by Stephanie Jones
The terracotta scratches against itself. Minnie crosses the kitchen in her socks. In shy moonlight a wooden fruit bowl glazes with age. Its musty sweetness blooms around apples and lemons.
Minnie palms a mango. She plunges in her thumb and peels as juice tributaries down her wrist, pooling on the orange tile.
“What are you doing?” Leon’s voice fills the space behind her.
“It’s overripe,” says Minnie. She doesn’t turn.
“What?” he says. “Why are you up?”
“It was going to waste.” She rotates the mango to slow the running juice. Leon rubs his forehead.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, Minnie. We’ll have it in the morning, okay? Let’s go back to bed.” He moves toward her and places his hands on her shoulders. “Come on.” Minnie pulls a plate from the cabinet and a sheet of wax paper from the drawer. She wraps the mango and leaves it in the fridge. Leon leads them out of the kitchen without wiping the juice.
*
Midmorning light fights to dazzle the grey Formica. Carla shoulders her Android as if it were a corded phone. Her hands work open a small can. “Dad found her in the kitchen again at like 2 a.m.,” she says. “I was going over anyway around four, so I’ll let you know.” She scoops half the can into a ceramic bowl. “I will. Okay love you.” Carla slides the phone from her neck to her palm. “Bonbon! Brunch!” She taps the bowl with her phone as the little dog comes running.
*
Minnie sits at the edge of the bed. Propped on the dresser is a mirror framed in dark wood zigzags. It dates back centuries and belonged to her grandmother. The looking glass is spotless. As a girl, Minnie was told mirrors hold secrets. They keep them just behind the reflection, unseen and pressing against the glass. Not memories but reminders. Keepsakes of time. Back then, she knew many young girls who practiced smiling in their mirrors. Some who practiced weeping or looking pleasantly surprised. In this mirror, Minnie practiced eating mangoes. The kids she knew from school didn’t eat them. They reached adulthood, many of them, never having run their tongues over the stringy sweetness. But Minnie ate tons. Her father showed her how to open a mango by anchoring it with a fork and nimbling her fingers to peel the skin in slender strips. He showed her how to eat it like a popsicle, wrapping a napkin around the fork’s tines to catch the running juice. Each bite would burst on her tongue. She didn’t mind when the syrupy feathers got caught between her teeth. But she didn’t like the mess, and wrinkled her face when her mother would reach over with a napkin and wipe Minnie’s mouth. No one in her house thought to slice them so she never packed any mango in her lunch. But on solitary afternoons she stood before her grandmother’s mirror and practiced biting in without letting any juice run down her chin. She spent many days with many ripe mangoes. Moving her tongue out of the way. Making room between her lips and teeth to hold it all in as she chewed. Perfecting her method bite by bite.
“Hi mama,” says Carla. She enters the bedroom with a flourish and a small tote. “I brought candied ginger.” Minnie watches as Carla flips the bag on the dresser. A brush, a mist sprayer, a 3-ounce bottle of oil and a baggie filled with golden sugar slices land against the mirror.
“Thank you, honey,” says Minnie. “Did you and Eileen make them?”
“We picked up a bunch at the farmer’s market,” says Carla. “Let me see what’s going on here.” Carla kneels behind Minnie on the bed. Her hands relax Minnie’s shoulders which release at her daughter’s touch. From the back of Minnie’s head, Carla lifts a flat tangle of hair the size of a molasses cookie. “Mama, when did this start?”
“Oh, just now,” says Minnie. “I noticed it when I called. A few days ago maybe.”
“Haven’t you been brushing your hair?” Carla feels around the tangle with her fingers.
“Well, it’s easier to put it in a bun,” says Minnie. “It’s just easier to do that.”
“You haven’t been brushing it at all?” says Carla.
“No, I have honey. It’s just easier to pull it back in a bun.” Carla swivels off the bed and pulls over a small night table. She arranges the contents of her tote on its glass surface among some prescription bottles and hands Minnie a slice of ginger. The tangle hangs from Minnie’s scalp like a shiny black medallion. Carla presses it again. The matting is dense but has areas of loose knots.
