The Secret North

by Ka Newborrn

  A silhouetted figure stood at the edge of the mossy, tree-lined bank. It was swaddled entirely in gauze. Black spiraling coils gleamed with pearls and crystals.

  “Help me!” Jana barked. “Help me!” She tried to run, but the mud grabbed the hair at the back of her head and stopped her in her tracks. Losing her balance, she gasped and swallowed. The black liquid scalded her throat as she continued to flail and scream. Her nipples were blistered by the heat.

  She rolled onto her stomach and clutched at seaweed leeches in an effort to leverage herself, but the plants bound their tentacles around her neck and tried to strangle her. With her last bit of strength, she pulled herself loose and collapsed in a fit of coughing. She fought to overpower the seaweed leeches and keep her head above the stinging water. “Are you my daughter?”

  The figure turned around slowly. Jana couldn’t see the face through the shadow of impenetrable trees. It took a few steps forward and calmly extended an arm. Jana flailed her blistered fingers in desperation.

  She had almost grasped it when an unseen vortex yanked her away. She tried to scream but found herself sinking into the burning mud instead.

  ✽✽✽

  Carmine water sloshed out of the large clawfoot tub and onto the yellowing hexagonal tiles as her eyes and body bolted upwards. Agitated, the stethoscope slid from the space between her breasts to her navel. Horrified, she threw it across the tiles with all of her strength and briskly pulled the chain on the stopper. The water turned obsidian black as it gurgled down the drainpipe.

  She dressed quickly and swallowed two Valiums without water before making her way to the dining room. A sizeable crowd clustered around a large breakfast buffet. Jana took her place in line and tried to stop her hands from shaking.

  “Over here, Jana!”

  Sandy, Amy and Norah waved to her from the far end of the table where they had dined the evening before. Jana was relieved to see that the low-hanging chandelier seemed far less menacing in broad daylight. She loaded her tray with scrambled eggs, sausage and coffee, and walked across the room to join the group.

  “Did you have pleasant dreams?” Amy asked her.

  “I don’t remember. How were yours?”

  “Slept like a log. Have you met Norah?”

  “Yes. How are you this morning?”

  “Thirty-six attendees this year! I'm so excited!” Norah said, buttering a biscuit. “I’ve never seen a turnout like this before. When I started back in Corpus Christi nine years ago, we had a group of three.”

  Jana took a bite of scrambled eggs and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Congratulations, Norah! Has anyone seen Spiree?”

  “She's fasting.” Amy munched on a piece of bacon. “She’s going to meditate in the garden until the art session begins.”

  “Have you seen the studio, Jana?” Sandy asked.

  “Not yet.” Jana sipped her coffee.

  “Do you draw or sculpt?”

  Jana exhaled. “Russell and Calvin are the artists. I just observe.”

  “You just remember that you came here to express yourself,” Amy said. “I’ll bet you discover talents you never knew you had.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jana sniffed. She watched the others enjoying their meals and picked at the food on her plate.

  ✽✽✽

  The studio was set up in a greenhouse. Four long tables covered with white paper were set up in the center, and easels lined the perimeter. A kiln rested against the wall, along with an abundance of art supplies.

  Multiple pockets of women huddled together and chatted as they sketched charcoal images of the garden landscape. Jana smiled self-consciously and remained a few paces behind while Amy and Sandy ventured ahead to select canvases, brushes and paints.

  “Good morning!” Spiree burst into the room. She was red-eyed, barefoot and wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and a necklace made out of feathers and bones. She carried a bulky mass wrapped in burlap.

  “Intriguing neckwear, young lady,” Amy remarked as she opened a bottle of turpentine and placed it onto one of the paper covered tables. “Did you make that yourself?”

  “Of course.” Spiree looked proud. She set the burlap mass down on the table next to Amy. “It was the last time I ate flesh, when I was twelve years old and my Grandpa shot a pheasant. I was used to my parents hunting for meals, but this time it was different. That pheasant was majestic. I could sense its instincts, its determination, even. It had a purpose all on its own. Who were we to take that away? So I told my family that consumption wasn't a righteous destiny. They shrugged and told me to clean my plate anyway. I did as I was told, but that was the last time. Later on that evening, when everyone was asleep, I dug its remains out of the garbage and prayed for its soul. Then I made this necklace.”

