Lupa (Second Edition) Page 2

My name is Marie Elizabeth Josette Freeland. No shit. That’s my name. It sounds like the character of a nineteenth century romance novel, or at least that’s what I think every time I fill out a form. I’m called Josette. I can’t say I love the name, but it’s the one I’ve heard for seventeen years. The story behind my name is worth telling. It’s funny.

  My mother, Brianne Freeland, loves books, movies, history and is obsessed with the British royal family. So I am named after Marie Antoinette, Queen Elizabeth II and the little girl from Les Misérables. If you’ve read the book or seen the movie than you know the little girl’s name is not Josette. It is Cosette. The funny part is not the mix up of names, but that my mother didn’t know for years after my birth that she’d gotten it wrong. As much as I’m on the fence about the name Josette, I know I don’t like the name Cosette, so I guess it worked out in my favor.

  My mother was a dreamer. That’s not unusual, aren’t we all in the beginning? So I ended up with a name that belongs in a time and place where porcelain skin women in empire waist dresses and satin shoes, drank tea and my own love of a good book.

  Do I believe in happily ever after? Hell no, but once upon a time...well now, that’s another story. I’m rarely without a book. It’s more than love, it’s an obsession—maybe an addiction. I’ve sat down and read for forty-three hours straight. Really. I didn’t go to sleep for almost two days because I found a series of books I fell in love with and couldn’t stop reading until I passed out from sleep deprivation. True story.

  From the very beginning, before I drew my first breath, I—my life, seemed destined for something right out of a novel. Happily ever after is a dream and once upon a time walks hand and hand with it. So where does that leave me? Where is my prince charming, my knight in shining armor, my Mr. Darcy?

  Picture me shrugging my shoulders.

  I wake with humidity already wreaking havoc on my slightly overweight body. There’s no air conditioning in our three bedroom house and in the summer I sleep with the window open and a fan wedged in the frame. There’s a second smaller fan on the bedside table but the air blowing in my face is hot. There’s no escaping this kind of heat, not even in the pitch black of night. Before opening my eyes I know that my mother is up because I can hear the television and the smell of bacon hangs on the humid air like the ghost of breakfast past.

  I roll out of bed and hope she isn’t in the bathroom. My feet tangle in a pile of clothes on the floor. I put my hands out in front of me to catch myself on the back of the bedroom door. My room is a mess. It always is. My mom doesn’t have any strict rules on cleaning as long as the living room, kitchen and bathroom were company presentable. My room looks like a tornado swept through it. Clothes are all over the place. So many, that I don’t know what’s clean and what’s dirty. A lot of the time I smell them to figure it out.

  I open the door to my bedroom to make my way down the short narrow hallway to the bathroom, but before I do, I glance into the room directly across from my own. The curtains are open and early morning sunshine fall in lines through the cheap plastic blinds filled with dust particles. The bed is made and the antique, white, crochet bedspread doesn’t have a wrinkle in it. I know that the vanity, unseen on the wall next to the door, is too big for the room. I know without going into the room that the vanity holds a silver comb and brush set, a black King James Bible and a collection of perfume bottles displayed on an oblong mirrored tray. On the wall next to the bed is a chifferobe that matches the bed and vanity. The three pieces of furniture leaves just enough room to maneuver but crowds the tiny room. I’m brought back to the here and now by the sound of my mother’s voice.

  “Good morning,” she calls from the kitchen.

  It’s always dark in our house. The dark chocolate wood paneling guarantees it. I turn the corner and see my mom sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette between her slim fingers.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumble.

  I turn on the light in the bathroom and am greeted by the artificial glow of the naked bulb above the sink. The fixture has been broken for so long I don’t remember what it looked like. The wallpaper, that my mom thought so pretty and put up incorrectly in her haste, is peeling from the walls and every time I come into the bathroom my eye is drawn to that one spot she missed when she painted the trim. For the millionth time I wonder what would make a person leave something so close to complete, unfinished. The six inch strip along the ceiling directly above the door haunts me, but not enough for me to do anything about it, or ask my mom…why? You’d have to know my mom. All of her projects are that way. Half done. I’ve learned not to ask, or maybe I just don’t care. I turn on the shower and brush my teeth while I wait for the water to get hot. I make quick work of bathing. The hot water heater is old and we’re lucky to get ten good minutes of hot water. Not that I want much of the stuff anyway. It feels like it’s already a thousand degrees and in the summer a cold shower is my preference.

