Jane.

by Riya Anne Polcastro

  "Your total is eight seventy-nine," the cashier concluded.

  Aunt Rose dug into her worn leather bag and pulled out her book of food stamps. This was before the days of the electronic benefit transfer which was hailed to maintain the recipient’s privacy but, in reality, just made it impossible to buy toilet paper with the change. But maybe if it were not for the conspicuousness of paper, the scene would not have unfolded as it did.

  Either way, the woman behind us clucked. "I cannot believe this! Is this what I pay taxes for?" She pointed her bloated hand palm up towards my aunt and her government-issued booklet. "So white trash like you can gorge yourselves on ice cream?! This is ridiculous! You shouldn’t even be allowed to buy junk food on the taxpayers’ dime! Why don’t you just get a job!" Her holier-than-thou attitude suffered ironic betrayal from her triple-chinned, beet-red face and the obvious fact that she had not gotten that way from a healthy diet of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains. Her own cart was in fact packed with cookies, chocolate bars, cinnamon rolls, ICE CREAM, and a variety of processed boxed foods. And her toddler was still sucking on the chocolate bar.

  Jaws dropped all around us; cashiers and customers were visibly shocked at what they heard. Considering the popular sentiments towards welfare and social services in general, many of these people probably had thought the same thing at one time or another. It was not the content that shocked them, it was this woman’s willingness to say it where and how she had. No one in the store knew my aunt from Adam. They had no clue about her psychological and emotional barriers. To them, she probably looked like a fairly young, able-bodied woman, perfectly employable. This stranger’s judgments exposed my aunt to an audience of scrutiny and misinformation. That first day of school could have taught me to pull hair, throw dirt, and just be mean in general. Instead, I learned that poverty meant a lot more than hunger, worn-out hand-me-downs, utility shutoffs, and evictions. It also meant that others would go out of their way to persecute you for it.

  I was so little, so young, so naïve. "Auntie, why is she trying to take away my special treat?" One, two, and then three tears ran down my cheeks. Contrary to what this bitch knew or thought she knew about everyone on food stamps, I did not get to have ice cream very often at all. "Please don’t let her take it away," I pleaded.

  Aunt Rose did not say anything. No one else did either. No one came to our defense, not even the cashier. We suffered our humiliation in silence. My aunt accepted her change without a peep, without a thank you, without her typical flamboyant gratitude. We started towards the door with our bags.

  The Amazon was not done. She yelled after us, "You better not use that change on liquor! I will report you!"

  My aunt did not turn back, and she did not say a word. We kept walking until we reached her raggedy old Buick with the hole in the floorboard. Aunt Rose climbed in, but she did not start the engine. Instead, she grabbed the steering wheel and squeezed until her knuckles turned white.

  "Aren’t we going to leave, Auntie?" I asked.

  She did not respond. She sat there in silence, her hands still wrapped around the wheel, her knuckles growing whiter and whiter until they started to shake. She looked like she was going to rip the entire column out of the vehicle.

  "Isn’t the ice cream going to melt?" I asked timidly, my head down and my voice not much louder than a mouse’s squeak.

  I was used to her odd way of dealing with shitty reality, but what she did next was a complete and utter shock. Aunt Rose threw her car door open and jumped out. There was rage on her face, and her fists were clenched tight. The cause of her humiliation had finally swaggered out of the store. "Don’t move," she commanded as she slammed the car door shut, leaving me alone inside. This was new. This was something I had never experienced with her. This was Aunt Rose growing a backbone.

  My aunt stood still as a statue, red in the face and with ready fists as her insulter made way to her own vehicle. A courtesy clerk pushed the cart out for the woman, dodging her child’s swinging feet the entire way as she looked on indifferent. Once they reached her vehicle, the clerk proceeded to unload her cart for her while she directed where he put what. Aunt Rose watched, her breath heavy, and did not make another move until the woman had safely buckled her offspring in.

  Everything that happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. But then again, at the same time, it all happened in the blink of an eye.