  A chill swept through Jana.

  “You been smoking those funny cigarettes again, Spiree?” Sandy's voice was disapproving.

  Spiree ignored her and wrapped her arm around Jana’s shoulders. “You okay, sister?” she asked. Jana nodded and sat down. Amy and Sandy looked on in concern.

  “I, I’m fine. It was just the smell of turpentine, that’s all.”

  Spiree relaxed. “I know what you mean.” She removed a burlap cover from a large block of clay. “I could never work with turpentine. It makes me sick, too.”

  Jana glanced around the room and looked at the kiln.

  “We can sculpt clay together if you’d like,” Spiree offered.

  There was a bundle on the floor next to the kiln. She walked over to it and pulled back the newspaper. A slab of dusty white marble lay beneath. An unknown force coursed through her body as she involuntarily picked it up. Staggering beneath its weight, she brought it back to the table. “Does anyone know where I can find a chisel?”

  Sandy pointed at a cabinet next to the kiln and winked. “I’ve been meaning to get out of modeling because I really want to direct, but I suppose I can pose for you this one last time,” she teased, sucking in her cheeks for effect.

  Jana managed a tiny smile. “Only if you smoke one Spiree's funny cigarettes first.”

  Sandy, Amy and Spiree burst into peals of laughter. Jana watched passively as her hands maneuvered a hammer and chisel. Marble dust collected at her feet.

  ✽✽✽

  “Who died?” Sandy asked.

  The women stopped what they were doing and stared at the Celtic headstone in Jana's workspace.

  “No one!” Her tone was surprisingly defensive.

  “Alright, I'm sorry!" Sandy raised her hands above her head in fake surrender and resumed focus on her painting: a lemony blond, Huntington Beach Jesus surfing boardless across the Sea of Galilee. She hesitated, set down her palette, and turned back to admire Jana's monument.

  "But when somebody does," Sandy continued, "they’ll have the best-dressed grave this side of the Mississippi."

  Jana wrapped her arms around her shoulders defensively but softened when she saw that Sandy’s eyes reflected a genuine admiration. Brushing dust from her hands and tucking her hair behind her ears, she pulled herself together as the group continued to work.

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  1986

  Calvin

  While most boys his age were going to summer camp, planning fishing trips, and discovering untapped areas of interest around their neighborhoods, Calvin preferred standing underneath the antique silver and crystal chandelier in the mansion’s kitchen and spinning for hours on end. His behavior alarmed Jana, and she immediately brought it to Russell’s attention. They agreed that Calvin would benefit greatly from the structure and discipline of a more privileged education, and decided that boarding school was in order.

  Scores of independent school catalogs for the upcoming academic year littered the kitchen island. Calvin spun with arms outstretched, lost in the horn section of his favorite Earth Wind and Fire album.

  He was pulled out of his trance by the sound of Aunt Alice’s bell ringing. He stopped spinning, turned
down the music and ran to the foot of the stairs.

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me yell down these steps! Come up here and see what I want!”

  He trudged up the stairs reluctantly. Aunt Alice was sitting up at the edge of her bed. She wore a salmon pink nightgown with a white lace yoke. Her hair was neatly sectioned into four braids. “What?” he repeated.

  “Get your grumpy tail over here and give me a hug,” she snarled. Calvin noticed that she wasn’t wearing her dentures. He settled into her arms. She smelled like floral dusting powder. She squeezed him, hard, and gave him a kiss.

  “I’m hungry,” she complained. “Run down to the kitchen and bring me the rest of the greens and a sliced tomato.”

  “There aren’t any left,” Calvin proceeded to dash from the room, but Aunt Alice’s quick grasp caught him by the shirttail.

  “Stop telling tales, Calvin!” Aunt Alice accused. “I know we didn’t eat up five pounds of greens in two days!”

