My Soul to Keep Part 16

"I want to take you to France," David whispered. "I want to show you Paris and Versailles. We can live there."

"Mmmmm ..." she mumbled, already fading from wakefulness.

"Will you and Kira go away with me?" He'd been asking her this question daily for the past week; the phrasing made it sound like he might go somewhere without them.

"Of course," she breathed.

"I mean it, Jess," he said, his voice louder, more urgent.

"Me, too," she muttered, and she was asleep.

When Kira came downstairs for breakfast after the second call, her T-s.h.i.+rt was untucked and her shoelaces were flapping on the floor. She marched to the table and waited for Jessica to pour milk over her bowl of cornflakes. David was in the kitchen making toast for all of them, and coffee for the groggy grown-ups.

"I don't want to go to school," Kira announced.

Jessica hadn't heard this complaint in a long time, since Kira's first week in Ms. Raymond's kindergarten cla.s.s. She took a comb and began to fluff out the natural shape of Kira's hair. Kira would need a haircut soon-she was beginning to look like Angela Davis, circa 1968. When the comb pulled her head back slightly, Kira missed her mouth with the spoonful of cereal. "Mommy, I don't want to go to school," she repeated.

"I heard you."

"You didn't answer."

"You know what I'm going to say," Jessica told her.

Kira sighed, clicking her tongue insolently. Then, she laughed when she missed her mouth with her spoon again. Jessica didn't even have time to scold Kira for being sa.s.sy before her laugh dulled the sting. This kid has an on and off switch, she thought.

David appeared, resting the plate of toast behind his plastic-covered computer. "What'd you do to your face? You look like a milk monster," David said, and Kira's laugh turned to peals.

Jessica peeked around at Kira's face. Splashes of milk dotted her nose, cheek, and chin. She couldn't help laughing herself.

"Are you sick?" David asked, dabbing her face with a napkin.

"Well ... maybe a little sick ..." she said. "Yes, I think so."

"Don't tell stories, Kira," Jessica said.

"I think I am a little, Mommy. I feel bad."

"What's wrong?" David and Jessica asked in unison.

For a long time, Kira didn't answer. She worked her face around, exaggerating her thought process, then she shrugged. "I don't know," she said.

Jessica shared a knowing glance with David. This child could be such a bulls.h.i.+t artist. Maybe someone at school had called her a name, or the teacher had told her to stop talking so much. Only Kira knew best what was going on in her little head.

"When are we going away, Daddy?" Kira asked.

Jessica paused midchew, wondering if Kira had overheard their bedroom conversation, but the guilty expression on David's face told her he must have discussed a trip with her too.

"Don't know yet. That's for Mommy to decide."

Jessica felt her old mechanisms warming up, s.h.i.+fting into gear. Out of the question. They weren't going anywhere. She'd invested too much time at the paper and would miss her family too much to simply pack up and leave. Bea would skin her alive for taking her granddaughter so far away, even for only a year.

"Remember, we have money stashed away," David kept reminding her.

David's father, who'd been an importer in France, left him a nice-sized estate and a lump of cash. David had been forced into state care, but the money became his when he was twenty-one, and he promptly invested it. The way he described it, one year he was virtually a pauper, living on student loans and macaroni and cheese, and then a letter from the French government informed him that, as of his birthday, he had a quarter of a million dollars sitting in the bank. He'd bought this Miami house, and just about everything he owned, with cash.

As soon as Jessica graduated from college, David tried to tempt her to forget about a career and backpack across the world with him. But in those days, when she still couldn't get used to the M-R-S in front of her name and the hyphen that joined their surnames, David felt temporary. She just knew he would get bored, leave, or cheat, so she decided to get her own act together fast. The backpacking could come later, if it came at all.

And it was later, Jessica realized. David was dying for her to have another baby, which would make traveling a lost cause. But Kira was old enough to handle it now. It's not a two-headed dragon, she thought, remembering Peter's words to her.

Europe had culture, variety, freshness, and Africa even more. It would give Kira a foundation she would never find in the States, and give Jessica a new start.

What if she was standing at the threshold between a good life and a remarkable life? Her father told her once, in a secret-telling voice he used every time he read fairy tales, that her life was going to be remarkable. That was the first time she'd heard the word, in fact. Of course, he'd probably said that to Alex, too, but Jessica had grown up a.s.suming it was prophecy. She planned to write a story that would change the world-or a book, like David's, that would make a profound historical contribution. So far, that wasn't happening in Miami.

Maybe G.o.d's plan would present itself if she had the courage to break away. Courage was all it would take.

Jessica folded her hands to look her daughter in the eye. "Kira ... You really want to go away? Even if you wouldn't see Ms. Raymond or your friends or Grandma or Aunt Alex for a long time?"

Kira nodded, not hesitating. She looked earnest.

"But why, sweetheart? Because Daddy says so?"

