Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  I sighed, and she replied with a smile in her voice, “But not like you love him, your beautiful deadly Keeper, and in some sick and twisted reality, that’s how it should be.” And I kissed her again because I needed to taste time and passion and us and she laughed as our lips pressed and our tongues tangled and she grabbed my ass. “Now go before I change my mind and keep you to myself forever.”

  I was almost at the door when she called out, “See, it’s not always so bad being me,” and her words gave me pause they were so like her strange words of our last meeting but who was I to parse what she chose to utter. I turned around to say something but she was already gone vanished escaped and as I hurtled toward Dutch, I couldn’t help wondering whether she was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  JUMA

  Crossing into death was always difficult.

  Crossing into life redefined difficult.

  I trained my Deaders for months to handle it, enabling them to move seamlessly between the two realms so when they made that final cross it was simple and the trauma of dying was forgotten forever. It was this transition that I had Jaya working on while my Alighters spanned the globe prepping her return. She hated it, the difficulty breathing, the extreme chill, the sudden shock as if a surge of cold current began in your toes and careened to the top of your skull—the worst brain freeze ever.

  For Poochas this experience diminished with time, until all that transpired was a mere chill, extreme but quick and painless.

  Unless you died.

  Then you needed a moment. Or two or three or three hundred. Time to heal and prepare your body for the rigors of crossing back into life, to gift your limbs their sinew, your organs their functionality, your voice its timbre, your soul its depth.

  I had no time for any of that. No patience. And because I had never died in this life of a Poocha, I had no idea what my experience would entail. But it mattered little, I would deal with it as it happened, in real time, with him.

  “Ahhh!”

  I might have screamed aloud. I wasn’t certain but in my head that scream was crystal clear and all I could muster as my body gasped a painful brutal searing breath in the first intense seconds of my next life. I couldn’t gulp air fast enough and panicked for a moment, hyperventilating before I stepped outside myself and calmed.

  Deep, Juma, slow and steady. You got this girl, just relax and be easy.

  In my mind I heard the music of my memories—Coltrane, Blakey, Adderley, Monk—and the rhythm took hold in my extremities, easing my fingers and toes into life, and then my arms and legs and belly and breasts, until all of me was on this side of things.

  And yet.

  I knew I should open my eyes but the blindness terrified me so I remained locked in the black, still dark. I knew I should strain to listen but it was pointless as I was utterly deaf.

  Deep, Juma, slow and steady. You got this girl, just relax and be easy.

  I tried to talk myself off the ledge of hysteria with soothing words and bliss-filled memories of laughter and thrill and magic and touch fingertips and lips on skin in places that tingled and sang with passion and desire and breath warm against eyelids and earlobes and I tried to calm and rejoice in my second coming and I tried, god I tried, but the panic, the fear, the terror, it was big and bold and all-encompassing and it wanted me for itself. It hated all the music and joy of my soul it craved the panic and my heart raced and my blood boiled and I wanted to run but my feet didn’t work not yet would they ever oh god! What had I done was I never going to make it anywhere but be stuck in this hellish limbo of everything and nothing and, and, and . . . and a warm rough tender hand on my shoulder and fingers pressed into my skin real soft but present letting me know they were right there with me.

  Waiting.

  Dutch.

  I cried my tears wetting my face and his soft lips pressed to each drying them making my salt his and he murmured love into my darkness and although I could not hear what he spoke discern his words I could feel them their vibrations a balm to my mania. I don’t know how long I remained trapped in that fugue state but he stayed with me never left my side holding me close nestled on his chest so I could feel his heart the rhythm peaceful and all mine. He uttered words I could not understand but vibrations hummed through my soul finding their own spaces to occupy so I could hold them forever. And when he quieted I quieted and although we were disparate and unique in that moment we moved as one.

  And little by little my terror receded until it almost ceased to exist was forgotten banished. And my eyelids warmed pink and my ears rang gently with a silver tinkling so sweet and serene. And I dared to test my sight so fearful of the black the loss of vision the despair only to be thrilled by an ocean of brown laid before me beautiful brown skin etched with angry marks once black now healed and slightly lighter somewhat raised. My life turned all that anger and hate in on itself and made it pure and gorgeous and before my mind could think of how badly I wanted to touch him my fingers began tracing the marks light as a feather and his breath caught and he captured my fingers and pressed them to his lips and “Juma,” he breathed, full of love, wonder, relief.

  And I heard him his voice that low masculine rumble that sounded near and far here and there California and India and all parts between, that spoke to something deep within heightened my senses thrilled like no other.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Whispered across my eyes and cheeks and lips with such feeling I cried because I did, too, I loved him, so much, too much, not enough, but had not yet mastered the voice with which to relay such truths so I did what I often wished to do with him to him but always hesitated because he was who he was and touches and affection were things to reject and disdain. I kissed him without hesitation or care twined my fingers in his hair pressed my body into his without giving him a chance to say no draw back hide.

