Letters From the Sky

by Tamer Lorika

  Jeanne knew she shouldn’t ask, but she did anyway. “Do you believe I’m bad luck?”

  The answer came swiftly, without thinking. “You haven’t given me any reason not to!”

  “You can’t just trust me?”

  “No! No, I can’t. I can’t trust you if you can’t trust me, Jeanne!”

  “You haven’t given me any reason to.”

  Nothing more could be said after that. Paris surged to her feet, glared at Jeanne, and screamed—just once, a restless, hurt sort of cry without words. Then she ran off towards the town. She looked back, once, but Jeanne did not meet her eye.

  Instead she turned to Jedrick, who gazed at her with an unfocused sort of look.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Honestly? I don’t know. Paris cares about you, though. You are aware of that?”

  “She’s just confused. It’s what happens when people don’t understand.”

  Jedrick laughed ruefully. “I know. Believe me, I know. And even if you are aware of it, it is still so easy to judge.”

  “You are judging, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should go after Paris.”

  “What?!”

  That had been unexpected; Jeanne could tell she had alarmed him. “She needs someone to talk to, someone to cool her down. And she won’t forgive you if she is alone to deal with this herself.”

  “What about you?” Jedrick asked. “She is going to hate you, if you don’t come after her. That’s all she wants, you know, someone who will chase her.”

  “Of course I know. But the most important thing is you and her right now, Jedrick.”

  His face flushed. “What do you mean, me and her?”

  “Love,” Jeanne said with a shrug. “Or something that looks like it.”

  A sigh. “I hate that we can read each other so well. It’s maddening.”

  “I know. Go find her.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  Jeanne smiled. “I’m not alone. I’m many things, but I promise, Jedrick, I’m not alone. Go, go free.”

  He smiled at her, gratefully, sadly. “I still trust you, Jeanne, so I’ll trust in that.”

  She nodded after him as he scrambled to his feet and took off. He didn’t look back, because he knew it would not be an ending for any of them. He didn’t need to take a last glance.

  Jeanne stayed where she was for a long moment, thinking of the kitten and of the nature of fear, and wondering if there was anything she did not believe in. Maybe there were details she could not agree with, but she believed in…most everything. What an odd thought.

  She believed in her friends.

  “They’ll come back,” she said aloud. “Jedrick will, sincerely, and he will drag Paris back kicking and screaming. I know them too well for their own good.” Nodding firmly, she struck back towards the town and her house and her mother, and the nuclear little life she held in her hands.

  On the path towards the house, however, she passed the bus stop, where the rusty, shuddering beast idled. Mincing carefully off the bus, with a huge stack of books in her hands, was Ms. Roma. She looked very much like she was going to fall onto her face or perhaps drop her parcels. Jeanne hurried over.

  “Ms. Roma?”

  “What?” the woman snapped, then moved her head slightly so Jeanne was firmly in her view. “Oh! The little chit from before—good morning.”

  The moment her feet had cleared the steps, the bus trundled off, belching smoke. Ms. Roma gave it an irritable backwards kick as it sped away, which groaned as if in complaint.

  “Would you like help with those?” Jeanne asked.

  “Oh, mon Dieu, that would be lovely,” Ms. Roma breathed.

  Jeanne stretched on tip-toe to grab the top few books from her pile.

  Ms. Roma, her entire face finally visible, was flushed and slightly sweating, even in the cold. “I was just up in the city doing some shopping for pleasure, you understand,” she said without preamble. “It’s so depressed up there—no one will even look at me, they think I’m a rube, I’m sure. It’s positively grey. Grey and nervous and there are men in green uniforms spitting their vicious language everywhere you look. Don’t even drink proper coffee. No one likes them, anyway.”

  “I’m sure,” Jeanne agreed quietly.

  “This is the first time in a few months there has been any petrol at all to get to the city on the weekend, and I needed a few books.”

  Jeanne nodded.

  The rest of the walk to Ms. Roma’s house, long and slow, made Jeanne’s arms ache from the weight of the books, but the time was brightened by a veritably ceaseless flow of conversation—or one-sided observation, in technical terms. Jeanne enjoyed it; Ms. Roma was an amusing character.