“I’m going to see how much I can do with my fingers, okay?” Minnie rolls her shoulders as Carla unfolds a quilt around her back. Lifting Minnie’s hair, she mists, then massages in the oil. As she works, Carla scans the room. Everything is in its place. Surfaces are dusted. Doilied curtains are tied with yellow bows. Even fibers in the aquamarine carpet are flattened in the same direction. She glances at her mother’s hands, then at her mother’s back. One shoulder rises higher than the other. “Eileen and her friends started a bookmaking club,” says Carla. “They’re illustrating stories with construction paper and curly ribbon.”
“That’s wonderful,” says Minnie. “You were such a creative child.” She holds the ginger in her mouth to let the spice hit her tongue. When she swallows her spine wriggles.
“That doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“It’s fine,” says Minnie. Her voice lilts. “I don’t think you need the spray for straight hair.”
“Let me just see,” says Carla. “I think I have to start brushing.” Minnie takes another bite. From where she sits, the sun’s glare catches her reflection in the window. Side by side, window Minnie and mirror Minnie look different. She opens her mouth to speak but catches herself. “Okay, we’re getting somewhere,” says Carla.
“I don’t think you need the spray, honey,” says Minnie, still chewing. Carla shakes the misting bottle and dabs more oil on her fingers.
“Some of these knots,” she says, “they’re really tight, mama.” She brushes through the bottom of the tangle in quick tugs. “How did it get like this? I might have to cut through some of it.” Minnie is silent. She finishes chewing and watches herself, moving her eyes between the window and the mirror. “It might be time for a shorter cut anyway, mama, if it’s too much for you to—”
“It’s not too much for me,” says Minnie. Her throat constricts and her words taste flavorless. Carla touches her mother’s shoulder.
“I was thinking of bringing Eileen for dinner this weekend,” she says. “We can pick up some—”
“That would be lovely, honey,” says Minnie. “I think, hm.” She clears phlegm from her throat. “I think I can finish up here.”
“I’ve barely started,” says Carla. The misting bottle is slick with oil.
“I can’t sit for very long,” says Minnie. Through the quilt, she presses her hand against the small of her back.
“Oh—” The bottle slips from Carla’s fingers and thumps on the carpet.
“It’s just how it is these days,” says Minnie. “But thank you for trying.” She stiffens her legs and lifts herself from the bed. Carla grabs the bottle and sets it on the night table.
“We can do it a little at a time,” she says. “I have a call tomorrow morning, but I can come in the afternoon.” She folds up the quilt. “I mean we can’t leave it like this. All knotted up like this.” The bag of ginger lays on the dresser as Carla packs up her tote. “Mama?”
“That’s fine,” says Minnie. Her eyes are fixed in front of her. As the sun dips, its glare flashes rainbow white on the windowpane. But the mirror’s reflection is steady as something materializes.
“Do you want some coffee before I go?” Minnie shakes her head.
“Thank you, honey,” she says.
Carla returns the night table to Minnie’s side of the bed. She kisses her mother and leaves without closing the door. For a while Minnie stands facing dual reflections. In the window she sees herself. Pleated pants, hair half teased. The amber of her face greying around bright black eyes. In her grandmother’s mirror, she sees a hazy child peeling a mango. Cheeks flushed, lips pressed in concentration. She opens the top drawer of the dresser and pulls out a pewter brush. Thumbing the ancient bristles, Minnie feels the back of her head lighten. She rolls back her shoulders. For the next two hours, she sits at the edge of the bed combing out the tangle strand by strand.
About the Author:
Stephanie Jones is the daughter of a Mexican immigrant and a Mediterranean Jersey girl, with bylines in The New York Times, HuffPost & elsewhere. She is a 2026 Rhysling nominee and her poetry & fiction appear/are forthcoming in The Santa Fe Literary Review, New Feathers Anthology, Midway Journal, Querencia Press, Encyclopedia Prismatica, The Inflectionist Review, Entre: Magazine of the Arts, Nulla, Pine Hills Review & elsewhere, and as a commission for Blue Note Records. Her favorite apple is Red Delicious.