  “I’ve been called in today, so you’ll have to fend for yourself. There’s food in the fridge. I should be home around one.”

  I sit down next to my mom at our too big kitchen table. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail. We look more like sisters than mother and daughter. We’re the same height but my mom is smaller than me. Meaning, she’s skinner. She’s so small that I’m sure people use words like, petite and delicate when they describe her. Her skin is the color of coffee with cream and her hair is dark brown with just a little grey starting to blossom along her temples. She has no boobs and a tiny waist, with slim hips and thighs but no one would ever mistake her for anything other than a woman.

  My skin is a shade or two lighter than my mom’s. My breasts are as large as hers are small. I am blessed with her small waist, although not as tiny, and I have hips and a booty. If I lose a little bit of weight...okay, if I lose about twenty pounds, I’d have a perfect hourglass figure, but I’ve never given my looks much thought and I don’t care enough to want to fit in with society’s standards.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t,” she says, eyeing me as I tap a cigarette out of her pack.

  “And if I had a nickel for every wish—” I start but don’t finish and light my cigarette. It’s stifling in the house, almost too hot to smoke. Almost.

  “Go out. Do something that teenagers do on Saturdays,” she says putting her own cigarette out.

  This is not something I would call an ongoing battle but it is a continued topic of conversation. My mom thinks I spend too much time alone. What she doesn’t know, or refuse to see, is that I really don’t like people. I prefer to keep to myself. She gets up from the table and kisses me on the top of my head before going back to her room to get dress for work. She’s working a double if she isn’t going to be back until one. I have to admit, I’m a little bit happy. This means a whole day at home all alone. When she comes back a few minutes later she has on the God awful mustard yellow and burnt orange trimmed smock. Her green name tag completes the hot mess of a uniform. But somehow she pulls it off and even in the getup she’s pretty, the once beautiful girl, now not quite middle aged single mother.

  “Really Josette, get out of the house for a little bit. If you drop me off at work you can have the car all day?”

  I don’t know which is worse, the look of worry or that of disappointment in my mom’s eyes. Okay—the worry is real, the disappointment may be a figment of my imagination.

  “I really like this book,” I say, picking up the ragged paperback from the table, “I can finish it today I bet.”

  Back in the day my mom was popular. She fell in love with the local hot shot. He wasn’t on the football team and she wasn’t a cheerleader but they were popular in this small town. Everyone thought they would go places, and my dad did—when he found out he’d knocked up my mom their senior year. My mom never had a chance at any other life. She was dealt a bum hand and is playing it the best she can. I’ve never met my father. There’s no love loss th
ere. I don’t really care and haven’t given him a second thought since fifth grade. My mom’s good enough for me.

  She gives me one last look before grabbing her purse from the counter and leaving me for the day. The silence of the house is a blessing. Sometimes I think I could be a hermit if I had enough courage. Every time I think of the word I see myself living in some woods, in a one room wood cabin with an outhouse, next to a stream. No electricity but a small garden and a few chickens. Seems like a good life...in theory.

  Sitting on the couch with a cup of ice water on the coffee table next to me, I take the scrap piece of paper holding the place in my book out and start to read. The front door is open and the sounds of the neighborhood kids playing in the cul-de-sac is a nice invasion. Sounds like a game kick-pin. I find solace in the only escape I’ve known since I was old enough to read; in between the pages of a good book. After my shower I didn’t get dress instead opting for a fresh pair of pajamas, if a pair of men’s boxers and a wife-beater tank count as pj’s. I hold on for as long as I can, but eventually I fall asleep and dream of being the rescued princess by the angel knight in the story I’m reading.

  “Hello?”

