Tomorrow Will be Jealous

Fiction

Today is going to be a wonderful day, I just know it. A little stripe of sunshine slides across my face as I wake up. Before I get down in the mouth and the saddies creep in with their black little fingers, before I start thinking about Mr. Tumnus wrapped in grandma’s Afghan in the cooler, I press play on my CD player. It’s like the first notes of “Walking on Sunshine” lift me out of bed. I scare Duchess off the comforter as I jump into the new day.

Try’n feel good! I sing as I set the kettle on the stove, giggling at the post-it I stuck to the window—a little joke from me to me: Make today so awesome that tomorrow gets jealous.

As the water boils, I study the schedule on the fridge. Since it’s Tuesday, it’s cookie day for the Williams, my favorite neighbors. Sometimes, they even let me touch the baby’s head, that soft, white-blond fluff. They’ll let me hold her one of these days.

Mrs. Williams almost did the other day. She was juggling the plate of cookies and the bag of baby books I’d given her. But then dumb old Mr. Williams swooped in saying, "No more cookies, we’re cutting out sugar."

Except, over his shoulder, I could see the Oreo jar sitting right there on the counter.

---

It’s definitely a peanut butter cookie day. That’s what the schedule says. Cookie day for the Williams always has to line up with formula day. That way, they’ll have to open up their door when I knock.

I dig around in the freezer, pulling out the frozen dough. The cookie sheet is balanced up on a shelf. Now what are you doing up there? I pry it down, scrape a bit of burnt blackness off with my nail.

While the cookies bake, the apartment fills with a bitter and sweet smell. The air goes smokey and thick so I push open the windows.

That’s what I love about this place—it’s like living in a tower—windows on all sides. From up here, the whole city stretches out below me. The downside is the seven flights of stairs.

Mrs. Cumber wants me to take the kitty litter out every day, or else. And she said no more throwing it out the window. Even though I said I almost always made it into the dumpster, she just changed the subject and said the rent was overdue.

I said I was good for it, but when she left, I thought, go ahead: try and kick me out. The whole apartment building has my back. They would fight for me, I know it.

---

I get ready for Veronica’s first call at 10 a.m. while the cookies bake. I warm up my voice, just like in high school drama. When I sing “Lalalalalalala,” Nala looks at me like I am crazy!

I brush my teeth, careful not to glance at the mirror. It’s the only one I have. Better not look too closely. Puffy, pale—I am only 50, but that potato-face looking back at me looks 10 years older, easy. I am not like that person in the mirror, that’s not me. And she’s definitely not Veronica.

It’s hard to stay cheerful right before the calls.

At 10, Veronica has a call with one of the nice ones. Sometimes he just talks, doesn’t even get to the sexy stuff. And when he does, it is the basic, Put it in me, or Go deeper. Simple, getting down to business.

Veronica’s 11 a.m. call is a newer client. But before I let that coldness start creeping into my hands, I press repeat and turn up the volume.

Remember, if anything bad happens, it happens to Veronica, not me.

Just one more minute on the cookies. Good thing, too—smoke is curling from the edges of the oven. But at least I kept the Veronica closet closed from the smoke.

I pull the cookies from the oven and set them to cool. Then I slip into the closet, easing the door shut behind me. Soft flickering light from the fake candles. It’s better this way. In the dark.

---

I step out, blinded by the light. It was a bad call. They’re always bad with this one. Worse every time. But I can’t lose another client to the internet, so Veronica describes exactly what he wants to hear. It’s just words, I remind myself.

Give it up to Jesus, I think. Let it go.

My knees ache from holding still so long. The air in the apartment is hazy. For a second, I think my vision has gone filmy. It happens sometimes if I’ve been crying in the night, but it’s just the cookie smoke, silly!

All four cats are waiting in front of the door. "You wouldn’t like it in there," I tell them.

I scoop Rajah up and nuzzle her fur. "If there were no yucky men, where would we be then?"

---

I have to time things just right today.

Judging by the state of my legs, I will have to take it slow. Cookie day first. And then—I can’t put it off anymore, Mr. Tumnus needs his eternal birthday celebration.

