by Janay Harden
“What happened to my braids, Jaxon?”
He grinned again. “I kept thinking they looked like macaroni and cheese, and I wanted to see for myself. I was so messed up.” Jaxon looked out of the window and snickered like he was remembering a wonderful memory. He cut my hair because he was curious about Black girls, and he acted as if it were no big deal. He cut my hair, and he grinned. I waited for him to say “fun times” with a knee slap, because that’s the face he was making.
“Jaxon, fuck you.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t act like this. No need getting all upset because it’s really not that serious.”
“It’s not that serious? You’re blackmailing me with naked pictures and you’re telling me it’s not that serious?”
“Blackmailing is a strong word,” he gave a chuckle. And there! There was the knee slap, in real life! “This is an opportunity for both of us.”
“And what’s in it for me?”
“I won’t show the pictures to anyone, obviously.” Jaxon shrugged his shoulders. He shrugged like that part should have been already understood. But I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand any of this.
“Wait, so if you have pictures of me and Mila, why are you coming at me? Does she know?”
“Mila is weak,” Jaxon said matter-of-factly. “People expect these things from her. You know actually, I’m surprised you two are even friends—she’s a roady. You hit once and hit the road.” Jaxon giggled. “And no, she doesn’t know; no one knows for sure. I know rumors have gone around, but I spread those.”
He smirked. “I came to you first after I came up with this idea.”
Jaxon’s words hit me like a ton of bricks. He expected this from her but not from me, and therefore he came after me. I was being condemned for doing the right thing. What was the right thing anymore, anyway?
“My dear daughter,” Mom interrupted my thoughts with her usual English accent. “Now is your chance. No one is even here. Just one swift slash to his neck. Look around for a pen or something sharp.”
I did as Mom instructed and searched the dashboard for a pen or something. I saw nothing. “Fuck you, Jaxon,” I shouted again. I stumbled out of the car and shielded my eyes from the rain; it was now coming down sideways. Jaxon started his car and smirked at me.
The drive home was a daze. Malachi and Will texted me, both checking on me during the rainstorm. How dare Jaxon blackmail me? I knew I was messed up that night, but I didn’t know it was that bad. When had he been able to take all of those pictures? I couldn’t afford to have them get out. Jaxon could expose me. I just got into college, and something like this would hurt me—hurt Dad. Jaxon’s family was rich, and they knew people. Hell—they easily called my job and made them make me write an article for Jaxon. Who knows what stunts they could pull at the insistence of something Jaxon said. Jaxon would always be believed over me. It’s just the way it was; he would rebound and be okay. He would get pats on the back and high fives. I would be vilified. It would be some way and somehow, my fault. They would say I shouldn’t have been there anyway. I let myself get so smashed. That’s what they would say. It was a cruel cruel world, and for a girl like me with everything to prove—it was icy.
“No… No Indy, I don’t like this one Indy,” Mom said, still in her English accent.
“Shut up, Mom, shut up!” I banged on the steering wheel again. I couldn’t see through the rain, and my heart shuddered when the car hydroplaned. I pulled over on the side of McTaugh Road. Cars whizzed by splashing water on my side and I cried.
I cried for Mom.
I cried for Dad.
I cried for Malachi, Mila, Will.
I cried for the thoughts screaming at me in my head.
I even cried for Jaxon, because I wanted nothing more than to end his life.
I cried for $200.
I’m not sure what it would take to quell this feeling living in me. It smoldered with every passing day. I tried to put it out. I tried to fight it. I even tried talking back. But the thoughts remained and whispered to me how fun it would be: just one time, at least. The feeling sat with me and attached itself like I was underwater with weights. The weight was Jaxon. The weight was my future slipping away and Jaxon, always one step ahead of me. He wasn’t afraid to have his parents move around my schedule without telling me or go back on his word when I needed a ride home or cutting my hair when I was incapacitated. None of that mattered because I didn’t matter to him. I was disposable to him, and the sad part was, we both knew it.
