Mary Jane, Jessica Blau [diy ebook reader TXT] 📗

meat thermometer. She really doesn’t like visitors.”

“Peanut farmer,” my father mumbled to the paper.

“Is she losing her hair?” my mother asked.

“She has been wearing wigs.”

“Are they tasteful?”

“Yes.”

“I would wear a wig that looked just like my hair so that no one would know it was a wig.” My mother’s blond hair was shoulder-length,thick, and stiff. It was like a cap. Or, really, like a wig.

“She’s been wearing a long blond wig mostly.”

My mother shook her head in disapproval.

 

On Monday I ran to the Cones’, my flip-flops making a slapping sound. When I got to their house, I stood on the porch a minuteand caught my breath. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d run all the way; it was embarrassing to think of how badly I wantedto be there.

When I finally opened the front door, I found Izzy and Jimmy sitting at the banquette in the kitchen. Jimmy had a guitar inhis hands and was making up a song about Izzy. Izzy was bouncing her head around like she was at a concert.

“Izzy! Izzy!” Jimmy sang. “She makes me dizzyyyyyy with LOVE!”

“MARY JANE!” Izzy jumped off the banquette and climbed up into my arms. “Jimmy’s singing a song about me!”

“I heard.” I kissed Izzy’s curls. Her head smelled loamy and dank. Her last bath must have been Friday, before we went outto dinner.

“Now sing about Mary Jane!” Izzy monkeyed out of my arms and returned to the banquette. I went to the refrigerator and tookout the eggs. Jimmy plucked out a tune on his guitar. He was humming.

“Oh!” I turned to Jimmy. “Thank you for coming to church.”

“I hate church.” Jimmy kept plucking. “But Sheba loves it. And I have to admit, it was worth it just to hear you sing. Youwere motherfuckin’ beautiful, Mary Jane. I could pick out your voice above the others. Totally gorgeous.”

I swallowed hard and blushed, then mumbled a thank-you and turned to the cupboards to busy myself. When I opened the uppercupboards, I found new dishes—white with a painted blue pattern of onions and leaves—and new glasses. The lower cupboardswhere I had put mixing bowls and roasting pans were still pretty empty, though a set of metal mixing bowls and some metalroasting pans had survived the purge.

Jimmy started singing. “Mary Jane, she ain’t so plain, my dear sweet Mary Jane.”

My heart banged. When I felt steadier, I turned to look at Jimmy. He smiled and did some picking, his fingers moving faston the strings. Then he continued, “That down-home girl, Mary Jane, makin’ eggs, on her two strong legs.”

“BIRDS IN A NESSSST!” Izzy sang, and I laughed.

“MARY JANE!” Jimmy belted it out like he was singing to a stadium. “She feeeeds us, but she ain’t never, ever, ever, ever, ever tried to bleeeeeeed us.”

I cracked an egg into a metal bowl to start the pancake batter. Izzy clapped her hands and bounced around. She fed Jimmy linesfor his song that he enthusiastically sang back to her as if she were Stephen Sondheim.

When Dr. Cone came down, I got up to make him a bird in the nest. “I like the new dishes,” I said.

“Ah. Yes.” Dr. Cone smiled. “Sheba and Bonnie picked them out. Mary Jane, has anyone told you about the beach house?”

“We’re going to the beach for a whole week. That’s seven days!” Izzy shouted.

“Oh yeah?” My body felt like it was an old, deflating party balloon. I had just spent a tortured weekend at home. What wouldI do for a week without the Cones and Jimmy and Sheba? How could I take seven full days with my mother?

“Yeah, we’re borrowing the Flemings’ house on Indian Dunes in Dewey Beach. It’s a big place, lots of bedrooms and bathrooms.Right on the ocean.”

“That so nice,” I pushed out the words.

“It’s a private stretch of beach too. And, you know, I don’t believe in the privatization of certain areas—everyone shouldenjoy the sand, the water, the dunes—and it’s better for us as people if we don’t attach to things.” Dr. Cone put down hisfork, as if to rest for a minute. “But Jimmy and Sheba do need privacy, so I’ll accept the private beach in honor of them.”

“Jimmy can’t addict on a private beach. Right?” Izzy looked up at her dad.

Dr. Cone smiled at her, then leaned over and kissed her several times on her cheeks and forehead. “Right. And we can meditate there. Take long walks. Really incorporate some mind-and-body unity into the therapy.”

“That sounds perfect.” I blinked back my grief and started another bird in a nest.

As if on cue, Mrs. Cone came into the kitchen, wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top. “Mary Jane! Did you see the new dishes?”

“They’re lovely.” I could barely muster a smile. I put the bird in a nest on a new plate and slid it onto the table for Mrs.Cone, then started another batch.

“Oh, everyone’s favorite! Birds in a nest.” Mrs. Cone sat and started eating.

“Jimmy wrote a song called ‘Mary Jane.’” Izzy climbed over her father’s lap and nestled between her parents. Mrs. Cone kissedher all over her face, just as Dr. Cone had done.

Jimmy was singing softly, strumming out chords, picking out little rifts. Mrs. Cone stopped kissing Izzy and watched him closely.She looked like she wanted to kiss him the way she’d just kissed Izzy.

“Jimmy, do you want another one?” I asked.

“MARY JANE!” Jimmy sang. “’Cause one bird in a nest will never, ever, ever, ever do, Mary Jane makes a second one tooooooo. . . .”

I picked up Jimmy’s plate and refilled it. Sheba came into the kitchen wearing a red terry-cloth romper, white knee socks,and red tennis shoes. In her hair was a thick red elastic hairband. She looked like she’d popped out of a magazine. Or offa record cover. “Mary Jane, how was your weekend?” Without waiting for me to reply, she added, “Did you hear about the beach?”

“Yeah. You all will have so much fun.” I put the last bird in a nest on a plate for Sheba.

“Well, you’ll come, won’t you?”