  "Hey, you!" At that moment, my aunt’s voice was commanding! She was about to demand her dignity back in the only way that life had taught her how. Now Rose was not a terribly articulate woman, and she could not verbally defend her right to live and eat and contribute to society in a way that matched her skills, as well as her mental, physical, and emotional abilities. She could not explain to this woman that she practically raised me and that childrearing is one of the most important and difficult tasks on this planet, her contribution far outweighing the average. Her work may not have been structured, or even paid for that matter, but it made the difference in my childhood, and I would like to think that mattered for something. Unfortunately, in the market economy, my aunt’s worth was measured by income, so she fell pretty low on the scale. The contributions of a second mother figure are beyond valueless in a world of paid work. My own mother would have lost her own worth had she not worked too much to raise me herself.

  If all that were not unfair enough, this bitch had trampled Rose’s humanity, run roughshod over her personhood. Her only defense was physical. She circled the woman’s minivan and blindsided her with an elbow to the throat.

  Mother was cool as a cucumber when she picked me up from child welfare about an hour later. But once we were safely out of the parking lot, she yelled and yelled about how my aunt would just rot in county; she sure as hell was not going to bail her out. My head hung low in despair; back to school for me.

  That incident by itself was not a big deal. Everybody has their moments. Rose, however, had more than most. The vast majority of the time, these were not violent episodes. Often she just liked to make a scene or a complete ass out of herself. Like the Bikini Beer Incident and the time she wore her Halloween costume to church. Apparently, the congregation was not all that comfortable with the idea of worshipping God in the presence of the World’s Sexiest Zombie. Aunt Rose was simply and unequivocally prone to outbursts of odd behavior. I remember being embarrassed to death on more than one occasion when she ran up to a total stranger in public and gave them a big kiss on the lips. She would talk to people on the street who she had never met and tell them intimate details of her life. Sometimes, it worked to her advantage. Whenever we encountered a particularly long line, Rose would loudly inform the person in front of her that she was schizophrenic. Thanks to media hype and the abundance of misinformation surrounding mental illness, the line would melt away. She did this at the bank, the grocery store, wherever, and it worked like a charm almost every time. Most of Aunt Rose’s behavior was in fact harmless, albeit the product of insanity.

  The question of sanity is a tricky one to face at any age, even more so in the innocence of youth. The world is so big and novel, and there are so many new things and ideas to discover. There are surprises and disappointments, magic and curses. Society tries to instill a sense of logic, of order, and then someone comes along and forces you to question it all. Aunt Rose was that person over and over and over again.

  21

  I introduce Rose to the Circle once; just as she showed me her world, so I show her mine. It is a reward of sorts. Kind of like a cookie for good behavior.

  22

  (Julia) I get home from a long, hard day of work, and there’s a piece of bright-orange paper taped to my door. Thirty days to vacate. What the fuck? The reason: "Persistence of noise violations after repeated warnings."

  Fucking old people can’t mind their own business. Damn retirement community.

  Inside, I plop down on the couch in defeat and stare at the wall, space out. I don’t know how long. It was already
a bad day even before this. Rude customers and my feet hurt. Somebody knocks on the door, and it snaps me out of the daze. Cherry. I forgot she was even coming over.

  She walks in. Drops her backpack by the door. "So what’s up with the For Rent sign in front of your house there?"

  "What? Show me." I follow her out to the front, and there it is: a standard rental sign clear as day. I didn’t see it because I always come around the back and park on the side. Bastards! Couldn’t even wait for me to start packing!

  Back inside, Cherry sits down at the kitchen table. I get a forty out of the fridge and pour us each a glass. I like to class my Old English up a bit. Never drink it straight from the bottle.

  She thanks me, then asks, "So why aren’t you on the schedule for next week? Are you taking a vacation or something?"

  I just stare at her. Trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about. For a second, it’s like she’s talking a different language, like her words just don’t register. She can’t be for real. "What do you mean I am not on the schedule next week?"

  She shrugs. "You don’t have any hours. Didn’t you ask for it off?"

