ii. living selflessly

[july_july_july]

living selflessly

To live in prison is to live without mirrors. To live
without mirrors is to live without the self. She is
living selflessly, she finds a hole in the stone wall and
on the other side of the wall, a voice. The voice
comes through darkness and has no face. This voice
becomes her mirror.
"Jezebel Lafils has the devil in her!"

"Now, Levi."

"She does! She must be in league with the Dark Prince!"

"Levi!"

"You're only sayin' that 'cause I shoot better than you and I'm a girl! And you hate that I shoot better than you! You should! I'm a damn good shot!"

"I told you, Papa! She has the devil in her!"

Mr .Wells cleared his throat. He was a small man with an imposing presence. When you were the largest landowner in the state, it was hard not to be imposing. He put a hand on his son's shoulder and turned his back on Jezebel, edging her out.

"Levi. I know Monseigneur has some work for you. I'm very proud that you've taken to Latin so well. It is the tongue of the Church."

"Not Jesus' tongue," Jezebel muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

Mr. Wells turned and fixed her with a stern look. "And where did you hear that?"

"Father Cauchon, the Jesuit."

"Of course. The damn Jesuits."

"And how's your Latin?" Levi sneered.

"Passable, at best," she said brightly, turning back to Mr. Wells. "But, honestly, sir. Why the hell shouldn't Jesus speak French or English, like the rest of us?"

"Are you listening? Jezbel Lafils has the--"

"Run along, now," Mr. Wells said loudly, and his son did. Levi had a penchant for pulling her hair, pushing her in the mud, generally being a trial unto her. And still she was sorry to see him go. Mr. Wells took Jezebel by the arm, and steered her into his study. "Jezebel Lafils, there are days that I wonder."

"Wonder what, sir?"

"If they're not right about you after all."

Jezebel stood a little straighter. "Maybe they are."

Mr. Wells pinched the bridge of his nose and poured himself a tumbler of bourbon. "I believe we have reached the point at which it is necessary to suit you with an avocation."

"An avocation?"

"I have a niece, a Ms. Cecelia Wells, whose parents are recently deceased. It has fallen to me to see to her comfort and education. And, naturally, her dowry. Always the dowry. You and she are of an age. And you will make an excellent bonne for her, I believe. It all seems rather efficient."

Jezebel was speechless. She looked down at her hands, black from the gunpowder, and her sloppy brown braid, and her dusty boots, and her stockings with the holes over the knees, and her not-quite-right hand-me-down dress. In her humble opinion, she looked like no one's bonne.

"Yes," Mr. Wells looked inordinately pleased with himself. "Excellent."

As it turned out, Cecelia was not so bad. She was blindingly pretty, with the bluest eyes and the fairest hair Jezebel had ever seen. But Cecelia was also kind, and honest, and she treated Jezebel more like an impoverished relative than a servant, which was good of her. Jezebel didn't mind it so much. The worst part was having to keep her face clean. Oh, and the neat black dress she wore. And the apron with the nice edging. But Cecelia came from country people, so she liked shooting and riding. She even let Jezebel mount astride when no one was watching. Best of all, she also liked Helene, the free woman who worked in the kitchen, and Cecelia invited her back to her room, so that Helene could teach them more about Li Grand Zombi.

One night before bed, just as Jezebel was laying the broomstick across the doorway, Cecelia asked her a question: "What is it that you dream about at night?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Jezebel, please. I trust you with my secrets. Won't you trust me with one of yours?"

But Jezebel never could. Not now, not ever, not in this world or the next.

}{

He was a sad looking old man in the strangest bed. He was sleeping with something strange over his face, under his nose. The queer thread crossed over little vessels swollen red with alcohol and a beard white before its time. Jezebel felt bad watching him. She crossed her arms and shuffled into the corner (it's not like anyone would see her, no one ever did) as two women in weird, one-colored clothes walked into the room. They were like shirts and trousers, but with little more than a pocket and a drawstring to recommend them. If Jezebel were a lesser woman, she might find it scandalous. One was dressed in blue, the other in purple.

"No next of kin?" the blue one asked. She was writing something on a metal board with paper.

"No," said the purple one, "no one."

"It's a damn shame. Looks like he should be somebody's grandfather."

"I'll call the long-term facility at state. Tell them there's another one coming."

"Damn shame," blue said. "No kind of family at all."