  And maybe it was the reality of our present or the shock of my death or his relief upon my return but to my surprise and elation instead of pushing me away and cursing my baser instincts my need to caress and kiss and love he parted his lips and pulled me even closer as if he wanted to fit me inside his skin so he could protect me forever and in that instant he became the home I always sought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DUTCH

  Ten things about me:

  I hate oatmeal—don’t bring that shit anywhere near me

  Nina Simone is a goddess—if you disagree, keep it to yourself because suddenly your opinion counts for nothing

  the best time to fuck a woman is in those first few seconds of awareness in the morning, when she wants it so badly and doesn’t really care how you give it to her

  Bollywood films can suck me in for days, but those words never came out of my mouth

  want to torture me, bring out the snakes

  I speak Swahili—don’t ask why or how, just know I do

  my first dog was named Max, as in Mad Max as in the Road Warrior

  someone once sent me a switchblade in the mail—at first it freaked me the fuck out but once I got over the fact that a complete stranger had put a knife in the mail and addressed it to me, I realized it was a piece of art and have carried it on me ever since

  years ago I fucked a girl on the subway late at night, she rode my lap hard all the way to the Rockaways and back

  one of my favorite places in the world is my bed and I feel like I never really get to enjoy it like I should—it’s a fucking oasis of luxury and comfort just waiting for me to crawl in and get lost for a while

  Ten things about Juma:

  she sneezes big, just lets it go and I love that because I can’t stand when people try to control how they sneeze, it’s like trying to control how they come

  there’s a photo in her apartment, hidden in the corner of her desk, behind some papers and a stack of books, of her laughing, her head is tossed back and her eyes are closed and she’s gorgeous and fr
ee and whoever took that shot loves her

  the way she walks is like art, the movement of her hips and the hold of her shoulders and if I spent the rest of my days just watching her move, and nothing more, I would die a happy man

  that morning I woke up in her bed, I watched her sleep for hours and sometimes she hummed Coltrane and it was fucking brilliant

  she likes her coffee light, sweet and positively undrinkable—it’s her only negative

  her ass makes me think very bad thoughts

  she believes I don’t see her and that she doesn’t matter but I saw her coming from a mile away that first night in Frank’s and I knew she was going to wrap herself around me and love me and save me, and she matters, more than anything else in this fucking life, she matters

  that freckle on her hip is going to be my undoing

  when she laughs she snorts and she never apologizes for it because she’s confident and secure and goddamn sexy as fuck

  regardless of what she said, she drinks Old Scout, I smelled it on her breath earlier tonight

  That was the shit I did when she died. Made lists. Well, no, that’s not true. First, I freaked the fuck out and held her and raged as if she was a regular woman and I would never see her again because no matter who you were, Keeper or Poocha or whatever, seeing someone you care about collapse and die in your arms was beyond fucked up. It shook me to my core and for a second, actually for many seconds that felt endless and overwhelming, there was no sound, no movement, everything was just still.

  That was the shock taking control of me.

  And trust me, it was goddamned bone-chilling. I felt like my soul had been ripped out, my reason for everything disappeared, and nothing mattered or would matter ever again. I cursed and wondered why every fucking good thing in my life was stolen then suddenly remembered who I was and who she was and even though the slim possibility existed that someone could kill me, the same couldn’t be said for her. At least not yet. And I laughed. Hard. Like a fucking maniac because that was how she had me feeling, goddamned out of control.

  I loved her but when she returned, I was going to kick her ass for pulling a stunt like that without giving me a heads up. A little “Hey, I’m going to die but I’ll be right back, so just sit tight and stay calm” would have been nice. Instead I got a smile and then bam—good-bye!

  So yeah, the lists.

  They kept me sane while I waited because the fact of the matter was that as long as I had been a Keeper, I had never sat around and waited for a Poocha to revive. One, because I didn’t give a fuck, and two, because they were running from me so I knew they wouldn’t be waltzing back into my life any time soon.

  She, on the other hand, was a different story. Or was she?

  Put together another list, Dutch.

  Now.

  That’s what I told myself—another top ten—but it was too late because that other idea—the one about her not returning—was already out there, and it made sense because come on, who the fuck was I kidding? I sucked. And I was black and horrible and vile and she was light and funny and smart.

  And she was running.

  Far away from me.

  Get back to the fucking list, Dutch.

  She might not return, I told myself as I slipped out from under her lifeless body and paced the room, sucking down smokes and swigging Scout. Maybe she heard those horrible words you’re my assigned Poocha and decided right then and there that she was out. She healed me, knowing all the while it would kill her, making it the perfect cover for her escape.

  I sat across from where she lay on the floor with my head in my hands and rocked and smoked and finally calmed. I don’t know how or why I did, but I did because until I was utterly certain she wasn’t coming back for me, that she had in fact disappeared into the ether to forever hide from me, her assigned Keeper, until I was 1,000 percent certain she was gone, I was going to wait for her. I owed her that much. And I loved her too much to do anything else.

