{"id":178,"date":"2011-05-19T09:51:19","date_gmt":"2011-05-19T09:51:19","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue9\/?page_id=178"},"modified":"2012-01-30T09:41:36","modified_gmt":"2012-01-30T09:41:36","slug":"tashania-colquhoun","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/writings\/fiction\/tashania-colquhoun","title":{"rendered":"Tashania Colquhoun"},"content":{"rendered":"

A Solemn Prayer<\/strong><\/h1>\n
Tashania Colquhoun<\/h6>\n

Salt should do the trick, thinks Jevaughn. Maybe if I scrub with some salt, it will come out. In his 15-year-old mind, he remembers his mother always washing the rice, the lettuce, the meat with salt, claiming that it removed all the impurities that lingered in and on foods. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Purify,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d she would murmur whenever he asked her why she used so much salt to wash with, cook with, soak with. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153To purify.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d That is exactly what Jevaughn needs to do. To wash the sick and rank odor of death and blood and sweat and guilt away from his barely creased hands. He spends 20 minutes in the bathroom, alternating soap and salt as he holds his hand under the scalding hot water, vigorously rubbing the back of his hands, the creases between his fingers, the flat of his palm, the curves of his finger tips. The water flows in one continuous, steaming stream, so strong it has lost its translucence, and to Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s soul-crushing dismay, always with a tinge of fiery red.<\/p>\n

What have I done? Jevaughn gawks in horror at his ashen, fear-stricken reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. He has aged in the past 3 hours. He had left his mother\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s tenth floor Tobermory apartment a boy, but had returned a man. The years and wisdom that he has yet to experience unfurl before him in silent agony. A part of him does not want manhood just yet. Whatever happened to Saturday morning cartoons? When\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the last time he went to the library and read one of those Tin Tin<\/em> books? What wouldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t he give up in this world to be 10 again, when life was innocent and less complicated. Before he learnt that you could \u00e2\u20ac\u0153fuck\u00e2\u20ac\u009d a girl with your cock and \u00e2\u20ac\u0153fuck\u00e2\u20ac\u009d a man up with a piece or a blade. When his only worry was multiplication tables and nouns and verbs. He used to sit atop the jungle gym bars, his bare feet dangling as he exchanged \u00e2\u20ac\u0153yo momma\u00e2\u20ac\u009d jokes with kids from the neighbourhood. Now, he dared any man to say anything about his momma. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d cut the words out of the motherfucker\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s throat before he could even finish his sentence, a threat he had stood by tonight.<\/p>\n

The salt of his tears stings a scratch on his cheek. He feels the rhythmic pounding of an imminent headache pulsing at his temples. Into his palm he tips one Tylenol, no two, better yet three, which he swallows all at once and follows with a cupped handful of tap water that he both drinks and uses to wash his face. The sight of his wet, sullen face in the mirror reiterates the hopelessness coursing within.<\/p>\n

Jevaughn stumbles down the hallway, his head swimming in tears and haunting memories of the crime he has committed today. He must lie down. He attempts to relieve the heat and pressure on his skull by loosening and removing articles of clothing. The waist of his jeans are around his ankles and his shirt hangs loosely from one shoulder by the time he flops himself face first into his bed. The low pulsing at his temples has matured into a complete, merciless attack on his frontal lobe. Sleep \u00e2\u20ac\u201c that is what Jevaughn yearns for \u00e2\u20ac\u201c to end this agony. Tomorrow, he will deal with this, he will know what to do then. The drowsiness of sleep comes to him within minutes, but his tears do not dry.<\/p>\n

*\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153And Lord I pray in earnest, as your humble and meek servant, Mabel Aleshia Palmer, that you please, please<\/em> let Jevaughn be home safe and not out there running around,\u00c2\u00a0 getting himself into no kind of trouble. Lord, he is a good boy and I only ask that you please save him, God. Bring him into your bosom and protect him. Bring my son home to me every night, God. That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all I ask. Some women have more than one children, but Jevaughn is all I got. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s my light, God. Deliver him into my loving arms each and every night. In Jesus\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 name I pray. Amen.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s eyes are still squeezed shut as she kisses the key she has been clutching against her breast in prayer. It is the same prayer she whispers every night outside her apartment door when she returns home from work. The words change, but the plea to God is always the same: Let him be home when I open this door. She does not give voice to her silent bartering with God \u00e2\u20ac\u201c whom she will praise and repay by not going to the casino for a whole week if she finds Jevaughn at home; and the Devil \u00e2\u20ac\u201c who controls the hand that pours the rum to soothe her disappointment if she does not find him there.<\/p>\n

To Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s relief, Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s dirty running shoes are carelessly left at opposite ends of the hallway. His house keys are on top of the dining table and his spring jacket lies in a crumpled heap on the floor outside his door. She is too elated to be concerned about his lack of respect for common household courtesies. To be sure, she knocks twice on his door and calls his name softly. She hears a light groan, but her heart can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t stop racing until her eyes rest on proof that it is really Jevaughn in this apartment and not her mind playing tricks on her. She turns the knob on the door gently and peers into the room. A half-dressed Jevaughn is lying on his back, head cocked to one side as his chest rises with each breath.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Thank you, Jesus,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Mabel whispers, making the sign of the cross as she pulls the door shut. This is a night of triumph, Mabel reasons. A victory glass of rum and coke to celebrate is more than just for the occasion. Mabel does not measure the liquor that she pours in the glass, but limits herself to only half a cup of Coke because she is watching her sugar. She takes a seat at the dining table, which hasn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t been used for eating or dining in nearly 10 years. Its wood has lost its lustre and now its only purpose is a resting place for phone books, loose papers, grocery bags, and mail. Of course, all neatly organized, because Mabel is a clean and pristine woman of God.<\/p>\n

There is a large stack of unopened envelopes, bills, which Mabel has been ignoring for weeks, but which she feels she has the courage to face tonight. She says a silent prayer for more money to come into her life, then opens the first letter from Bell. She already knows it will be a past due notice, but of the amount she is not certain. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t be more than $100,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d she tells herself. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Ok, no more than $150.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d It is the same sinking feeling of being on a roller coaster that churns in her stomach when she reads \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Please pay immediately: $540.78.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d She must be seeing things. Mabel pulls her reading glasses from her handbag. She draws the letter in close, moves it far away from her, peers over the top of her glasses, looks through the lenses, holds the letter up to the light, but always the figure is the same. Five hundred and forty dollars, seventy-eight cents. Her mind is frozen, but her fingers manage to refold the letter and place it in the envelope, before resting it near the edge of the dining table, next to Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s keys.<\/p>\n

If only she had matches, then she would burn it. What if Jevaughn were to see this? She does not want to worry him and so she picks up the letter to rip it to shreds and flush it down the toilet, but pauses when she notices a dark red smudge on the back of the envelope. On the table, where she had placed the envelope is a nearly dry carmine stain the size of a quarter. Mabel kisses her teeth. That friggin\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 Jevaughn, always making a mess for her. Sometimes, she feels like she could just wring that child\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s neck.<\/p>\n

Mabel uses a moist kitchen towel to wipe the table. She lifts Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s keys to wipe the area beneath them. Again, Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s eyes and imagination toy with her, because she could swear that she sees a thumb print, the same colour of the stain on the table, pressed into the lobby key card attached to Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s keychain. She puts on her reading glasses and still the thumb print does not disappear.\u00c2\u00a0 Careless Jevaughn, she thinks as she kisses her teeth. She might as well wipe the whole table now, well at least the edges that aren\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t covered by paper paraphernalia, and straighten up before bed.<\/p>\n

Mabel picks up Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s running shoes and notices two tiny circles of red shaming the crisp white Nike leather. So unlike Jevaughn, who after making her spend a third of her pardoner money to buy him the latest basketball sneakers every season, never went to bed without buffing out any smudges and shining them up with an old toothbrush and some cake soap. Now, Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s face is hot and flushed. It must be some kool-aid or something. Mabel picks up this, puts away that, all the while thinking of all the innocent things in the world that could be red, like lollipops, sweet and sour sauce, strawberry juice… Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s thoughts become a dull echo in her head when she bends over to pick up Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s jacket lying on the floor in front of his door. In between the creases and folds of this wrinkled heap, she can already see the same coloured stain as what was on the table, Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s key card, and his shoes.<\/p>\n

