White Smoke

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “Yes, of course,” Mom says, Alec by her side, massaging her neck.

  In an instant, Piper is behind him, tugging at his shirt. It would be comical, her endless need for his attention, if it wasn’t so annoying.

  Irma adjusts her glasses, reading off a paper. “As discussed, artists participating in the Grow Where You’re Planted Residency, aka GWYP, are allowed to live in one of our restored historic homes free of charge for the length of the residency with the option to buy. Each quarter the artist, that’s you, is expected to attend fundraising dinners, networking events, and galas, which will help promote the Sterling Foundation efforts to rebuild the Cedarville community. At the end of the artist’s residency, the artist must produce at least one major project, i.e., your new book. Terminating the agreement will result in immediate eviction and the artist must pay back the mortgage with interest plus any damages in accordance with the length of their stay.”

  “Daddy, what does eviction mean?”

  Alec brushes Piper’s hair behind her ears. “It means we would have to leave the house right away. But don’t worry. That’s never going to happen.”

  A warning laces Alec’s words together tight.

  Mom takes a deep breath. “So. Where do I sign?”

  As Mom and Alec finalize the paperwork, I stand in front of a glass door leading to a narrow fenced-in backyard and try to call Dad like I promised, but my one bar of service can barely send a text. Outside, a construction worker stains the deck a dark cherrywood. His brushstrokes are hella rushed and erratic as sweat pours down the back of his neck.

  Dude, nervous much?

  Mom joins me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. A warm aura of peace radiating off her skin.

  “Plenty of space for a new garden. We can build some raised flower beds over in that corner, fence it in so Bud won’t mess with it.”

  She’s trying to show me the silver lining in all this, and I can’t see a glimmer. But she’s happy. I’ve always wanted her to be happy.

  “Oh! You’re into gardening?” Irma says behind us. “Cedarville has a terrific urban gardening program run through the library. Last Sunday of the month.”

  Following Irma out to the front porch, we survey the neighborhood and I half expect a tumbleweed to blow by.

  “Ms. Von Hoven, no offense, but where is, um, everybody?” Sammy asks, scratching his head. “Is there like a BBQ in another state we weren’t invited to?”

  As far as little brothers go, I hit the lotto when it comes to Sammy. Mentally twice his age, with a wicked sense of humor and sarcasm for days, I can always count on him to break the tension by saying what everyone’s thinking.

  Irma giggles. “Well, you are our first artist in residence! But there will be many more. The Sterling Foundation owns all the property on this side of Maple Street. Come! Let me give you a quick rundown.” She links arms with Sammy, heading to the end of the driveway. Piper slips between Mom and Alec, grabbing his hand as we follow.

  “Okay! You, young sir, live on Maple Street, between Division and Sweetwater Avenues, in the Maplewood area of Cedarville,” she says, pointing while she talks. “Which makes up about fifteen blocks or so. Population around two thousand. Three blocks up Maple Street is Cedarville Park. Behind the park is the cemetery. Take a left on Sweetwater, four blocks up and you’re at Kings High School. Take a right, three blocks up and you’re at Benning Elementary, right next to Pinewood Middle School. Now, take a left on Division for the local grocery and easy access to the freeways. You’re about fifteen minutes away from downtown and the Riverwalk.”

  “There’s a river?” Piper asks. For some reason, this interests her.

  “Oh yes. Pretty walkway too. Lots of new restaurants, casinos, and an arcade. Now, a few tips for the parents, if I may. Sweetwater Avenue is like . . . the other side of the tracks, if you catch my drift. Your neighborhood is something of an up-and-coming area.” Her voice deepens. “Lock your doors and windows every night. Never leave anything in the car or on the porch if you want to keep it, and don’t let the children wander. Especially in these old houses.”

  You could hear a pin drop from a block over the way we all freeze.

  Irma lets out a laugh. “But really, Cedarville is one of the friendliest cities in the country. A little dirt just adds character.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” Sammy mumbles.

  “All right. I think that just about covers it. Next month, Mr. Sterling would like to host a welcome dinner at his house for you. I’ll send the particulars. Contractors should be done with everything in the next week or two. You have my number, so if any issues arise, please let me know. And once again, welcome to Cedarville!”

