Daughters of Jubilation

by Kara Lee Corthron

  “It’s okay, Evvie,” he says before I can say anything. He nods his head toward the bathroom, and I go in.

  I really don’t have to use the toilet, so I’m in here for no reason. On the back of the door there’s a cardboard growth chart with a cartoon cat on it and a few pencil marks where I guess they measured Clay when he was a little boy. They stop at a certain point. I try to measure myself. Assuming my hand didn’t slip, I’m five seven. Now I know how tall I am if anyone ever asks.

  I pretend to wash my hands by runnin’ water for a few seconds. Selfishly, I think about that cold stare Clay’s dad just gave him and hope that Clay didn’t get himself into some kinda trouble that’ll make it hard for me to see him.

  When I come out, a girl about eleven or twelve pushes her way in, suckin’ her teeth. Maybe I took too long pretendin’ to go.

  Back in the sea of people, I notice that my seat of choice is now filled by a heavyset light-skinned man. I start to look for a new spot when Clay takes my hand and pulls me to a corner.

  “It’s too many damn people in here,” Clay complains. He glances around, holds up his index finger to me, somehow squeezes around a couple guests, and comes back with a little collapsible chair for me.

  “Oh, I don’t need to sit. You sit,” I tell him, even though I do feel like sitting.

  “Okay then.” Clay sits down. I did not expect him to do that. He looks up at me and bats his eyelashes, all coy. I give him a little shove, and he pulls me down so I’m sittin’ in his lap! Feels weird bein’ this close to him with hundreds of his relatives in the same room.

  Then all at once the party breaks into “Happy Birthday to You.” Mrs. Alexander and one of Clay’s aunts bring the huge, glowing cake over to a small table now set up in front of Miss Corinthia. I join in the singing and watch Miss Corinthia’s face to see what she thinks of all this. Her lips are tight, and her cheek spasms. Is she tryna smile? To cry?

  When we finish singing, everyone applauds, and then it gets quiet as the flames continue to melt wax all over the cake. After a few more seconds, it becomes clear that Miss Corinthia ain’t even gonna try to blow that mess out, so Mrs. Alexander, her sister, and Miss Corinthia’s granddaughter bend down and blow them out for her. Some claps follow this. To keep the moment from becoming awkward, Clay’s mother immediately begins to cut the cake.

  “Aunt Corinthia,” Clay’s father bellows from the other side of the room.

  Making his way over to her he says, “Is there anything you’d like to say? Any wisdom or advice for all us infants?”

  This gets a giant laugh. Miss Corinthia’s facial expression hasn’t changed since the song. I wonder if she heard him. I wonder how aware she is of anything right now.

  With great effort, she raises her right hand as though she’s wavin’ a fly out of her face, and everyone waits patiently.

  “Nephew,” she begins. Her voice sounds scratchy and tired. And old. Old like somethin’ dug up from miles beneath the earth.

  “I thank you. For this party. It is mighty. Kind. Of you. And. And Beatrice. To host.” She pauses constantly, so just sayin’ them two sentences took her about a month. That’s okay. You can take a month to say your sentences when you a hundred.

  When she hesitates long enough for everyone to think she’s finished, there is light applause. Until she puts up one crooked, shaky finger to quiet the room again.

  “However. You should not. Remind. Old. People. Of. How. Old. They are,” she finally says, and everyone laughs and claps. For some reason, everybody enjoys a crotchety old person.

  “You want some cake?” Clay speaks into my back. Chills. The good kind.

  “Yes. Yes I do.” It’s funny that I say that, because I was totally plannin’ on politely refusin’ cake. Some ladylike nonsense.

  We get in the long cake line.

  The lady I briefly spoke to earlier passes us with a slice. She taps me on the shoulder.

  “They got this from Stewart’s! Delicious! You be sure to take a piece home to Li’l Dottie.”

  “I will, ma’am,” I say.

  She beams and keeps movin’.

  “What was that?” Clay asks.

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s just my new best friend.”

  Clay nods. “Yeah. I can see the two a you stayin’ up late, paintin’ each other’s toenails.”

