“I want you to be careful. I mean it.”
“I will be, Mama.”
I know why she’s scared, and I know what she thinks. If I wasn’t worried it’d break her heart, I’d tell her that being with Clay isn’t like that at all. He makes me feel loved and whole and not like he wants to own me or hide me away from the world for himself. But I can’t tell her I did in fact do that thing that could make me pregnant. I also can’t tell her that I know I’m not pregnant, so that’s somethin’ else she needn’t worry about. I’m not. There’s a trick to it.
“You already been…” She stops.
“I been what?”
“Mama, she hurtin’ me,” Coralene whimpers.
“Me too,” Doralene says. I’m ’bout to smack both of ’em with this brush if they don’t shut up.
Mama releases my face, and I finish up their plaits right before they both jump up at the same time and run out the door to play. No doubt their hair will look like a couple a birds’ nests by noon, but that ain’t my problem.
I clean up the hair stuff and realize I have to get moving before Miss Ethel claims I’m late again. I bend down to slip on my flats, and I feel a kick in my rear, and I fall forward. On my hands and knees, I turn myself around and see that Mama’s still standin’ over by the screen door munchin’ on a green tomato, a good ten feet away from me. Oh. I see how it is.
“Mama, what? I been listenin’ to you all morning. And I will be careful. I promise.”
“Who was it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
I dust myself off and stand, finally getting my shoes all the way on.
“Imma be late if I don’t leave right now.”
Her eyes flash, and without moving a muscle, she pushes me backward into a chair and scoots it up to the table, just shy a knockin’ the wind outta me.
She’s playin’ with me. I don’t have time to play, and she’s gettin’ on my damn nerves. I take in a short breath, and I lift Mama off the floor about a foot or so, for about ten seconds. Then I let her drop easily like she’s landin’ on a pillow. Just so she knows that I can play too. Her eyes widen. She’s surprised, but not completely shocked.
“You jube on the regular now?”
Do I jube on the regular? Sounds like she’s askin’ about my monthlies.
“Kinda,” I tell her.
She nods, and I can see her rearrangin’ everything in her mind to line up with this new information.
“Anybody else know?”
“Who would I tell?” I ask her. I can’t imagine braggin’ about it around town. “I mean, nobody would understand anyway if they ain’t our blood.”
Mama swallows. She’s holdin’ somethin’ back.
“What?” I say. “It’s true, ain’t it? Nobody knows about Jubilation except the Deschamps women, right?”
She shakes her head slowly. “No. It ain’t just us. I’ve heard about it showin’ up in others,” she explains.
This is news to me. I always understood it as our weird family affliction that we just have to endure. At least that’s how Mama explained it to me back in that church basement when I scratched that girl’s face. I thought it was only ours.
“And… these others? They’re not related to us?”
“Not that I know of. Though we are all God’s children, so I suppose we’re all related.”
“Shouldn’t we know who they are?”
“No,” she snaps. “That is why I want you to keep it to yourself. You gonna be volatile enough on your own. You don’t need no partners.”
Damn. She makes it sound like I’m finna hold up a liquor store!
“Do you think we should tell Grammie Atti?” I ask.
“No indeed. Evvie, your grandmother is—she’d make all this harder than it needs to be. You know how she is,” she tells me, though I rarely see her, so do I really? I can’t help but wonder if Mama’s mostly worried about what her church lady friends would say if they knew her daughter was spendin’ time with crazy ol’ Athena Deschamps. That’s how a lotta folks see her anyway.
“You don’t think she could help?” I ask.
“We can handle it without her. Just keep it quiet. Never use it unless you have to.”
I sigh. Mama don’t like usin’ magic for nothin’. She’s one a those good Christian ladies. Tell ya the truth, I’m surprised we been talkin’ about it this long, since she’s always avoidin’ the subject.
“What about accidents? The times when I don’t mean for it to come out, but it does?”
She eyes me, almost suspiciously. Like I’m lookin’ for an excuse to jube. Does she think this is fun for me?
“If you keep your feelings under control, you shouldn’t be havin’ no accidents,” she warns.
This makes no sense to me, cuz last time I checked, feelings aren’t something we can just control like a light switch. But I choose the path of least resistance.
“Sure, Mama.”
“You’re gonna have to be real aware a yourself, Evalene. You’re too old for accidents. This ain’t a blackout here and there no more. This is the real thing.”
I fight hard to not roll my eyes. “I know, Mama.”
“Oh, do you?”
I wait a few seconds, and then I slowly rise, grab my purse, and head out to work.
“Evvie,” she calls.
She is drivin’ me crazy! I turn around to face her a little too fast, and somehow, the force of my feeling shoves my mother several feet backward. She has to grab the table to keep from fallin’ over. I can’t breathe. The last person I want to hurt is my mother.
“I’m sorry, Mama. That was—”
“An accident?” she whispers.
I can feel a few tears burning in my eyes. I’m terrible with magic, and I don’t know how to get better. I dab at the corners of my eyes with a handkerchief from my purse, and I put it back in with shaking hands. Mama keeps starin’ at me, not speaking. She’s scared. So am I.
“Mama, I have to go. I’m sorry. I—I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” I honestly didn’t. As I grab the doorknob, she regains her voice.
“Evalene Claudette Deschamps?”
I draw in a breath. “Yes, Mama?”
“Don’t hurt nobody.”
5 Stranger
I MAKE IT TO THE Heywoods’ at just six minutes past eight. I expect Miss Ethel to get on my case about it, but she don’t even seem to notice. She barely leaves me any instructions before she flies out the door, and what Clay said last night about her returns to my mind. What does she need to do so early? Her husband’s a dentist, and far as I know, she does not have a job to go to. Maybe she’s foolin’ around.
“Evalene, I want some milk.”
“Okay. What d’ya have to say first?”
Abigail makes a face with her tongue hanging out. “Please,” she says, as though the word is choking her. I reach for her Donald Duck cup that nobody else in the house is allowed to use, and I fill it with milk. I set it in front of her, and she stares at it.