By Andrea Jefferson
THINGS WE BELIEVED IN
A cat, black as tar, with menacing blue eyes, leaps in front of the vehicle and stops
to clean a paw before sashaying to the nearest ditch.
鈥淪on of a bitch!鈥 Lola slams on brakes, knocking Greta鈥檚 face into the dashboard. Paying no mind to the blood gushing out of her daughter鈥檚 nose, she runs out of the vehicle and kneels in front of the car to pray, her brown hair highlighted by the headlights. Greta watches Lola rise slowly, dirt caked on the knees of her jeans and looks to the effulgence of the stars overhead casting light in spite of her. She takes her place back at the driver鈥檚 seat and by this time Greta is wailing and nursing her nose. 鈥淲hat happened?鈥 Greta doesn鈥檛 answer, and Lola鈥檚 eyes follow from Greta to the dashboard. 鈥淗ow many times do I have to tell you to wear a seatbelt?鈥 She pulls some already used Kleenex from her leather handbag and wipes Greta鈥檚 face. The bleeding has stopped; the stains remain. Greta cannot stifle her crying. 鈥淗ush. Stop,鈥 Lola demands. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e okay. There. Now when we get to your aunt鈥檚 house, I want you to put your things in your room closet, take a quick sink bath, and go to bed. Don鈥檛 make any noise and don鈥檛 be up moving around. Marcie has extremely bad nerves, but she鈥檚 the only one that would take us in, so don鈥檛 do anything stupid, understand?鈥 Greta sniffles. For her, everything tastes and smells like blood.
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The headlights shine on cracked bricks surrounding what may have been a flowerbed, but is now just littered mulch. The grass is golden in more places than it is green from what they can see and a red garden hose lies against the ground in a way that makes Greta think of slain dragons. Lola stops the car and takes two cloth shopping bags out of the backseat, one for some of Greta鈥檚 clothes and shoes, another for her toys. 鈥淗ere, hold this one.鈥 She hands Greta the toy bag. They walk to the front door, which is dingy white and holds an opaque glass at the top. Lola knocks against the door one time鈥wo鈥hree taps very spaced apart. After a few breaths, Marcie appears at the door, her eyes and cheeks existing in the same downward plane, her lips sunken and morose. She doesn鈥檛 say a word, leaves the door open, turns around and heads further into the house.
Lola and Greta look at each other, in sync for the first time since leaving Sienna, and follow behind Marcie. Her house is pitch black with the exception of a light on over the sink where the dishes are piled nearly to the windowsill. The squeal of rats is heard somewhere beneath the sheetrock as Greta pulls more closely to her mother.
Lola says, 鈥淢arcie, do you mind if maybe we turn on a hall light later? Greta has trouble sleeping without it.鈥 Lola forces a trembling laugh. 鈥淩emember when I was like that? Still am to a degree.鈥 She pulls Greta鈥檚 head into her hip. 鈥淧lus a little light wouldn鈥檛 hurt you either. Might stop you from breaking your neck in here.鈥
Marcie finds Greta鈥檚 eyes in the dark and looks down at her for a long time. Somewhere behind the premature aging and dullness, their faces are similar.
鈥淚 like the dark,鈥 Marcie replies and leaves them in front of the door to what will be their new room. Once she鈥檚 certain Marcie is well out of sight, Lola bends down to brush Greta鈥檚 hair out of her face.
鈥淚鈥檓 going to be back sometime tomorrow to check on you. Your Aunt Marcie is doing us a really huge favor. Be good, okay? Remember what I told you. Don鈥檛 make a lot of noise.鈥 She kisses Greta on the forehead and after some rushed footsteps, the front door closes gently, the car starts with obvious effort, then silence.
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鈥淵ou鈥檙e too old to be scared of the dark,鈥 Marcie says from the doorway. 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry your house got broken into. Are you okay?鈥
鈥淣o one broke into our house.鈥
鈥淵our mom said that鈥檚 why you鈥檙e here.鈥
鈥淒addy said Mom put her blood in his food.鈥
Marcie鈥檚 entire body tenses up. 鈥淕o to sleep.鈥 She cuts off the light.
The blackness crawls into bed with Greta. She closes her eyes, only to trade one heaviness for another. What her eyes don鈥檛 see, her ears still hear from earlier in the day: strained voices, 鈥渧oodoo,鈥 struggles, and then the ringing gunshot that she knows is the reason her father is no more.
She creeps out of bed to find Aunt Marcie huddled over a newspaper at her kitchen table. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e too old to be afraid of the sound,鈥 Greta says bitterly. Marcie flinches at the words.
鈥淧lease go back to bed, Greta, or I will have to tell your Mommy what a bad girl you鈥檙e being.鈥
鈥淪he鈥檚 not coming back.鈥
鈥淒on鈥檛 be ridiculous. Of course she鈥檚 coming back. She can鈥檛 just dump you here.鈥 Greta says nothing. She already knows that grown-ups always downplay children鈥檚 complexity with an almost absurd insouciance. 鈥淣ow go back to bed, and don鈥檛 get up again.鈥
Greta reluctantly walks back to the bedroom, eyes still unadjusted to the pitch black cloaked around her body. She tucks herself in wondering if the blue and red lights will find her mom in the dark.
ANDREA JEFFERSON is a graduate of the Mississippi School of the Arts where her writing craft was nurtured by Drs. Jeanne Lebow and Caleb Tankersley, and where she won accolades in the national Scholastics Art and Writing Contest. Her work has also appeared inLiterary Orphans Journal, Eunoia Review, and What Can We Do for Our Country? When she isn't working, writing, or procrastinating assignments, she can be found in Louisiana scarfing down crab burgers.