Juma

by Madhuri Pavamani

Brown skin and haunted eyes, tatted arms, planes, hollows, full lips pressed along my curves, whispers breathed into my skin full of love and filth and sexiness and hope and us, me and him, no matter what, always forever endless.

  Dutch, I near-gasped, silent-mouthed into the air.

  I told myself I would not cry, I refused to shed a tear over him, but I must have given in to the many layers of grief woven into my new self, my murderous self, my killer within because all I remember next is being wrapped in my da’s arms and held and rocked like a baby as soul-wracking sobs moved through me, up and down, over and over. My da whispered all kinds of sweetness and reassurance intermingled with his own grief, forever the parent, putting my needs ahead of his as he comforted and consoled despite needing much the same, despite hardly understanding the depths and parameters of my despair.

  For I mourned my ma, but I knew she would return and they would resume their beautiful existence, wrapped around each other until their last breaths. My despair my last cries were for a love barely born a life hardly lived a man I barely knew but whose every cell was nonetheless part of my being. My lover my darkness my joy. My despair was bound within the confines of a simple phrase—don’t touch me, Juma—and the unlimited questions surrounding that phrase, the whats hows whys and everything in between, all of his silence his glares his chill.

  I said Dutch would be the death of me and I was right, every facet of his existence killed my light. He won. His darkness smothered my shine just as my ma warned me but it could not be helped. The second I saw him, I was his to do with as he pleased and even though I feared he would find it impossible to care for me as I did him, that did not stop me from loving him honestly and with no restraint.

  It was that deep-seated love, that near obsession for which I mourned, and no comfort or care from my da or anyone else could be my salve protect me alleviate my suffering from the storm of emotion surging through my blood. It had to run its course, Dutch needed to move through my system so I could come out the other side stronger more determined certain of myself, Death, and all the bit players in this fucked-up passion play. So I held onto my da and we sobbed for those we loved and lost and did not know how to survive their absence but would do so nonetheless.

  “Juma,” my da whispered into my hair as he held me tight, “my baby girl, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Da.” I wrapped my arms around him, held him tight, and tried to steal some of his grief, hold onto it as my own and ease some of his burden. “It’s okay, I promise.”

  I spoke those words knowing he would hear them differently than intended, but fine with such a misunderstanding. Now was hardly the moment to explain my true self to my da, now was hardly the moment to tell him I died thirty years ago on a gurney in Grady Memorial from a gunshot wound to my tiny throat, now was hardly the moment to explain that life and death were more fluid than he could ever imagine.

  No.

  Now was the time for bigger things.

  7: JUMA

  I remained wrapped around my da for much of that night or least as much as possible until we were forced to take our grief elsewhere so my ma’s body could be removed and another trauma belonging to another distraught family could take our place. We drove home in silence, me behind the wheel and him seeming smaller, shrunken, diminished in ways I could never imagine, lost without his Mimi to build him up, hold him upright and tall.

  “Da, come on.” I opened the passenger side door of his Porsche and bent low to guide him out from the shelter of the vehicle, knowing the last place he wanted to be was within the walls of the home he’d built with my ma, but left with little choice but to return. Much to my surprise, he didn’t resist the offer of my hand, following me into the house, shocked into silent acquiescence.

  I left him upstairs to shower and change his clothes while I scoured the kitchen cabinets in search of something to help him sleep. A pill, some liquor, anything really. All I found was a stash of weed and a vaporizer, an expensive one at that. I studied its mechanics as I chuckled low while loading it with some herb, pleasantly surprised to have my spirits lifted by the secret life of my folks. As I inhaled deeply on the vape, the sweetness filling my lungs, I wondered what other secrets Rufus and Mimi held between themselves—I envied them and all of their time devoted to each other. I wanted that with . . .

  No.

  I stopped myself before the thought could fully formulate itself and overtake my senses, intermingle with the weed, cripple me with longing.