  Irma waves as she heads to her car, leaving us stunned, arms full of the information she dumped on us.

  As she drives off, I beat Sammy to the punch. “So . . . we’re not really staying here, right?”

  Mom scoffs. “Why not?”

  “Uh, for starters, have you looked around?” Sammy asks, motioning to the desolate street.

  The brick house to our right choked in vines looks like nothing more than a giant hedge, wood slabs boarding up every window and door.

  “Well,” Alec says. “She did say there will be more families here. Soon.”

  “Guys,” Mom pleads. “This is a great opportunity, and most importantly, it’s a FREE house!”

  “Yeah,” I chuckle, crossing my arms. “And you get what you pay for.”

  “Free also means being debt-free,” Alec adds, the accountant wheels spinning behind his bright blue eyes. “Think of it as an adventure. We’ll be pioneers!”

  “Don’t you mean colonizers,” I snap, “since all of these were clearly already owned by somebody before?”

  It’s now Alec’s turn to wince, and it feels justified after the number of times Piper has made Mom uneasy.

  Piper yanks at Alec’s arm. “Daddy, can I pick out my room now?”

  “Uh, sure, sweetie, sure. Let’s go check them out.”

  Alec grasps Piper’s hand as they skip back inside, not bothering to check if his other kids want to pick their room as well. But who am I kidding, Piper is always going to come first.

  Mom studies our faces and holds up both of her hands. “Okay. So, I know you’re both . . . apprehensive. But look on the bright side: if it doesn’t work out, we’re only required to stay here for three years.”

  “Three years!” we scream.

  “That’s how the residency works. This will be a fresh, debt-free start. For all of us. Which is exactly what we need.” She looks at me. “Right, Marigold?”

  Ah, of course. Debt-free is needed since my stay at Strawberry Pines Rehabilitation Center wasn’t exactly cheap. Just short of tuition at an Ivy League college. This is a test. Most scenarios will play out like this from now on. And I can’t fail, or I’ll relinquish the minuscule freedom they’ve promised to give me.

  So I bite my tongue and spit out the practice mantra. “Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.”

  Sammy rolls his eyes. “If you say so, Oprah.”

  Honk honk!

  The moving truck pulls up behind us.

  “Just in time,” Sammy says. “Our old life has arrived.”

  Mom dusts off her hands. “Sammy, run inside and get Alec. Marigold, can you start taking stuff out of the van? I don’t want those herbs to wilt and Buddy to melt.”

  The van doors slide open and Buddy leaps out, licking my face as if we’ve been gone forever. Gotta love dogs for their unconditional love.

  “Hey,” Mom says, approaching the drivers. “Thought you were supposed to be here this morning. What happened?”

  One of the movers I recognize from California hops out of the truck as the others roll up the back door, unloading the ramp.

  “Yeah, service is terrible around here! We stopped to ask for directions, but no one’s ever heard of this Maple Street.”

  “Really? Who’d you ask?”


  He chuckles and points behind us. “Your neighbors.”

  Up the road, across Sweetwater Avenue, life has sprung up in the form of bodies trickling out of houses, standing on the half-dead lawns, staring back at us in silence.

  “Whoa,” I mumble. Coming from a small white town, this is the most Black people I’ve ever seen in real life.

  Gotta show Tamara!

  I grab my cell phone from my pocket and Mom shoves my arm down.

  “Marigold,” she whispers. “Don’t take pictures of people without asking them. It’s rude.”

  “Don’t you think they’re being rude? They’re staring like we’re a pack of circus freaks.”

  “Maybe it’s your beach cover-up, flip-flops, and hemp jewelry that’s making them stare,” Sammy laughs, jumping off the curb. He stands in the middle of the street and waves. “Hi!”

  Silence. No response. Not even from the kids. Just a crowd of mannequins.

  “Yikes,” Sammy mutters. “Thought she said Cedarville was the nicest city in the country?”

  “Yes, Sammy. Aren’t you impressed by the welcoming committee?”

  “Come on, you two,” Mom chuckles. “Let’s get to work!”

