Arachnid

Dead men tell no tales. That’s the first thing Michelle Jones’s father taught her when she was younger. Secrets never spilled from cold blue lips. Drowning souls could only breathe water. All the good stuff that a man should instill in his daughter when she was sitting cross-legged in a sandbox with a plastic shovel in hand.

He wiped the hair from her face and gave her his dazzling Jones smile that could get him so far in this world. It was crooked, yet devilish at the same time, warm like the sun and hot like the fire that pushed into a starless sky.

Then a passing El Dorado with its windows tinted and its front bumper dragging opened fire. A small park on the corner of seventh and Waldon got four smoking bullet holes through its brand new swing set donated by the city- and two in Phillip Jones ’s chest. 

MJ didn’t remember much of that day, but she had heard the tales; they had morphed over the years. The make and model of the car had changed. The sandbox had shifted to a bench on the far end of the park, and the bullets had multiplied in numbers, but never lowered, because it should take more than two shots to put one of the most powerful men in Queen’s in the ground.

She does remember the blood. The way stained his smile orange and two slowly growing spots of crimson quickly wetted his chest before he fell forward and someone grabbed her while the car did it’s best to speed off, sputtering toxic smog through the city like a carbon trail.

“Earth to MJ,” The words startled her, and she glanced up from the blank notebook page that was in front of her. Gayle was holding up two sundresses that looked the same in length and style. One pattern was red and the other was a seafoam green. Both, MJ was sure, would look fine. “You spaced out on me for a second, everything okay?”

Gayle Jones was a sophomore in college that still came back to their small place in the Bronx to leech of whatever their Aunt Anna decided to cook for the night and to do laundry. Not that any of them minded, but it made their tearful farewells at the college dorms seem a little less meaningful if she slithered her way into her old room every other weekend.

She carried the greenest eyes Michelle Jones had ever seen, the unripe color popped against brown skin and curly hair that flowed around her shoulders. She had the same smile her father had. She remembered that clearly compared to what her sister did. Warm, yet burning.

“Yeah, yes. I’m fine. I like the green one.”

“You’re going to have to work on your lying before you get accepted to MIT.” Gayle let out a long sigh and threw both dresses on the end of MJ’s bed. The hangers clanked loudly before the younger girl tapped her pen twice against the blank notebook page and slammed it shut. “Maybe I’ll just go naked.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would love that.”

Gayle squinted her sharp eyes before grasping at the closest fabric to her before holding it flush against her chest and staring intently in the mirror tacked to the inside of the door. “Green it is then. What are you trying to write?”

“A thing for class.” She responded in a beat. “It’s about the escalating violence in Queen’s. You know, the backstage stuff.”

She froze, and Michelle Jones made stilled eye contact with her through the very same cracked glass that had been in her room since she was carted in with a suitcase and the feeling of blood still on her lips. Her Aunt Anna told her that was the only safe space for her to color with markers in the whole room to keep her away from the vintage wallpaper. It worked for the most part.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s a little close to home, don’t you think?” Gayle turned around before she stripped off her t-shirt and shivered from the cold. “Still is if you ask me. They keep that shit from you, from me even, so both of us can graduate and get out of here. But just because it’s hidden doesn’t’ mean it’s not there.”

“Poetic.”

“I’m serious, Jonesy.” Gayle took that tone that she hated. The motherly one that seemed to fall into place naturally. It leaked of desperation and concern and MJ couldn’t fault her older sister for that too much- for growing up early. For worrying the way that she did. “You can trip some wires you didn’t’ even know were set up. It’s your junior project, right?”

MJ frowned, but nodded. It was half her grade; study hall had been dedicated to picking a researching topic related to the city that they called home and pushing as far as they could before it scathed the judges completely. The topic was easy for her to find. The writing was gnawing at the inside of her mind like a saw’s teeth on wood.

“Easy then, do it on cell phone radiation. That’s what I did.” She shrugged. “Really knock’s their socks off, you know. Makes em’ think.”

She let out an uneasy sigh and closed the notebook before setting it aside completely. Her junior project could wait. It wouldn’t’ be the end of the world- maybe the start of a few all-nighters fueled by hate and red bull. But it would be enough to keep her buzzing. Instead, she stood from her bed and walked over the window.

It wasn’t a glamorous view, and it never had been. A small alley that was separated down the middle with a chain-link fence and a few metal trashcans that her cat, Scratches, would always lounge around on until she shooed him away. The house next door was overrun with weeds and a clothesline that swung when the wind picked up. It sat vacant until two days ago- a giant moving van carried in most of the furniture and a small pick-up kept tarp-covered boxes in its bay.

“Did you get a look at the new neighbors?” Gayle shimmied out of her jeans and threw her dress over her head while MJ leaned heavily against the side of the window. She squinted, trying to see a figure in the window directly across from hers. Blinds were drawn but a darkened shape moved with ease.

“No, not at all.” She said.

“Real shame. You could use some friends.”

Michelle Jones let out a snort of epic proportions and tossed the closest throw pillow her sister’s way.

Their forks scraped against their plates loudly. Maybe it was the silence that amplified the sound altogether. Michelle Jones pushed three lone peas into a sea of gravy, watching the struggle against the current as she frowned down at the mess of food that her Aunt had prepared. Good, hearty food.

The china was rimmed in gold and Aunt Anna insisted on using it for every meal even if it was frozen pizza thrown in the oven- the pepperoni moved to one side of the cheesy dish before it was cut. She found it overbearing but still filled the metal sink with soapy water every night to wipe away the dirt with a cloth.

