These Women

by Ivy Pochoda

  Dedication

  In memory of Felicia Stewart, an outspoken feminist

  and pioneer in women’s reproductive health,

  who understood these women. And to Matt Stewart.

  Epigraph

  . . . how do you survive, how do you make it through?

  Always listen to the women.

  —SESSHU FOSTER, “TAYLOR’S QUESTION”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Feelia 1999

  Part I: Dorian: 2014

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Feelia 1999

  Part II: Julianna: 2014

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Feelia 1999

  Part III: Essie: 2014

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Feelia 2014

  Part IV: Marella: 2014

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Feelia 2014

  Part V: Anneke: 2014

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Feelia 2014

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Ivy Pochoda

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Feelia 1999

  HEY. YOU WANNA PULL BACK THE CURTAIN, LEMME SEE YOUR face. All I hear is you breathing in the dark. In out, in out like one of them machines. One of them beep-beep motherfuckers. And we got enough of them in here. Breathing for you. Beating your heart for you. Pumping your goddamned blood. Beep, beep. In, out. In, out. In, out. That’s all I hear in this place.

  So you’re not gonna pull it back. You too sick to pull it back? Me, I’m all beat the fuck up. But I’m not ashamed. I’ll let you see my face. You—well, it’s not on me to invade your privacy. Leave the fucking curtain closed. Sit there in the dark. In, out. In, out. Beep fucking beep.

  I’m gonna open the window. Place smells like death even though they’re supposed to be keeping us alive. Isn’t that just the fucking, what-do-you-call-it. Ironic. That’s it. That’s what it is. I’m gonna open the window. And don’t mind me if I smoke. Let’s just hope you don’t have some fucked-up lung disease or something. Let’s just hope. Well, one cigarette secondhand won’t do you worse. You’re in here already.

  You’re just gonna sit there in silence. You’re not gonna say a goddamn word. You’re gonna let me ramble. You’re gonna let me go on about my business. You’re not gonna tell me what’s up with you, how come you’re laid up in this place. You just want to hear my story. Nosy-ass motherfucker.

  It’s all about how we do in the dark.

  You know about that? You know anything about that? You know the streets? Do you? You’re really not going to say anything?

  It’s a hard game out there. There are rules. There are things you do and don’t do. Everyone’s got to pay to play. Even me, I got to pay it up the chain. Game of skill and luck.

  They say you’re lucky if someone slows on your corner. Lucky you get to lean into the car window. Lucky if someone takes you for a ride—up around to one of the dirty alleys off Western or down to one of the smaller streets in Jefferson Park. Luckier still to a hotel. Luckier to be returned in one piece.

  I’m lucky. I know the streets. At least that’s what I thought. Let me tell you—you have to be diligent. That’s a big word. Hard to say. But it pays to know it. Diligent. Get knocked up again, that’s what I’ll name my kid—diligent. Diligent Jefferies.

  But fuck if I knew you have to be diligent off duty. When I’m just up at the Miracle Mart on Sixty-Fifth getting a fifth of Hennessy and some Pall Malls. Not even working. Just standing there on the corner, lighting up, enjoying shit, you know. Because the weather’s cool for once. And isn’t that a fucking miracle. Cool day, cool night. Wind in the trees, you know what I’m saying? Making the trees dance. That’s a pretty thing.

  Want to know what’s fucked up? South Central—everyone says it’s ugly, that it’s messed up. You ever take a step back and take a good look at it? A really good look. This is a nice fucking place. We got tidy little houses. Yards. Front and back. We got space. Not that I live in a house. I’m in an apartment but all the houses around the way—they’re nice. I get to look at them. Also, we got trees. Have you ever noticed all the trees? The ones with pink flowers and the ones with purple flowers. You probably think they’re the same. You’ve got to pay attention.

  So this is what I’m thinking about as I light my cigarette and lean against the wall of the Miracle Mart. You know that place? Man who works there is from Japan. And me, I’m from outside Little Rock and he’s selling me stuff and I’m buying and we have a nice conversation each day about this and that. And that’s what’s just happened before I go outside and light up and have my think about how damn nice South L.A. is if you ignore all the people. Or at least most of them. If you look at the tidy houses, the cars in the driveways, the plants, the gardens, the kids playing outside. Squint and you could be staring direct at the American dream.

  How come dudes can tell just by looking? You ever wonder that? How come? ’Cause it’s not like I’m the only lady out on Western in heels, short skirt, top cut down to there. There’s me and there’s them like me and there’s all the others who dress just the same because that’s how they dress. But dudes know.

  You know that corner by Miracle Mart? It’s dark. That’s why I don’t work it. Can’t see who’s who and what’s what. But I’m not working, right? So it doesn’t matter. Anyway, this car pulls up and I’m not paying attention because why should I? I’m smoking and staring up at those trees that are dancing like a couple of drunk girls at a party—sway, sway, sway.

  Window goes down. Hey beautiful, or some shit. I just nod and keep smoking. I’m not on the clock. No one’s watching to make sure I make my roll.

