Chapter Seven Maxine
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAXINE
Oh darling, that’s absolutely brilliant,” Maxine said to her daughter. “Just brilliant. A masterpiece.”
Maxine stared at the smiling stick figure in a jade-green hat with matching shirt and shorts that her daughter had rendered with crayons. Clea giggled and lowered the white sheet of paper so that her mother could see her gigantic grin, missing front tooth and all.
“And I made him Black, Mommy,” Clea beamed. “I’m tryna pay attention and be astooth, like you say is good.”
“Yes, darling. Astute you are, as always. Mommy’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Then dinner, dessert, off to the show. Can you put Ms. Baxter back on the phone? Love youuuuu.”
Clea blew rapid kisses to the phone with loud smacking sounds as Maxine said goodbye to the day-care worker.
She dropped her phone in her purse, cradling a bag of groceries in the nook of her left arm.
The NAACP’s For the People Preschool was a godsend for a working mother.
And the early drop-off hours they offered throughout the week, even more so when she had extra admin to attend to.
The day had gone well, even with the madness about that poor man with the crimson eyes.
For weeks, Maxine had told herself that DC was safe, that the chances of what had happened in NYC happening in the district were low.
Silly, really, when she’d been working for years with a PI who also happened to be an undercover witch.
She turned the corner and spotted one of the plethora of digital posters placed in bus stop sheds across the district.
A smiling Joy Woods in jade cap, tunic, and tights floated above an early twentieth-century London cityscape.
The theatrical world’s newest Peter Pan.
And in the corner of the advert sat a tiny Keke Palmer, glistening legs crossed in a sparkling leaf-fringed minidress.
A reinvented Tinker Bell, mischievous wink suffused with salaciousness.
Peter Pan was the first musical Maxine had seen on the West End as a girl, when she truly believed for a shining brief second that wishing hard enough meant miraculous things would surely happen.
Complete rubbish. Wishes and magic and miracles a far more complicated reality she was still wrapping her head around.
But she would go where Clea led. Her daughter liked sappy, believe-in-yourself stories, it was clear.
And Maxine still had her own sentimental moments.
She walked to the corner where she saw an older woman on a bench. A shopping cart laden with clothes, plastic bags, and aluminum cans sat nearby.
“Gertrude, hey, darling. How are you?”
The woman ignored the question and scanned Maxine from head to toe. “Well, look at you, Ms. Hot to Trot. You going somewhere special, huh?”
Maxine was immediately self-conscious. She knew the dress was over-the-top, but Clea wanted their night on the town to be special.
“Taking my daughter to a show. Peter Pan, over at the National Theatre. Her first musical. She’s finally getting to experience a bit of old-school London though the show has been revamped. ”
“Oooh, that’s a good one,” Gertrude said. “Saw it way back when I was a girl myself. Parents took me to New York. With Sandy Duncan. Didn’t even know how big of a deal she was, I jus’ couldn’t get over all the flyin’. Her singin’ was nice, too.”
Maxine nodded, sad that she didn’t have time to compare notes.
“I need to run, but just wanted to drop this off.” Maxine crouched down and placed the bag by Gertrude’s side.
“I think it’ll be warm tonight. People may be out and about.
So if you stay out here, please take care.
Something horrible happened a couple of evenings ago…
” She hesitated. She didn’t want to unnecessarily frighten the woman.
“Aw, Maxine, you’re a star,” Gertrude said, her standard proclamation when Maxine dropped off food.
She grabbed a plastic fork and gingerly inspected what else was in the bag.
Bottles of water. Turkey on a baguette with lettuce and tomatoes.
Kale Caesar salad. Apples, oranges, bananas, nuts…
the usual, to tide Gertrude over for a day or two.
“It’s nothing at all,” Maxine replied. Her standard response. “Have a good night, okay?”
Maxine walked away, the guilt she felt over not being able to do more for Gertrude far too familiar.
She’d done her research, knew that a couple of nearby shelters had space for the woman, but for the past four months, Gertrude had planted herself on the bench unless it was raining or frigid.
Maxine had once asked Linda if she could do her mind thing with the older woman, make her a Broken Heart.
Linda had tilted her head, as if Maxine should know better than to ask silly questions.
“Anyone who feels the pull to visit the agency, it’s because they’re ready,” Linda said.
“All I do is let them know I’m here. They come to me.
” The unspoken statement: Whatever Gertrude’s circumstances, she wasn’t ready for ritual.
And so Maxine suppressed the feeling that her boss was being callous and helped the old woman however she could, providing food some nights, letting her use the agency’s bathroom, even giving her money, though she was fearful of how the woman might use it.
She tried not to judge herself for such thoughts.
She remembered how she would’ve used wads of cash when she was desperate, pregnant, and alone.
When she’d been sitting at the very same bench as Gertrude when she felt the pull to walk into Nueva Investigations.
When Linda had revealed who she was, that she had a salt-of-the-earth soul self suffused with sand and sea and never-ending earth.
When, for the first time in her life, after years of being compared to her vainglorious mom, Maxine was able to perceive herself as someone who was sturdy, of worth.
She descended into the catacombs of the Metro.
Discomfort raked her flesh once again, this time over the thought of leaving Linda.
Maxine had started to feel like she’d had her fill of the supernatural.
Linda felt an obligation to figure out what had befallen the pastor, but this wasn’t Maxine’s world, no matter how good she was at keeping her boss’s secrets.
The secrets Linda chose to share, that is.
Her being part of some supernatural community, news to Maxine.
Considering what was happening with the demon-eyes fella, was America safe anymore?
Was it time to return to the UK? But maybe ghosts could travel anywhere, Britain not a real refuge from danger.
Or maybe she was having this feeling because it was simply time to return to her old stomping grounds, where she belonged.
London was still in Maxine’s bones, felt like home in a way DC never had.
If Armageddon was on the horizon, maybe that’s where she and Clea needed to be.
Such thoughts ran through Maxine’s mind as she exited the Metro at Columbia Heights and made her way down Kenyon.
Shadows had begun to encroach upon the city, dusk a couple of hours away.
Maxine glanced over at the parking garage she always passed by on the way to Clea’s school.
A bright red glare shone through the dark. Had someone left their hazards on?
She kept her eyes focused, saw that the glare came from two floating red dots. Floating dots, in fact, attached to a face.
Maxine stopped, cursed under her breath.
A bedraggled crimson-eyed woman stepped from the corner of the garage and drew closer as she walked up the cavernous ramp.
She wore a torn knee-length dress and one shoe.
Her pale skin was blistered, black and blue in some spots, bleeding in others.
The smell of singed, cooked flesh almost made Maxine gag.
“Help me!” the woman bellowed right as Maxine turned away and booked down the block toward the preschool. She had to get to Clea, get her home.
Maxine looked over her shoulder as she ran. The woman had crumpled into a heap, tore at her dress as if it were searing her skin. Her cries echoed through the street as pedestrians surrounded her, frozen.
“Lord, help me. I can’t stop… I can’t stop it. It’s taking everything I have!”