White Smoke

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  CREAAAAAKKK . . .

  I don’t hear the creak, I feel it. The floorboard behind me bending under some heavy weight.

  “I know, Sammy,” I groan without turning. “I know this looks crazy. But you’ll all thank me when we’re not throwing our mattresses in a bonfire.”

  I pop out an AirPod and glance over my shoulder. I’m alone but not alone at the same time. Because I can still sense the essence of someone . . . lingering like a low fog.

  “Sammy?”

  A door squeaks down the hall. I speed through the living room and into the kitchen. Empty. The family room, the kitchen and nook, even the foyer.

  “Mom?”

  The door to her office is closed but Fela Kuti sings through the bottom sweep, meaning she’s in the zone.

  An icy chill taps up my spine as I make a U-turn, stopping short. The basement door is cracked open, a whistling breeze streaming through it.

  Was this open before?

  I test the door, its hinges squeaking softly, and peer downstairs into the endless darkness, clicking the light switch twice. Nothing.

  “Hello?” I call, voice echoing, but only silence responds. Pushing it closed, I drift to the living room, unable to shake the sense I’m being followed when something in the corner moves toward me, fast.

  “AHH!” I scream, stumbling back.

  Buddy stands in the middle of the room, tail wagging, a goofy grin as if saying, “Hi! I’ve missed you!”

  I laugh, rubbing his head. Been cooped up in here way too long. There’s only so much you can do without contact with the outside world before you slowly start losing your shit.

  One bar. Still. I’ve now tested all the corners of the house, searching for a signal. Buddy follows me around like we’re playing a game, sniffing behind each spot I leave.

  It’s time to go exploring. The neighborhood seems pretty walkable. Helpful, considering Mom and Alec made it clear there’s no way in hell I will ever get a car again. They barely let me walk to Tamara’s house alone. That, along with an eight thirty curfew and mandatory bag inspections . . . you could almost mistake my situation for house arrest.

  “Where are you going?” Sammy asks from the top of the stairs.

  I clip Bud’s leash to his collar and slip on my sneakers.

  “Gonna take Bud for a walk. See if I can get better service on the corner or something. Wanna come?”

  Sammy shrugs, thumping down the stairs. “Sure. Can’t believe Alec’s still not back with Piper yet. It’s been hours.”

  “Dude, the longer that brat is gone, the better,” I say, and throw the door open, running right into a fist.

  “Mari!” Sammy screams before catching me as I fall back on my ass. Buddy barks frantically and I’m seeing white spots.

  “Oh shit! Damnnn, you okay?” a deep voice says from . . . somewhere. The room is spinning too fast for me to place him.

  Wait, him?

  “Mom!” Sammy screams. “Mom, help!”

  Mom rushes out of her office. “Marigold! What happened?”

  “Aye yo, my bad! I was just about to knock, your doorbell’s broke . . . and . . . yo, I’m so sorry! Here, let me help.”

  Two rough hands grip my arm, trying to pull me up, but I yank away.

  “Dude . . . what the hell,” I snap, eyes refocusing.

  The man who punched my right eye wasn’t exactly a man. Couldn’t be much older than me, with light brown eyes and thick dreads hanging by his neck. I’m suddenly aware that I’m sprawled out in front of him like a chalk outline and quickly sit up. The room twirls as Mom examines me.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, mildly annoyed.

  “Uh, yeah. Yusef Brown. I’m with Brown Town Mowing Company. We, um, met your husband at the gas station around the corner. Said y’all looking to do some yard work and asked us to stop by.”

  He’s a rich mocha brown. The hot chocolate with coconut milk on a chilly day by the beach type of brown. God, I hope these stupid flowery words dancing in my head aren’t leaking out my mouth.

  Mom huffs. “Help me get her to her feet, Sammy. We need to walk around, make sure she doesn’t have a concussion.”

  “Nah, let me,” Yusef insists.

  “I’m fine, I . . .”

  Swooooosh . . . and I’m on my feet, a wobbly spin top.

  “There ya go. You aight? And . . . daaaamn girl. You tall!”

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I grumble.

