Phaedra Swerves, Jukes, and Dunks on Death

Thanks to a brand new Catacombs Incorporated campaign, North St. Louisans could bring loved ones back from the dead. An iteration of Death itself had been contracted to manage the necropolis, collect flesh for enchanted textile manufacture, and facilitate resurrections. To make the campaign fair and sustainable, consumers needed to challenge and beat their region-specific version of Death in a mortal duel.

Clairvoyants on the company's marketing team had proposed the resurrection campaign, basing their strategic planning on consumer surveys that described feelings of loss and suffocating futility. Furthermore, the clairvoyants figured the campaign would distract detractors of the company's metaphysical gentrification program.

Now those gifted folks could compile celestial atlases out of common palms, decode arcane scriptures, and foresee tragedy in scattered chicken bones. But not a single one of them predicted the campaign would turn out to be a massive success. Or that grieving mothers would prove to be Death's fiercest competitors.

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The mothers wanted to snatch Death out his Adidas sneakers, fashion axes and shovels from his femurs, dig up and split caskets, yank sons and daughters up from cool dirt, young bodies unharmed, robust and whole, chunky as sweet potatoes.

Surviving kin begged the mothers to quit all that scheming nonsense and suggested they stick to knitting, gardening, gossiping, spoiling nephews and nieces, stirring soup, twisting braids, haggling at yard sales, managing sideline hustles, and musing in late afternoon sunlight. No need to be heroines. No need to risk defeat and transmogrification (Death could've been decent and just taken the souls of his new rivals, but he got off on turning germaphobes into dirty boots, conceited folks into stringy, wet clumps of magenta weave).

A chorus of unheeded brothers, uncles, sisters, and cousins called the mothers pigheaded and told them y'all need to quit chasing that pain before it turns around and bites you back. Ain't no use suffering over what can't be undone. But na'll. Nobody knew how unnatural it felt to outlive a child. Nobody knew how elemental shame could pollute the bloodstream, wither veins, disintegrate hair into dust. Nobody knew how guilt reframed every embarrassing gurgle and burp out of their bodies as betrayal. The mothers couldn't give up that chance to kick Death's tailbone. Spit venom in his goddamn eye.

Determined to win, the mothers recruited would be champions from kitchens, beauty shops, supermarkets, church basements, and back porches. They revived hidden talents, met Death at Fairground Park, fought for their children—and every so often—neighborhood gossips spread rumors of women who challenged and beat Death so their sons and daughters could live to become astronauts, surgeons, soldiers, accountants, and deacons. So it wasn't out of the question for Phaedra Banks to whoop Death in a game of one-on-one and resurrect her son Jackson.

Before retiring from the league, Phaedra's prowess as a collegiate basketball veteran had become mythical (superstitious coaches claimed a shot of her sweat could transform benchwarmers into starters; chewing a strand of her hair could increase vertical leaps by two feet). And being fifty-three hardly diminished her fitness and talents. All those years of suicide sprints and squats had consolidated into massive inner resources.

Once the bad news broke about Jackson, neighborhood folks expected Phaedra to hop into a clean pair of Air Max sneakers, snap on her goggles, and crush Death, 21 to zilch—but na'll. Other women might've believed their sons and daughters shined bright enough to shame the sun.

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But Phaedra had to keep shit real. If resurrected, her boy would never become an astronaut, surgeon, soldier, accountant, or deacon. He'd only live on as a thorn in Phaedra's side, a boil on her backside, a blister between everybody's toes.

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Of course neighborhood gossips lied. Nobody had beaten Death. Terriana Jacobs failed to best Death at javelin throwing. Harriet Jones failed to best Death at gospel solos. Gracie Smith failed to best Death at eating scotch bonnets. Ramona Sharp failed to best Death at freestyle wrestling. Domonique...