Jezebel turned away, and then she was in another room. It wasn't really a room, more like a barn, but with stone floors. And a monster. She crossed herself, even though it wasn't real, at least to her. He didn't look like any of the evil things that Helene had taught her about. This monster looked a little like a man, but with tattoos all over his face, and a blinding aura of blue. He was standing in front of a girl in a filthy grey dress. He was sucking her life away through a clear straw, and Jezebel was going to watch her die. She saw the pulse jump in the girl's throat once, twice.

"Daddy?"

And then the girl was dead. The monster looked bored.

Jezebel turned away. This time it was a beautiful colored girl, with hair curled in a style that Jezebel had not seen. The girl wasn't wearing much of anything, really. Just a scrap of a bodice and some very tight britches, like she'd been interrupted while dressing. Except, of course, that they were outside, on an eerily black road that wavered in the rising heat. Other than Jezebel, no one was around. And the other girl had been dead for at least a few hours. Her torso was marred by a large black track, like an exceptionally broad wagon wheel had passed over her. There wasn't any blood, but an opossum had arrived to begin eating the flesh around the fingernails.

Jezebel turned away. It went on like this for hours. A mother and child floating face down on a lake. A black man wearing a vest reading F-B-I, bled out on a marble floor. A woman in short pants in a cave, dangling among other dead men. Rough looking men wearing orange expired in their cells. People bleeding from the eyes. A cheery looking, snowy haired man and wife cutting up a boy into little pieces. Dead men and women in an orchard. A half a dozen people devoured by hellhounds--Helene had warned her about those.

Jezebel turned away. Back to the sad old man. This dream was tiring. She'd had it before, and she did not like it. When she was little, she cried; now she just woke up weary. The purple and blue women were elsewhere at the moment, so Jezebel went and sat down on the bed. Cross-legged, she faced the old man with the beard.

"Hell," she said. "I'll bet this wasn't how you planned on buying the farm."

The old man with the beard said nothing.

"Where is your family, any how? They ought to have been here. Unless you're a mean drunk. Every family has a drunk, Helene says, but it's only the mean ones that end up drowned by mistake, yeah? Not that she would know anything about that." Jezebel studied her fingernails for a while. "One of these days, one of y'all will need to explain to me what this is all about."

His eyes opened and Jezebel fell off the bed.

"Where did you go, girl?"

She stood up, one hand over her racing heart.

"There ya are. So you wanna know what this is all about? Me, too."

Jezebel opened her mouth, but found her powers of speech unavailable at the moment.

"If it bothers you so much, maybe you oughta do something about it. Like look in a goddamn mirror, ya idjit."

}{

She stumbled into the kitchen, nightgown stuck to her with sweat. It wasn't time for the household to begin waking up, so it was dark and cool down there. She didn't mind sharing a bed with Cecelia, but it had its faults. Like when she needed to cry for a little bit, she was likely to wake up Cecelia. And Cecelia had a pesky habit of asking questions. Jezebel did something she hadn't done in years, since she'd been turned into a bonne. She crawled under the kitchen work table and sat with her knees against her chest.

I've always been invisible. They've never been able to see me before. It's not right. I've always been invisible. I'm supposed to be invisible.

"Are you alright, child?" Helene asked, and Jezebel startled. "Didn't mean to spook you, girl." Helene smiled and sat down on the floor beside her, but outside the safety of the table legs. She was a round woman with a kind face, and wrinkled skin the color of roast chicory.

"They're changing," Jezebel whispered. Helene's face clouded.

"Maybe it's time, girl. Time for you to try the looking glass."

"No," she shook her head forcefully. "No, no, no. Not in this world, not in the n--Helene, did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" She looked over her shoulder, but the noise wasn't coming from the stairs. It was coming from outside and it was bad. It's a bad noise.

"Get under the table, Helene."

Jezebel didn't recognize her voice. It was clear and authoritative and nothing like herself. And, wonder of wonders, Helene got under the table, palming her rosary silently. Outside, someone's boots squelched in the mud. The back door slid open without a hitch and two bare feet slid inside of the kitchen. The door closed behind them. From under the table, they could see about six inches of rose colored dress, spattered with mud and blood. And it didn't smell like hog's blood. Jezebel knew that dress. It belonged to the Missus, but she hadn't seen it since the Missus' died. Not in years...

"Lenore."