  Except he’s tall too. At least six foot five. Didn’t think they even made boys this size. In Cali, I just about towered over everyone in my sophomore class.

  “Nice place you got here,” he muses, walking me around the kitchen island. “How about some water? Whenever I get my ass beat, I always ask for water first.”

  “Yes. Water,” I groan, unwilling to talk in full sentences.

  Mom shakes her head. “Let me make an ice pack. Sammy, get your sister some water.”

  Sammy moves about the kitchen, the color drained from his face, feet dragging, never taking his eyes off me. Same look he had six months ago when he found me. Poor kid, I’ve scared him. Again.

  “I’m fine, Sammy, it’s okay.”

  He nods and gives me a cup of water, hand trembling. Yusef offers him a fist bump.

  “What up doe, Sam. I’m Yusef. Aye, don’t worry about your sis, she’s a champ.” He stops to wink at me. “I punched homie up the block yesterday and he still sleep.”

  Sammy’s eyes widen. Yusef cracks a brilliant smile and pats him on the shoulder.

  “I’m messing with you, man! Aye, you want some candy? Might be a little melted but I got a Snickers and—”

  “NO!” I scream.

  “Drop it!” Mom shrieks.

  Yusef drops the Snickers, holding both hands up.

  “Sorry, Sammy is allergic to . . . well, everything,” I explain. “But especially nuts.”

  “That’s probably why my husband reached out to you. I mentioned last night needing to keep the weeds down for Sammy’s allergies.”

  “Oh. My bad. Ain’t trying to take out both ya kids.”

  Mom chuckles while gently laying an ice pack over my eye. I hold in a whimper, wincing through the crisp cold.

  Yusef studies me. One hand still holding my elbow, he leans forward and sniffs.

  Is he smelling my hair?

  “Mm. That smells good,” he says. “What is that?”

  “It’s lavender,” Mom says. “Will help with the bruising.”

  He nods and replaces her hand with his, holding the ice pack in place. So close, I’m able to snag a good look at him. He’s cute, in a cute-and-I-know-it type of way. I’m allergic to nuts like this too.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Oh, that’s probably my uncle, wondering what I’m doing up in here.”

  “I’ll get it,” Mom says, jogging over.

  “So, didn’t catch your name,” he says, grinning.

  “Marigold Anderson,” I answer flatly.

  “Marigold,” he muses. “An annual. Bloom, then die. Interesting.”

  I don’t know how to take that, so I change topics. “You live around here?”

  “Ain’t far. Over on Rosemary and Sweetwater, by the middle school.”

  “Hey! That’s where I’ll be starting next week,” Sammy chimes in.

  “Oh, for real? I went there too. Watch out for Ms. Dutton. Miserable old bird!” He smiles at me. “So I guess you’ll be starting at Kings High?”

  I roll my eyes. “Guess so.”

  “New schools are tough, but at least you’ll have one friend there to start.”

  Who said anything about us being “friends”?

  Mom returns with an older bald-headed man, the resemblance striking. Yusef’s uncle takes in the room—the Snickers bar on the floor, his nephew icing some random girl’s face—and huffs.

  “Boy, what you get yourself into this time?”

  “Hey yo, Unc, this here’s Marigold and my main man
Sam.”

  He chuckles. “Nice to meet y’all. I’m Mr. Brown.”

  Mom walks Mr. Brown to the backyard, showing him the hedges that needed trimming and Sammy takes Buddy out front to calm him, leaving Yusef and me alone. He keeps the ice pack pressed on my face, his eyes wandering from the ceiling lights to the floors, like he’s taking inventory.

  “You know I could handle this on my own, right?” I grumble.

  “Yeah, but it’s way more fun with me helping, right?” He leans over my shoulder, nodding at my terrarium. “That’s a fly-ass succulent garden you have there. Biggest sempervivum I’ve ever seen. And that stone pattern pretty . . . what? What you laughing at?”

  “It’s just funny hearing a dude . . . I don’t know, gush over terrarium patterns.”

  He shrugs. “Hey man, everybody’s got their thing. Where’d your moms get this? These be costing a fortune online.”

  “I made it.”

  “Ha! For real? Look at you with the skills, Cali.”