  I raise both eyebrows at him. “Is that really what you think girls do when no guys are around?”

  “Psh! No,” he scoffs, sounding completely unsure of himself.

  “Well, hello there,” someone says from behind me. “We haven’t met yet. You havin’ a nice time?”

  I turn to see a smiling man. He’s maybe about twenty. He has a nice haircut, but his unfortunate choice to use cologne on top of aftershave is makin’ my eyes water.

  “Oh, yes,” I politely reply, blinking my eyes. “It’s a lovely party.” Back in good-girl mode.

  “Jerome? This is Evalene. My girlfriend,” Clay says. “Evalene, this is my cousin Jerome.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I say, all peaches and cream.

  “Yeah. Pleasure,” he grumbles. Funny how fast he lost interest in meeting me as soon as Clay said the word “girlfriend.”

  “Let me get a cut,” he mutters.

  “No.”

  “Come on man, gimme a cut.”

  “No! Nigga, you want cake? Stand in line like the rest of us,” Clay snaps.

  Jerome walks away mumbling expletives. Clay rolls his eyes. I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughin’.

  We get to the table, and Clay hands me a slice of cake before taking one for himself, gentleman that he is.

  And just like that.

  Something’s not right.

  My breath starts comin’ too quick for me, my heart pounds faster, and my hands start to shake. I don’t understand what’s happenin’ right now. I put my other hand out to reach for Clay, but he’s already moved a few steps away from me to talk to some people.

  “Excuse me? Evvie? Dear? You holdin’ up the line,” Mrs. Alexander says to me and I know she’s right and I want to move, but I can’t. I feel a frequency near me. Not like a haint. This feels different. I look up to see Miss Corinthia starin’ directly at me with razor-sharp focus.

  It’s her. I’m scared to address her, but my mind is blank. I can’t think of no other options.

  “Miss Corinthia? Ma’am? Can I go please?” I timidly ask. She smiles with complete ease—no facial tension or tics. I can move again, and as I turn to quickly get away, I stumble into Clay.

  “What’s the matter?” Clay asks me.

  I try to speak, but then I almost fall cuz I’m dizzy, and he catches me.

  “She all right?” somebody asks. Mrs. Alexander watches all this, arms crossed. I don’t think I’m makin’ such a good impression on her tonight.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but Clay ain’t convinced.

  “Can we go outside for a minute?” I whisper, and I hardly get the words out before he’s got my hand and he’s pullin’ me past the hordes to the back door and out on the porch.

  Hallelujah! I can breathe again. And I managed to hold on to my plate!

  “Oh god. Thank you,” I say with a laugh. His face is full of worry.

  “Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick to your stomach?”

  “No,” I assure him. “Not at all. Think I was just startin’ to feel… suffocated.”

  He nods. I flash him an everything’s okay smile, and then I eat my cake in silence.

  “Why did you ask Aunt Corinthia if you could go?”

  I didn’t realize he’d heard me say that. I wish he hadn’t.

  I slowly take a bite and try to think of an explanation that he might accept. All I can come up with is the truth.

  I need to sit, so I plop onto the porch swing. Clay joins me, and our knees touch. He searches my face.

  “It’s not this huge thing, and it’s nothing you should worry about,” I start. Then I s
top to take a breath. I’ve been nervous about havin’ this conversation with him. Some part of me hoped I’d never have to. I don’t want him to think I’m a freak, but whatever I am, I’m no liar.

  “What is it, Evvie?”

  “I have… certain unusual abilities. One of ’em is—well—” I laugh anxiously. “I just learned that one of ’em is bein’ able to sense others like me when I’m in their presence. Your aunt Corinthia is like me,” I say. It’s vague as hell, but I’d be delighted if Clay could just be satisfied with this answer without follow-up questions.

  “What do you mean by ‘abilities’?”

  Goddamn follow-up questions. Guess I can’t hide who I am forever.

  “Sometimes, mostly when I’m feeling emotional in some way, I can make things move, manipulate things, and I can also… sometimes read peoples’ thoughts. I can often feel things that are goin’ on far away from me. They call that bein’ two-headed. And every now and then, I get visions and see haints. I think that’s all of it, but I don’t know for sure. Feels like I’m learnin’ new things I can do all the time.” I must sound like a bona fide lunatic right now. Regardless, I decide to say nothin’ more until he speaks.