  “Dad took the rest of ‘em to work.” Calvin explained.

  “I see,” Aunt Alice said, the wheels of her mind silently turning. Calvin freed himself from her grasp and started down the stairs.

  “Calvin,” she sang. Calvin rolled his eyes and returned to her side. “How would you like some barbeque?”

  Calvin grew excited despite himself.

  “I’ll get some barbeque for that baby,” she grinned. “But first, reach up here in my nightstand and get an Efferdent tablet and change my denture water.”

  Calvin changed her denture water, vacuumed her bedroom carpet and dusted her television screen before she called Russell at work and asked him to stop in Germantown on his way home for Speed Queen Barbeque takeout.

  “What do you mean you can’t because you’re working late?” she bellowed in response to Russell’s protesting. “Isn’t that what that flunky junior partner’s for? Well, what am I supposed to do? That gal’s out of town and you ate up…oh, Lord, you know I don’t mean any…Jana’s out of town, and you ate up five pounds a’ greens for lunch…done broke your plate. I guess this is the thanks I get. I never let your rusty butt sit up in my house hungry…let you wrap your lips around all my food. That baby’s hungry, too. Well, I’ll let you tell him then. Calvin! Pick up the phone. Your daddy has something to tell you.”

  ✽✽✽

  “The Schuylkill was backed up all the way from the city, sorry I’m late,” Russell mumbled sheepishly. He handed Aunt Alice three large brown paper bags stained with grease spots. She opened the bag and pulled out a Styrofoam container filled with macaroni and cheese. “Hey, Russell,” she began.

  “What? Did I forget something?” Russell looked ashen. “Oh, no! They didn’t forget to put the lemonade in again, did they?”

  “You didn’t forget anything at all, baby,” Aunt Alice stuck a plastic fork into the macaroni and cheese and sampled it. “I’m the one who forgot to say thank you.”

  ✽✽✽

  Russell sat at the kitchen island nibbling barbequed ribs, studying independent school catalogues, and writing himself a reminder note to contact the Dean of Students at Phillips Academy to set up an interview for Calvin. Six months later, Calvin was accepted and the family planned for his move to Massachusetts.

  He was met with admonishment when he arrived at the dormitory. A group of boys in polo shirts and madras shorts eyed him up and down as he passed the campus lawn, whispering in hushed giggles about how their tax dollars were hard at work contributing to the educational enrichment of welfare niggers. Calvin met their smirks with confusion and stalked ahead in search of his resident advisor.

  The resident advisor was a lanky upperclassman with very fair skin and painful looking cystic acne. He handed Calvin a key and told him that his assigned roommate had decided to study abroad at the last minute, and that he would be rooming alone for a semester. Calvin walked down the corridor and unlocked his door. He set down his suitcase, sat on one of creaky twin beds and stared at the light fixture dangling from the ceiling.

  At the initiation assembly, the varsity basketball coach saw Calvin’s tall, slender figure standing a few rows to his left and asked him if he was interested in playing basketball. Calvin explained that he was only a freshman and didn’t know how to play. The coach put his arm around Calvin’s shoulder and told him that he had his eye on the regional championships and would be willing to make an exception to the upperclassman requirement in recognition of Calvin’s talent. “You’ll knock it out of the park,” he said.

  At basketball practice, the coach buried his head in his hands when all of Calvin’s shots missed the backboard of the hoop entirely and sailed out of bounds. He threw his towel down angrily when the bell rang at the end of the period, scowled at Calvin and stormed off of the court and out of the gymnasium.

  After practice, Calvin was showering in the locker room when he felt eyes upon him and turned around. One of the boys who had whispered behind his back was staring at him inquisitively, face flushed with embarrassment. Calvin turned his back to him and turned off the water, reaching for his towel as the boy spoke.

  “I didn’t mean to stare, but I can’t figure out where it is.” The boy looked nervous.

  “What are you talking about?” Calvin answered, equally embarrassed.

  “Your tail,” the boy mumbled.

  Calvin’s throat fell into his stomach as he wrapped a towel around his waist defensively.

