I nod as he takes my hand and pulls me past the crowd and around the corner of the building. While I know he only wants some privacy, the dark alley makes my pulse spike. My eyes scan the space for anyone lurking, but there’s only darkness.
King leans against the brick and kicks up one foot on the wall. My teeth bite the inside of my cheek as I wait, swaying back and forth. I want to cross my arms, but that would mean letting go of his hand.
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior on Tuesday,” he says, in his usual cool tone. “I’m sorry. I’m not even sure why I did that. There’s just something about you girl, something I want to claim. Even when I’ve got no right to it.” His words send my pulse soaring. I am filled with a desperate longing and a bit of relief in the fact that this attraction—or whatever it is—is not one-sided. I don’t say anything and the silence stretches between us. “Damn, you look amazing tonight, Delaney.”
I hold his gaze instead of looking away. “Thanks. You too.”
“So, we’re good?” he asks.
“Of course.”
He pulls me forward, wrapping me in that signature King hug. His large hands skim across the bare skin of my back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
“King! Let’s go! Morning 40 Federation is playing at One Eyed Jacks!”
“Be there in a minute!” he shouts, releasing me and taking a step back.
“Oh no. I got lipstick on your shirt,” I say, tracing the red on his collar.
He gives me an easy smile and shakes his head. “No worries. It’ll give me an excuse to go home alone tonight.”
I can’t help but return his smile. “So, you’ve got to go,” I say.
“Yeah. But, I’ll see ya tomorrow. Is 11 good?”
“Sure.”
“I’m taking you on a field trip, so be prepared,” King says.
“I look forward to it.” I’m almost surprised at the confidence this man brings out in me. Not only do I feel beautiful with his eyes on me, I feel empowered.
“You can get home okay?” he asks, walking toward the street and taking me with him.
“I’m fine.”
“Damn right, girl.” King lets out a laugh and joins his friends as they head down the street.
I decide I’ve had enough adventure and rum for one night and head back home. As I turn the corner and find Cas’s dark bookstore, I’m approached by a middle-aged man, wearing too many layers for a hot summer night. He’s got a hat pulled down low so his eyes are cast in shadow. The only thing visible are yellow teeth peeking out between thin lips pulled higher on one side.
“Hey pretty lady, can I get a smoke?” His gritty voice shakes and I wish I had what he wanted.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t smoke.” My steps quicken and I’m trying to decide if I turn up the stairs to my apartment or make the block to lead him away. Scanning the sidewalk, I don’t see any other people out, so I decide to just get into my apartment as quickly as possible.
“Thanks anyway,” he grumbles. “Have a good night.”
I take the steps up to my apartment two at a time. Just as I get the door unlocked, I check over my shoulder. I suck in a breath when I find him leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, a cigarette between his lips. He flicks a lighter and inhales deeply, blowing out a large cloud of smoke through a sinister grin.
Pushing the door open, I jump inside and slam it closed behind me, making sure to lock all three locks. I lean against the door, my hand to my chest, trying to stop my pounding heart. Pressing my ear to the door I hear nothing, so I move one eye to the peephole. The stairway is empty.
What the hell was that about? Exhaling, I drop onto the sofa and keep my eyes on the door where I eventually fall asleep with all the lights on.
_______________
Saturday morning, King picks me up in front of the bookstore. As I climb into his car, I’m not surprised at all to find it loud, vintage, and immaculate. He lowers the music and the first thing I want to tell him is my experience with the weird stranger from last night, but I keep it to myself. Because I’m not sure what there is to tell. Sure, it was weird and a bit creepy, but so are most things on dark street corners in New Orleans.
King navigates the streets of New Orleans like a pro and in no time we are boarding a ferry to cross the Mississippi River. Once the car is parked, he lays his head back against the seat and sighs.
“Late night?” I ask.
“Very late,” he answers.
I laugh and lean back in my set, mimicking King’s position. “Did you have fun, though?”