  I’m confused when I first hear the voice. For a moment I’m stuck in that place of half sleep and half awake, but the voice calls out again forcing me up. I open my eyes and there are a couple of men standing at my screen door. Mormons. Their Mormon uniform gives them away. Black pants, white shirt, dark tie. It’s still early but already they look worn down. The heat and humidity will do that to you. It only takes being in it longer than three minutes. The suspicion is validated by the bikes I spy behind them when I make it to the front door.

  “Sorry Elders not interested.”

  Before they have a chance to reply I gently close the door and look at the clock. It’s just one. I go to the kitchen to fix my first meal of the day: instant grits and two scrambled eggs. After eating and reading another chapter of my book I decide to go out after all. Making sure the doors are locked tight, I turn around ready for the journey to the neighborhood corner store. The kids are still in the street but now the girls are playing hop-scotch and the boys are in the yard across the street playing marbles. Since when had hopscotch and marbles come back in style?

  “Hey T, who’s winning?”

  T is short for Tabitha. The little girl lives next door in a house identical to mine with the exception of an extra bathroom her grandfather, Mr. Denton, added himself. Mr. Denton died before I was born but Mrs. Denton still lives in the house. Apparently her three grown children didn’t get the memo that it was not okay to move back in with your mother and stay forever.

  “Rolanda’s winning right now,” T answers.

  T is about eight, maybe as old as ten. I don’t know because I’ve never asked. To be honest, I don’t really care, but she’s a sweet enough kid.

  “Give her hell,” I yell, and T giggles. I think T idealize me a little—bless her heart.

  Taking off down the street and making my way out of the circle that forms my neighborhood. I get to the corner and turn left into what I think of as the outer circle. I wave at the old man sitting on his porch. When I was little I would steal plums from his trees. He is one of a set of bachelor twin brothers. His brother died last year. I try not to think of how lonely he must be.

  It’s hot—hotter than Georgia asphalt, as my grandma use to say. I walk slowly because I brought my book and I look up occasionally to make minor course corrections. I pass the outer circle and make it to the border of the outside world. When I cross the street I am officially in the “real world.” The blacktop around the store is uneven, cracked and full of potholes. I stop reading to maneuver across it so I don’t trip. The cement ramp leading to the glass, double door entrance of the store is in slightly better condition but give it a year.

  The blast of cold air hits my hot body like a shockwave and goose-bumps break out as it chills the sweat running down my temples and neck. The store smells like floor cleaner and the barbecue sandwiches it sells. I buy a bag of chips, an assortment of cheap, boxed candy and two ninety-nine cent can sodas in addition to my pack of cigarettes. That’s one thing about living in a small place your whole life. Everyone knows you, and the woman sitting on the stool behind the register has seen me grow up. I’ve been buying cigarettes since I was old enough to walk to the store by myself. On occasion, numerous packs if I made rounds to all my neighbors in hopes for candy money.

  “Hello Josette, I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother. Everyone really loved her,” Danny says.

  Danny has sat in that same spot for as long as I can remember. The only thing that has changed is her hairstyle. In my first memory of her she sported a Jheri-Curl. Now her hair is cut short and close to her head. I imagine her in a pair of bell bottoms, a mid-drift top tied in the front, and a humongous afro as she punch in the amounts of each of my items on the outdated cash register.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, handing her my money and waiting for my change.

  If it’s one thing I’ve grown to hate in the last couple of weeks its people being sorry about death. Danny gives me my change and I leave without making eye contact. I don’t want to see the look in her eyes.

  My grandparents moved to the neighborhood seventeen years before. My teenage mother brought me back to the very house we live in today. My grandmother died two weeks ago. Her funeral was last Saturday. It’s the first time I’ve been to the store since her death.

  I make my way back from no man’s land and to the safe confines of my own home. I pour one of the drinks over ice before lying down on the couch. I’m going to finish this book today and I take a moment to be a little sad that I don’t have anything lined up after I’m finished. My Saturday has other plans. The heat sucks the energy out of anyone older than twelve and soon I fall asleep for the second time.

 

  “You know how I hate when you fall asleep on the couch. Go to bed.”

  My mom throws her keys on the table and hangs her purse on the coat tree next to the door. It’s dark because I fell asleep when it was still light outside and my mom hadn’t bothered turning on the living room lights. We’re both going to bed.