  But then there’s another hey beautiful. Man’s got an accent, sounds like. I don’t give it much thought. Because the trees got me thinking about how everyone’s always saying they need to get up and out of this place and I’m thinking—why the hell would you want to do that? You been to Little Rock? You been to Houston? Go enjoy what you have in L.A. Go to the fucking ocean. Or just sit and look at the trees and the flowers when you got a moment. Which is exactly what I was doing when I hear this hey beautiful again and I’m snapped out of my thinking.

  Yeah, I say.

  What are you drinking? I don’t look at him because I don’t want to make eye contact, don’t want him to think I’m interested, that I’m looking to trick. So I take a sip of my Hennessy and stare up at the sky.

  But the car’s still there, rumbling like it’s gonna pull a getaway or some shit. And I can feel this guy staring at me and still I’m not looking. Because. Because. Because.

  Come on, you don’t want to be drinking that stuff.

  Now I’m paying attention. Because he’s not saying the same shit most dudes say—the Hey let me see that ass before I deci
de to buy. You want to give me a little taste so I know what I’m paying for? You’re gonna want to get on my thing for free. You’re gonna want to pay me. He’s not saying those things. He’s talking at me polite. Like I’m a person.

  That type of liquor will just make you drunk. That’s what he says. And it makes me laugh, because, isn’t that the fucking point?

  Yeah, I say. I’d feel ripped off if it didn’t.

  Then he says, You ever had a South African wine?

  They have wine in Africa? I say. Because that has to be some kind of fucking joke. Like zebras and giraffes and wine. But when I look over he’s holding a cup out the car window.

  Here’s the part where I wasn’t fucking diligent. Here’s when I don’t take my own goddamned advice.

  Hold up. I need an ashtray. I also need some water. You got water over there? Or should I press this button. They’ll smell the smoke, but fuck it if I care. This whole place smells like death and worse.

  SHIT. SHE’S GONE. YOU think she thinks she’s better or worse than me because she’s foreign? What do you think? And she took my smokes. Stole ’em more like. Why’d she come here if she lived somewhere tropical? How come?

  Little Rock I understand. You’d been to Little Rock you’d understand too. You’d understand why I left. Any job in L.A. is better than a life there. And so what if my job isn’t exactly, what-do-you-call-it, white collar? It’s fucking no collar. No collar, no fucking shirt. Not even pants. And so what? At least it isn’t in Little Rock. Hell, you might not like what I do, might not understand it. But at least I get to be outside. At least I get to walk, to choose my streets, to take it all in—smell the goddamn flowers, which is more than I can say for most folks around here. They don’t stop to smell, just cruise on by in their cars, windows up. Me, I smell.

  Which is just what I was doing when this guy starts in on me about fucking South African wine and how the shit I’m drinking will just get me drunk and hungover and do I want to taste his booze and then there’s this cup handed out the window. And suddenly I’m, like, what the fuck, why the hell not. So I step over to the car and take the cup. And it doesn’t taste all that good. I mean better than most of the shit I drink, but nothing spectacular. Then things get a little fuzzy.

  He’s like do you want to go for a drive?

  And I’m telling him he’s got it all wrong. I’m not working. It’s my night off. And yeah, I get a night off. No one can tell me I’m on the clock seven days. I’m not a free agent—that shit’s too dangerous. If there’s one thing I wasn’t born, it’s stupid.

  Shit. But that’s the whole goddamn point of this story. Here I am talking about diligence and street smarts and what did I do? I made a mistake.

  I get in the car. But I’ve downed that wine and he’s refilled the cup. And my head is swimming like the time I jumped in the river down in Louisiana and the water was too muddy for me to see and I couldn’t get back to the surface and all above me was this murky brown churning. That’s what it felt like. Which is why I didn’t get a good look at the guy.

  White maybe? Latino? Not black. That’s for sure. White if I had to bet on it.

  Here’s the secret. Here’s what we tell each other. Pay attention. Look for distinguishing marks. Like does this dude have a tattoo? A beard and what the fuck kind of beard? Does he have an accent? A wandering eye? Does he seem hopped up? Jumpy? All these things to look out for in case shit goes wrong. In case you need to run or identify the guy later for whatever fucked-up reason.

  And I should be doing all these things. I mean to. But after a while the guys all run together into one angry, horny, sweaty cheap motherfucker who kicks you the hell out of his car the second he’s finished. So what’s the point. Anyway, like I keep telling you if you’re even listening—are you even awake?—is that I wasn’t working. I was taking shit in, drinking it down. I was thinking about the palm trees line dancing up there in the sky. Doing the Texas two-step.

  I remember leaning back in my seat. I remember unrolling the window to get a better look. I remember the guy telling me to put the window back up. He doesn’t like it down. I remember laughing, because who doesn’t want the window down on a cool night? Then he slapped me. And for a moment I’m, like, you got no right because I’m not working. That’s the fucked-up thing I was thinking before everything goes black.