  “My grandma said that all black people have them, but I don’t see one.” His voice trailed off. He started again. “Did you have it docked?” Sensing Calvin’s alarm and apparent discomfort, he excused himself hastily and retreated to the lockers ahead.

  Meals were served family-style at the school, with the formal dining room divided into rectangular tables with settings for twelve students, each headed by a faculty proctor.

  The professor at the head of Calvin’s table scratched his greying, chest length beard and entertained his students with a dramatic account of living in a haunted castle while researching his doctoral thesis in Scotland. A cherubic boy with a shock of red hair told the professor that the haunted castle experience was trite, so his family vacationed in the south of France and stomped on grapes at their favorite vineyard. A polished girl with sleek blonde hair and braces told the boy that the entire European experience was provincial, so her family was planning an upcoming trip to China. A girl with mousy brown curls and a green Fair Isle sweater rolled her eyes in disgust at the blonde girl and balked at the insensitivity of a privileged American family that would indirectly support the true inspiration behind Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge regime.

  Calvin scanned the room for something of interest. His eyes rested briefly upon a gingerbread girl with freshly oiled black braids and carmine flushed lips and cheeks at a table across the room. She wore a blue monogrammed sweater that was bunched up at the sleeves. He watched as her doelike eyes followed the course of discussion around her.

  The voices around him melded as the meal slowly dragged to an end. He remained silent and wondered if he would someday get close enough to find out if she smelled like molasses and cloves.

  ANDOVER, MASSACHUSSETTS

  1989

  Odette

  In the spirit of campus homecoming, banners were hung, plans were set into motion, and student romances began to sprout. Girls feigned cries of protest as football players swung them over their shoulders and carried them, potato sack style, down the hallways between classes. Their damp, Prell-scented tresses lightly misted the faces of peripheral passersby. Odette breathed in the heady fragrance and put a hand to her freshly oiled braids.

  Mollie, her roommate, had bragged to anyone who would listen about going to the dance. “Do you think anyone is going to ask you?” she had asked Odette in a saccharine voice, pirouetting spontaneously in her deck shoes, red-ink hearts drawn randomly about the white soles, arms and feet landing deftly in third position. Odette stared at the hearts and tried to appear undaunted de
spite the rising flames of embarrassment lapping at her cheeks.

  She had secretly hoped that Calvin North would ask her. There was a kindness about his eyes and he was inclined to give her a shy smile from time to time, but when the morning of the dance arrived without an invitation she reminded herself that she had little commonality with the privileged boy from Philadelphia who knew nothing of the real world.

  Mollie left for the dance early that Friday evening, giving Odette ample time to put her plan into motion: the girl would eat those hurtful words, whether she was aware of it or not.

  “Do you think anyone is going to ask you?” Odette mimicked in a babyish voice, sprinkling salt into the corners of the room with the shaker she’d stolen from the dining hall earlier that evening.

  “Do you think anyone is going to ask you?” she wrote carefully onto a scrap of paper in perfect, copperplate lettering before rolling it up into a tight scroll.

  “Do you think anyone is going to ask you?” she repeated, fighting angry tears as she routed through Mollie’s desk in search of a hairbrush. Finding one, she removed the loose strands of hairs and twisted them fastidiously around the paper scroll.

  She entertained the abstract notion of a last minute invite but quickly let it go. Not likely, she told herself, for a girl from the wrong side of New Orleans who had narrowly secured her scholarship through amateur magic.

  “Do you think anyone is going to ask you?” she repeated one last time. She held a match to the bundle and watched as it burned to a crisp.

  She spent the rest of the evening hand washing her sweaters, polishing her shoes, and arranging boxes of granola bars, bags of corn chips and bottles of soda around her bed. Later on that evening when the resident advisor knocked on her door to inform her that Mollie had broken her ankle at the dance and would be spending the night in the infirmary, she moved the snacks to her roommate’s desk. Get Well Soon, Mollie was written on an accompanying note in perfect copperplate letters. Red ink hearts were drawn randomly in the margins.