  A nickname. Something blooms inside my chest and I rip it at the root.

  “So, been working with your uncle for a while, huh?”

  “Since I was a kid. He’s more into the lawn care, weed whacking stuff. I’m the gardener. The artist.”

  “I used to have a garden,” I mumble, surprised I’d blurt out something so . . . personal.

  “Really. Well, maybe we can work on a new one together.” He smiles. “You know I got all the right tools.”

  Cocky, arrogant, and knows he’s good-looking . . . the exact thing I don’t need right now. I yank the ice pack from his hand.

  “Um, yeah, think it’s time for you to go.”

  He laughs. “Chill! I was just messing with you!”

  I cross my arms. “Shouldn’t you go see if your uncle needs your help or something?”

  Yusef’s face falls as he weighs his options, whether to push it or let it go. He chooses the latter, shaking his head before brushing by me. The back door closes and I take a deep breath.

  Don’t overthink it, I coach myself, patting both my pockets. He’s not worth the trouble and . . . hey, where’s my phone?

  If there was a positive of once having bedbugs, it’s that I now can literally find a needle in a haystack with razor-sharp precision. I retrace my steps in the foyer, through the living room and kitchen. Must have fallen in all the commotion, but the floor is clear, the counters and surfaces bare. With no Wi-Fi, I can’t use the Find My Phone app on my computer, but perhaps I can call myself with Mom’s phone. That’s if she has even a bar of service.

  “Mom! Can I borrow your phone?” I ask from the deck. “I can’t find mine.”

  “Sure, hun, it’s in my room.”

  Yusef eyes me and I rush back inside.

  Don’t overthink it. You’re not responsible for other people’s emotions. Only your own.

  At the stairs, my phone waits for me, lying neatly faceup on the middle of the third step, as if it planted itself there. I scratch my scalp, digging a bit too hard. It wasn’t here. I know it wasn’t here because I looked. I couldn’t possibly miss this huge white dot on a slab of oak wood. Someone must have put it here.

  Sammy. It had to be.

  Three

  “FIRST FULL DAY in the big city and you get your ass whooped.”

  “Shut up, Sammy,” I laugh.

  Sammy splashes me with water as I dry off our dinner plates. If we were back home, I would’ve skipped dinner, headed down the road to Tamara’s, hit a blunt, and recounted my run-in with Yusef. If we had Wi-Fi I would’ve at least FaceTimed her.

  “Guys, you know we have a dishwasher, right?” Alec says, pointing to the machine by my legs.

  “Oh right. I forgot,” I say with a shrug. “We’ve never had a dishwasher before.”

  “And it’s much more fun washing them together,” Sammy says, splashing water again.

  Piper looks on from the dining table, her face unreadable. Probably trying to find something to end our revelry. It’s like she’s allergic to happiness.

  “Hey, hey, guys! Watch the floors!” Mom warns. “All right, I’m off to bed. My back is killing me.”

  Alec rounds the table and massages her shoulders.

  “You guys gonna be all right without me tomorrow?” Alec quips, kissing the top of her head.

  “We were fine without you today when you sent stranger-danger here to knock out my sister and poison me.”

  Alec and Mom hit Sammy with the same look, before Mom pats Alec’s hand.

  “We’ll be fine, babe. Don’t worry about us. Tomorrow is a big day!”

  When Mom was first accepted to the residency, Alec wasn’t too pleased with the idea of moving. Money was tight and he had trouble finding work around town after my . . . incident. But then the Sterling Foundation hooked him up with a financial analyst position at one of their partner firms. He was full steam ahead after that.

  “Daddy, can you read me a bedtime story?” Piper asks eagerly.

  “How about you read me one instead, huh? Starting fifth grade soon!”

  Piper winces a smile. She’s not excited about starting school either. Something, for once, we have in common.

  “Oh babe, have you seen my watch?” Alec asks. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

  “Did you look in the tray in the bathroom?”

  “Nothing there. Weird, I just had it.”

  Alec takes Piper to bed and Mom heads to her office, leaving Sammy and me to finish the kitchen. I stare into the hallway mirror at a welt the size of a large fist on my cheek and the bags under my eyes. This place has aged me overnight.