  We help the movers unload the truck, lugging furniture and boxes inside. I supervised most of the packing and wrapping before we left, ensuring no bedbugs could hitch a ride to our new home.

  DING DING DING

  A chorus of alarms rings from upstairs, down, and outside. Phone alarms. Every contract worker has theirs set for the same time. Five thirty-five p.m. Tools drop all at once as the men scramble, sprinting out the door, diving headfirst into their cars.

  “What’s going on?” Sammy asks, pulling a suitcase through the living room.

  “I . . . I have no idea,” Mom says from the kitchen, unpacking a box of dishes.

  Mr. Watson trots down the stairs and stops in the hall.

  “Done for the day. Be back tomorrow. Cable and internet might be up late next week.”

  “Next week!” Sammy shouts, gripping his heart.

  “Electric company had to rewire this whole part of the neighborhood. No one has lived here in thirty years.”

  “Really,” I mumble. “You could never tell.”

  Mr. Watson nods once and rushes out the door. Car wheels squeal away.

  “Guess they’re in a hurry to get home.” Mom shrugs. “Or maybe they’re all heading to a party.”

  Doesn’t feel like they’re running toward something—rather, running away.

  Two

  I’VE ALWAYS HATED the smell of other people’s houses.

  This house smells like wet wood. And not the kind you smell in the early morning dew, but the campfire burnt-logs-doused-with-water kind that no amount of paint and polish can mask.

  The small tea candle under my oil dish flickers. Aromatherapy. One of the tricks I’ve learned to ease my anxiety. Soft music, plants, candles . . . you name it, I came ready. New places like this can tip my scales and I need to prove I can handle myself. Glad I bought an extra pack of incense and a vial of peppermint oil from my favorite apothecary shop back home.

  But where do I go when I run out? Where’s the nearest Trader Joe’s? Yoga studio? Coffee shop? Vegan spots? A place to get my hair braided? Most importantly, where am I going to find weed? I’d probably be able to answer all these questions with at least one bar of decent cell service. Well, at least the Trader Joe’s part. I grab my phone to set a reminder . . .

  11:00 a.m. ALARM: Ask about stores.

  Buddy jumps on the end of my bed, burrowing himself in blankets. He spends most of his time with Sammy but loves sleeping with me.

  On my hands and knees, I crawl around the room, inspecting the baseboards with a phone flashlight, scrubbing them with hot soapy water, caulking holes, and adding a few drops of cinnamon oil.

  FACT: Bedbugs hate the smell of cinnamon.

  Heat treatment would be best for any eradication, but my blow-dryer and steamer are still at the bottom of a box somewhere, so these simple preventative measures will have to do for now.

  Cough! Cough! Cough!

  “Daddy! Marigold’s smoking again!”

  Alec’s feet storm down the hall and hit my threshold, his mouth in a tight line, accusations dripping off his tongue. From the floor, I meet his glare with equal disdain. He sighs and about-faces into Piper’s room across the hall.

  “Sweetheart, she’s not smoking. It’s those smelly sticks we talked about, remember?”

  She fakes another cough. “I can’t breathe.”

  “You want me to close your door?”

  “No! I’m scared.”

  I slam my door shut, taking a moment to appreciate having a handle again. Mom took the lock off my last door, leaving nothing but a gaping hole, privacy a laughable concept.

  “Just for safety, baby,” she had said, eyes full of pity. Couldn’t even argue; I deserved it.

  After another hour of cleaning, the house settles down and I switch to headphones, listening to a meditation app that helps quiet the mind.

  Clink. Clink. Clink.

  You can hear everything from my new room. Crying pipes. Breathing wood. Trees brushing against the ceiling. Cicadas singing in the backyard. Dishes rattling.

  Someone moving downstairs.

  Buddy sits up, ears perked, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

  “Ugh . . . Buddy, chill,” I grumble in a sleepy daze, throwing the covers over my head. “It’s just the wind.”

  “Who left this glass out?”

  Mom is holding up one of her Waterford crystal glasses in the kitchen, a wedding gift passed down by her grandmother. Well, first wedding. I don’t even think she had a registry for her courthouse ceremony to Alec.

