I See Jacques

The fumes might kill me if the pain doesn’t. Why did I come back here after all these years? The walls have new layers of graffiti art, modern, meaningless except to the few. Bleck the Rat supposedly painted some early works here. They’re gone now. Every decade the police municipale come along and paint over the art. Graffiti they call it. Dangerous. Vulgar. Then, a new layer blossoms all over again.

The empty warehouse has history. When Jacques and I used to come here to get away from the beatings at home, we’d put one jacket on the floor, and share the other huddled side by side. The dampness still had a way of creeping into our bones, even with each other’s body warmth. The gasoline fumes from the nearby motorway would give us a headache, but no one bothered us here. We kept away from the dopers and drunks, and they left us to ourselves after a few tentative forays into our ‘camp’.
My eyes blink at the spots of brilliant sunlight the broken windows let in. It’s odd to see it in daylight. The scum on the floor reflects like water, but none of the blood pooling between us on the last night Jacques and I spent here, is visible. He died in my arms. I cried then and I’m crying now.
 
Jacques and I were friends, never lovers. His brown skin shone a little more darkly than his father’s, darker than mine. His purple bruising often didn’t show, but I could feel the swellings against my arm. Sometimes spots were hot, the cuts infected, with the pus running out. My mother trouncing me simply ended in cuts. The steel edge of the ruler slashed my skin, letting ribbons of red bubble up to the surface. That seemed to satisfy her.

“You’re lazy. Get off your bottom an’ help me with these dishes.” Or “You’re stupid. You can’t do better than this at school? Why am I sending ya?”  Waving the report card in front of me, she’d grab the ruler from the silverware drawer, slam it shut, and raise her arm. Smack. Smack. Smack. Around my arms, neck, and shoulders.

How could I learn when my stomach growled, the digestive juices searching for something to digest? Day after day I went hungry, getting the smallest portion while my younger brother got the largest. After washing the dishes and sweeping the floor I’d go to my room, an overgrown closet really. Later, I’d hear a ‘ping’ under my window on the side of the stone building, and I’d open my door a crack, controlling my breathing, tingling in fear of getting caught. Closing the door and waiting, listening for my mother’s snores. Jacque would be waiting for me at the corner.

It was sporadic at first. Just a couple of nights a week. Then a few more. Three years while we were young teens. It became regular. Every night we would meet and stay until we couldn’t keep our bodies upright. Then we’d go home the same way we arrived—slinking, sneaking, listening for danger.

Until the night there was no ping. It had been raining all day and didn’t let up all evening, so I wondered if Jacque had decided to give it a miss.

He wasn’t at school the next day. Jacque never skipped classes, and I was scared. He made top grades in most of his subjects by attending. He drew beautiful pictures, and had a radical talent for ping pong. I don’t know how he did it with the thrashings waiting for him at home every night when his father came in drunk.

That night my mother nearly caught me.

“Where do you think you’re goin’ young lady?”

“I’m hungry. I was looking for something to eat.” It wasn’t a lie.
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“Dinner’s come and gone. I’ve cleaned up. This isn’t a restaurant, ya know. Get back to your room.”

How easily she forgot that I had cleaned up. I bowed my head in feigned meekness and returned to my room. She’d be listening for the kitchen cupboard doors to creak, not the front door. I left as soon as her snoring came steadily.
 
Jacques lay prone on the cold cement. I knelt beside him and scrunched my face, willing the tears to stay away. “Jacques. It’s Madeline. Are you going to be all right? Should I get help?”

“No. No. Just stay with me. It’s bad this time, Maddie.”
His breath came in little wheezes. His eyes were two slits in a face puffy from brow to chin.

“Oh, Jacques. How can you stand this? I can’t let you go back there. We’ll run away together—go someplace safe.”
“Do me a favour Maddie. You get out of this slum. Get out and make good. For both of us.” He tried lifting his hand to grip mine, but it took both of my shaking hands to lift his to my cheek. My tears disappeared into his sleeve.

Jacques rested his head in my lap. Then the blood came from his mouth. More and more until it gushed. He gasped a few times, and his head slumped onto his chest. My pants and jacket were blood-soaked.

“Somebody help me,” I called. “Somebody help us,” I screamed. Bending over Jacques’ body, my shoulders heaved in sobs. The others around us stood silent. Someone tried pulling me up and away, but I resisted. I held him tighter than I had when he lived.
 
I’d gone, and I’d ‘made good’, though I don’t think Jacques would have recognized it. The African relief organization I work for doesn’t pay much, but every day I work with parents, teaching them to respect the fragile, budding humans their children are. And every day I see Jacques in the eyes of a teen, who, smiling gently, tries to encourage my hope.