  “Da,” I called as I gathered the vaporizer and headed upstairs, settling myself cross-legged on my parents’ enormous bed, taking another hit as my da entered the room, caught sight of me, and paused, towel in his hand, an almost-smile curving his lips.

  “I see someone’s been snooping.” He tossed the towel into a hamper and joined me, taking the vape from my hand and inhaling deeply before settling back into the pillows, closing his eyes, and exhaling, long and slow. He was defeated but not dead, I could see it under his skin, the life still in him, he just needed a moment, a few moments, to learn to breathe think survive without Mimi.

  Seconds ticked by as I watched him and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I breathed easy. Not easy like one would think—light and fun and ready to find someone hot to fuck up against some tiled wall in a dimly lit restaurant bathroom—but easy like he’s going to make it until I can bring my ma back to him. He’ll survive her absence while I work my magic spin my wheels gather their memories and filter everything so the two of them fit together again.

  He will not crumble and falter.

  I will not be forced to plead his case because he will make it.

  Rufus Landry would be here when Mimi returned, that much I knew, and for the time being, it was enough. I picked up the vaporizer, kissed his forehead, slipped from the room, and wrote him a note that I left by the coffee pot. I cleaned up a bit more before setting the security alarm, locking the doors, and disappearing into the Georgia night.

  It was hot and sticky and thick, that southern summer heat that weighed down on you just after a heavy rain, when the air was dense and your skin dampened the second you stepped outdoors. I felt it in my hair under my tits between my thighs but it wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t like being kissed by a lover on your sweet spots, this shit stuck to you, made you want to strip off your clothes and make a run for the nearest body of ice-cold water.

  It was Georgia.

  It was summer.

  It was home.

  But I didn’t have time for getting nostalgic and missing red clay stains and fire ants. I needed to touch base with Marina and begin a long night of work. I needed to see my ma. But first I needed to hit the Five Points hub and cross into Death’s realm, so I jogged across Ponce in the middle of the night, entered the hub, and landed on the abandoned subway tracks under Herald Square. The familiar reek of rodent piss and rotting garbage and years upon years of dust tickled my nose, real thick-like so if you breathed deep and long, you could maybe taste the stench, sometimes even choke on it.

  Tonight none of that mattered.

  “Juma.”

  It wasn’t the usual seductive purr, the sound that after thirty years had become second nature, the voice I could hear above all others. No, this was a demand, a call to attention, an order. From a higher-up. The highest up.

  “Mistress.”

  I stopped on the tracks but I did not turn because sure, she ruled me, but she didn’t rule me, no matter what she offered what she threatened what she controlled. I would only bend so much.

  “How is your father?” She came around my side, close but not too close, her chill within reach but not a distraction.

  I hated the idea of my da crossing her mind, holding any of her attention, but it could not be helped. I knew this but still, that shit rankled.

  “He will make it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  She raised a brow, my tone of voice no doubt irking her, making her want to lash out and punish me,
but restraining herself in an attempt to maintain the higher ground in our war of wills.

  “I’m so pleased to hear.” She smiled sweetly, looking both gorgeous and deadly and ready to strike. “I was worried about Rufus.”

  I shot her a look and she smirked, no doubt pleased to know her use of my da’s name had just the effect she sought.

  “I’ll make sure to relay your condolences the next time I see him,” I shot back, ready to find Marina and get on with my night but unable to let her have the last word.

  “I’m also pleased to see the Keeper didn’t steal your soul when he walked out on you like that.” She chuckled low and smug and had she not laughed I would not have acted because her words alone meant nothing. But that laugh, that fucking laugh made me see red. And this time there was no Dutch to stop me.

  I was on her before she had time to respond, my hands around her throat, pressing her into the wall, lifting her off the ground. She flailed and kicked and just as her power surged back, I released her and smiled.

  “You assume I have a soul to be stolen, Mistress,” I hissed before I turned on my heel and crossed into her world.