"No," Kira said. "'Cause Grandpa says so."

Jessica and David scowled and glanced at each other, puzzled. Kira had never known a grandfather a day in her life.

"Grandpa likes Burger King. Just like me," Kira went on, and Jessica's heart froze as she thought of her father's trip to Burger King the night he died. She grasped the edge of the table as though she believed she would fall if she let it go.

"He says you and me have to leave, Mommy. Just you and me, he says. But I want Daddy to come too. Grandpa says if we don't leave, bad things will happen. Very, very bad things."

"What kind of bad things, d.u.c.h.ess?" David asked, seeming unaware of the fright that was making Jessica feel dizzy. Maybe he thought Kira had invented an imaginary friend. Good Lord, could that be?

"Very, very bad things," Kira repeated, and the way she said it, as though she truly were repeating careful instructions, locked Jessica's muscles. "Like what happened to Peter and Uncle Billy. A monster will come for us."

At this, Jessica could clearly see the color draining from her husband's face, leaving his lips looking dry. He'd figured out that something wasn't right. It wasn't just her imagination. She wasn't the only one rendered breathless by Kira's recitation.

What the h.e.l.l was going on?

A dream, David mouthed to Jessica after his head snapped with the realization. "What kind of monster, Kira?" David asked her.

Kira shrugged and didn't answer at first, as though she couldn't think of the words. She looked directly at Jessica. "A mean monster," she said. "Or, maybe a good monster too."

"There are no good monsters, Kira," Jessica said suddenly, her voice barely a breath.

"That's what Grandpa says too," Kira said sadly, and she brought a spoonful of soggy cereal to her lips.

Jessica's quickened heartbeat had given her an instant headache, and she couldn't think of what else to say. Should she ask Kira if she'd seen Grandpa in the cave? Did she really want to hear her daughter's answer?

Abruptly, as soon as Kira finished eating, David tied her shoelaces and sent her upstairs to brush her teeth. Jessica saw his eyes, gla.s.sy with worry, as he watched her go.

"What was she talking about?" David asked.

"I don't know," Jessica whispered. Her mind was still stuck on Kira's words: He likes Burger King, like me. How could Kira know her grandfather liked Burger King, that he'd been eating a Whopper when ... ? When what? Jessica had to force herself to finish the thought: When she'd talked to him in the cave. When he'd told her to warn Kira that there were no good monsters.

"You okay, Jess?" David asked, hugging her with one arm.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"She's afraid of something. We've had so many bad things happen, first Princess, then Peter and Uncle Billy. Maybe that's what it is. I've tried to s.h.i.+eld her, but..." He sounded so down on himself, Jessica squeezed his hand.

"Well, Lord, there's only so much you can do, David. We've both tried."

"This environment is bad for her, Jess."

Jessica blinked. "Maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing to leave. Maybe we should. There are too many bad memories for her right now. If we plan for this summer ..."

"We shouldn't wait until summer. We'll enroll her in an American school in Paris. The sooner we go, the better. That's very clear now."

His face was uncompromising. This was no longer a discussion of a remote possibility; it was becoming a plan, full of details and weight. It sat heavy on her shoulders. She'd felt this way with Peter, when she realized their book idea was more than talk.

"It just feels like we're running away," she said.

"Sometimes the only choice is to run away," David said, and kissed her.

Jessica knew some of her coworkers were still grumbling about her quick rise to the I-Team, the most coveted position for idealistic reporters with visions of All the President's Men dancing in their heads. When she'd interviewed with Sy the year before, she'd known full well she had a decent shot at the job, not only because she was good, but because the team had never had a black reporter in its existence. As her mother put it, the system had been working for everybody else for so long, it was d.a.m.n well time it worked for her.

So, here she was. The state was investigating the facilities she'd exposed in her nursing-home package, which was still being complimented and believed to be a shoo-in for the Pulitzer finals. And her tips from Boo on drug dealing by county maintenance workers were panning out better than a dream. She'd just contacted a former low-level Dade County HUD supervisor who'd moved to Arizona and seemed willing to talk off the record. She'd felt a little like Bob Woodward during their telephone conversation, which he cut short when his son had to leave for school: "Knowledge of this goes high. Higher than you'd think," the man said before he hung up. What more could she want?

A month ago, a development like this would have sent her into an adrenaline fury, and she'd be pulling twelve-hour days to knock on public housing residents' doors, probe her sources in the local DEA office, and swap information with her police buddies at Metro.

Instead, Jessica found herself halfheartedly scribbling down her telephone messages from HUD bureaucrats and stifling a yawn at her desk. She checked her watch. Only noon. Either the days were getting longer or she was just getting plain bored.

And she was alarmed at herself. Could it really be that she'd reached her career goal and had no idea what she wanted to do next? Her job was beginning to feel like a forty-hour-a-week distraction from her life at home with Kira and David, the part that mattered.