  "No," I answer slowly. "What the . . . call in and see what the hell is going on."

  Cherry dials her cell phone. It’s ringing and she says to me, "Why are you cussing so much?" She frowns. "It’s kinda out of character. I don’t like it." I roll my eyes, but then Angela answers the restaurant’s line, so I don’t get to defend myself that this has been the worst day ever. "Hey biatch, what the fuck is up with the schedule? Why isn’t Julia on it next week?"

  "Huh? What are you talking about?" I can hear Angela’s loud ass from across the table.

  "Why isn’t Julia on the schedule for next week?" Cherry repeats, slower this time; she spits each syllable out as clear as her lisp will let her. I tried to teach her to talk right, but she doesn’t listen.

  "I don’t know; did she ask for it off?"

  "No!" I yell, shaking my head. "Just go ask that bitch-ass manager why she took me off the schedule." I lower my voice. Ask Cherry when she saw the schedule. "It wasn’t even up when I left."

  "I just stopped by on my way here, and it was up."

  "Fucking Ellen, what a bitch! She waited for me to leave before she put it up!" First my place. Now my job. Can it get any worse? "I need to smoke."

  Angela gets back on the line. "Uh, yeah, she says she didn’t have enough hours to go around—"

  "That’s bullshit!" I interrupt.

  "She said Julia can come talk to her about it if she wants."

  "Talk my ass." I chug my Old E until a buzz starts. "Tell Angela to come over after she gets off. And bring a bottle." Out of weed and money, I dial Jane. She’ll be here in ten to twenty. But then she goes and brings her aunt with her. Tells us she’s doing much better. Promises she won’t be any trouble. It’s my first time meeting her. Rose is strange and also funny and sad at the same time. If she just had a little more control over it. But she does fit in well with us for now. Another kook in a circle of crazy characters. It's only temporary, of course. I know those flames in her eyes. I watched them dance and shift and go out in Mom. So I won't get too close. Probably ask Jane not to bring her over again. But for now, we have fun.

  By nine o’clock, the entire Circle has rallied around me. My girls have got my back, and they are ready to party away my pain. We chase shots of cheap vodka with squirts of lime juice and take our gin and juice to the head. Angela pulls out the coke as usual. I don’t do white drugs but she begs. So do Jane and Beth and Katrina. I give in. Smoke a dusted bowl. Cocoa Puffs. It doesn’t do shit for me. Nothing ever does. Not crank or crystal. Not sherm. Not anything. Alcohol and weed are all I need.

  23

  By midnight, mischief is scratching behind our ears. Aunt Rose is more than happy to tag along when Angela and I head out for one of our notorious late-night walks. It is a clear night, and the neighborhood is long since quiet; only the crickets and faint hum of streetlights fill the void. I probably should have expected Aunt Rose to interrupt the calm with one of her great ideas. "Let’s go shopping!"

  Angela guffaws in her gangster style. "Ain’t gonna be many stores open this time of night."

  "Not that kind of shopping, silly," Rose laughs back.

  "Oh, right, silly ME. What do you mean then?" Angela is only mildly challenging, halfway between flirting and the faux tough swagger that comes through hard when we mix drugs alcohol.

  "Shopping around the neighborhood, of course!" She says it as though it should mean something to us. As if we should know what she is talking about.

  "Huh?" we both answer in unison.

  "Ohmygoodness," she huffs. "Are you telling me you’ve never gone shopping around the neighborhood?"

  Again, "Huh?" Angela adds, "What is that?"

  "Simple! All you gotta do is take a walk around your neighborhood at night and keep your eyes open for treasures. There are always treasures! Garden gnomes, lawn chairs, bird baths—you name it!

  "You mean you wanna go stealing?" Angela laughs.

  "Nah. It's not stealing. They wouldn’t leave it outside if they didn’t want us to take it!"

  Her rationalizations are enough to leave Angela and me in stitches. She is so full of shit yet so convinced she is right! But it does sound fun, intoxicated as we are, and so we follow Aunt Rose around the sets of duplexes, and she introduces us to one of her favorite pastimes.

