THE SHOWER MAKES ME FEEL ABOUT 1,000 percent better. I stand beneath the spray for a long, long while, running it cool. Watching the soapy, dirt-tinged water swirl down the drain until it runs clear and I imagine the day has been fully flushed away.
I turn the water off before I’m really ready, but I know there’s only so much that can be dealt with on the surface of things. The knot in my stomach is still there. The memory of losing myself among the chanting crowd. The absolute high of the power of that kind of freedom. For the first time ever, I realize what a weight it is to carry fear every time I walk down the street. Always wondering, will the pigs be watching? Will today be the day I can’t get away?
I put on my nightgown and come out to the living room. By this point, Raheem is wearing his shorts and undershirt. He’s at the window again, looking out. Raheem opens his mouth to say something, but then there’s a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” He heads over there.
“Lucille Junkitt.” Our neighbor down the hall.
Raheem opens the door. “Hi, Mrs. Junkitt.”
She’s in her slippers, hair in rollers under a shower cap. “Your mama called. I told her it’s not safe trying to get home, so she’s staying with someone from her job tonight. Everything okay here?” She pokes her head in to get a look at me. “Maxie?”
“We’re fine, Mrs. Junkitt.”
She nods. “Y’all let me know if you need anything, you hear?”
We promise to do so, then Raheem locks and bolts the door behind her. He starts back to the window.
I step into his path. “Don’t watch. We shouldn’t watch anymore.”
“You’re right,” he says, hands on my shoulders. “It’s late. Let’s just go to sleep.”
We go to the room we share. Our beds are parallel, pushed to opposite walls of the room. I slide under my single top sheet. Even though it’s warm, I can’t fall asleep if I’m exposed.
I reach for my bottom dresser drawer and pull out Little Ralphie, my stuffed brown dog. He’s gotten kind of ratty, and he lives in the drawer most nights, but I still love him. When I get him out, Raheem usually teases me about being too old for toys, but tonight he doesn’t comment. He picks up some laundry we’ve got strewn about the room and tosses it toward the closet.
We put up a curtain some while ago. My half. His half. It’s not an even split; I have no window. No privacy either: He comes through my space because I have the door. I can always hear him breathing in his sleep; I’m grateful he doesn’t snore.
Tonight Raheem lies straight on top of his covers. He folds his hands beneath his head and stares at the ceiling.
I roll onto my side, facing Raheem, and hug Little Ralphie. Plenty goes without saying around here, and it’s nice when we end up on the same page. Like the way he knows tonight is not a night to draw the curtain.