“For sure,” he says. “I love loud music and crowds, gettin’ lost in that vibe.” I nod but I’m not sure if he sees it. “To be real, it was hard to think about anything but you in that outfit last night,” he says, finally turning toward me.
A warm, fluttering sensation spreads from my chest to the ends of my fingertips. King’s honesty and ease about such admissions is so foreign to me. I’m torn between feeling flattered and embarrassed. My mind is grasping to latch on to anything he’ll give me and suddenly, it seems like he’s giving so freely. I grin, but am sad that I can’t see King’s eyes. All I see is my own grinning reflection in his mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“Thanks,” I say. “It was cool seeing you out. I mean outside of being my research assistant. Not that you’re my assistant. You know what I mean.”
He chuckles. It’s a dazzling smile made of full lips and white teeth. The shadow of stubble covers his sharp jaw and I wonder if it’s scratchy or soft.
“Yeah, I know what you mean, Laney,” King says, the hint of a smirk still lingering on his lips.
“Laney?”
“What? No one’s ever given you a nickname?” he asks. King removes his sunglasses and twists in his seat, resting an arm on the steering wheel.
“Not exactly.”
“Well, that’s how we do things here,” he says. “Southerners like to it keep it short and sweet, ya know?”
“I’m learning,” I answer. King nods and sits back in his seat. We sit for a few more seconds before the ferry horn blows and the boat pushes away from the dock.
“I talked to Miranda last night,” King says.
“Really?”
Panic rises in my chest at the thought of those two discussing me. Miranda knows everything and there’s only a friendly allegiance keeping her from telling King about my past. That’s the one thing I don’t have the strength to revisit. He must see the alarm written all over my face.
“Don’t worry, girl. Your name only came up once or twice. It has been a while since we talked.”
I let out the breath and feel my body relax further into the seat. “Where are we going today?” I ask.
“Heading to the West Bank to meet with a friend of Mamie’s. I called him on Wednesday and he said he’d be happy to talk to you.”
“Sweet. If I haven’t told you enough, thanks Val.”
“Val?” he asks, his handsome face scrunching up in disapproval.
“Just trying to fit in,” I say. “But Val doesn’t really work, does it?”
“Not really, no.”
We both laugh and feel the ferry jerk as it lands at the dock. Soon we’re off the boat and making our way through a town called Algiers. It’s a quaint little town that looks to be free from the hustle and bustle of the big city just across the river.
I gaze out the window as King sings along to a song I’ve never heard. His voice is light and carefree and it makes me feel at ease. As we drive, the houses grow further apart and the small town is left behind. Paved roads give way to gravel and eventually dirt. When we reach our destination, I am in awe of the home before me.
The wooden house, with its rusted tin roof and wrap around porch, looks like something straight off a backwoods movie set. The yard is scattered with tractors, broken down cars and other equipment that I don’t recognize. A barn sits about one hundred yards from the back of the house that seems to be the
newest addition to the property. There are a couple of dogs, an orange cat, and even a few chickens strolling around in the long grass.
The slamming of the screen door grabs my attention and I watch an elderly black man stroll onto the porch. His hand shields his eyes from the midday sun as he tries to identify his visitors. When his eyes shift to King, he smiles widely, opening his arms for a hug. King skips up the steps and into the man’s waiting arms. They exchange words too low for me to hear as the old man’s face beams.
“Tee Valentine! Been too long.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Papa.” For the first time, King looks timid and vulnerable. I find myself studying their exchange with fascination. “Papa, this is my friend Delaney Mills.”
I shake his hand, feeling his rough, scratchy skin against mine. Large fingers encase my hand, his knuckles scarred with the efforts of a lifetime of physical labor. He leads us inside his humble home, straight to the heart of every Southern house—the kitchen. Papa invites us to take a seat at the table as we wait for him to join us. It’s evident that his body moves much slower than his mind as he hobbles over and lowers himself into the chair across from me.
He dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief and tucks it into his shirt pocket. “Sorry ‘bout the heat,” Papa says. “Only got the one window unit. So, what can I do for you two?”
I pull out my recorder and place it on the table, along with my notebook and pen. “Do you mind?” I ask, pointing to the recorder.
“Not at all,” Papa answers. “Though I don’t know if I got anything worth knowin’.”
“I’m doing research on the Voodoo practicing population and wanted to get your input.”
“Well, I s’pose I could be some help. Eh, Valentine?” he replies, displaying a toothy smile with three empty spots.
“This is Papa Voodoo,” King says. “He is one of the main leaders of the area.”
“Been that way for almost fifty years,” Papa says.
“And the other leaders?” I ask.
“That would be my wife, Eve Anna. She gone to the city for some business. Good thing, too. She not so keen on you people,” he says, slapping the table and laughing at himself. I’m not sure what he means by that, but relax when I see King silently laughing to himself.
“Be nice, Papa. She’s just doing research for school.”
“School?” he asks, eyebrows raised high toward his receding hairline. “Well, ain’t nothin’ wrong with an education. Wish I’dda got one of those. Had to make it through life on my good looks!”
Papa breaks into loud guttural laughter. His shoulders shake as he pounds the table. King and I can’t help but join it. Papa runs a hand through fuzzy gray hair, his wide grin forcing his cheery eyes closed. Once his cackling subsides, I redirect the conversation back toward my research.
“In your position, how much authority do you have as a leader of the local Voodoos?”
Papa rubs his chin and takes his time thinking before answering. “Well, some would say we are the only authority, but dat is not the case at all. People look to us for guidance. They want us to tell ‘em what to do, how to do it. In my younger days, we took ‘em under our wing. Taught ‘em what we knew. Now I think we taught ‘em too much. Not sure where we went wrong. Now they want to control everything. They ain’t pure of heart. Got no business in Voodoo. Bad eggs, I call ‘em.”
“Are you referring to the Bondye Saints?” I ask. I lean forward, eager to learn more.
His eyes go wide, but he nods his head. “They was supposed to act as advisors, you know? Helpin’ me and Eve Anna, but then things changed. After what happened in ‘69, we forced ‘em out. But I believe they back. I feel they done gone off on their own. Ain’t got no interest in the true way of the Voodoo.”
“Can you tell me what happened in 1969?”
Papa shakes his head and dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief pulled from his front pocket. “I don’t supposed that needs retellin’,” he says. “Needs to stay where it is—in the past. I can say they was banned from Voodoo for what they did. They evil.”
“Are you talking conspiracy within the ranks? Are you and your wife in danger?”
“Maybe,” he says, his gaze drifting to the front window. “We never had no fear before. No one messed with us. Folks used to be scared dat we put a binding curse or something worse. But they not scared no more.”
I meet King’s gaze across the table and he looks upset. “Have you tried that? A curse?” I ask.
“Ah, no. Me and Eve Anna figure we too old to fight. If they up to no good, the younger ones gonna need to fix it. Our days are just about done.”
“But if they’re bad people with some kind of agenda, don’t they threaten the sanctity of true Voodoo and everything you’ve built?”
“Ah, we built nothing. Voodoo was built long ago. We just keep it alive. If this group want to change that, I fear there ain’t no stoppin’ it.” Papa glances at a large clock on the wall and back to me.
“You two best be goin’ now. Eve Anna will be back any minute,” he mutters.
“Well, thank you for your time, Papa. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, Miss Mills. Now, you watch yourself. You keep askin’ too many questions and someone just might feel the need to shut you up.”
I nod and shut off the recorder, packing up my things. King and Papa embrace again and it’s easy to see such a fondness and kinship between them, a mutual respect. We say our goodbyes and climb back in the car.
“Well, that was different,” King says as he backs out of the driveway.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never heard him talk like that before. He sounds so… defeated.”