Her aunt was a stoic woman that had given away to the grey in her hair over the past few years. It curled evenly against chocolate skin and made her looked aged in the best way possible. No ounce of exhaustion dominated her despite being thrown into raising two young kids at a child’s age herself. She scratched at the back of her neck now, testing the water. It was cold. 

Then there was a knock at the door- loud and startling in the silence of yet another Sunday night dinner. MJ glanced towards the foyer and set her fork down on the side of her plate. Her fingers reached instinctively for the butter knife that matched the china in its gold finish. Her grasp tightened as her aunt stood from the table.

No one bothered them on a Sunday.

MJ stood, following her aunt as she leaned against the banister in the foyer. The walls were painted a honeycomb yellow and their muddied shoes lay by the door. A little plaque for keys held a red lanyard that swung back and forth the second the door was opened. She clenched the knife in her fingertips, mouth dry.

It wasn’t a brute. It wasn’t her cousin with a bag of groceries that he insisted on bringing by even though both of them were capable of traveling to the small bodega on the corner themselves. Instead- it was a dusty looking man with a badge strapped to his leather belt. This was worse.

He wore a kind smile that wrinkled at the sides and a distressed brown suit. His hair was salt and pepper and almost long enough to fall into his slate eyes if he didn’t have it slicked back. This was unprecedented. The NYPD had an understanding with the Jones family- they left the most high-profile mafia clan to run the city. To keep death off their doorsteps even if it meant in sighting some through closed doors.

But that was Chief Wicker. He had been the head of the department for more than 50 years. MJ had slid into a nice black dress and clinked glasses with the rest of the department at his retirement party. They knew a new face would show up in her part of the city- just not at the front door with what looked to be a store-bought bunt cake slid onto a plate that still had the price tag plastered to the bottom.

Aunt Anna’s eyes drifted to the badge before coldly moving to the gaze of the man.

“I told you the badge was a bad idea.” A new voice shined through, clean and muffled as she whispered something into the man’s ear.

MJ skillfully shoved the butter knife up her sleeve as she cocked her head to the side and looked at the girl that stood at almost the same height of what had to be her father. They had the same nose. Her eyes were a deep chocolate brown and equally as dark hair fell over her shoulders. She had a slender frame and straight cut bangs cut across her forehead. She had a kind smile- wearing a black t-shirt for a band that MJ had never head of and acid-washed jeans. She didn’t offer up a smile as willingly. In fact, she squared up MJ just the same.

He let the side of his suit jacket fall to cover the offending object before he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, we just… I’m George Stacy. My daughter Gwen and I just moved in next door and I wanted to introduce ourselves.”

Gwen looked like he was biting her tongue, but she shoved her hands into her pockets and didn’t’ say a word. Anna Jones seemed to soften at that, her shoulders losing some pent-up tension. MJ moved quickly, bouncing back from the intrusion.

“Oh, you brought cake!” She said, smiling forcefully as she took the plate from George Stacy’s hands. He looked relieved and Gwen’s lip turned up in somewhat of a smirk. It bothered MJ. Rubbed her the wrong way but she was too focused on keeping the butter knife from falling out of her sweatshirt. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing, really.”

“Why don’t you both come in for a slice?” Aunt Anna finally gained her confidence back as she pulled the door a few more inches open. “We can get to know each other, seeing as we’ll be neighbors and all.”

George seemed to relax into things now. He nodded in acceptance and followed the Jones women into their family room. He commented on the art that decorated the walls and even nudged his daughter a few times to get her to say something, anything.

They sat awkwardly on an olive-colored sectional while Anna dished out some of the cinnamon-flavored cake. Gwen scanned her golden stare over MJ once more- this time she raised her eyebrow- pierced my two little silver balls like a snake bite- a vampire bat, maybe. She was close, sitting on the couch next to MJ who found the cake more desirable than the meal before. She took a generous bite.

Aunt Anna launched into asking the standard questions: “Where are you from? What made you move to Brooklyn? Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your wife… my brother he-“  

MJ glared down at the cake and Gwen seemed to be more interested in the pictures on the mantel than the conversation in front of them. She felt like a child at the kiddy table during thanksgiving. The grownups are talking now, she reminded herself.

“Are you going to Midtown?” MJ whispered, low enough for the two of them to hear.

Gwen nodded and shoveled another forkful of pastry past her lips. “I start on Monday. Is it stereotypical?”

“I… don’t know what that means.”

“You know, the jocks, the cheerleaders that sleep with them. The introvert that barely speaks.” She nudged MJ’s shoulder, and the girl tried not to take offense to that.

“I’m not an introvert.” MJ placed the plate on the coffee table and turned slightly towards Gwen. Her bangs were shading her eyes. They looked black. “I just don’t like people, alright? They’re shitty. They assume things too quickly- like a fight or flight method.”

“Right,” Gwen drew out the word “That’s textbook definition of an introvert. Not a bad thing to be just… obvious.”

MJ let out a long sigh and became painfully aware of the butter knife up her sleeve. Her family had taught her six different ways to use it- and she wouldn’t mind testing one of those methods out on her neighbor right about now. But something told her Aunt Anna would be upset about the upholstery.

“Let me guess, you’re the editor of the school paper? Or maybe just the photographer. Oh!” Gwen said a little louder, but not to alert her father “Maybe you’re the recorder for whatever sports team takes president over the others.”

MJ scoffed and reached forward for her glass of milk, she hovered it over her lips. “You’ve got me all figured out then, huh? Labeled just like that. I bet you’re the rebel without a cause. There must be a few tattoos under those sleeves of yours. Stick and poke I’m guessing.”

It was Gwen’s turn to smile- her teeth pointed and dangerous as she shook her head. “You have no idea.”

“Yeah, well. Neither do you.”