Mary Jane Jessica Blau (namjoon book recommendations TXT) 📖

After my first adult choir service, when we were hanging up our robes, Mr. Forge handed me a paper-covered, taped-up box aboutthe size of a brick of cheddar cheese. “This came for you a couple of days ago, Mary Jane. How exciting to get mail!” Mr.Forge clapped his hands twice, I suppose to applaud my having received a package.

The box was addressed to me in care of the church. My heart thudded as I saw that my name and the words Roland Park Presbyterian Church were in Sheba’s neat, perfect cursive. The address of the church and the return address (no name but a building address on Central Park West) were in different handwriting. An assistant? The housekeeper who ironed all Sheba’s clothes? It certainly wasn’t Jimmy’s giant scribbles.

Mr. Forge stood by watching, as if he expected me to open the package in front of him and share whatever was inside. I lookedup, smiled, and then turned and grabbed the robe I’d just hung up.

“Thanks for this. So, um, I’ll see you at rehearsal!” I quickly wrapped the box in the robe and held it against my chest.Before Mr. Forge could say anything else, I rushed up the stairs and out the side door to the front of the church, where Istood on the bottom step to wait for my parents. When they finally emerged, my mother was holding the elbow of the blind man,Mr. Blackstone. My father stared off into the distance as usual. It felt like hours before my mother released Mr. Blackstoneto the sidewalk with his red-tipped white cane. I leaned in toward her and said, “I’m going to run home. I have to go to thebathroom.”

My mother cocked her head to one side like a pigeon. She rubbed her hand over her stomach to indicate a question.

“Yes!” I said. “Can I have the house key?”

“We can walk quickly.” My mother threaded her arm through my dad’s so they were linked at the elbow.

“Mom. This is an emergency.”

“What’s under your arm?”

“My choir robe. It has a hole I need to fix. Mom, I really have to go.”

“Give her the damn key,” my father said.

My mother unclasped the metal closure at the top of her shiny, stiff handbag, reached in, and then handed me her enamel Maryland flag key chain. “Leave the door unlocked and put the keys on the piano,” she said. I was already running down the street.

In the house, I trotted up the stairs, went into my bathroom, and locked the door. I shut the toilet seat and sat, then slippedmy nail beneath the tape and carefully unwrapped the paper, making sure not to rip any of the stamps. Under the paper, I founda white cardboard box. Inside the box was a folded piece of paper. Underneath was an orange cassette tape with a label onit. On the label, in Jimmy’s chopstick scrawl, it said, For Mary Jane.

I unfolded the paper. The sight of an entire page filled with Sheba’s handwriting made me feel something that I could onlyidentify as love. I read the letter once, but didn’t take it all in. The simple fact that Sheba had written me was like noisein my head that canceled out the meaning of half the words. I read the letter a second time. Slower.

Hey, doll,

I’m so sorry we didn’t get to see you again before we blew town, but we all worried you’d be in home prison for years if we tried to contact you.

Nothing was the same at the Cones’ after you left. First of all, Bonnie started cooking, and let’s just say she’s a lady who needs to find a better use for her hands. Izzy wanted to remake everything she’d made with you. Bonnie tried, and all but the hot dogs failed. Secondly, we didn’t sing as much. It just wasn’t fun without your voice filling out the melody (or harmony). Thirdly, that house is a mess! Did they have a maid before you showed up? I was too embarrassed to ask, but, boy, did they need one! Of course, we couldn’t drag any old person in, not with Jimmy doing the work he was doing with Richard, and with me trying to be incognito in your funny little neighborhood. (By the way, I hope you give that Beanie Fuckface Jones the finger every time you walk by her house. Someone needs to carry the torch now that I’m gone.)

Jimmy is still sober, Mary Jane, and this makes both my life and his life easier. He’s been in the studio with JJ and Aaron and a new drummer they’re calling Tiny Finn. The old drummer (Stan to the world, STAIN to Jimmy and JJ and Aaron) has decided he’s too highbrow for Running Water. He told them he wants to be with someone who will outlast the style of any particular decade and is now playing with Morris Albert. You know who he is, right? That guy who sings the song “Feelings.” When Stain left, Jimmy fired the producer, Roger, too. I never liked him anyway. He has hair like a dirty old mop, hands like a milk-fed farm girl, and acts like he’s king of the world. Jimmy’s producing the whole thing and I swear to you, Mary Jane, I think this is going to be Running Water’s best album yet. Jimmy wanted you to have a copy of the title song, so he recorded this for you. Keep in mind, what you’ll hear isn’t the finished version, but I think you’ll like it just the same.

As for me, doll, I’m reading scripts and I think I found a good one. It’s about a woman who uncovers corruption in a nuclear power plant. It’s definitely not a glamorous role, and I certainly won’t look pretty in the dumb worker jumpsuit and the ridiculous goggles I’ll have to wear. But, you know, maybe it’s okay not