  "We should get some flowers." Angela eyes the rainbow of baskets that hang from the neighbors’ porches. "Oh look, there’s some blue ones!"

  "Perfect!" Aunt Rose encourages her. "Just creep up there real quiet and get it!"

  Angela tiptoes up to a duplex a mere block down the road from Julia’s. At the porch, she lifts a hanging basket of blue petunias from the eave and turns back from where she came, her face hijacked by a smile one part impishness and one part pride. She loses all stealth in her retreat, however, as she ambles across the grass with a triumphant chortle braying at her lips.

  Aunt Rose goes next, her eyes on a birdhouse hung just outside a bedroom window across the street from where the basket was. She shows us how it is done: calm, quiet, nonchalant. She grabs a garden gnome on her way back as a bonus. No question about it, she has done this shit before.

  My turn.

  "What are you waiting for?" Angela taunts. "What, are you scared?"

  "Fuck off," I laugh. "I just want to find something good."

  Angela snickers. "You scared!"

  We walk around the block, and there it is: a string of white Christmas lights wrapped around a small cherry tree just off of a garage. Stopping in front my prize, I ask for a volunteer.

  Angela jumps up and down, clapping in excitement. "Oooh! Oooh! I want to help!"

  "Shhh!" Aunt Rose reminds her.

  "Sorry, sorry," she mock whispers back. "OK, I will run up and unplug them, then you unravel them real quick!"

  It sounds like a good enough plan except . . .

  Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! Well, not the words exactly, just the tune, triggered by a motion sensor when I hurl myself up the tree. Angela curses under her breath and sprints towards the outlet on the side of the garage. "It ain’t even fucking Christmas!" As soon as she pulls the cord, she takes off back the way she came while I am still stuck halfway up the tree, trying to unravel the string of lights.

  "Who’s the pussy now?" I ask as she runs past the tree. I yank at the string of lights once, twice, and leaves sprinkle the ground. One more time and it comes loose. I climb back down to the bottom limb with the bundle of lights and jump. I am running before I land, away from the tree, away from Julia’s—all the while, the electrical cord trails behind me. Rose follows, clunking along with the birdhouse and garden gnome in her clutches, then Angela with her petunias. We keep running all the way around the block and detour through a church parking lot and then an alley, all to return to the back side of Julia’s street.

  Back at Julia�
�s, we haul our prizes in past Beth, Katrina, and Cherry who are still playing dominoes at the kitchen table. They watch us come in one by one with our prizes. Angela shuts the door behind her, and Beth, whose voice betrays something between mommy suspicion and jovial curiosity, asks, "What do you girls have there?"

  With a coy smile I answer, "Presents. Where’s Julia?"

  Katrina nods over at the living-room floor. "She passed the fuck out."

  Angela suggests that we arrange them around her so that she will see them when she first wakes up. "Good idea," Aunt Rose agrees. She sets the birdhouse on the end table closest to Julia and the gnome next to her on the floor, just a few inches away from her right hand.

  "Imagine waking up to that," Katrina laughs.

  Angela hangs the basket of blue flowers on a vacant hook in the corner closest to the front window. Then she helps me string the Christmas lights up across the curio cabinet. I make sure to switch off the sound before we plug them in.

  Stepping back, we admire our work. "There’s something missing," I point out.

  "A mailbox!" Aunt Rose exclaims.

  Everyone laughs. "No, Auntie, that would be a felony. What we need is that For Rent sign from the front yard!"

  The other girls agree, so Angela and I trot out the back door and around the side of the house to retrieve it. We are almost to it when a pair of headlights barrels down the street next to us. Without a thought, I duck and roll into the middle of the lawn so the driver does not see me. Angela falls into the grass too, but that is because she is laughing at me. When the path is clear, I sprint back to the sign and yank it from the earth.

  24

  (Julia) Next morning I wake up curled up on the carpet. The sun is in my eyes. My landlord is standing over me. What’s he doing in here? How did he get inside? And who are all of these people that he brought with him? Are they here to throw me out?