“Well, good luck with the rest of lunch,” I say, tipping my beer in her direction.
“Yeah, thanks,” she says, grabbing a margarita placed in front of her. “I better get back before she sends out a search party.”
My food arrives and I order another beer as I think about calling my mom. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. There wasn’t anything wrong between us, it was just something I needed, to disconnect for a while. I know she’s probably going crazy with worry, since I left without telling anyone where I was going.
My mom is the typical, overbearing, overprotective matriarch of our family. Until a year ago, she had been my best friend and confidante. Cliché as that may be, it was true. Because of my advanced placement in school, I never had many friends. I was surrounded by older kids, who never wanted anything to do with me. We had nothing in common and I never cared to put forth enough effort to befriend them.
With the absence of friends, my mother had become my rock and my number one fan. I shared everything with her and she always understood my worries. She helped me through puberty and my first crush. She encouraged me to become more social and outgoing. Before I fell in love, my mother was everything to me.
Too ashamed to finish my meal, I leave cash on the bar, drain my beer and head out. I fish out my phone on the way toward Magazine Street and with a heavy, unenthusiastic hand, dial my mother.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Delaney? Delaney! Where the hell are you? Are you okay?”
“Yes, mom, I’m fine.”
“Sweetie, it’s been weeks since we’ve heard from you. I tried calling you, but your number is disconnected. We’ve all been so worried. God, Delaney, I am too young for a heart attack!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just needed to get away from everything, everyone,” I say, begging her to have some sympathy.
“It’s so good to hear your voice, sweetheart.Your dad and sister are here, do you want to say hello?”
“No. Please, ma, I just want to let you know I am okay and not to worry.”
I hear her sniffling and a deep exhale fan across the phone. It breaks my heart in a whole new way and makes me question what kind of daughter I’ve become to a woman who gave me so much.
“That’s it? That’s all you are going to give me? Where are you? Are you eating? Is it safe?”
I sigh, blowing out a breath toward the sky. “Mom, everything is fine. I’m in New Orleans doing research for my dissertation. I’m eating. I’m safe. I’m just taking a little me time, you know?”
“Okay. Please keep in touch. Call more often. Well, now I have your number, so I’ll be calling to check on you. You know that. Take care of yourself sweetheart. I can’t take much more heartache, Delaney.”
“I know, mom. I love you. We’ll talk soon.”
“I love you, too. Please let us know if you need anything. Goodbye.”
I hang up quickly before I find myself begging her to stay on the line. I hadn’t realized how much I miss her until that soothing, love-filled voice came to me from a thousand miles away.
I lean against an iron fence and scrub my face with the palms of my hands. I know my family has reasons to worry. I walked out on them with no explanation and no goodbye. I disappeared in the night leaving only a note that I was fine and not to look for me. I left my life, my family and my therapist far behind in an attempt to discover who I am again. I knew restarting my research would be a great distraction and give me a purpose. New Orleans was an easy choice.
I push off of the fence and make my way to Magazine Street. Browsing funky retail shops and antique stores, I make a few purchases here and there. Casual conversation with other shoppers and with the locals who work in each place comes easy, but I find it harder and harder to bring up Voodoo. Some people are indifferent, others become flustered and heated at the mention of the topic. But mostly, I find that they clam up and claim that they know nothing. And maybe they’re telling the truth. Religion seems to divide people here in the South. It’s a large part of their identity and doesn’t change much between generations.
After a few hours of this, I make my way to The Bulldog and take a seat near the unique water fountain made from beer taps. The sound of the water is soothing. I need to write out all my notes while they are still fresh in my head. There’s no breeze today, so I’m thankful for some shade and a cold drink.
After ordering a draft Abita Turbodog, at the suggestion of the waiter, I pull out my pen and notebook and start scribbling notes on each encounter I had today. So engrossed in my writing, I barely notice the gradual increase in the noise level. My empty glass is replaced with a new one and I look up to find the patio full.
Everyone seems at ease, eating and drinking, celebrating another day in the Big Easy with friends and family. A twinge of jealousy shoots through me as I eye the three empty chairs surrounding my table. When the waiter reappears, I ask for the tab. He gives me a nod and disappears inside.
It’s then that I notice the only other table seating just one person. He’s parked in the furthest corner, sipping a drink and watching me. His skin is dark, but there’s a lighter long scar across his cheek. When my eyes meet his, I find it odd that he doesn’t look away, but holds my gaze in an uncomfortable challenge. I try to return the test, but soon find myself feeling uneasy and a bit nervous. Luckily, the waiter reappears with my check, breaking our standoff.
He smiles as I give him too much cash and tell him to keep the change. The fact that his name and phone number are scrawled on the bill does not go unnoticed. However, not needing any more complications to get in the way of my research, I decide to leave it there, clearly letting him know that I’m not interested.
I pack up my things and make my way to the sidewalk, wanting to get one more good look at the stranger who’d stared me down. But when I find his table, he is gone, and it’s now occupied by three young girls and overrun with shopping bags. I shrug it off and exit back onto the street, heading toward St. Charles.