Her voice was talking without her again. But the feet beneath the bloody dress stopped moving. Jezebel held up a warning finger to Helene, climbed out from under the table and stood up, even though her knees were shaking. It was Lenore, alright. Her hand-me-down dress was ruined. And her face was smeared with red.

"Jezebel."

"Lenore," she repeated, with a calm she did not understand. "You need to leave. And you should probably make a full confession. But mostly, you need to leave."

"I don't take orders from hors d'oeuvres," Lenore sneered and there were more teeth than there ought to be. Jezebel rightly feared that she might pee herself. But, instead, she stood up a little bit straighter and found a sangfroid of which she was heretofore unaware.

"Look me in the eye. And call me an hors d'oeuvre again."

Lenore looked her in the eye and held her tongue.

"It is a mortal sin."

"If murder were a sin, Jezebel, don't you think it should feel bad?" Lenore asked it like an academic question. "It doesn't. I killed a man tonight, and it was the most fun I've had in years. I feel better for having done it. Don't you think that's odd? Don't you think, that if God really wanted us to be pure and perfect, he would have left that bit out? I can't imagine why I'm not drowning in guilt. "

"I don't know, and I don't care. Do you understand me? Stop this, Lenore."

"Or what?" Lenore hissed.

Jezebel did not have an answer for that. But Lenore left, all the same. When the door swung shut, Jezebel's knees gave way and she hit the floor with a jolt. She braced herself with unsteady arms and wondered if she was going to be sick. Helene climbed out from under the table.

"Alright, child. Alright. Take yourself a moment. But make it quick. We got work to do."

}{
The eighteen-pounder lived again. Jezebel had watched the Texians nurse the cannon back to life, an unapologetic grin on her face. Eighteen pounds. That much shot could break a lot of teeth. It was going to end bloody. For all of them. She put her hand above her forehead, shielded her eyes, and squinted against the setting sun. Santa Anna's band was preparing for the evening serenade. She turned, her eyes adjusting to the shadow and searched Jim out.

He was tall. He was tall, and he was strong and after everything that had happened, no one would have expected this. Except maybe her. And Sam, his slave from Los Veramendi. But Jezebel never believed she would live to see him fall. A lot of people watched it happen, though, and she was one of them.

"Go!" she said. "Go and get Sam. And Juana. Hurry. Hurry, for Christ's sake!"

She put a hand on his face. His fever was high, and his color was bad. He had never been handsome, even when she'd first met him, but he'd always been so present. Even when she was patching him up, after a fight, even when he was hurt. And now he couldn't stand up. Sam was already beside her. He looked her in the eye, and she looked away. She and Sam moved him, with his arms on their shoulders, and he cursed the whole time. They put him on his bed, and Jezebel moved to re-kindle the fire.

"Not here," he said, in a dried out voice. "Quarantine me."

"Say again?" Sam said, with all the warmth of February on the plains.

Jezebel nodded. "He's right. We have to quarantine him."

So they moved him to the barracks along the south wall. He would be alone in the room, for whatever that was worth now. Juana met them there.

"¿Què pasò?"

"Él se cayó," Jezebel said steadily. "La fiebre regresa. Y empeora."

"Dios."

They settled him there. Sam brought his things. Juana changed his shirt and got him to take a little water. Jezebel kindled a fire and did whatever else Sam or Juana told her to. Juana stayed there. Sam was sent to help with the cannon. Jezebel did not know what to do. Juana belonged, and she did not. Sam was allowed to assist the men, she would not be. She made her way back to the kitchens. Maybe Bettie would like some potatoes to be peeled. Just outside the door, someone blocked her path.

"He's dying," the younger Wolf boy said.

"You should not speak of what you do not understand." It came out cold and clipped.

"He's dying."

"Go back to your father and make yourself useful there."

"He's been dead for years, and he's just too dumb to know it. And so are you."

She turned and slapped him hard. "Oh, Jesus." She put her hand over her mouth. "Jesus, I am so sorry. Please--I'm so sorry."

"That's alright." He put a hand to his cheek, where she could see the outline of her palm. "I should not have said that."

"Please, just don't." Jezebel brushed the back of her hand against her eyes. "Just don't let's talk about this yet. Please?"

The younger Wolf boy nodded.

In another part of the Presidio, Colonel Travis began writing a letter.

Reach for the top
And the sun is gonna shine
"Every winter was a war," she said,
"I want to get what's mine"

-"Jezebel" by Sade

next: of official death
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