  Ms. Roma balanced the books she held on an upraised knee, sandwiched between her chest and the door, as she fumbled with the apartment keys. When the door swung open, she fell through into the apartment, tomes spraying everywhere. Jeanne had seen it coming.

  “Come in, I’ll make you…well, I have water. I’m afraid I’m out of coffee,” Ms. Roma apologized, waltzing into the kitchen without even shutting the front door. “No money, spent it all on books.”

  Jeanne smiled slightly. “If that is what pleases you.”

  “Sure is—take a look; some of them are very good.”

  Jeanne didn’t have the heart to tell Ms. Roma she was awfully ambivalent about the concept of reading; instead, she put down her stack of books, then tidied the others on the floor, reading the titles as she did. There were a few novels from across the ocean, both translated and in their native tongue. The rest were originally from this country, and Jeanne saw several titles regarding dragons and magic and elves and faeries.

  “Faerie tales?” she asked, suddenly understanding where the woman’s natural flightiness came from.

  “Of course!” Ms. Roma said, bringing in two cracked cups of pump-water and smiling crookedly. “I’ve been reading them for years. Really lovely, some of them.”

  Jeanne nodded, gazing around the apartment, curious how the school nurse might live.

  The apartment plan was similar to Ms. Milovskaya’s, but a great deal messier. There were haphazard stacks and fallen piles of books in the most unusual places—leaning against the fireplace or peeking from under the few chairs in the room. The rest of the area was awash with half-dusted surfaces and cracked wood and didn’t look much cared for at all. Unlike Ms. Milovskaya’s house, there was no life here. It was storage, a place to go back to. Jeanne realized the significance of Ms. Roma’s intrusion across the street the day before. This was a house. Across the street lay a home.

  Jeanne liked knowing that.

  She came across the last few items in the stack, finding them to be not books but single-page pamphlets, folded in half and stamped with lines of badly-edited type. Something about an emperor or a leader—the word was in a language she didn’t understand—and inevitability. The rest was garbled, as if the writer did not understand what he was putting onto the paper.

  “Ms. Roma, what are these?”

  The woman laughed, taking them from her. “Those foreign soldier boys kept forcing them on me at the street corners. Wouldn’t let me go on without taking a few. They’re just like the ones those planes dropped before the power went out a few weeks ago.”

  Jeanne looked over the pamphlets for a second before returning to the jeweled covers of the other books.

  “Little girl, I want to thank you for coming over and helping me, but I actually have something I need to go and do, so…”

  “Oh! I’m sorry, Ms. Roma. Thank you for the water. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Nah, you’re fine. You should come by the infirmary at school or something. It gets awfully lonely down there with only some first year with a nosebleed to keep me company.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Ms. Roma.” Jeanne skittered out the door.

  * * * *

  Sunday, Paris
and Jedrick stayed away from her at church. She spent most of her time shoved between Maman and the armrest on the pew, as she did every week. People still came to church religiously. Some things never changed. Many things never changed.

  Jedrick, sitting two rows in front of her and clutching Paris’s arm, turned around and mouthed, “I’m sorry,” in her general direction during the sign of peace. Jeanne whistled back at him, and her mother tugged sharply on her shirt in retaliation. But Paris heard the whistle, too, and her shoulders slumped guiltily forward. Jeanne had a distinct hope things would be normal soon.

  Immediately after the last hymn ended, Maman left Suzette in Gramaman’s care—how they had been jostling for the child’s attention during mass!—and pulled Jeanne with her up to the altar, where Father Pietar had returned to greet parishioners.

  Maman waited patiently—or, at least, she seemed patient at a cursory glance. Jeanne knew better. She waited at the foot of the raised dais for a bevy of older women to finish cooing over the relatively young, not quite good-looking pastor, before marching up to dominate his attention herself. Jeanne grew increasingly agitated, not at the situation nor at Maman but at the increasing lack of charity in her own observations.