  Remember how I told you about the river in Louisiana? Here’s the story. I was ten. At least I think that’s how old I was. I was down in New Iberia visiting my cousins. Real country kids doing their country shit. And stealing some kind of moonshine someone’s uncle was making. Never mind it was lunchtime. So we go down to the river, or the bayou, you want to call it that. I must have had a couple of swigs from the jar my cousins were passing because I believed them when they said there was a dog drowning. And they point out across that slow-moving brown sludge and there’s something rolling in the current. Rolling. Bobbing. Fucking spinning. Drowning. That’s what I thought. My cousins are just standing there on the bank talking about this drowning dog and not doing anything. And they’re saying: Feelia, you so concerned, you jump in. And that thing’s not too far in front of me spinning and spinning. Yeah you save it, they’re saying.

  And next thing, I’m kicking off my sandals and pumping my arms at my sides and I’m jumping off the bank far as I can toward the dog. Then the water’s up over my head, thick like melted ice cream. I can see the sun, sort of, so I know which way is up, just not how to get there. Have you ever had one of those dreams where you are running but you can’t move a motherfucking inch? That’s what being in the water was like. Except worse because there was no air. And that sun overhead was getting farther and farther away like that pinpoint of light at the end of a Looney Tune.

  The dog is in the water above me. Spinning. I can’t reach it. I can’t do anything. That thick-ass water is up my nose, in my mouth. It’s crawling down my throat like a warm milkshake. The dog is spinning away from me and I’m sinking way the fuck down. I’m not going to save it. So I close my eyes and I fall.

  You know I didn’t drown. Of course you fucking know. Which makes this a stupid story. One of my cousins jumped in, grabbed my arm, dragged me to the bank. I lay there panting on my back, staring up at the sun as if it were a long-lost friend. A boat goes chugging past, one of those shrimpers belching diesel smoke, stirring up the water. Making waves. And my cousin has left me and scrambled back to the rest of them. But I’m too exhausted to move. So I lie there, the waves from the passing boat lapping at me and suddenly there’s this thing on top of me. Cold and bristly and bloated with river water. And motherfucking dead. The dog, I’m thinking. But it doesn’t feel like a dog. It feels like human skin—swollen, clammy skin. Pimply and prickly. My chest hurts too much to scream because this dead thing is all up over me, pressing on me, heavy as fuck, its scratchy hair ripping my skin. And somehow I get out from under that shit, roll to the side. And I’m lying face-to-face with a dead hog. Its glassy eyes and blue snout inches from my own. I kid you not.

  Why am I telling you this shit about something that happened to me when I was ten, some prank my cousins pulled? Here’s why. Because when I come to in that car after being slapped, it’s like I’m back on the bank of the bayou, disoriented and exhausted, that fucking pig on top of me. But this time the pig isn’t dead. It’s biting and snorting and saying all these things that sound like it’s talking to someone who isn’t me, some other woman in some other place who’s done some other shit to get the pig mad.

  I can feel its piggy skin on my own. I can smell its dead pig smell.

  And then I go out again. I feel the car moving. And next time I’m awake it’s because there’s a pain like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s sharp and clean. Like glass. It’s almost beautiful. Like mercury sliding in one of those old-time thermometers. I didn’t know pain could be so beautiful. So fucking beautiful that it takes my breath away. Literally. Straight across my throat, so I can’t scream, because when I try I feel a bu
bble of blood running from my throat down to my neck.

  And then there’s something over my face, something that makes it even harder to breathe. Something that makes the world even farther away. Foggy, like I’m looking through a cloud of weed smoke. And I’m rolling, rolling, like that dead hog in the water. Except below me the ground is hard. I can feel dirt, trash, and glass. And I’m lying on my back, staring straight up at the moon, which is blurry behind whatever’s over my face that’s making it impossible to get air. And even still, I’m looking for the palm trees, trying to remember them. Because if I can find them . . .

  1.

  THE GIRLS ARRIVE AFTER DISMISSAL. HOW OLD ARE THEY? Fifteen? Sixteen? Seventeen? Dorian’s lost the ability to tell. They flood the small fish shack, spinning on the stools bolted to the floor, splaying their bodies over the counter. They’ve rolled the skirts of their uniforms high, revealing thigh, even a little cheek. A flash of underwear trimmed with lace. They’ve unbuttoned their blouses, yanked down their polos, showing bra and breast.

  I could get—

  Gimme—

  Lemme get a—

  Their voices pile on top of one another as they wait for their food.

  They’re loud, performing, making a big deal of their adolescent selves.

  Dorian checks the temperature of the oil, making sure it’s hot enough that the food crisps instead of sweats.

  The girls are growing impatient because the world isn’t moving at their speed. Soon they’re trying to outdo one another with their takedowns, their bold profanities.

  Bitch. Whore. Slut.

  Dorian slides them iced tea, soda, and double orders of fries.

  The girls’ voices rise, twisting and tangling.

  Let me tell you what this bitch got up to last weekend.

  Don’t you dare.

  This bitch—

  Who are you calling a bitch, bitch?

  Like I said, this bitch went over to Ramon’s place.

  Don’t you say another word.

  Come on, you’re proud of it. Don’t tell me you’re not. Or else how come first thing you did when you got home was text me and Maria all the details.