  I try to read his face, but it’s impenetrable. The good thing is he doesn’t look scared. He looks like he’s in geometry class workin’ on a complex theorem.

  “You know all this. For sure?” he asks carefully.

  I nod. “My grandmother calls it Jubilation, which makes no sense if ya ask me. I don’t know if she made that up or if it was taught to her. She’s been helpin’ me figure it all out. Kinda like tutoring me.”

  “Miss Athena Deschamps? You been spendin’ time with her?”

  Oh yeah. Crazy ol’ Athena Deschamps. I’d almost forgotten about all the folks who think my grandmother’s bonkers. It’s understandable, if unfair. Maybe it’s cuz she doesn’t care what anybody thinks of her that I forget about her reputation.

  “Yes. There’s nothing wrong with her,” I tell him.

  “I ain’t sayin’ there is, but hasn’t she like… hurt people?” he asks.

  “Who hasn’t?” I reply. She’s put the hurtin’ on some people, rarely, though. In fact, I don’t know of anybody that’s been hurt as a direct result of Grammie Atti’s practical magic. Gossip and rumors.

  Clay lightly rocks the swing back and forth, starin’ off into the distance.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask, though I’m not sure I wanna know.

  He turns to me and holds my gaze for a second, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “You’re not gonna tell me?”

  “I did. I wanted to see if you could read my mind,” he says.

  “Stop it. I’m not doin’ that.”

  “Have you read my thoughts before?” he asks, and he’s so quiet his words almost fly away on the wind before reachin’ me.

  “No. I never have.”

  He doesn’t ask again, but his eyes do. They plead with me for honesty.

  “It’s true, Clay. I’ve never even tried. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t—violate you.”

  He sighs and looks away, but our knees are still touching.

  “So, what? Are you a witch?”

  I swallow. “Are you makin’ fun?”

  “No. It’s just—ya know—a lot,” he explains. “I mean, havin’ psychical and magical powers ain’t exactly—” He stops himself. I know what he was gonna say. He was gonna say it ain’t normal. I’m glad he didn’t say it.

  “Ain’t it possible that some a the strange things that have happened mighta been coincidences?” he asks. I sink back into the swing. It’s not like I expected him to immediately believe everything. Still. I hadn’t pegged Clay as a doubtin’ Thomas.

  “The first time you took me to the colored children’s library. Remember the rainbow?”

  He does, but he shakes his head.

  “You said that was a natural wonder.”

  “I lied.”

  He raises an eyebrow, but I can see he’s still unconvinced.

  “Clay? Do you remember the day you had Sunday dinner at my house? And we were out walkin’ and we saw those leaves on the ground?”

  His whole demeanor changes. He’s seeing those words on the ground again. Those perfectly formed letters. “HAPPY HAPPY.” He believes me now.

  “How is that possible?” he asks.

  I shrug. “No idea. But when you find out, will you let me know?”

  He almost smiles. Not quite, but almost.

  We sit without saying anything for a few minutes. I can tell he’s really thinkin’ about all this. He looks at me with an expression—quizzical, but not too serious.

  “I swear I’m not makin’ fun, but are you—like—a witch?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Guess I’ll ask Grammie Atti.”

  He nods.

  “Does it bother you?” I ask him, afraid of his answer.

  He scratches the back of his neck, and he looks down at his cake slice, untouched.

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “It’s not like this is all you are or anything.”

  I wish he didn’t sound so uncertain. I wanna keep talkin’ about this, I wanna do whatever I can to put his mind at ease, but I don’t get the chance, cuz the back door clatters open and Mr. Alexander is here.

  “Your mama could use your help,” he says to Clay, and somehow he made that statement positively cruel.

  “Yeah, Pop. I’m comin’.”

  I see the briefest internal battle Mr. Alexander’s fightin’ with himself. He wants to continue punishing Clay, but he wants to be nice to me. He goes back in without either side winning.

  “What’s going on with him?” I ask.