"It's hard to explain," Jessica said to Alex on the phone during their customary lunchtime conversation. At the UM lab ten minutes away, near the hospital, Alex was no doubt sitting on a stool with a tuna fish sandwich in one hand and a Diet c.o.ke in the other. Jessica had stolen away to sit with her sister enough times to know her daily menu. "It's like we're courting again. He's trying so hard. But not in the way that makes me feel smothered. He's starting to let me inside."

"Inside what?"

"His head. His thoughts. Showing me the clarinet is only part of it. There's so much more to him. I really feel that."

"Uh-huh," Alex said, sounding slightly skeptical as she shoved food into her mouth. "Can I throw up now?"

"Don't be cynical. David is really deep. You know that. Don't tell me you've forgotten the time he shocked you by going off on microbiology at Christmas dinner."

"The man knows his stuff. No doubt about it."

"And, Alex ... He's so good on clarinet. You should have heard him last night playing this song by Billie Holiday, *My Man.' I thought I was dreaming."

"Watch it. He's just trying to get into your pants," Alex said, and they both laughed. It wasn't so far from the truth, really; David was trying to get his way. Suddenly, there was silence on the line. Their thoughts, momentarily, had merged.

"So, I don't know what to do ..." Jessica said.

"And I don't know how to counsel you on this one, either. It's kind of scary to drop the J-O-B, move to a foreign country, and start over. You don't even speak French."

"I know," Jessica sighed.

"But, heck, James Baldwin went to France. All the writers go to France. Maybe it's a rite of pa.s.sage for you."

"Yeah ... I was thinking something like that too ..." Jessica said, chewing on the cap of her Bic pen. Listening to Alex munching on her food was making her hungry. Maybe she'd swing by the house and surprise David for lunch. David's leftover curried chicken sounded a lot more appealing than whatever was waiting in the cafeteria.

Another short silence. "So you're scared, huh?" Alex asked.

"It's for real now. It's definitely for real. He even talks about going to Africa someday, to Ethiopia. Exotic places. It's really tempting."

"Mom's going to have a fit."

"Oh, Lord, yes." And who could blame her, really? One year away could turn into two or three, or more, and Bea Jacobs didn't believe in airplanes. Once, while Bea was visiting her brother in New York, a traffic jam made her miss Flight 401 back to Miami. The plane crashed into the Everglades swamps. More than anything else, that was what made Jessica believe in miracles.

"But you have to live for yourself, Jessica. Life's too short, you know? Here I am still in Miami, and I've been talking about going to South Africa since way back when Mandela was voted in. I have an application to direct a clinic at a towns.h.i.+p just sitting in my drawer. I wish I had somebody to carry my tired b.u.t.t out of here, to spur me on. Safe and comfortable is also very boring."

"I know that's right."

"I've always known you had bigger fish to fry than the Sun-News. I mean that."

Jessica's stomach jumped. Alex was right. Her destiny had nothing at all to do with the Sun-News and drug dealers or corrupt politicians. All of that was very small compared to whatever it was the Lord had waiting for her. "I guess I'm going to swing by home and get some food," Jessica said.

"Y'all better not go nowhere without telling me goodbye."

"Oh, please," Jessica said. "Get back to work finding the cure for sickle-cell. I'll catch you later, Dr. Jacobs."

After Jessica hung up, she looked up and saw one of the young mail clerks standing over her. He smiled at her sheepishly, tossing a manila envelope on top of her desk. The envelope was scuffed and wrinkled at the corners.

"What's this?"

"Sorry," the clerk shrugged. "It fell behind the cabinet. If I hadn't dropped a dollar back there, it would have been buried until Christmas."

Jessica glanced at the envelope's return address. It was from the Cook County Police Department, with someone's initials scrawled from Media Relations. Confused, Jessica looked at the postmark; it had been mailed nearly two months before.

Of course. The Chicago nursing-home lady. No wonder the original copy of the police report never arrived. Jessica had forced the poor sister to fax the whole report for nothing, and then she'd misplaced the fax anyway.

"Well, d.a.m.n. Thanks a bunch. Rick," Jessica said.

"Sorry," he said, blowing her a kiss as he turned to walk away. "Hope it's not important."

In her hand, the envelope felt like an unearthed memento from an era long past. Jessica could remember the woman's name, Rosalie Tillis Banks, but she could barely relate to the time when her story had seemed so vitally important. The time when Peter was so anxious to have her fly to Chicago.

Her stomach churned slightly at the thought of her meetings with Peter to discuss the book idea that had died with him. Some things were not meant to be, she mused. Only Jesus knew the master plan. Peter's death had shaken her faith, a tremor at the roots, which time had stilled, but Jessica was stubborn in her belief that everything happened for a reason. She had to believe it. G.o.d wouldn't create a random world.

"Rest in peace, Rosalie Tillis Banks," Jessica muttered, leaning over to search for her trash can.