Like a Woman (10 page)

Mama, when you died, a hole opened up so big I just fell in, screaming, crying like a baby, and when you wouldn't let me go with you, me and the world, we just turned each other inside out and now that hole is deep inside me, a screaming tear right where my heart's supposed to be. I don't know how to be in this world without you, Mama, and you won't let me come be with you, so what am I supposed to do? I know the white girl's trouble, Mama, you didn't raise no fool, but she also saved my life. That girl's got my back, and you know she treats me good. That white girl'd risk her life for me, Mama. I know, I know—
if
she don't get me killed first.

Like that time she tried to teach me how to ride freight trains and I wouldn't go with her up to Santa Barbara where she knew the yard, knew the bulls, knew the tracks. “There's trains right here,” I said. “Why do we have to go up to Santa Barbara? You know that town's crawling with white people.” And she said, “Yeah, well, I just ain't never caught a train here before. But, hell, we can try.” And we watched and she asked the bums and we hid from the bulls and then this long silver train came sliding real slow down the tracks and Taylor said, “Okay, this is it, remember what I told you,” and we ran toward an empty boxcar with its door cracked open and I caught a good grip and swung myself up just like she said and a minute later she came tumbling in after me and the train picked up speed and we crawled up against some packing blankets and she turned and I leaned back into her, her legs gripping my hips, and the train was rumbling faster and faster and her arms were wrapped tight around my chest and the hole in my heart was filled with our laughter and for once the screams were silent.

Of course, then the blankets moved on the other side of the boxcar and we both jumped up with our knives, scaring the pants off some old orange-headed guy with a bottle and a nasty-looking beard. “Whatchu doing here?” Taylor hollered out, making her voice all low like she does when she is scared or wants to sound like a man.

“I'm sleeping, or trying to,” said the guy. “What are you two doing here?”

I watched Taylor relax her grip on the knife, lowering it back toward her boot. She knows how to read crazy white people better than I do, so I followed her lead. “We're heading north,” she said. “Gonna jump just outside of Pajaro when the train slows down.” Then the man coughed and spit out his wine laughing and that's how we found out not only were we not headed north, but we'd somehow hopped on the Grey Ghost, a train which the old guy said did not stop or slow till it got to Texas.

Now, Mama, I know you know what happened next, because I called your name more times in the next forty-eight hours than a girl should in a lifetime. Called it soft and low as we stood in the doorway watching the tough desert ground rush past in a night blur; called it screaming loud as we jumped into the dawn sky when the damn train finally slowed for a grade; called it cursing as we walked the ten miles toward what the old guy thought might be the direction of a town; and Mama, I called it in desperate prayer as we hid in corners, dumpsters, and finally curled inside a dryer of an all-night Laundromat, running from the three white town boys with baseball bats, chasing us down, calling, “Hey kitty, kitty, kitty, here pussy, pussy, pussy, hey nigger, nigger, nigger.”

Next morning Taylor snuck out to a café and talked a truck driver into giving us a ride out of there. Yeah, Mama, talking wasn't all she did to convince him, but hey, she got us back home, didn't she?

Anyway, I gotta go now, Mama. I hear J. Edgar barking and I think Taylor might be back. We'll see if she can get that fan working, cool things off a little. Just give Taylor a chance, okay, Mama? You know she cares about me. You know there's a lot worse out there. I know she's a mess, Mama, but hey, like you always say, maybe that white girl like to get me killed, but she sure as hell ain't gonna get me pregnant.

Tricks

Taylor climbed up into the camper, slapping her thigh and calling to J. Edgar. “Come on, boy! Come on up.” The huge Rottweiler jumped in, skidding on the slippery linoleum floor, happy to be allowed inside.

“Girl, get that damn dog outta here,” Jackson complained. “He's all dirty. Besides, you know Jimmy doesn't like it when you let him off the chain.”

“Ah, it's almost closing time,” Taylor said, shutting the door. “Nobody's gonna steal nothing now. Besides, we've been working on some new tricks, haven't we, boy?” She pulled J. Edgar into her side, rubbing his ears. “Come on, let's show off what you can do.”

Jackson sighed, put down her pen, closed up her journal. “Okay,” she said, sitting up and swinging her legs off the bed. “Show me what you two fools have done now.”

