“You have the curse,” she says quietly. “You know that?”
I dip some fingers into the hair grease and rub it into Doralene’s scalp. Despite her resistance, we have talked about the strange talents we Deschamps women share, but I never heard her call it a curse before. I don’t think that’s right. Nobody should feel bad about shit they can’t help.
“It’s a curse now?” I ask her.
“Always has been.” She sighs. I’m shocked when she takes my face in her hands and looks deeply into my eyes. I’m so unprepared for whatever this is that I get the comb caught in Doralene’s hair, and she cries out.
“Evalene,” Mama says. “You’re beautiful.”
“Uh.” I don’t know what to say to this. “Thank you, Mama.”
“Don’t thank me.” She is not playin’ around. Deadly serious. “It is a curse. A beautiful face and a beautiful body can bring no good fortune to a colored woman. Men always see the beautiful things. And they think they got a right to have ’em and do what they want with ’em regardless of how the beautiful thing feels. There’s a lotta ugly men out there, and sometimes their ugliness is hidden by a handsome face, but they ugly deep inside and they see that beauty and they want to steal it for themselves.” Mama leans on the counter for support, and her eyes travel far away for an instant. I wonder if she’s thinkin’ about men from her own life. I’d ask, but I don’t want to upset her. She doesn’t like talkin’ about the past.
“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