By the time I board the trolley, the sunset sky with its orange and pink clouds, alerts me to how late it is. I take a seat on one of the wooden benches and lean my head against the cool glass. The ride flies by quickly and I soon find myself walking back to my apartment from Canal Street. As I stop to read a street sign, a wave of uneasiness comes over me. It’s that feeling in the pit of your stomach that warns you something is not right. I spin around, finding nothing out of the ordinary and continue on.
Though everything seems normal, I can’t shake the bad feeling. I find myself speed walking, needing the safety and serenity of my apartment. When I turn the block and can see the sign for Cas’s bookstore, I breathe a sigh of relief.
The comfort I feel as I reach my stairwell is short lived. Suddenly I am knocked backward by a hard blow to my chest. I hit the sidewalk with a thud and find a large, dark-skinned man hovering over me. I scramble backwards, scraping my palms on the sidewalk, eventually making it to my feet. The man continues toward me, his face frighteningly calm, but his eyes are dark with anger. I turn to flee, only to run right into the man who’d been eyeing me at The Bulldog, halfway across town. His scar looks silver in the light from the streetlamp.
“What do you want? I only have like forty dollars on me, but you can have it!” I shout, fumbling with my bag, trying to find my wallet.
The scar-faced man grabs my arms and holds them tight behind me. He smells like a lifelong smoker, the stink saturating his hair, his clothes, his skin. I don’t stop fighting, but I’m no match for his strength. Kicking my foot back, I land a blow on my captor’s shin. He grunts, but doesn’t let go. All I do is tire myself out struggling against his hold. When I can’t catch my breath, I give up and sag in his arms. My chest heaves for air as the larger man stalks forward, his giant frame shadowing mine. I squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for the worst.
A small, metallic click snaps my eyes open and I find a switchblade pressed against my throat. Instantly, I
know that this is not a random mugging.
“This is your first and only warning,” the man’s heavily accented voice breezes across my face. “Stop asking about the Bondye Saints or we’ll put your insides on your outside.”
My eyes shoot to his, and what I find there makes me believe him. I nod and my arms are pulled back even tighter before I am pushed to the ground. I land on my hands and knees, my muscles burning from the adrenaline. I blink away tears and find the anger in me instead of fear. By the time I get back on my feet and spin to face them, I only find an empty street.
Just as they had appeared, they disappear back into the dark maze of the French Quarter. I stand alone, lit only by the glow of the lights from the closed bookstore. With my pounding pulse and heavy breaths, a grin spreads across my face.
Their threat doesn’t scare me because I have nothing to lose. What this attack means is that they don’t want anyone digging. They don’t want people to know they even exist. The fact that they needed to resort to threats means that my digging is making them nervous. I must be close to unearthing something they don’t want found. And as I recall the press of the cold metal blade against my throat, I vow to do just that.
8
I AM AN INTELLIGENT woman. I am confident in that. Acquiring my Master’s degree in Sociology seemed like a walk in the park. When my advisor asked for the topic of my dissertation, I knew that I wanted something to take me far away from Chicago. I’ve been obsessed with Voodoo since I was a teenager and wanted to dive deeper into the religion.
When I suggested that I wanted to write about the importance of the subculture of Voodoo in modern day New Orleans, he tried to talk me out of it. He insisted that Voodoo is a religion and would more fall under Theology, but I disagreed. I eventually won him over with the argument that Voodoo is only a religion to the believers, as part of the majority of a society of non-believers Voodoo is a subculture. With his hesitant approval, I set out on this adventure.
Now that I find myself pursuing a doctorate, I’m beginning to wonder what the point of all this is. What will I do with all this education? How will I use it to make the world a better place? I was so desperate to escape home, I didn’t look any further into my future than that. So here I am, only a few weeks into my research and I’ve already learned so much and even earned a death threat. I call that a win.
Monday, I stay in and organize my transcripts, creating a new file for my Bondye Saints information. I type up all my handwritten notes and save them, also backing them up on a separate thumb drive. I call King that evening and arrange for us to meet at the library again. I’ll need his help to go through the old microfiche of the Times-Picayune. We’ll search their database for anything relating to Voodoo or the Bondye Saints. I am doubtful that I’ll find anything worthwhile, but I want to leave no resource unchecked.
My walk to the library isn’t nearly as leisurely as my last visit. Since the attack on Sunday evening, I am much more aware of my surroundings and find myself searching the face of every passerby. I don’t want to be paranoid, but if the Bondye Saints are threatening me just for asking questions, ongoing research will bring more than empty threats.
I cross Loyola and find King waiting for me near the glass doors. He’s talking on his phone, engrossed in what seems to be a serious conversation. His green t-shirt matches his eyes and hugs his chest in the best way. When I step closer, King’s eyes dart to mine and then back to the ground before ending the call.
“How’s the week treating you so far, Laney?” he asks.
“It’s okay,” I lie, not sure why I keep the attack a secret.
King leads us inside, also holding the door open for a teenage girl that follows. She thanks him with a smile, staring and blushing so hard, she runs right into the information desk. The poor girl cringes and slaps a hand over her face before running off. I cover my mouth to hold in a laugh, but I have to say I know exactly how she feels.