Mabel is no fool. She used to be a janitor at the Humber River Regional hospital and had seen the many shades of human blood, from the vibrant crimson that spilled from a fresh cut to the dull burgundy of a dried wound. She knows that it is blood, but whose is it? She holds the jacket to the light in the hallway. Spatters of dried blood are on the breast and collar. Mabel makes the sign of the cross and murmurs a prayer asking God to let it be anyone\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s blood, but Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s. What if he is hurt? The thought is more than Mabel can bear and without knocking, she opens the bedroom door to see her son lying exactly as he was when she had checked on him earlier. She watches from the doorway to see if he is breathing, but the rise and fall of his chest does not convince her that all is well. Frantically, her fingers trace his body, caressing his smooth, hairless skin as they search his chest, the length of his spindly arms, the underside of his still boyishly round belly, but her hands cannot race against the fear gripping her throat.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Jevaughn! Jevaughn! My baby, Jevaughn!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d\u00c2\u00a0 she screams as she shakes him by the shoulders. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oh please, God. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s my baby! My one and only.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Mabel bawls and howls, cupping Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s head against her bosom as she sways from side to side, back and forth.<\/p>\n

*\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s right hand feels heavy; in fact, his whole body seems to be anchored. He glances down and notices his fingers wrapped around the cold, black steel of a handgun. Where the pulsing of his heart should be, there is only a vacant numbness as the darkness around him encroaches.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Do it, man! Do it!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

The voice startles Jevaughn and he turns his head this way and that, searching the darkness for its source.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Get that muthafucka! \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcBout he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s talking shit!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

Again, the voice echoes into Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s ear, then is swallowed up by the thick black void surrounding him. He is panting now, fear having caused the prickly heat on his skin to become a cold sweat, dripping from his temples. His palms are moist and the gun begins to slip from his grasp, but he remembers it is there, tightens his grip, and points it into the darkness. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll show whoever the fuck is messing with him who\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s boss. He has a piece, he has the power.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You better come out from where you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re hiding and show yourself or else I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m gonna put you 6 feet under, my man,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Jevaughn barks.<\/em><\/p>\n

Silence.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m just gonna let my gun do the talking,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Jevaughn threatens. Metal clinches against metal in a loud snap as Jevaughn cocks the gun and takes off the safety.<\/em><\/p>\n

More silence as fear tightens its grip around his 15-year-old mind and swallows him further into its obscurity belly. Time gets lost in the void and Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s arms are sore and burdened from holding the gun up for so long. It is heavier now than it was before. Finally, the voice returns, this time as a mocking whimper. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re just a little bitch. A pussy.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

The taunting incenses Jevaughn, boiling fear until it is melted into a mixture of red, hot anger and hurt pride. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Say that to my fucking face, my man,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he retorts. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Show your face and we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll see who\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the pussy.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

The hairs on the back of Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s neck stand on end as he feels the warm air of someone\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s breath tickling his ear. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Like I said, you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re a little, bitch!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d the voice booms, deep and menacing, losing all notes of humanity. Jevaughn spins on his heels and at the same time that he feels the wetness spreading from the front of his pants to his inner thigh, he squeezes the trigger. A loud thunderclap explodes into the darkness, jolting Jevaughn awake.<\/em><\/p>\n

*\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jesus!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s arms are wound tightly around Jevaughn.<\/p>\n

Every attempt to push her away only tightens her hold. Jevaughn gives in and soon he is pudding in her unconditional hands. Tears flow from that space in him where he could have sworn there was only room for the empty, emotionless expressions of manhood. The boy inside him rises to the surface and cries into the soft shoulder of his mother\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s enclosed arms.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Shh, baby, Shh,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Mabel hushes. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t matter what you did. It doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t matter.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Momma, I \u00e2\u20ac\u201c \u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