  “He fired me.”

  “He did what? Why?”

  “For mouthin’ off to a couple crackers who weren’t willin’ to pay full price for a tune-up.” He shrugs it off. “I also mighta drained some fluid from their transmission. Like… a lotta fluid.”

  “Clay!”

  “So what?” His hands tighten into fists, and his eyes darken with rage. “Fuck them peckerwoods! I am sick of it! SICK OF IT!”

  “I know,” I say, as docile as I can. “But you can’t just take risks like that. You know how dangerous they are.”

  He shuts his eyes. “They take everything from us, Evvie. I can’t just roll over and let ’em. I can’t do that and be a man.”

  I touch his hand, and it relaxes a bit. I pick it up and kiss it.

  “You are a man,” I tell him. “Please don’t do anything like that again,” I say. “For me?”

  Clay opens his eyes and looks at me like he could cry. I brush my cheek against his fingertips, and his mischievous grin returns.

  “Girl, you turnin’ me into a damn marshmallow.”

  16 Two-Headed

  LATER, AFTER MOST A THE guests have gone home, I try to help out with the cleanin’ up. Clay’s aunts and cousins seem to like me. They say “Thank you, baby” or “Don’t you have good manners?” It’s different with Clay’s mother. She thanks me, but it’s outta obligation.

  “Thank you, Evalene,” she says with a crisp formality. “Don’t you think it’s gettin’ late?”

  It’s not even half past nine, but I nod, since she clearly wants me to leave.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m just gonna find Clay and say good-bye.”

  He’s not hard to find. As soon as I enter the living room, I see him there, perched on the arm of a couch, talkin’ to Miss Corinthia. It looks like they’re havin’ a serious conversation.

  “Excuse me?”

  They both look up at me.

  “I don’t think you two met properly. Aunt Corinthia, this is Evalene. My girlfriend,” Clay says to her.

  “Very pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I say. I’m doin’ my best to ignore the jittery feeling I get when she looks into my eyes. “Happy birthday.”

  “Birthday. Yes. It might be today. Mighta been yesterday. Mighta been. A week ago. They decided.
This would be. The day.”

  “She didn’t get a birth certificate, so her family had to estimate when she was born,” Clay translates. “Everybody seems certain that it was 1862 and summertime. They just don’t know which day.”

  “A hundred years. Long time,” she says. She still pauses every few words to catch her breath, but she doesn’t seem to take as long to do it now as she did earlier.

  “It certainly is,” I agree.

  Her eyes twinkle. “Two-headed women. Will always. Spot. Each other.”

  “Two-headed,” Clay repeats, and looks at me, adding things up in his head.

  “I was a baby. When. Emancipation came,” she begins. “I don’t remember. I was too small. To be. Much use. But I was born. In bondage.”

  I concentrate on listening to her. I push the nervous energy away. This moment is too important for my own screwy jubin’ to mess it up.

  “It’s a tool. What we. Have. Evalene. Survival. Tool. My mother. She—” Miss Corinthia stops suddenly.

  “Miss Corinthia? Are you all right?” I ask her.

  “Lemme get you some water.” Clay dashes off to the kitchen.

  Miss Corinthia reaches her weakened, deformed hand over to mine. I attempt to hold her hand, cuz I think that’s what she wants, but she draws back from that. She places it on top of mine, and, with the one finger she can maneuver, she strokes the skin covering my knuckles.

  “She told me. Magic. Saved. Her life. And mine. When I was. Just born.” She stops to take a few breaths, but I don’t breathe. This is far more talking than I’ve seen her do all night, and I don’t wanna break our connection.

  “Her labor. Was long. Violent. I faced. The wrong way. Overseer was told. Cut her throat. Drown the baby. In the sea.”

  I gasp and shiver, but Miss Corinthia continues stroking my hand, which calms me.

  “Master thought. I’d be born. Broken or dead. He thought. My mother. Would be too. Weak to work. Useless. But. Magic. Inside her. Knocked the overseer. Into the wall. Knocked him out. She birthed me. We survived.”

  I feel like telling her not to say any more, to rest, but I’m too captivated to speak.