  “Not me,” Sammy says, grabbing his granola from the adjacent cabinet.

  “Remember, no dishes in the sink. Everyone is responsible for themselves.”

  “We know that. But does everyone else?” Sammy laughs.

  I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mom. But someone was up walking around last night.”

  “Not me,” Sammy says. “I was knocked out.”

  Mom looks at the glass, then at its home on the top shelf of the cabinet.

  “It’s too high for Piper. . . .”

  “Maybe she climbed on the counter.”

  “No butts on the counter,” Piper admonishes from the stairs. “Grandma said.”

  I chuckle. Of course she’d be listening from somewhere. She has an ear for dramatics.

  Mom clears her throat and smiles. “Good morning, Piper. Sleep well? What can I get you for breakfast?”

  Piper joins us in the kitchen with a mischievious grin. “Bacon and eggs.”

  Mom folds her hands. “Sweetie, we’ve been over this before . . . we don’t eat that.”

  “Well, I do. And so does Daddy, when he’s not with you.”

  Mom straightens, her smile dimming. She turns away, pouring herself a cup of coffee, probably to keep from reacting.

  BEEP BEEP BEEP

  8:05 a.m. ALARM: Time for your pills!

  Damn, almost forgot.

  “Marigold,” Mom says, waving two of Sammy’s EpiPens before placing them in the cabinet above the fridge. “Pens . . . here.”

  “Isn’t that a little high for Piper without butts on the counter?”

  Mom smirks. “Knock it off.”

  “Good morning, everybody!” Alec enters looking refreshed. Not like someone who’s been up all hours of the night drinking out of Mom’s crystal glass.

  “Morning,” Mom and Sammy say.

  “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood!” Alec sings into Mom’s ear, and she giggles. Piper’s face turns crimson, head ready to pop off her shoulders.

  “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

  “Me too, sweetheart,” he says, still holding Mom. “So, what’s on the agenda today, babe?”

  “Unpacking and more unpacking. I want to at least set up my office. I’
m so behind on my deadline. How about you?”

  “Well, I was going to take Piper to breakfast.”

  Mom blinks. “Oh. Really?”

  “Yeah. Figured I’d take her to get a bite to eat, then do a store run.”

  She sips her coffee. “Hm. For everyone or just Piper?”

  Alec straightens. “For everyone, babe! Of course. Um, do you want to write a list?”

  “Sure.”

  “Uh, hey, Sammy. Care to join us?”

  Sammy shakes his head and grabs the oat milk out of the fridge.

  “No thanks. I’m still setting up my room. Wanna be ready for when the internet is up and running.”

  “Okay then.” Alec looks to Piper. “Well, let’s get going, sweetie.”

  Alec doesn’t bother to ask me. He knows better.

  As they back out of the driveway, the contractors pull up slow, each staring at the house with dread in their eyes, and somehow, I know the feeling.

  “Morning, ma’am,” Mr. Watson mumbles as he enters the kitchen. “You, um, happen to see a hammer lying around? About this big, red-and-black handle?”

  Mom shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.”

  Mr. Watson shifts on his back foot. “Oh. Uh, okay. Just one of the fellas . . . he must have lost it somewhere.”

  He rejoins the others in the front yard, delivering the news, which is followed by a tense yet hushed debate, each worker looking hella wary of stepping inside.

  The rest of the day, I bounce around helping Sammy and Mom empty boxes. Being a newly crowned minimalist, I don’t have much to unpack: a few shirts, shorts, and dresses, all either white or cream in color; white-plastic-framed photos; white comforter set; and Bluetooth speaker. Everything else was burned.

  With Mom in her office and Sammy taking a break to play video games, I decided to focus on common areas of the house, spraying a mixture of rubbing alcohol and distilled water in the nooks and crevices, vibing to some Post Malone.

  FACT: Spraying 91 percent solution isopropyl alcohol directly in infested surfaces will help kill or repel bedbugs, dissolving their cells and drying out their eggs.

  The cozy living room is the ideal place for bedbugs to make their home. I launch an attack around the window frames and built-in bookshelves, being mindful of the staining.