  “Ew, Marigold!” Sammy wrinkles his nose.

  “What?”

  “You farted,” he gags, covering his mouth.

  “No I didn’t!” I sniff the air and reel back. “Ugh, what the hell is that!”

  The pungent stench makes it seem like we’re living inside a porta potty. Pinching noses, we walk around in circles until Sammy stops at a vent, right below the hallway mirror under the stairs.

  “It’s coming from in there.”

  The next morning, Mr. Watson sniffs from a safe distance, then shakes his head.

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  It’s not his lack of interest. It’s the way he won’t even go near the vent that makes me glance up from my coffee. Even Piper, swinging her legs on the stool at the kitchen island, slurping up her Honey Nut Cheerios, seems curious.

  “Are you sure?” Mom asks, perplexed. “The kids said they smelled something.”

  “Could’ve just been passing.”

  “So random animals roll through here and fart often,” Sammy chuckles. “Bud’s farts are lethal but nothing like that. It smelled like something died in here.”

  Mr. Watson stiffens. It’s slight but noticeable.

  Mom wipes her hand on a dish towel. “It must have come from the basement. Should we check?”

  There’s a few silent seconds before Mr. Watson says, “We don’t go to the basement.”

  It came out hard, violent even. Mom gapes at him. He tips his hat and quickly walks away.

  Sammy nods his head. “Well, that went well.”

  CLICK!

  With a loud snap, the TV is on, volume set to a thousand. An image of an old white man in a blue suit sitting at a mahogany desk fades in, the city’s unmistakable skyline in the green screen background as he shouts.

  “And so I say to you, cast the wickedness out of your heart for the good of thy neighbor, cleanse thy soul with fire!”

  “Who’s that?” Sammy asks, drifting into the family room.

  The cable guy pops up from behind the TV stand, dusting off his hands.

  “That’s Scott Clark,” he says, wrapping a cord around his arm. “He gives the daily sermon on local channel twelve.”

  “Daily?” I ask. “You mean he hollers like this every day?”

  The cable guy frowns. “Y’all not Christian?”

  “No. We’re,
uh, spiritualists.”

  “Like Scientology?”

  “What? No! We . . . just believe in a higher power.”

  He rolls his eyes. “If you say so. Cable’s up but internet’s gonna take a little time.”

  “I see abundances in your future. God knows where the money is and he wants to give it to you. God wants to touch your life! But he needs your help. And if you call now, order your free HOLY SEEDS and follow the instructions, I promise, there will be an anointing on your life. Trust me. I would not lead you wrong.”

  Despite the rhetoric, I’m drawn into the skeleton-looking white-haired man who seems to be on death’s door, shouting with his last breath. His neck is pulsing red, skin pasty, gray eyes bulging, blue veins like ivy vines on his temples. It’s like a car crash you can’t turn away from.

  “Everyone in Cedarville watches him,” the cable guy adds. “He’s a mighty prophet around here.”

  BEEP BEEP

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

  “In the name of Jesus, you will be delivered from drugs, from debt, from wickedness and sin. . . .”

  By late afternoon, we have the entire house unpacked and the place is starting to look like a real home. I stand by the vent a few more times, sniffing. Nothing.

  Maybe it really was just a passing . . . thing.

  DING DING DING

  Scattering boots thump from every corner of the house, descending the stairs and out the front door. Mr. Watson doesn’t bother to say goodbye this time.

  We gather around the table for dinner, scarfing down a root vegetable medley and salad. Alec makes Piper a grilled cheese sandwich and fries.

  “Mom, can you pick up some more oat milk?” Sammy says between bites. “We’re out.”

  “What? Already? Alec just bought some yesterday.”

  Sammy chuckles. “Well, I’m not the only one in the house using it.”

  “I don’t drink that nasty stuff,” Piper declares.

  Maybe that’s why Piper’s so pale, the lack of nutrients. I don’t think I’ve seen her take so much as a gummy vitamin.

  She catches me staring, eyes narrowing, and picks the crust off her triangle slice.

  “I saw someone last night,” she says, concentrating on her plate.

  Alec snags a fry. “Who?”