“What happens when they are gone? Is the hierarchy a family line? Like, do their children become the leaders?”
King shakes his head. “No. It doesn’t work like that. Besides, they only have one daughter, but I heard she left New Orleans a long time ago. Some kind of falling out with the family.”
Our drive back to the ferry is quiet, but comfortable. We chat about the music playing and things I need to see in the city, but nothing heavy. King pulls up to the curb in front of the bookstore, giving Cas a wave through the front window.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday,” I say, my hand lingering on the door handle. I tell myself to get out, but my body doesn’t move. I know I have so much work to do on my dissertation, but I don’t want to leave. King invokes such a calmness in me, I crave his presence.
“Later, Laney,” he says. Without a reason to stay, I remove myself from the car and wave a goodbye as he drives out of sight.
7
I WAKE WITH A start on Sunday morning, sweat dripping from my forehead into my burning eyes. Nightmares have plagued me for so long, I am almost immune to the terror they bring. Almost. Trying to shake off the ill feelings and horrific images from the dream, I jump in the shower and wash my worries away. Scrubbing at my skin until it turns pink doesn’t erase the awful feeling inside. Steam surrounds me and as I breathe it in, I imagine the darkness inside pool in my lungs before blowing it out toward the ceiling.
New Orleans summers are a kind of heat I never knew existed. Still, I know that if I want to talk to locals, it’s best to get outside of the French Quarter. While there are plenty of locals nearby, in the Quarter, they are outnumbered by tourists and I haven’t been here long enough to tell the difference.
I step out into the heat and light of the afternoon and realize it doesn’t bother me nearly as much as when I first got here. I don’t feel quite as suffocated anymore by the humidity and I pride myself on that fact, like assimilating is a superpower. Though my hair is a different story. The humidity works my waves into crazy poofy curls that can only be contained in a bun or ponytail.
Heading for Canal Street, I figure I’ll take the street car over to St. Charles Avenue. From there, I’ll do some shopping on Magazine Street and try my hand at making easy conversation, th
rowing in Voodoo when it feels natural—if it ever feels natural. While I know King’s connection to Voodoo is getting me far, I really want to see if I can do this on my own. I want to know if locals are willing to talk about it at all, with an outsider like myself.
The trolley is crowded, but I squeeze in and stick to my spot. Tourists climb on at every stop, wearing souvenir t-shirts, clutching their purses and plastic shopping bags. Casino workers, still in their uniforms and smelling of smoke, sit lifeless and drained after a grueling shift of people pleasing. Church goers, decked out in their finest, cluster together gossiping about the latest scandal involving the preacher’s wife. And then there’s me, not really fitting in anywhere, but not really wanting to.
After switching cars, the crowd thins out and I am able to sit and enjoy the ride for a while. The rhythmic clicking of the wheels along the tracks is soothing and I find myself annoyed each time we make a stop. My stomach growls loudly, earning a questioning look from the teenager sitting next to me and I figure I should get off at some point and grab lunch.
Spotting a Mexican restaurant, I exit the car near the corner of Antonine and St. Charles. Superior Grill is a fun place with an extensive bar and plenty of décor to bring home the theme. I decide on huevos rancheros from the brunch menu and order a beer to go with it.
“Moms are the worst, aren’t they?” a nasally voice asks from beside me. I suppress a groan at the impending small talk, but paste a smile on my face. I find a girl, not much younger than me, wearing a smile and staring at me.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“Ugh, sorry. It’s just, I’m having lunch with my mom who only wants to know what I’m doing to find a man. I swear her only concern is how soon she can get grandchildren out of me. Is your mom that way?”
“Oh. I, uh, I haven’t talked to her in a while. She lives in Chicago.”
“That’s rough. As much as I complain, I’d miss my mom if she lived that far away. You should call her.”
I chuckle at her rambling and the way her hands fly around, gesturing grandly to emphasize her point. It’s such a southern thing how everyone talks to everyone, like no one is a stranger.
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