Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
My momma usedto hum that nursery rhyme. She used to hum it a lot. And on days she was stressed, anxious, or short fused, she would even sing it with a high-pitched, haunting voice over and over again like a stuck record. It was the sound of my childhood. I hated thatsong.
I still remember the day I asked her why she loved it so. I wanted to know why two people climbing a hill and then falling off it was so important to her. Who was Jack? Who was Jill? She had looked at me stunned, as if surprised I had noticed and had paid attention to her humming and singing it all these years. Or was she shocked I didn't know the answer to my question? Whatever it was, she studied me for several minutes before answeringme.
"It was your father's and my song. It reflects us. Our love we once shared."
My mother never spoke of my father. I had never met him nor ever saw a picture. Whenever I asked about him, for stories describing who he was, my momma was quick to shut it down. She said he was 'gone' and that was the best answer I would everget.
"A nursery rhyme?" I had asked. "That was yoursong?"
"Yes. It's about two lovers who beat all the odds holding them down. They climb above it all, but only to be crushed again."
"I don't understand. Why do they have a pail of water?"
"A pail of water is a euphemism for having sex. For finally being in love and able to be together. But then Jack dies... and Jill soon follows."
"Theydie?"
She nodded, appearing so deep in thought. "Yes, they both eventuallydie."
eventuallydie
The soundof the phone ringing in the middle of the night was never a good thing. It's always the sound of bad news, an emergency, or even death. The shrill resonance cutting through the night's air is like a town crier announcing impendingdoom.
My heart thumped against my chest as I reached for my cell phone sitting on the nightstand beside my bed. The number on the screen showed unknown, which only intensified my panic.
I cleared my throat, not wanting to sound as if I had been woken from a deep slumber and answered, "Hello?"
There was an operator's voice on the other end. "This is a collect call for Demi Wayne from The Eastland Women's Correction Facility. Would you like to accept the charges?" I had heard this question many times before.
"Yes, I will accept the charges." I sat up in my bed and turned on the bedside lamp, rubbing the sleep out of myeyes.
A clicking sound was followed by, "Demi?"
"Hello." I felt sick. I wanted to vomit. Her voice on the other end always made me feel ill, but tonight was worse. So much worse. I scanned my nightstand, wishing I still had the emergency pack of cigarettes I kept for an occasion such as this. Why the fuck did I decide toquit?
"How are you?" she asked.
What did she expect me to say? How was I supposed to be when I was getting a call from my mother in the middle of the night from a prison where she'd been incarcerated for the past six years? I needed a goddamn cigarette is how Iwas.