“Here,” Taylor said. She handed Jackson a freshly rolled joint. “This should make things even more entertaining.” She held the light, took one nice hit for herself, and then turned to J. Edgar. “Okay, boy. You ready?”

J. Edgar wiggled in anticipation, ears perking up when Taylor reached for the treats.

“Sit,” Taylor said. J. Edgar promptly sat, alert, head high. “Good boy. Now, lie down.” The dog threw his body down into a lying-down position and Taylor tossed him a treat, laughing. “He gets kind of enthusiastic about his tricks when there's food involved.”

“What's that you're giving him?” Jackson asked. “It looks nasty.”

“Just some Gaines Burgers, crumbled up. It ain't nasty. It's what I used to feed all my dogs when I was a kid.” She smiled at J. Edgar, still holding his down position. “Besides, it's the easiest five-fingered discount they got.”

Jackson took another hit. “Can you make him play dead?”

“Nah.” Taylor frowned and shook her head. “But watch this. J. Edgar, belly up!” The dog rolled over onto his back, legs bent, throat and belly exposed. “Good boy,” Taylor said. “Okay, buddy, roll over!” She made a small circle in the air with her finger and J. Edgar rolled completely over, coming back up into a classic belly on-the-ground, full alert down position, looking like he could spring into action at a moment's notice. She tossed him a treat. She asked for eye contact and then gave him his next command. “J. Edgar, chill out!”

Jackson laughed as the big dog threw himself over onto his side, stretched his legs full out, and closed his eyes. “Ha! That's the best one,” she said.

“Nah, you ain't even seen the best,” Taylor said. “Watch this.” She asked J. Edgar for a sit and then said, “Okay, boy, gimme five!”

J. Edgar raised a massive paw and slapped it down on her outstretched palm.

“Good boy!” Taylor pointed over to Jackson. “Now, give her a wave.” She gave the dog her hand signal and J. Edgar picked up his paw and held it straight out in the air. It was more like a salute than a wave, but she tossed him a treat anyway, smiling. “Yeah, we gotta work a little more on that trick. Okay, last one.” She sat down on the bed next to Jackson and kissed her quickly on the neck. “Baby, I think you're really gonna like this next one,” she said.

J. Edgar was still in his sit position, staring at her, waiting.

“Paw up!” Taylor said, and the dog threw his front leg straight out into the air. Taylor tried not to laugh at the serious intensity of the muscle-bound Rottie, body coiled tight, face in full frown concentration as he watched for her next command. “Hold it…” Taylor said. She leaned over and whispered in Jackson's ear, “Watch close now.

“J. Edgar,” she said, locking eyes with him. “Are you gay?”

Body tight, front leg still held stiff out in the air, J. Edgar relaxed his wrist joint so just his paw went suddenly limp, dropping down at a rakish angle. The two girls fell out laughing and J. Edgar took advantage of the moment to help himself to the last of the Gaines Burger patties.

“Girl, you are too damn foolish,” Jackson laughed, pushing Taylor away. “You two need to go off and join some damn circus. You all are too much. My mama always says that California white people and their dogs are just a special kind of crazy. Now go on and get that filthy dog out of my camper before Jimmy sees him gone and gets all mad.”

Taylor laughed and rubbed J. Edgar's ears. “You're a good dog. A real good dog.” She opened the camper door and gestured for him to jump down. “Now go on out there and protect us, buddy. Protect us from the world.”

Cross Pen

Taylor made her way down the rows of wrecked cars and spotted Jackson curled up in the back seat of the totaled gold Cadillac, lost in thought. The two girls had a running joke about how they each knew all the other's favorite hangout places in the sprawling two-acre junkyard, Jackson preferring the Caddys, limos, and Benzes with their wood-grained dashboards and plushy interiors. Taylor tended toward old trucks and station wagons, or, her all-time favorite, the tops of the piles of flattened cars, stacked seven high and waiting for scrap metal pickup. Without speaking, without having to tell where they'd be, the girls could sense each other's whereabouts, taking great pleasure in finding each other, and in being found.

Taylor crouched down and leaned her arms on the open passenger side window of the '69 Coup de Ville. “Hey, baby.” She grinned.