It breaks my heart, but I remind myself—he’s with Jesus now! Eating sardines with Jesus!

"Grief is just love with nowhere to go," I say to myself.

The thing in the cooler is just the shell he left behind. This time, I’ll do it right. His favorite catnip mouse tucked beside him in his resting place in the park.

"Your wings were ready, Mr. Tumnus, but my heart was not."

But first, the cookies. Hope these ol’ cankles will carry me! I look down at them, they’re swollen today, so puffy my feet look like they sprout straight from my trunks. The skin is stretched tight, pale enough to look almost blue.

I should prop them up for a bit. Maybe catch an episode of 90 Day Fiancé. I’m so behind. My neighbors have been keeping me so busy!

Last night Brian—the student—had friends over. I got cozy by the heating vent in the kitchen, pillows stacked just right. I could hear everything, like I was sitting right there with them.

At one point, someone said, “Let’s all move to Costa Rica!”

Dinah had climbed onto my belly, kneading at me like I was dough, purring so loudly she nearly drowned them out.

"Pipe down, Dinah!" I whispered. "I can’t hear them over all that racket."

At some point, I must have dozed off because when I woke up, my neck was stiff. But it was worth it. I had been there.

---

At three, I gather the plate of cookies and leave Mr. Tumnus on the landing. One trip at a time.

I breathe deep, taking it all in.

Curry. That means the Watsons are having their in-laws over tonight. On the fifth-floor landing, a whiff of strong perfume—Mark didn’t come home alone.

The little signs of life. A pacifier dropped in the hallway, a single sock, a smushed grape.

I tread lighter on the third floor. I don’t want to see Randy. I hear things through the bathroom vent—his voice sharp and slurred, the awful things he says, the dull thump of something getting hit. Muffled crying.

I notice a pair of boy’s white tennis shoes on his doormat. Just as I’m passing, the door swings open.

I can tell he’s drunk right away—his body hanging onto the doorframe.

"Are those for me?" he gestures at the plate, his voice is thick, his mouth pulling into a slow smirk.

I hesitate. Just a beat because I remember the boy. I’ve only seen him a handful of times. I look at those white sneakers and then try and look past Randy, maybe the cookies could be for him.

But before I can decide, Randy barks out a laugh.

"I wouldn’t take your disgusting cookies if you paid me," he says, "Everyone knows what’s in them. Chocolate chips, huh? You mean cat turds?"

My stomach drops. I swallow hard. I know what this is. He wants to make me small, like he does to his son. Don’t let him get to you, Willa, everybody loves your cookies, I tell myself and raise my chin, stepping past him without a word.

I feel him watching me the whole way down, until I turn the corner.

When I reach the Williams' door, I pause, smooth my robe. This is the part of the day that matters.

I knock. It opens!

But it’s Mr. Williams and I try to get a glimpse of the baby, but the door is held mostly closed. He is saying, it’s really nice of you, but he doesn’t sound like he thinks it is nice. As he takes the plate, his fingers pinch the edge, like he doesn’t want to touch it. His nose wrinkles slightly. He looks like I just gave him last month’s meatloaf! He shuts the door before I can ask about the baby, saying in a softer voice, “No more cookies, Willa, this is the last time.”

“Snickerdoodles next time!” I say cheerfully to the closed door; those are his favorites.

But then I suddenly feel sad, I can’t help it. I feel crestfallen, like my body weighs twice as much. I think: Crest. Fallen. Like a bird that can’t fly, falling flat on its face.

I look up the stairs, at all those steps, and it’s time to go get Mr. Tumnus, but I feel so tired, like I just can’t do it.

Faith it til you make it, I tell myself, steadying myself on the railing and taking the first step. I turn the corner on the stairs, look up, and there he is. Standing on the landing, watching me climb.

“Snickerdoodles next time.” he says, mimicking me in a sing-song voice.

I think about hearing him calling his son the R-word and by the time I am in front of his door, I am ready to give him a talking to.