Grabbing my cell phone, I called Malachi. I gripped the phone tighter with each ring. No answer. I called him again.
No answer. I called Will, and like Malachi, there was no answer. I sat my phone down on the seat beside me. I couldn’t let this get out. And Jaxon was right, we only had a few weeks of school left, and I could get by and be done with him. Wiping the last tear from my face and knowing that I would have to go at this alone, I picked up my phone. So many things hinged on getting this college thing right. I opened my texts and sent one text message to Jaxon.
Me: I’ll do it.
CHAPTER 24
It was officially the first weekend I was working by myself at the funeral home. Mr. Dennis and Tyson produced some sort of certificate which said I was eighteen and I was licensed in funeral home preparations. Mr. Dennis and Tyson had been training me for a few months now on the entire process, start to finish, and today, I was officially on my own.
It was easy money, and I didn’t have to deal with people today which was good because I wasn’t in a talking out loud mood anyway. Upstairs was closed to the public while I worked, but downstairs, downstairs was different. The bodies talked to me. I studied their features, and I made up stories about their lives and things they had gone through. Had they hurt anyone? Had they meant to do it? Especially the young ones. Why did they pass so young? I made up so many wild stories in my mind that they became my friends. I popped in my headphones and covered myself in an apron. Tyesha, a slim Black woman lay across from me on the table, her body covered by the long white sheet. I would work on her next, but first this week was poor Ms. Abigail Foster. Abigail was thirty-eight, according to her chart, and she passed away by a sudden stroke. What makes your body have a stroke at thirty-eight? I drained each orifice and started the body cavity process asking myself this question.
“Indigo, make sure you brush my hair.” Ms. Abigail Foster said.
I looked down at her on the table. Her eyes were closed, and she looked like she could jump up at any moment. Her pasty white skin was almost translucent, and it felt like leather. Her hair was still a bright shade of blonde and all things considered, her mane was her best attribute. “I got you Ms. Abigail.” I grabbed a brush from the prep table and brushed her hair as soft as I could.
“And to answer your question Indigo, who knows why someone has a stroke at my age. I didn’t always eat right, I had diabetes. I let my family stress me out and you know in the days before this happened, I had just decided I was going to go back to school and finish my law degree. I told my husband, and he said, we couldn’t afford it, and I was too old anyway.”
“Well, baby, tha’ sugar will take you out anytime. I don’t play with that,” Tyesha said, from the table across the room. “I saw it take my mama’s foot. It swelled all up and the gangrene got it. They had to take it off. No ma’am, I don’t play with tha’ sugar.”
I peered up from Abigail’s skin examination and smirked at Tyesha. “Hi, Ms. Tyesha. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. Make sure not to use that brush on me; I need a comb to run through these roots girl.”
I snorted, “We have combs. I’ll even put it into some braids if that’s what you want. I’ll try to talk to your family about it when they come to see your body.”
“Yes, please and thank you because they want me to wear one of those beauty supp
ly wigs with the bayang and I cannot spend my days looking baby Jesus in the eye with a bayang. Chile, they ain’t bout to be talking about me in Heaven—no they won’t.”
I squeezed my eyes together and laughed out loud from my gut. It was the first time in months I let out a hearty and genuine belly laugh, and it felt nice to do.
“Be careful over me with all that laughing” Ms. Abigail warned through her own laughs.
“How did you pass, Tyesha?” Abigail asked.
I finished Abigail’s skin examination and moved to the sink. I filled it with warm water and added a few drops of lavender essential oils just the way Mr. Dennis liked it.
“It was my ex-boyfriend. I broke up with him and he wouldn’t leave me alone. He broke into my house one night and did this with one direct chest wound.”
“My lands! Did you try getting a restraining order? Did you tell someone?”
