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“Thank you, Jesus,” 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’t 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.

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. “Can’t be more than $100,” she tells herself. “Ok, no more than $150.” It is the same sinking feeling of being on a roller coaster that churns in her stomach when she reads “Please pay immediately: $540.78.” 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’s keys.

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’ Jevaughn, always making a mess for her. Sometimes, she feels like she could just wring that child’s neck.

Mabel uses a moist kitchen towel to wipe the table. She lifts Jevaughn’s keys to wipe the area beneath them. Again, Mabel’s 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’s keychain. She puts on her reading glasses and still the thumb print does not disappear.  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’t covered by paper paraphernalia, and straighten up before bed.

Mabel picks up Jevaughn’s 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’s 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’s thoughts become a dull echo in her head when she bends over to pick up Jevaughn’s 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’s key card, and his shoes.

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’s blood, but Jevaughn’s. 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.

“Jevaughn! Jevaughn! My baby, Jevaughn!”  she screams as she shakes him by the shoulders. “Oh please, God. He’s my baby! My one and only.” Mabel bawls and howls, cupping Jevaughn’s head against her bosom as she sways from side to side, back and forth.

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