  Still, she didn’t feel petty. Only honest. As if some familiar cloudy veil was slowly being lifted from her eyes and she could see flaws in people. For a long time, Jeanne was aware people had flaws, but they were things like bloomers—kept hidden under skirts and trousers, not to be seen. Lately, however, Jeanne saw flaws, and she was as embarrassed by the knowledge as she had been when Madame Orange had once, half-asleep, answered the front door in little more than a shift.

  Any more introspection was cut off as she was dragged by the sleeve to stand in front of Father Pietar. She looked down at her shoes like an obedient child, mumbling, “Good morning, Father,” as she waited for her mother to say something.

  “Good morning, Father,” Maman parroted, quickly. “And might I say that was a delightful sermon. I thought it brought up some very important issues.”

  The sermon had been their annual appeal for funds and volunteers to keep the church running. Jeanne had vaguely felt the need to close her eyes and take a bit of a rest.

  Father Pietar blinked his huge, blue eyes sleepily. “Thank you, Madame Dark—Janine here looks all grown up. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, my child?”

  Jeanne did her best not to wince when he forgot her name—he had been calling her Janine almost since he baptized her. She also noticed he was valiantly trying not to notice her cheek. She ducked her head and hoped for the interview to be over soon.

  “It has, Father,” she mumbled.

  “It has,” agreed Maman. “Father, there is something I would like to ask of you. My daughter needs a special blessing, and I was hoping you would be able to perform it for us.”

  Father looked less than surprised and nodded slowly. “Of course, Madame. If you will let me finish greeting my parishioners, I’m sure I can help you with that.”

  Maman nodded stiffly and, realizing she was dismissed, marched Jeanne back to the pews, seating herself firmly in the front row. Jeanne noticed Paris and Jedrick were gone. Papa and Gramaman were gone, as well.

  It took the better part of an hour for the rest of the women and men to leave their pastor and go home, and Maman waited patiently. Jeanne didn’t do much, simply swung her feet and thought about things, like her dance-steps and what she ought to draw next, and whether Jericho was as bored as she was, if she was just watching. She hoped Jericho was doing something interesting.

  “Madame Dark, if you would like to follow me?” Father Pietar beckoned.

  Jeanne looked up and realized they were alone in the church. Her mother dragged her up to the altar and Jeanne bowed, enjoying the way it smelled, like incense.

  Hello, Lord, she thought cheerfully, silently, waiting for her mother to stand again after her own genuflection. I hope we’re not bothering you by being here. I’m not sure what Maman wants.

  “You would like a blessing for your daughter?” Father Pietar asked, standing in front of them.

  Maman and Jeanne remained on their knees. “Yes, a protection from evil, if you will?” Maman asked.

  Father Pietar looked slightly confused. “A protection from evil. Well, yes, yes, of course I will, but…is there something particular that brought this on?”

  “No, there is just a lot of evil in the world lately, isn’t there?” Maman asked. “I just want to protect my daughter.”

  I’m sorry, Jeanne thought fervently. I’m sorry my mother is lying at the altar.

  “I will do so for you,” Father Pietar acquiesced.

  He paced to the back of the dais, where the accoutrements for the mass were washed and laid to dry. Picking up a small, gold bowl that had not been used, he walked to the baptismal font nearby and scooped some water into it. Walking back to the two women still on their knees, he dipped his hand into the bowl and murmured a few words. Jeanne could have heard them if she had strained but she didn’t, continuing her own sort of cheerful prayer.

  I’ve been having a very good week, I believe. I was very scared when Jericho got in trouble, but I trust she will be okay. You’ll keep her safe, won’t you? Thank you…

  “…and drive out spirits that may wish to harm the child or interfere with her life. We ask this in the name of You, oh Lord, and in the name of Your son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  Father Pietar flicked the holy water into Jeanne’s face. She flinched and squished up her nose as the pastor leaned over to trace a sign of the cross on her forehead. He nodded firmly, as if that were the end of it, and Jeanne was tugged to her feet by Maman.

  “Thank you, Father,” she told him. “It means a lot.”