“Ms. Abigail, I went to the courts. I sat there all day and the judge said he didn’t see a reason because we antagonized each other.”
“Antagonized each other?” Ms. Abigail repeated.
The water was almost filled in the deep steel sink, and I left Ms. Abigail and Tyesha talking while I turned on Shelby in the other room. We had a cold one in the freezer and his family chose something different for his final resting place.
When I returned to the room, they were still discussing their demise. “That’s my question, too, Ms. Abigail. I posted on Facebook that he was following me, and he printed it out and brought it to court. Told the judge I was slandering his name. I guess that judge agreed.”
“That’s ridiculous! Did you speak up? Did you make the judge see?” Ms. Abigail asked. Her words were slower as she tried to comprehend.
“Of course! I tried to. He didn’t want to hear it.”
“I still know some people from the law world, what jurisdiction is this?”
“Um, jurisdiction? I don’t know what that means, but it’s the city.”
“Tunica Rivers City Court? Not the borough? Or the township?”
“You mean where all the rich, white people live? No, it was definitely the city, Ms. Abigail. Our judges in the city aren’t so quick to listen to us Black girls,” Tyesha said matter-of-factly.
Ms. Abigail said nothing.
“You ready for your bath Ms. Abigail?”
“I’m ready, Indigo. Before we start, hear me and hear me good. You keep yourself safe, and wherever life takes you, make sure you go all the way.”
“Facts,” Tyesha said.
CHAPTER 25
The Piggly Wiggly in town sat in the center of Florida Ave, the main street that ran from one end of the city to another. It was the third exit off of a roundabout circle.
“Shit!” I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I never drove a roundabout by myself and I missed the exit, rounding the circle again. I turned the wheel and peered at the exit harder. As I put on my blinker to cut over and turn off, a car came up out of my blind spot and blocked me.
“Shit!” I screamed again.
“Bitch, what is you doing?” Mom giggled in her English accent. I heard her over the radio. I turned the dial all the way up. Circling for a third time, my underarms were sweating, and my eyes darted back and forth between all the signs pointing in different directions. “Take it slow, Indy,” Mom instructed. “Merge over now and give yourself some time. Don’t merge at the last minute.” I did as she said, and I took the exit. I relaxed my now tightened shoulders.
Throwing the car in park, I grabbed my backpack. My phone buzzed and saw a text message from Jaxon flash across the screen.
I gritted my teeth.
Jaxon: Can you pick up my dry cleaning? I need it before my date with Jill tomorrow.
Me: NO. I agreed to what I agreed Jaxon. And nothing more. This is crazy. And where is my money?
Jaxon: I thought we were past this. No reason to get all angry Black woman on me. We only have a few weeks, and you know the alternative. And I got it! Let’s meet up soon. Jaxon sent a GIF of a white boy shrugging his shoulders.
I slammed my phone down on the seat and ran inside the grocery store. I grabbed the first set of tulips I could find; Mama Jackie’s favorite. They were right in the front by the entrance, and I was glad. I hated walking all the way inside. I felt like people stared at me, or maybe I was imagining things—Grandpa Ez worked at the Piggly Wiggly for a couple months, and everyone asked about him when I went in, even though I barely remembered him working anywhere. From what Dad said, Grandpa Ez walked three miles every day to and from work, because there was no water access to use his canoe. Mama Jackie put in the application for him, got him dressed, went to his interview with him, and went in there with a straight face and told them people that he didn’t like to interact with large groups of people, but he would be good in the back stocking the shelves. They took one look at his broad shoulders and heavy arms and he became their new stocker. The other employees loved Ez and his quirks. He talked about guns and fires and food and anything else that his life consisted of that day. He was genuine, and they loved him for him.
