Caul Baby by Morgan Jerkins (read any book .TXT) 📕

she could not be hurt and this was in fact her home too, she thought it would be okay to at least say hello. She turned on the light leading to the basement and lowered herself onto one step and looked over her shoulder. One step became two, two became five, until she finally reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Who’s that?” Iris called out from behind her closed bedroom door.

“It’s me,” Hallow stuttered.

“Me? Who’s me? You know who you are. I do not.”

“Hallow.”

“Come closer to the door.”

Hallow took one step toward the bedroom door.

“Closer.”

She took another.

Iris opened the door and smiled. “I knew it was you all along.”

Dumbfounded, Hallow curved her eyebrows inward and squinted. “I . . .”

Iris laughed and placed a hand on Hallow’s back. Her touch zapped Hallow as if an electric current sent a shock wave from the top of her hair to the soles of her feet. Iris guided Hallow into her bedroom, which seemed upon first glance to be too crowded to fit two people. Various books of faded colors and tattered spines were stacked high by her bedside. Heaps of clothes were stuffed underneath her desk. Vinyl records without their sleeves were scattered across the floor, and the Impressionist paintings that adorned her walls were all hung lopsided or upside down. Each of the drawers of her dresser was left open, but the middle one stuck out farther than the rest. Hallow was drawn to the rose-gold wrapping paper in that middle drawer. Something had to be inside, because it was folded over and closed with a red wax seal. She moved her upper body toward the middle drawer, and Iris immediately slammed it shut.

Iris sat down on the chair near her desk and crossed one leg over the other. Her blue veins were thick and covered the entire lower half of her body. Her hazel-gray eyes were piercing. The wrinkles in her neck resembled a spider’s web, and she had a dent in the space between her eyebrows.

“Something’s vexing you. I can see all over that young face of yours. Children aren’t old enough to construct masks.”

“When you were a kid, were you ever played with?”

“Played with? Sure I was. I wrestled and horseplayed, pulled hair and made messes unafraid. I played until I got tired. I played as long as I desired.”

“No, I mean . . .” Hallow scooted closer to Iris. “Did Maman ever try to show you to other people? That you couldn’t get hurt?”

“No. But I wasn’t like you, little Hallowed. You’re different from everyone else. You’re Maman’s favorite.”

“But what if I don’t want to be anyone’s favorite?” Hallow sank her head into her hands.

“Being a favorite is out of your control. But fickleness and favorites are two halves that share the same body.”

“Huh?”

“Never you mind. I am touched, you see. You shouldn’t be down here consorting with me.”

“Touched?”

“I see things, little Hallowed. When I close my eyes at night, my cohorts greet me on the other side. When I do whatever I need to do during the day, there they are, like shadows or mice scurrying in the corners. So whenever I speak, my words tend to go above people’s heads because I do not walk on the same plane they do. I am between worlds, as the old folks would say.”

“Between worlds?”

“Sometimes I get into my moods. I go into a fit. But I am left alone most of the time until I am called upstairs to give.” She ran her fingers along a piece of caul on the nape of her neck. “You know, I like being left alone with my things here.” She made a circle with her arms. “They keep me occupied. They’re always here, you know. You may not be able to see them like I do, but they make themselves known through every crack and crevice.”

Hallow remained silent in wonder at Iris’s impassioned words.

“Anyway, you like my art? Art encompasses many different worlds too. And the past and present are one and the same. Do you like it?”

Hallow looked around. “It is a lot. But it’s pretty.”

“And it’s mine. All mine. I wouldn’t dare live up there.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Say, why you still have your coat and gloves on?”

Hallow peered down at her chest. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Would you like me to relieve you?” Iris reached out, and Hallow shrank back.

“No! No. I don’t want to be touched. Please.”

“Okay, little Hallowed.”

“I’m gonna go.” Hallow got down from the chair and started toward the door. She glanced over her shoulder and asked, “All yours?”

“All mine.” Iris grinned.

On the way back up the stairs, Hallow wondered what could be called hers in this spacious brownstone. She climbed into her own bed with her coat and gloves still on and rested her eyes. Once she heard Helena calling out for her in a voice dipped in mischief, she clutched her chest with both hands and cried into one of the flaps of her coat, repeating, “Mine. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.”

7

Josephine couldn’t figure out what seemed to be vexing Hallow. After her conversation with Iris, Hallow ran upstairs to her bedroom, where she buried her head in a mountain of pillows that she soon saturated with her tears. Josephine was occupying herself with fixing her vanity and jumped when she heard Hallow slam her bedroom door, which she had never done before. “Hallow?” Josephine asked as she treaded lightly into the bedroom. “Hallow, sweetheart? Baby, what’s wrong?” Hallow didn’t respond. When Josephine went to touch her back, Hallow smacked her mother’s hand away. Josephine soothed her stinging right hand and gazed at Hallow with bewilderment. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

Hallow’s cries gradually ceased. She raised her puffy, wet face and rested her chin on a pillow. Josephine repeated her question, and Hallow shook her head.

“No?”

Hallow nodded.

“Yes?”

Hallow shrugged her shoulders.

“Which one is it? I’m trying to understand, baby. You got to speak to me.”

“Maman. She—she—” Hallow choked back some more tears and struggled