  8: DUTCH

  she is the warm kiss

  of sunset on the

  rooftops over Manhattan

  * * *

  she is east and west

  north and south

  converged to make my world

  * * *

  she is hips and thighs

  freckles and laughter

  kissed along my sweet spots

  * * *

  she is fantastical and unnerving

  wondrous and real

  and I miss her like no other

  9: JUMA

  I worked my way through the ever-changing halls of Death, the labyrinth of mirrors and hidden doors, staircases and secret rooms, all more elaborate and bewildering than usual, a hint at the Mistress’s current state of mind. Goddamned prima donna, I thought to myself as I knocked on Marina’s office door, expecting to be greeted by thick thighs and a bone-crushing hug. Instead the door opened and I gazed upon greyish-purple eyes and honey-brown skin, curly hair and a lazy smile.

  Ma.

  She was pretty and delicate and refined yet fierce, in death just as she had been in life. She was diminutive and larger than everyone, she commanded attention while deflecting it. And I was certain when she opened her mouth to speak, those same low tones I knew so well, as well as I knew Coltrane and Vaughn, as well as I knew the back of my hand, those tones would move through me in such a way I would instantly calm and collect myself and feel as if, in that moment, everything was fine.

  Even though it wasn’t and would never be again.

  “Ma,” I half-sobbed and fell to my knees, caught by her arms, the same arms that so many times over the course of my very bizarre existence had wrapped themselves around me while she whispered all kinds of love and sweetness into my soul.

  “Shhhhh, my baby girl, shhhhh.” She sank to the floor with me and pulled me close, smothering me in all her mama goodness and love. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Shhhhh, it’s okay.”

  Even though I knew she was wrong and it was not okay, nothing was okay, nothing would be okay, I allowed myself to be comforted by her words. Not their meaning, but their intent, their essence, their timbre. The fact they were coming from her, from her lips, whispered into my skin. I allowed myself the freedom to dive into them and swim around and above and through them until they became a part of me, tucked away in a corner of my soul, in a safe place where I could carry her with me forever.

  I don’t know how long I remained wrapped in my ma’s arms, but I was vaguely aware of Marina moving around us, giving us space and time to be with each other and no one else because she was Marina and she knew what I needed when I needed it. And she always believed I needed more love.

  “Juma.” My ma leaned away from me and wiped my tears as she studied my face. Curiosity and awe and something akin to wonder zigzagged across her beautiful visage as she saw me, really saw me for the first time for what I was. “You’re dead, baby girl.”

  And even though it was a statement, I knew she was asking because I could see the question, the hope in her eyes, tucked far away in the back corner in a place she didn’t want me to know existed, but I knew, I saw it. That brief desire that I wasn’t the thing she thought I might be, the other, the freak. That maybe her wondrous Juma wasn’t so wondrous after all but was rather monstrous and a little horrific. That hesitation.

  I sat up straighter and took her hands in mine, guiding them to my face and throat, over my pulse point and down to my wrist, allowing her to feel the thump-thump of my beating heart, touch my warm skin, remember me.

  “Not exactly,” I began.

  And then meet the true me. Not the eternally single, free-spirited romance writer living the fast life in the big city full of cold sidewalks and warm beds, self-made millionaires and last-penny hustlers, but the giver of life, the perfectionist with nine lives who was now down to eight, the hunted, the sought, the Poocha.

  She searched my eyes in that way only a mother can do, clear-hearted and deep, all-knowing and honest, and when she couldn’t find what she sought—answers, truth, assurance—she scanned my body, her eyes taking in all of me and then doing it again before coming back to rest on my face, her expression a mixture of love, fear, and tenderness.

  “You died that horrible afternoon,” she whispered as her delicate fingers wove through my hair and danced along my freckles. “You never survived that bullet. My baby girl, my beautiful baby girl.”

  That simple phrase struck me as so sad and full of despair and although she spoke it with something more akin to quiet anger, controlled fury, to my ears it was wrapped in devastation, anguish, sorrow. A mournful incantation to her gods full of questioning and disbelief, a need to understand how such a thing could happen, a need to comprehend how she could have not known.