  “Sorry,” I mumble and sleepwalk to my room.

  I’d slept all day. What’s up with that? I sit for a moment on the edge of the bed trying to figure out if I’m up or not. I turn on the fan next to the bed right before passing out again.

  “Are you going to church today?” My mom yells at me through the door.

  “No,” I yell back.

  I haven’t gone to church since my mom stopped forcing me to. I open my eyes and grab my pack of cigarettes and smoke while I listen to her get ready. I’m one my third by the time she leaves. At seventeen I’m a bit of chain smoker in the mornings. I get out of bed and don’t bother with a shower or brushing my teeth. It’s a lazy Sunday morning. I have nothing to do and nowhere to go, what’s the point. Tomorrow’s Monday and time to go back to school. I’m a junior this year. One more year and then…

  This is how I see my life past graduation. Blank. I’m good at some things, great at others, and have no interest in anything. Eventually I make my way to the kitchen where I sit at the table my grandmother bought. She didn’t believe in buying anything she couldn’t pay for. No credit for her. I have a feeling she thought credit was the devil’s work. I should have asked. The house was probably the only thing she and my grandfather hadn’t bought outright and before she died even that was paid off. I look around our small space. Everything looks worn and dated. No matter how much you clean, everything still looks ready to be thrown out. I light another cigarette and go outside.

  The lawn is green but it’s not grass that covers the front yard, its weeds. I dare anyone to walk through it without shoes on. Two steps in is all it takes before your feet are covered with stickers. There’s an old iron lawn couch in the front. They don’t make these anymore. Another item from yesteryear c
ompliments of my grandparents. It’s a long sofa styled piece of furniture. A gazillion years ago it may have been red...or maybe green, today it’s rust colored. Okay, it’s just rusted. The whole thing is a tetanus shot away from killing someone. Fearless person that I am, I plop down and mock impending infection by pulling both legs onto the rusted surface sitting cross-legged. I can feel the rough surface against my thighs.

  The neighborhood and circular street in front of my house is empty. All the originals are at church. I call the old people that fill this small group of homes the originals because they all moved here together, into the nice new neighborhood after being relocated from their original place of resident when the city decided to build a new library. All the younger people are at church too, or hung over. When I say young I mean the children of the originals. The smaller children like T and I don’t count.

  I finish my cigarette and flick it all the way to the street, a feat that I secretly applaud myself for. I think flicking a cigarette makes me look sophisticated and grown up. I’d never tell anyone this. Several cigarettes later I go in the house and wait for my mom to come back from church. I think I’ll do something nice and make an early dinner. Lord knows she’ll be in church all day. It’s first Sunday. I turn on the radio and quickly find a CD to play instead. No station, save public radio, would be playing my new favorite, Ravel’s Bolero. I turn the volume up so I can hear the music in the kitchen.

  By the time my mom gets home dinner is ready. She’s worn black again. A pencil skirt and silk blouse with black stockings and leather pumps. We may be poor but we dress nice. She takes her hat off and fans herself with it as she sits down at the table.

  “Sometimes it’s not worth cooking to worry with that stove on a day like this,” she says, slipping off her shoes and leaning back in the chair. My mom doesn’t have hat hair but there are sweaty tendrils stuck to her temples.

  “Thanks for cooking.”

  “No problem. Nice service today?” I’m not interested but I make conversation.

  “Reverend Henderson sang today.”

  Enough said. Even I loved it when Reverend Henderson sings. I’m kind of sad that I didn’t go to church now.

  “What’s for dinner? Is that garlic bread I smell?”

  “Yeap, spaghetti and bread.”

  We eat while my mom fills me in on the important points of her Sunday morning and afternoon in the house of the Lord. Gossip. Who was wearing what, who was in church with the same clothes they were wearing at the club, who was caught sleeping with so and so. It’s the reason I don’t go to church anymore. I nodded and grunted in all the right places and then put away the leftovers and wash the dishes. Soon it’s time to say goodbye to Sunday and get back on the grind.

  Chapter Two