  I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my face as if to clear my thoughts, then did the only other thing that ever calmed me besides getting shit-faced drunk—I found some Nina Simone, streamed it through my sound system, and let the music and that voice move through my body and settle in my bones, real deep-like. When I was finally steady and settled, fucking Nina Simone’d through and through, I walked over and touched Juma—her skin was still warm under my fingertips—then lifted her into my arms and brought her to my bed.

  I hated seeing her like that—unmoving, lifeless, still—and watching her, my heart began to race until the smarter side of my brain, the side that aced every test, remembered every fact, and indulged in all things intellectual, took control and told me to calm the fuck down, that her state was just temporary, kind of like suspended animation. And if the tables were turned, she would remain hopeful, she would wait, she would not lose herself in self-loathing and doubt.

  She rested on her stomach, her arms cradled under her, looking almost comfortable as I stood over her for a few seconds before slipping in beside her and grimacing at the irony—would we ever be in bed together, both vibrant and healthy instead of one of us being dead or near dead? I pushed her hair out of her eyes, listened to Nina Simone’s soothing contralto, and waited, wondering all the while, was this how she felt as she sat in the restaurant wearing the dress for our dinner date that never was? Was this how she felt as she spoke her gentle words only to be accosted by my vitriol? Was this how she felt when she admitted her affections and I scoffed at her honesty?

  Because if so, it sucked, all the questioning and telling myself I was a fucking asshole and there was no way she would ever come back to me, me, Dutch Mathew, killer for The Gate. Cesspool of worthless shit, soulless Keeper, spawn of evil, heir to a throne of blackness.

  NO, Dutch! Stop. Right now. No more.

  I reached for her and pulled her onto my chest, settled her weight on top of me in hopes that having her so close would keep me focused on her and only her, shutting out the dark shit, the negativity and worry. And we stayed like that for hours, she in that red dress, sprawled on my chest, and me in the darkness that steadily slipped into warm morning light, smoking, listening to Nina, waiting for her.

  And at some point along that timeline, I couldn’t tell you when, closer to morning than the dead of night, I felt her return. It wasn’t anything loud or sharp but rather where she hadn’t been breathing, she suddenly was. Real fast, like she was panicked or terrified, gasping for air that she couldn’t seem to gather into her lungs fast enough.

  “Juma,” I called to her, “Juma, wake up. It’s all right,” and I continued with all kinds of other spoken nonsense until I realized she couldn’t hear a word I said. Although she was breathing, she wasn’t fully formed, she hadn’t completely crossed, so whatever I was saying went nowhere, never reached her because there wasn’t yet a “her” to reach.

  Then I remembered what she was all about, that her favorite thing, more than kissing or fucking or sucking, was a simple touch, and I finally obliged her.

  I cupped her shoulder and pressed my fingers into her skin, real light but enough to let her know I was there, and just held her close. And much to my surprise, she settled, her breathing relaxed, and she sighed. After that, it was all about her: I touched and talked and opened myself in ways she had begged me to do so in life but was capable of only following her death.

  I realized what a lucky bastard I was because most people didn’t get a second chance like mine and I determined to make this one count so when her fingers began playing across my chest, I held her tighter and told her how much I loved her, spoke it into all the dips and valleys of her body and soul, and when she kissed me I returned her passion without hesitation, never thinking twice about what was behind me—uncountable horrors and death—or what lay before us—horrors of a whole other persuasion—and instead focused on just that moment and only her because really, she’s all that ever mattered.

  My body reacted as she pressed herself
into me, grinding on me as our tongues dipped and explored and tangled then did it all again until everything fell away, the sadness and fear and uncertainty, and all that remained was heat—her breath, her mouth, her pussy—and my need to be inside her, deep and hard and, and, and.

  “No.” I rolled on top of her and held down her wrists while I tried to control my breathing and think straight for the two of us, but she wasn’t helping because she smiled and lifted her leg and rubbed her knee against my steel-hard dick and I couldn’t help just going with it for a second, it felt so goddamned good. But two could play that game and while she was working me over with a wicked grin on her face, I dipped down and ran my tongue over her nipple and, just as I hoped, all movement on her part stopped

  Juma was once again in a state of suspended animation, this time courtesy of me and my mouth.

  “See?” I continued my merciless circling of her nipple until it was rock hard and her back was arched and her mouth was moving but no sound escaped and then and there I realized she had not yet regained her voice, that husky, low purr that shot straight to my dick and licked my neck and tongued me down all at once, that sound that enveloped me in honey and sex every time she opened her beautiful mouth, and I couldn’t help myself. “Cat got your tongue, Juma?” I bit her nipple and she screamed, but didn’t.

  “You have to stop.” I looked down at her, immobile and turned on and gorgeous and as much as I wanted to say fuck all of it and slide inside her nice and deep, because I knew she was wet, I could smell her arousal and it was killing me, and ride her nice and slow until she came all over me, there was no way that was happening. “Because we’re not doing this. Not right now.”