  Or possibly a hint, an inkling, the tiniest suggestion that maybe she had.

  All along maybe she knew, even though she didn’t.

  “I did, ma.” I kissed her hand then held it in mine, wanting her to feel my warmth and life as I relayed my fantastical story of the unliving and the many-lived and Death. “But then I didn’t.”

  And here I finally enjoyed the moment of truth I’d wished for many times over the years, the chance to let her in on my secret, share my lives with someone else, someone who mattered to me, who loved me and cared about me and all of those lives. Someone whose care existed outside the boundaries of what I could do for them how I could help them my special skill set. Someone who loved me unconditionally.

  I thought that someone had been Dutch.

  I was such a foolish girl. Love—the maddening sort, the kind that blinded and consumed—made me that way. Before him, I was so smart wily together. After him . . .

  It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was this moment with this woman.

  And so I opened the floodgates and gushed. Everything. My last moments on that gurney, Death’s one-sided offer, the pain of the bullet, my infatuation with her darkness and power and sex, our love, Keepers, my lives, the intoxication of my power, Deaders, crossing between the planes of existence, Alighters, my lovers, The Gate, promises breathed into the skin of another, dangerous love, him.

  Dutch.

  As much as I wanted to avoid him, it was impossible, he was impossible. Even with his bewildering dismissal and demand—do not touch me, Juma!—I could not explain my life and myself without including him and his darkness. I admitted he swallowed me whole and then I admitted I would let him do it again.

  And again and again.

  Only the next time around, if there ever was to be a next time around for me and him and us, I would fight his bullshit proclamations and demands, I would butt heads with him and make him listen, I would gnash my teeth and roar, do whatever necessary to be heard over the nonsense and fuckery consuming us surrounding us controlling us.
/>
  And I would kill anyone—even her, even Death—who tried to get in my way.

  “Oh baby girl.” My ma touched my face, traced the hard line of my jaw. “Don’t be so consumed by the rage that you forget your shine.”

  “Fuck my shine, ma,” I hissed, losing myself and my grasp on where I was who I was who she was to the darkness.

  To my darkness.

  From her expression, I realized I had never cursed at her, certainly not with that tone of voice, and as I came back into myself, grounded my mind in my body, I fully expected to receive one of Mimi Landry’s famous backhands across the cheek. The same backhand I watched many receive over the years, always wondering why the hell they never learned—do not be dismissive with Mimi.

  “I know you did not just,” she started to say, her tone just as frightening as that backhand.

  “I did,” I admitted, as I cut her off and dropped my eyes in silent apology. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

  And she softened and that hand never touched my cheek.

  “But I’m not taking it back.”

  I couldn’t help myself.

  “Fuck my shine.”

  Fast as lightning, she stood and I stood and we braced for whatever was going to happen next and her jaw clenched and her arm twitched and I readied myself because even though Mimi was tiny she was deceptively strong, with a temper to boot. The seconds ticked by in bated silence as Ma and I, the two Landry women, so loving and in love with one another and yet, in this moment, so mother-daughter down to the core, played out a fierce battle of wills.

  “I’m pleased to see I’m not the only one Juma manages to provoke.” Death chuckled as she sauntered into the room, Marina two steps behind her, both quite conscious of the hell on the verge of being unleashed, the hell their perfectly timed entrance had stalled, if not halted altogether.

  Death paused in front of my ma, gave her the once-over, and smiled, and good fucking god, she was gorgeous. Whatever ire boiled in Mimi’s blood, flooded her veins, consumed her every cell disappeared in the face of all of that creamy brown skin and those full red lips and dark loose curls falling from a chignon. Death charmed my ma with a simple curve of her mouth and conspiratorial gleam in her eye as if they were girlfriends chatting about a shared annoyance—me—and how to rid themselves of the irritation.