digging holes jamila asha johnson “Mud makes everything dirty,” the seven-year-old albino girl skipping rope in the alley says. Langston Bobble is having one of those days. You know the type—the days that don’t make sense to anyone. Some days make you want to go back to church and tell a balding man of all your sins. Some days convince you that everything you’ve ever done taints you. For the 24-year-old Bobble, today is that day. The albino’s black sandals slap and scrape the ground. Albinism is inherited. Lack of pigment in eyes, skin, or hair mixed and void of the usual amounts melanin. One in 17,000 people look like the girl jumping rope in front of Langston. Her name is Rose. Langston talks to her from time to time. “So why are you home?” she asks on beat with her jumps. “Why are you home?” is all Langston can think to say. “I’m seven. What do you mean?” She has a point. Tonight he is fascinated that she can skip rope so well. On other days she tends to trip often. He thinks it has something to do with the color of her eyes—without pigment he thinks it becomes more difficult to see things like tree roots, rocks and fire hydrants. Her eyes appear rather pretty once you get used to her. Langston remembers when her parents brought her home from the hospital. He sees her on holidays or when he needs money. “Is it Easter already?” she asks dropping the jump rope and running up to him. “No.” “Oh.” She picks up the jump rope in one hand and then begins crossing from side to side, occasionally stopping to jump. Langston looks past the chain fence can see the back door of the Sloan house. Rose’s parents busily pass by the windows. He remembers the support groups they once would attend weekly. One day he helped Mr. Sloan start the lawnmower. “See kid. We both carried the gene. Marsha and I. We both had it and never knew since neither of us had albinism. That’s what they call it. It is a one in four chance when both parents have it,” Mr. Sloan had said. Langston converses with the skill of a fruit fly. “One in four Super Bowl players weigh more than 300 pounds.” Langston reaches into his pocket and pulls out a soft pack of Camels and searches with his forefinger into the hole on the top of the pack. He feels a few straggling smokes and removes one. As he searches for his lighter he wonders exactly how to explain why he is covered in mud. “You gonna tell me what happened?” Rose asks. “I wasn’t planning on it.” He says. “I’ll let you use my jump rope,” she says extending the jump rope. A car pulls up at the front of the house. “Are you going to tell them where the mud came from,” she asks dropping the jump rope and running up to Langston. Langston doesn’t answer her but stands up and stubs out his cigarette feeling as though he is wasting a friend. He pats Rose on the head and walks into the backyard of his childhood home. A rusty ladder, a row of ugly shrubs, and a row of rocks symbolizing the headstone of Chucky—the meanest damn dog to ever live. He hesitates before going up to the back door and knocking on the glass pane. More than a dozen holes blanket the yard. He couldn’t find the jelly jar he buried when he was ten. Langston realizes he should have filled the holes. Knock one. Knock two. Knock three isn’t right. He feels a strange sensation. He hears a crash and realizes that his hand is inside the house and the broken glass falls to the ground. This is a sign and instantly he is running back to the alley. “Anthy Maria jumped in the fire. The fire too hot, she jumped in the pot. The pot was too black, she jumped in a crack,” Rose sings. Langston needs money. Five dollars more and he’ll have enough. But he just broke a window and that was his last chance. He can hear screaming from that childhood home and the shrill voice of his mother in fear. Rose notices Langston and smiles impishly. “You missed my birthday.” “I was only gone a minute,” Langston says. “It was last week.” “Did you get birthday money?” He hears the backdoor opening and knows his father has his shotgun. “Ten dollars. I’ll give you half if you tell me why you’re covered in mud.” Maybe his luck was changing. How could he tell her, though? He feels blood gathering around his knuckles. “Do you have it on you?” he asks getting nervous. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a wad of ones. She separates five and hands them to him. “I don’t know if you’ll understand.” But he looks at the money and he starts to shake. “I jumped in the pot and the pot was too black,” he says grabbing the money and walking off. A siren is heard in the background and he knows his mother is crying.