“Stop doing that,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Bewitching everyone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” King says, casually leaning against a shelf of books. He crosses his arms, raising one eyebrow.
I fold my arms to mimic him and scan the library entrance. “Come on. You know you’re gorgeous, and like the personification of sex without even trying. Literally every woman within a 30 foot radius is staring at you.”
King looks around the room for a few seconds, and his eyes light up. “She’s not looking,” he says, pointing to a middle-aged woman carrying a toddler. Her gaze snaps up, a sly smile pulls at her lips as she looks him over. “Never mind.”
“Let’s not pretend you’re ignorant to the effect you have on women—and some men.”
“Where to?” he asks, rolling his eyes and laughing at me.
“We’re going to the City Archives and Special Collections upstairs. I just want to look for anything Voodoo-related in the local press. And since they haven’t updated these files to be available online yet, this is our best option.”
As we make our way through the building, an older man catches my attention. He sits at a table near the fiction section, no books on the table in front of him. As he watches us, I can’t help but feel paranoid and uneasy with his eyes on us.
“Laney?”
I snap my attention to King. “Yeah?”
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
I glance back to the man, who still sits watching us. “Uh, no. I’m sorry, what?”
“We need the elevator, right?” he asks, waving his hand into the empty elevator waiting for us.
“Oh. Yes,” I answer, looking back to King.
King and I step into the elevator and the doors slide closed. There’s something about the intimacy of elevators. I don’t know if it’s the close proximity, the way I can smell his soap again, or that we’re so very alone, but on the short ride to the third floor, the tension builds so fast it fills up the space and presses us into opposite corners.
When we exit the elevator, a woman directs us to the microfiche room. King sits at the first available table, as I walk the room, checking every row to make sure we’re alone. After a quick search, King turns in the list of reels we need and we wait for them to be delivered.
A librarian, dressed like she’s going to a 1950s sock hop, shows us how to operate the machine and I try to pay close attention. It’s hard to focus with King being so near and feeling the occasional brush of his thigh against mine. The librarian leaves us alone again, and it is just King and I with the machinery lamp casting shadows across his face.
The room is eerily silent and neither of us do anything to change that. When another employee bursts through the doors with our stack of microfiche, I let out a little yelp and clutch my hand to my pounding chest. She drops them off with a sideways glance and leaves us alone again.
“Are you okay? You’re acting kind of loopy today,” King asks.
“Loopy? Is that an official diagnosis?”
He nudges my shoulder. “Yes, it is, smartass.”
“Well, I’m fine. No loopiness here.”
He loads the first reel into the machine. We dive right into the research hunting through the local paper for stories on Voodoo in general. Searching reel after reel, we spend a lot of time looking through stories that are no help at all. Eventually, we find a few articles about unfortunate accidents with victims blaming Voodoo curses or hexes. There’s also a handful of write ups on the upcoming yearly celebration of St. John’s Eve.
“That’s next week,” I say, scanning an article. “According to voodoo practitioners, the spirit world comes closest to the realm of the living on St. John’s Eve. Blah, blah, blah. For decades, on June 23, Marie Laveau oversaw an elaborate feast on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. Yada, yada, yada. This year’s ritual was organized by local Mambo Therese Thibodeaux with believers and skeptics invited, but all required to wear white. Biggest turnout in decades.”
“This
is all basic. What year is this?” King cuts in, leaning over my shoulder. His nearness sends my heart soaring and makes the palms of my fumbling hands sweat.
“1969. That’s the same year that Papa mentioned an incident with the Bondye Saints.”
“What else does it say?” he asks.
I wipe my hands on my shorts and fidget with the controls to continue moving through the papers. “The next day authorities are asking for the public’s help locating five-year-old Emma Green, who is missing after attending a St. John’s Eve celebration on the Magnolia footbridge over Bayou St. John. The New Orleans Police Department said Tuesday that the girl was attending the ceremony with her grandmother when she disappeared. The girl was last seen near Jack Bartlett Park on Harding Drive. She was wearing a white dress and matching hair ribbon.”
“It could be something,” King says. “No way to know for sure if it’s related to the Bondye Saints.”
“We already know that nobody wants to talk about this group or what they did. Maybe it’s because they were involved with this.” I jot the girl’s name down to search for more information on her disappearance and we move on.
In the dark room, with King so close, I find myself distracted from research and focusing on the way the muscles in his forearms move when he stretches his arms wide. I catch myself staring at his full lips and the line of his jaw. Even the tiny bit of gray ink on his chest that’s visible pulls my attention away from the search.
I’m dying to know if he’s feeling anything like I am, but I’m fearful of the answer. Other than the little girl’s disappearance seemingly linked to a Voodoo ceremony, we don’t find any other leads or information. What is more disheartening is that when we search for the Bondye Saints, there are no sources found. Not one story, article, mention or photo of the group or its existence. The fact that they were powerful enough to hide from the media makes my blood run cold.
Frustrated with our findings, I pack up and trudge back to the elevator after turning in our materials. This time the space seems to push us together, sharing a small spot in the large box. King leans against the back wall, his arm grazing mine. We exchange a look and while I know the thoughts running through my mind, King is harder to read.
King Me Page 8