The day Mama Jackie passed, Ez was at work. Mama Jackie and Ez’s neighbor called and said Mama Jackie was sitting on the front porch in a chair not moving, where she and Ez usually sat and watched the road. Imagine—being at an age where watching the road was a thing. But that was their thing. Dad got the call too and he went to the store and picked up Ez. Once we got to the hospital, it was too late. Mama Jackie had a heart attack, right there sitting on the front step with no one home. When she died, Ez quit his job and didn’t work again. He was convinced she passed away because he wasn’t home, so now he spent all of his time at home. In some ways, Ez died too, right along with Mama Jackie.
“India?”
The voice stopped me dead in my tracks. It was the same voice that made me move my car to the back of their house so the neighbors wouldn’t see.
“Hi, Mrs. Green,” I nodded. She stopped right in front of me with her cart blocking my way. I tried to go around her, and I kept my eyes down, hurrying.
She stepped in front of me. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
Two taller boys walked up behind her, and I recognized them as Jaxon’s brothers, from the photos hanging on their walls at home. They were shoving and punching each other in their shoulders. They all looked alike, the three of them. These had to be the older brothers that Jaxon spoke of. He mentioned they both attended prestigious colleges, and they would live the good life. Yes, Jaxon actually said that.
Why did it seem like only my people didn’t expect to live a good life and get a decent job? Ours was a guaranteed fight and a steep climb. They could still be in college and know what the future held because they had options and the mindset to explore it. Luxuries I didn’t have. Time, I didn’t have. Her son was blackmailing me. The only thing I needed was for the next month of school to fly by.
Jaxon was now texting every few days and adding things for me onto his to-do list since he was officially accepted into UGA: write his English paper, complete this application for college, email so-and-so. UGA was taking part in a mandatory email pen-pal program with their college roommates. Jaxon had me corresponding with his roommate daily, pretending to be him. He couldn’t be bothered to get to know me, his future roommate, or anyone else of no importance to him. And I went along with it so I could have those same options too. It was a sordid situationship.
“The article you wrote about Jaxon was very well done. It even surprised me a bit,” she let out a little giggle.
“How so?”
“Well, you made him sound so smart, so talented. I think you and I both know Jaxon needs a bit more help than others,” she leaned in and whispered like she had shared a dark secret with me. I inched backwards and the back of my knees hit the stand where the flowers sat. I was still boxed in. “How did the letter of rec
ommendation work out for you?”
And with that—I smiled. “It worked out well. I got in.”
“Beautiful!” She gave a little clap. “I’m just so proud when you girls take initiative and go at life with gusto. You guys have had it so hard.” She shook her head and tsked-tsked.
I cringed. “I have to go, Mrs. Green.”
“Mom, she has to go.” The older boy said, annoyed. This one looked like a taller version of Jaxon. His hair was slicked to the side with gobs of gel, and he wore shorts and man flops just like Jaxon. Was that a family trait? The man flops. Or was it an “I have nothing to worry about so I wear and do whatever I want” trait? The world would never know.
“Wait-wait,” she said. “One more thing.”
“What’s that?” I gave Mrs. Green a quizzical look.
“Listen,” she inched closer. “I’ve been on this diet, and I’ve been doing okay for the past month. I’ve lost three pounds so far, but I haven’t weighed myself this morning. I’m supposed to eat lots of leafy green vegetables and fiber. I’ve been buying fresh collard greens, and I know you gals like them. I’m sorry, India, I mean they are just so bitter. I don’t know how you gals eat that stuff—I just don’t. So, when I saw you in the market today, I had to ask… how do you eat them?”
I felt myself getting a headache. “How do you cook them?”
“Cook them?” Mrs. Green’s eyes bugged out of her head. “I wasn’t cooking them, I thought they were like spinach, you could add them to salads and stuff.”
Mrs. Green’s sons roared with laughter behind her and her face turned bright red.
“Mrs. Green, I have to go,” I shook my head and scowled.
I moved her cart from in front of me and went to the register. She really had nerve. You gals? India? The apple really didn’t fall too far from the tree, and I don’t know why I expected anything less.