But Mabel cuts him off before he can say another incriminating word. She does not want to know anything beyond this point, this shared moment of complete love for her son. She only wants to know him this way.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Shh, Jevaughn. It does not matter, you hear me. You are my son<\/em> and I love you. That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the end of it. That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all I need to know.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153But, momma, I \u00e2\u20ac\u201c\u00e2\u20ac\u0153<\/p>\n

This time, the wail of a siren slices the air, cutting the breath from Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s throat before he can utter another word. The voice of the building manager whines over the P. A. System. There is a fire in the building. They must evacuate immediately. The smell of smoke sifts in through the open window. Jevaughn, his tears abruptly dried and his manly resolve returned to him, removes himself from his mother\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s arms. He pulls on his clothes and rushes to the balcony, where he can see the smoke billowing from an apartment two floors down. He grips the railing and leans his body over the balcony, so he can get a better look, confirmation that it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a real fire and not the weekly Tobermory false alarm from a rickety old stove\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s greasy burner. Flames flicker in the reflection of the apartment\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s window.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Momma, it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s fire for real,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he calls out.<\/p>\n

Mabel makes the sign of the cross before rushing around the apartment gathering her most important belongings: her purse; the $100 she keeps stashed in the bottom of a vase in the living room; baby pictures of Jevaughn, which she has been keeping safe in between the folds of old lace panties she no longer wears, buried at the bottom of her underwear drawer; a small bottle of rum, hidden in the same place.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Momma, we gotta go. C\u00e2\u20ac\u2122mon,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Jevaughn urges from the doorway of Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s bedroom. He tugs on her arm. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Forget this stuff, can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t you smell the smoke?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

On the way out, Mabel glances at the stack of envelopes on the table that used to be for dining and entertaining. If only, these could burn in the fire, if only the flames could rise high enough to lick the envelopes to ashes, but leave her table unscathed.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153C\u00e2\u20ac\u2122mon Momma,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Jevaughn beckons again from the hallway.<\/p>\n

Mabel closes the door and follows Jevaughn and the rest of their neighbours down the dimly lit stairwell, answering all their inquisitive questions about what\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s going on with, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know. My son and I just got home. He picked me up from work this evening. Such a sweet boy.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Yes, she had decided, this is the lie she would maintain to protect him and when someone coughs from the smoke now filling up the stairwell, startling an already tense Jevaughn and causing him to trip over his always untied shoelaces and the handgun tucked into the waist of his pants eases out and crashes against the concrete step, Mabel does not think twice about throwing her shawl and purse over the fallen weapon, which she scoops up into the fabric of her shawl and rams into her purse with such swiftness, she is already standing and saying, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m fine thank you,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d by the time a tenant from the 8th floor turns around to ask if she is alright. Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s face is the poster of shame as fear fastens its grip around the space where he should feel the pulsing of a heartbeat, but where there is only the low throbbing of silence and shadows.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oh, you dropped this,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d says the neighbour, crouching down to pick up something.<\/p>\n

Color flushes from Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s face leaving her a pallid, lifeless grey as she watches him rise, the bottle of rum held out to her quizzically.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Whoa, miss, you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re a real party animal, eh?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He asks jokingly.<\/p>\n

Mabel\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s voice is a hoarse, indecipherable whisper caught in her throat as she tries to stammer out a reply.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s mine,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Jevaughn says, snatching the bottle, and before the tenant can ask how old he is anyway, the smoke curls itself around his vocal cords, making him hack and cough uncontrollably.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Hurry up, everyone. The smoke\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s getting worse,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d a voice calls from below.<\/p>\n

As they descend the stairs, side by side, feeling comforted by the simple closeness of their shoulders grazing, Mabel reaches for Jevaughn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s hand and renegotiate\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s her deal with God. No more casino, no more rum, no more nothing, she reasons, if you just get us through this God.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Solemn Prayer Tashania Colquhoun Salt should do the trick, thinks Jevaughn. Maybe if I scrub with some salt, it will come out. In his 15-year-old mind, he remembers his mother always washing the rice, the lettuce, the meat with salt, claiming that it removed all the impurities that lingered in and on foods. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Purify,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":96,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"authorpage.php","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-178","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/178","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=178"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/178\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":923,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/178\/revisions\/923"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/96"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue11\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=178"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}