.

  Goddess.

  Wife.

  Mother.

  His.

  My da was a strong man of brilliant mind and even more brilliant hands, wielding a scalpel for years with the surest touch, charming patients with his bedside manner and colleagues with his passion for the operating room. He was a leader, an innovator, a magician, a warrior. But he was nothing without his Mimi.

  My parents met in a blues club in some backwoods bayou swamp in Louisiana where neither of them should have been but both could hardly resist the ramshackle bar the seediness of the scene the soul of the music, the beat the sway the sex that thump-thumped through the crowd, burrowing into folks’ joints, scorching a slow delicious burn into one’s soul. Da told me the place was packed that night beyond capacity elbows bumped booties titties rubbed up against backs and everyone was touching and swaying and grooving and even though the joint was jumping and the music so loud, he swore he would hear her voice anywhere, it was that captivating sultry smooth.

  In his recollection, there was a parting at the bar as if to make room for a queen and up stepped my ma, gold drop earrings, low cut dress and a touch of red lipstick just enough to make him want to kiss it off her right then and there.

  She touched the bar top with her long delicate fingers and smiled. “Whiskey on the rocks,” and my da was done, captivated by her voice her charm her request, because all of it together left him wanting more. He had come out that night with his longtime lover, Danine Dubois, she of the noble background and filthy rich foreground, the play pad in the French Quarter and the summer home on the shore, but nothing in Danine’s bank account or real estate portfolio could hold a candle to Mimi Gideon’s voice her smile her everything.

  My ma always played off the Danine Dubois tale as if it were some nonsense made up by folks with nothing better to do but make up shit about other folks’ lives but the fact of the matter was Danine did exist. And for a good three years seven months twelve days she existed as my da’s main girl, his potential to-be, his probably-yeah.

  Until she didn’t.

  Because that night in that club in the middle of all those sweaty bodies bumping and grinding and getting all kinds of freaky, Rufus Landry fell hard for Mimi Gideon.

  And vice versa.

  And that night in the club in the middle of all those bodies bumping and grinding and getting all kinds of freaky, the attraction between Rufus Landry and Mimi Gideon—who would soon afterward become Mimi Landry—exploded and overwhelmed and was intense. The poet and the surgeon, the woman of words and the man of science, both artists in their own right, coming together in a demanding could-not-would-not-be-denied kind of way more intense than love. A madness of the heart and soul.

  Until they weren’t.

  And years later, he was on one side o
f the bridge and she was on the other and he was begging and pleading and begging some more for her to come back to him, back to his side of life, to love him to hold him to be his just one second more.

  It was horrible to witness, positively wretched to hear and yet I couldn’t stop myself. I was rooted to the spot, an interloper on his grief, an observer of her death. Because yeah, just like Death promised, my ma succumbed. And I was there. I heard the moment she passed from my da’s world to mine. And even though I knew it was going to happen—that no matter what my da wanted, what measures he undertook to save her, what gods he summoned, my ma was going to elude his ministrations and slip into the land of the not-quite-living—it still overwhelmed my senses when that machine tolled out its death knell.

  The electrocardiogram went off, that horrid beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep filled the quiet of the room, and in burst an army of white coats and blue scrubs and flowers—who the fuck bought flowery scrubs—rushing to and fro in constant motion, nonsensical to my brain because I knew ma’s next stop was my door but also because I couldn’t focus on anything but that fucking beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Amidst all the chaos and panic and cacophony, if there was one thing my despair-riddled brain knew, it was that I would never forget—it would forever be imprinted on my soul, a part of my being—the sound of that beep.

  It signified much more than my ma’s passing from this life to another. It stood as a reminder of the fucked-up choices one made as one navigated this horrendous journey called life, or nine lives in cases like mine. It was Death’s calling card and I swore her laughter mingled with the tone from the EKG, taunting me, belittling me, letting me know she was in charge. Always.

  And it reminded me of him.