Mary Jane by Jessica Blau (debian ebook reader TXT) 📗

cover. I stacked the books in my arms and took them into the living room, wherethe built-in bookshelves were full. I had been collecting books from all over the house and stacking them in front of theshelves the past few weeks, with the eventual plan for me and Izzy to organize and alphabetize them. I figured the alphabetizingwould help Izzy be ready for kindergarten in the fall.

Once the table was clear, I returned to the fridge. Izzy stood by, holding a Hefty bag open with two hands.

The first thing I pulled out was a foil-wrapped, thick, semi-gelatinous brown blob. “Bad.” I dropped it in the bag.

Izzy looked in the bag. “Bad.”

Next I pulled out a saucer that had a shimmery slab of what might have originally been a meat but was now covered with a mossygreen fuzz. “Bad.”

“Bad,” Izzy repeated.

I jumped to the vegetable bin, as it was a smaller space and would sooner give me a sense of accomplishment. There were severalloose onions, half the skin gone, with divots of black and crumbs and dirt embedded in the exposed flesh.

“Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.”

“Badbadbadbadbad,” Izzy said.

With my thumb and forefinger I removed three different bags of half-deteriorated mushy lettuce. “Bad. Bad. Bad.”

“Baaaaad,” Izzy brayed.

The oranges were as soft as Silly Putty. The apples had wrinkled skin. And there was a bagged, flowering, multidimensionalgreen entity that could not be identified.

When nothing remained in the bin, I returned to the shelves. I pulled out an oily glass jar that appeared to have detachedgray toes floating in murky brownish water.

“What is that?” Izzy asked.

“If we don’t know what it is, it’s bad.” I handed the jar to Izzy so she could examine it further.

“It looks like thumbs.”

“Ah! I thought it looked like big toes. But I think you’re right.”

“Do you think the witch put the thumbs here?”

“No.”

“I think the witch put it here.” Izzy placed the jar in the bag.

“Bad.” An opened chocolate bar that was chalky white.

“Bad.” A brick of cheddar cheese that was green except for the corner farthest from the gaping-open clear wrap.

“Bad.” Carrots (they should have been in the vegetable bin) that were as loose and droopy as overcooked spaghetti noodles.

“Good.” I held up a jar of Grey Poupon and handed it to Izzy.

“HURRAH!” Izzy put down the Hefty bag and ran the mustard to the table.

“Bad.” Empty orange juice carton.

“Bad.” Unopened Knudsen yogurt that had expired three months ago.

“Bad.” A half-eaten taco half wrapped in tinfoil, with white cauliflower-looking mold erupting in spots.

“Good.” I held up a jar of maraschino cherries.

“What is it?”

“Maraschino cherries. They’re really sweet.”

“Can I taste one?”

“Yes.” I opened the jar and pulled one out. “You know, maybe the witch put the cherries in the fridge. Maybe she’s a goodwitch.”

“Are there good witches?”

“Yes.” I placed the cherry in Izzy’s open mouth. She chewed thoughtfully.

“I like the cherry.”

“It’s definitely a good witch food. Good witches eat lots of maraschino cherries.”

“How do you know?”

“I read about it in a book.”

“Can I have one more?”

“Last one.” I dropped another cherry in her mouth and then stuck the jar on the table.

Back at the fridge, I pulled out three deli containers of wet mush in colors varying in shade from green to brown. The Eddie’sprice stickers on top were smeared out by oil and time. “Bad, bad, bad.”

Izzy opened one container and sniffed. She jerked her head back and then sniffed again.

“Close that,” I said. “The stink is filling the kitchen.” It was the smell of fishy garbage in summer, magnified.

Izzy sniffed once more, her eyes crinkled up as if in pain. “Mary Jane! It’s so bad, I CAN’T STOP!”

I understood the urge. The twins and I often dared each other to smell their mother’s limburger cheese, which was usuallystocked in their fridge. Still, I took the container from Izzy, snapped the lid shut, and dropped the container in the Heftybag.

It wasn’t long before the Hefty bag was nearly full and the refrigerator was nearly empty.

I had bought cleaning supplies and gloves earlier in the week. My mother wore gloves to protect her manicure. I didn’t havea manicure, and neither did Izzy, but it seemed like fun to wear gloves anyway. We scrubbed the cleared shelves and draweruntil the inside of the refrigerator looked almost brand-new. And then we stood back, the door open, and stared in admiration.

Mrs. Cone and Sheba walked into the kitchen. Sheba was wearing a short blond wig and giant sunglasses. Her body looked bothslim and curvy in a tight floral jumpsuit. I’d never seen anyone dressed like that in Baltimore. If she was trying to go outunnoticed, she was failing.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the refrigerator look like this.” Mrs. Cone stood at the door, smiling. She was wearing the pink blouse and genie pants, and had tied a pink floral scarf around her head so she looked sort of like a dancer.

“You both look so pretty.”

“Ah, thanks.” Mrs. Cone leaned in and kissed the top of my head. No one had ever kissed me like that. Not my mom and not mydad. Sometimes I’d get a little pat on the back, or a squeeze from my mom that might resemble a hug. But a kiss on the headwas totally new to me. What were you supposed to do when someone kissed you like that? Just stand there? Say thank you? Iblushed, then grabbed Izzy and pulled her in close to me because my hands suddenly needed something to do.

“We’re going to lunch,” Sheba said. “You think anyone will recognize me?”

“I don’t think anyone would ever in a million years expect that you’d be in Baltimore, so they probably won’t recognize you.But I bet they’ll stare at you, just, ’cause . . .” I was too embarrassed to go on.

“We’re going to make dinner!” Izzy said.

“I know.” Mrs. Cone leaned over Izzy and kissed her head three times, before turning up Izzy’s face and kissing her fat cheeks.

Just as all this kissing was taking place, Dr. Cone rushed into the kitchen, his hair a scrambled