  “Of course. It’s important to keep our children safe, don’t you agree?”

  She couldn’t do anything but agree, and so they left the sanctuary of the church.

  I hope you have a good week, God! Jeanne thought as they left. She felt as if something returned the sentiment.

  * * * *

  The next day was Monday and Cotillion day. Jeanne realized very early in the morning that Jedrick and Paris would not be waiting at the corner for her to walk to school. It was an odd feeling—they had been doing this for years upon years. But she stood on their usual street and waited until long after the bells had tolled seven hours, and knew they had gone ahead of her.

  She wasn’t hurt, not really. Just a little surprised. Still, things would go back to normal quickly; she believed in that.

  So she walked to school herself, a little late, a little behind everyone else, arriving when most kids were surging through the double doors and into the building. She wasn’t used to so many people, and it took her by surprise. On occasion she could forget there were so many bodies, but for days at Mass, or school assemblies on the athletic fields. Still, she had heard stories—of the city Papa commuted to for work, or ones even farther off, connected only by the radio—where people bloomed so thickly someone could get trapped or trampled. Some days she delighted in the thought.

  Today, she felt awfully on edge.

  She took a breath and walked into the crowd. It parted for her like a crimson current, and she looked around in wonder, sensing the gaze of all of the students on her. She had noticed their stares long before now, of course, but it never seemed as urgent as it did this morning. She didn’t have the screen of flesh as she did when Jedrick and Paris were with her. She refused to veil her face.

  It was not quiet—far from it—but the voices turned to whispers and seemed antagonistic. They ate at her, and she wondered if some of them held stones. What an odd thought to be having. She had done nothing wrong.

  It isn’t…

  The thought didn’t want to become heard but it was pushed along, shoved into her brain, swirling behind her eyes. Oh, she had been thinking so many things lately, things she should not have, but this was the worst.

  It isn’t…


  It isn’t…

  It just isn’t fair.

  “Stop,” she whispered. No one heard her, not even herself; the hiss of breath was too loud.

  “Stop, please.” It was louder this time. “Just let me get to class.”

  No one was in her way, not blatantly, but no one moved for her, either. She threaded her way through tight groups of children whose faces were turned away but whose gazes followed her. Her mark throbbed.

  “Please, just be quiet.” Her voice at normal pitch, and the few around her who heard seemed pitying maybe, or guilty, but they were the only ones, and it was temporary.

  A particularly large knot of students stretched across the single hallway. They were the eighth years, the ones in her class, Monique at their head, her back turned. None of them looked threatening or frightening. They all just looked scared. And none of them showed any signs of moving.

  Jeanne slowed to a stop just as she reached Monique’s arm woven tightly through Michael’s.

  “Excuse me,” she said quietly. “Can I get through here?”

  Monique ignored her, stuck up her nose, perhaps, but Michael turned and grunted, “Go around.”

  So Jeanne tried, but was met with more resistance—just heavy bodies at rest, unwilling to move forward or to the side to let her through. She slipped through a space between Michael and Louis, but found herself trapped in the crush of bodies, awkwardly pressed up against Louis, his eyes focused on her and judging. Her own eyes wouldn’t focus at all; she kept her gaze on the floor. Her mark throbbed again.

  Someone moved—she never knew who—but someone moved and jostled into her and she stumbled backwards, right into Monique and her knot. She almost knocked Michael over but he caught her by the shoulders and she leaned against his chest like a doll.

  “S—sorry, thank you,” she mumbled, trying to pick herself up.

  Before she could, Michael shied away and dropped her to the floor. She landed hard on her shoulder and slid a little. She let out a little noise, but the boy pretended not to see or hear her.

  Jeanne tried to get to her feet but before she could, someone stepped backwards, almost overbalancing, and shoved her to the floor again. Jeanne caught her breath, tried to look up, but it was all a forest of legs and limbs and no one looked at her as they casually trampled her, pretending they were not. Someone stepped onto her hand and she cried out for real this time. Someone else tripped over her, as if they had been shoved. She scrambled upright and felt hands on her back, trying to shove her down.