I stop right in front of him, close enough to smell the sour whiskey on his breath.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I say, my voice trembling. "I hear what you do. I hear what you do to your boy."

For a second, something shifts in his face, almost a flinch, and he’s the one that grows small, looking shriveled. He takes a breath, and I almost think he is going to break down and cry.

I imagine him falling into my arms, saying he is sorry. I imagine myself telling him he could turn over a new leaf! Let light into his heart!

But he lets out a slow, ugly laugh, leaning in close. I think of the red of my kettle, the sound it makes as it begins to boil.

Then suddenly, he buckles over, laughing, barely getting the words out.

I lift my head high and walk right past him. I can hear him yelling down below as I hoist myself up the stairs—fat fuck, you smell like rotting cabbage! And he keeps it coming, I hear him saying things about the festering funk under my rancid breasts. Says I smell like I’m rotting from the inside out.

I climb as fast as I can, trying not to cry, my eyes getting hot. My legs feel like weights, the skin feels tight enough to rip open.

I can hear him hollering until I get to my door, where Tumnus is waiting.

As soon as I close the door behind me, trapping the sounds on the other side, I let the tears fall.

---

In the shower, I let the water run until it is scalding, watching it curl down the drain.

I scrub every wrinkle, every crevice, scrubbing and crying. The soap foam turns rainbow-colored in the sunlight, spinning round and round the black hole.

I imagine the water, the grit from my body, the dried tears all filtering into the pipes. Bits of me, streaming into the other apartments, like parts of me were in their rooms.

Tiny molecules of me sliding through the radiators, the drains, like roots of trees underground.

And I clean my tears in the shower and feel better, whispering: Come on, Willa, life is like a cookie—you gotta take the bitter with the sweet.

No, yesterday will not be jealous. But tomorrow will be better.

I step out of the shower feeling raw and pink, my legs still swollen but somehow lighter, drained by the heat.

It is time.

I put my shoes on, pick up the Styrofoam cooler. Mr. Tumnus is waiting.

I make my way down the stairs, moving slow but steady. The pipes run alongside me, behind the walls, carrying pieces of me, washing through the building.

Randy isn’t there. But even if he had been, I would have held my head high.

And then, just as I reach the lobby, the Williams’ door bursts open.

Mrs. Williams stumbles out, pale-faced, her husband holding her up. There’s a towel wrapped around her leg, blood soaking through in dark, spreading patches.

"What can I do?" I ask, my voice steady. "Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

Mr. Williams’s eyes are wild and wide. "My car is running outside."

I glance toward their apartment. "Where’s the baby?"

Mrs. Williams says weakly, "sleeping. My sister is on her way."

I nod. "Go. I’ll stay with her."

Mr. Williams hesitates, looking at the pooling blood.

"Just leave her in the crib, ok?" His voice is a little sharp.

I place my hand on his arm. "Go. I’ve got this."

He nods, still uncertain. I step inside their apartment; they disappear as the door clicks shut.

The room smells like fabric softener and baby powder. It smells safe. I take it in, looking at the pictures of them on the wall, all smiling.

The light is filtered blue by the curtains in the baby’s room. I set the cooler down by the door and step closer.

—God made you out of dust, I say softly.

She stirs, little hands flexing open and closed like tiny starfish.

I sing under my breath, barely a whisper:

—Baby Jesus, we love you, we love you. We’re going to heaven.

I reach into the crib and lift her, cradling her against my chest, feeling the tiny weight of her.

I breathe her in, that sweet, powdery scent. Cookie dough and talc. I inhale, pulling her scent deep into my lungs, like she’s filling me, seeping into me, curling into all the hollow places.

Like inhaling a magic dust that whirls through me, filling every gaping hole with thick soothing milk.

The sparkling baby dust goes down my airpipes, into my veins spreading and branching in me, flooding me.

I hold her closer. Closer.

This was one of the very worst days. But now—now it is turning out to be one of the best.

The Lord never fails to provide.

---

---

This feels like a companion piece:

---

Were you looking for visual art? Here’s some:

Ping ϱnoᑫ