Moose and Goose

Chapter Seventy-two

"Thank you." Judy heaves a shaky sigh while staring at the wet tissue in her hand. "Sorry for bailing on our date."

"So it was intentional." She lifts her eyes over the brim of her hexagon glasses. "Okay, I suppose I understand. I don't care who you date or don't, but at least be honest with me."

"He and I aren't dating," she argues, and he tilts his head, watching her with a doubtful glint.

"Oh, you were just shagging. Right." Jerome purses his lips and averts his head to the mirror. She shakes her head at him though he doesn't notice.

"Why do you give a fuck who I fuck? What're you, some possessive pervert," she asks, and he raises a brow. Mouthing Wow. "I didn't do anything with him but make out, and even that was brief."

"Possessive pervert," he repeats with a humored undertone, a smirk appearing. "This is the first time I've ever heard that. Wow. Yeah, you need to actually leave. Thanks for the sweatshirt."

They stand up, and he watches her drop the tissue in the bowl, shut the lid, then flush. He waits where he is while she washes her hands, and he follows her downstairs.

Xavius is sitting in the corner of the sectional, and as they stroll down the last few steps, he and Judith stare at each other.

Jerome opens the front door for her, but when she doesn't budge, he clears his throat, and she looks at him.

"So I really have to go home?" The morning breeze sweeps orange and red leaves onto the storm door, and with it comes an eye roll from Jerome. Staring at his brother, Jerome grinds his teeth, and Xavius drags his puckered lips to the box television playing The Rifleman.

"Judy, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. You weren't even supposed to be here, to begin with; my mom's at church," he explains, and she shrugs.

"So? Your friends are in your room right now," Judith says, and Xavius lifts his arms on top of the sofas with his hands dangling beside him. Jerome takes a breath to speak, but he holds it in his puffed chest when his brother interjects.

"Yeah, well, they'd get the same treatment if he was a flit; but he's not." Jerome exhales, and she stares at his brother in thought.

"If he was a what," she asks, wrinkling the skin between her brows and around her nose.

"A flit? It's from a book I read called Catcher in the Rye," he explains, and though she nods, her expression doesn't falter. "It's like – a pansy. Basically, if he was fooling around with men, she wouldn't allow his friends to be here when she's not here."

"Oh, shut up, Xavius," Jerome groans. "What'd I tell you about cutting in my business?"

He kisses his teeth and jumps off the chair, storming upstairs with them watching. They turn to each other.

"Just go to the park or something. I don't care." He takes a breath, clutching the knob in his left hand with the sweatshirt in his right.

"And how do you suppose I get there, Jerome," she asks, and he shrugs with his lips forming a straight line. "I don't know how to ride a bike or drive."

"Judy, I genuinely don't care. Leave," he raises his voice, and she smiles at his frustration. Licking her lips to mask her enjoyment, she steps to him and crosses her arms.

"What're you gonna do if I don't? You gonna hit me?" He scrunches his nose, and she bounces her eyes from one of his to the other. "What's the matter? You really a pansy like he says?"

She lifts her hands to his chest and shoves him, sending him into the wall.

"Judy, what's wrong with you," he yells, leaning forward, and she gnashes her teeth then pushes him again.

He tightens in front of the wall, flexing against her palms when she nudges him. On the fourth attempt, he drops his sweatshirt and swiftly takes her wrists in his hands.

"Hit me! I'm not leaving until you hit me," she screams, grunting and thrashing in his grasp. He watches her feebly try to escape, then pulls her closer to him. He wraps his arms around her, and she instantly bursts into tears against his midnight blue shirt.

The tears that don't saturate his stomach trail down her face. She groans between each sob, strangling her and aching her chest.

"I don't know why I kissed him. I'm so stupid," Judith whines, and he leans against the wall for support. Her trembling hands find their way to the sides of his shirt, and she squeezes the fabric.

"You're not stupid. Just – broken." He heaves a solemn sigh and mumbles, "But I can't fix you."

"Please don't give up on me, Jerome. You're all I have." She draws back, and they look into each other's eyes.

With a weak smile, he says, "I didn't say I would. I just said I couldn't fix you. You need to see a shrink or something because if not, you'll just keep wanting to fight me."

He chuckles with the same minimal energy, and she glances at her hands on him.

"I will – when I get to Morehead. Right now, I'll keep writing in my journal." When she sniffles, they take their hands off each other, and as she wipes her tears, he takes the doorknob and twists it.

The sunlight beams into the living room and warms her face before she turns to him. He watches her trudge onto his porch, and from the storm door, his eyes follow her off his yard.

***

Judith's lying on her sofa with her knees aimed at the ceiling and her journal propped against her thighs. She stares at the page as blank as her mind, and her jaw shifts.

Just — relax and write. It's not that hard.

The moon replaced the sun again, ending the long day. She turns her head to the door when she hears a car engine rumbling. As she pushes herself upward, she sits the book and pencil in her place.

Judith makes her way to the front door and opens it, peering into the dark road. She notices a rusty red AMC Hornet parked in front of Jerome's yard and him jogging toward it from his porch.

Whose car is that?

When he jerks the passenger door open, the overhead light – bright and orange – rains down on the big-haired woman with cacao brown skin. Her doe eyes watch him enter, and as he smiles at her, he shuts the door, and the light fades to black.

Wow. 'I didn't give up on you,' he said. Fucking liar.

She scoffs and steps behind the door, pushing it closed. She walks toward her belongings, lifting the notebook and pencil in her left hand and turning the television dial in her right.

She walks upstairs, and as she passes her mother's room, she stares at Vera straining a vein in her neck as she forces herself to cry silently into her pillow.

Judith continues down the hall, peering past Stevie's open door at him. He's sitting at the foot of his bed, brushing clear tape over the tear on his baseball card, and she stops in front of his room.

"Hey." He raises his eyes to look at her and rolls them as she strolls to his arch. "Need a hand?"

"You know what I hate the most about this family," Stevie asks with his head slightly tilted and a stern gaze. "I hate how when something bad happens, we're supposed to pretend everything's fine. We're like white people with secrets who smile anyway for pictures."

Judith takes a deep breath that straightens her posture, and her mouth trembles, seeking to respond, but nothing comes out. Stevie drops his head, and his attention locks on his Jackie Robinson card.

"Close the door." She does as he asks, then takes another breath with the knob in her hand.

He's right. I'm sure it'll be worse when I leave too.

She feels a sharp pang in her chest when Vera's sniffles resonate through the hall.