Jackson looked up and smiled. She put down her writing pad and reached toward Taylor. “Hey, girlfriend,” she said. “Door's busted, but come on in.”

Taylor climbed through the window and slid in alongside Jackson. Half lying on the soft leather seats, she wrapped her arms around the girl and nuzzled into her neck, kissing that sweet side hollow just above the collarbone where the tiny dreadlocks barely touched.

Jackson let out a soft moan. “Yeah, girl, you know
exactly
where to find me. That's no lie.” She pushed Taylor's wild mass of hair out of their faces and let her hand linger at the nape of the girl's neck, still slightly damp from the hot trek back from town. Gently, she pulled Taylor's head back a little. “Let me see your eyes, baby. You got something for me?”

Taylor buried her face deeper into her lover's shoulder. “Yeah, I got a little something for you,” she growled, trying to make her voice all low and sexy.

Jackson punched her in the shoulder and pushed her away, laughing. “You
know
that's not what I meant,” she said. “I mean, did you bring me what I needed from town?”

Taylor sat up and reached into her jacket pocket. “I had to go clear 'cross town to the fancy stores, but I found just what you asked for.” She opened her hand. “A brand-new, shiny gold Cross pen, just like you wanted. Top of the line. Hell, for what they're trying to sell this shit for…”

“Taylor,” Jackson interrupted. “What do you mean,
a brand-new pen
?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Taylor said. “I mean I stole you a brand-new pen, exactly like your other one. That's what you wanted, right?” Starting to panic, Taylor ran a quick mental search for what could possibly be wrong this time.
Jackson's pen ran outta ink. Girl can't stand to write with anything other than that damn fancy-ass Cross pen, so I take my sorry butt all the way 'cross town, find the fancy-ass store that sells the damn things, con the high-heeled bitch behind the counter that's looking at me like I'm a piece of shit, still make the swipe clean, don't draw no heat, get back here in less than two hours with the damn pen, so what the fuck? Damn. A minute ago I was all tight in her arms, feeling fine, and now she's looking like somebody died, or like she don't even want to know me anymore
.

Jackson shook her head and sighed. “Damn, Taylor, I didn't need a new goddamn pen. I just needed a new ink cartridge for the pen I had.” She reached out her hand. “Here, let me see that thing.”

Taylor handed her the pen and leaned back against the passenger door, arms crossed, hating that too-familiar sinking feeling like everything was about to turn real bad. “What do you mean, ‘cartridge'?” she asked. “You didn't say nothing about no damn cartridges.”

Jackson examined the pen, turning it over in her hands. “I said my pen was running out of ink,” she said, her voice low and measured. “I thought you knew what that meant.” She unscrewed the top of the pen and pulled out the inside cartridge. “See,” she explained. “That's all you needed to get. Just the replacement cartridge. Not the whole stupid pen. Damn, girl. Why you always gotta make everything so complicated?”

Taylor snorted. “Yeah, right. Like
I'm
the one making shit complicated! I cop you an expensive-ass pen, exactly like your other one, and suddenly, instead of saying thank you, you're getting all in my face and calling me stupid. What the fuck!”

“Taylor. I didn't say you were stupid. It's just that everybody knows you don't have to get a whole brand-new damn pen every time you run out of ink. Shit.”

Now Taylor was really pissed. “Yeah, well obviously
every
body don't know
every
thing about everything. How the fuck am I supposed to know about some goddamn
replacement cartridge
? I ain't never even seen a pen like this before, until I seen you writing with yours. Nobody I ever knew even had this kind of shit. You just had a simple goddamn nineteen-cent pen and when it ran out of ink you tossed it and bought or five-fingered another.” Taylor leaned her head back out the window, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “Damn,” she said. “Why we fighting, anyway?”

The two girls sat in uneasy silence on opposite sides of the car. Overhead, the power lines hummed, and across the tracks the freeway noise droned on, broken by an occasional siren. Flies buzzed against the rear windshield, bumping into the glass, looking for a way out. Finally, Jackson spoke. “I didn't grow up with this shit either,” she said, her voice soft.

“I know you didn't,” Taylor said. “So I guess I just don't see what the big fuckin' deal is. Seems like the more expensive something is, the more hassle comes with it, if you ask me.”