Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  I wrote you she said. Wrote you a letter. I dont want to stop. What we doing.

  He was glad he had come to her first. I am such a bohemian, he said. Thats not necessarily a bad thing, she said. You have no idea, he said.

  If I were to go with you, what kind of life would we live.

  He decides then that he will hoodoo her, bind her to him with a web of lovemagic. He commence to spinning dreams. Magical, he said. Whatever you want, he said. And he found himself caught up suddenly in the spell of his own dream. With all my power I will serve you, he said. I will tell stories of you that will be a beacon light unto the generations. Stories of my love for you. I will immortalize you, he said.

  The letter was there when he got home. She really cared for him, it said. She cared for him and she cared for her husband and she was confused, she said, two men she cared for in her life, two fires, one for my husband and a growing one for you. Not contacting him would be hard, she said. I do love you, she said.

  She canceled New Orleans twice. Twice she relented. The day he was supposed to leave he didnt answer the phone for fear she would tell him not to come. Didn't know what to expect until she met him in the lobby of a classic Quarters hotel on Quarles, the Vila something or other, intimate, faintly decadent, a little elevator pushing them together and forcing a hug, a quickish peck.

  An equally classic room with thick brocaded walls and lace covered windowdoors. They were just above the oldworld rooftops of the Quarter and a rainy drizzly day shrouded the crenelated roofs surrounding them. They sat on a wroughtiron balcony drinking champagne with bread, fruits and cheeses and only occasionally came inside to make candlelit love on the big brass bed.

  God, this is good. Spooned up behind her and fitted in all particulars. God I want you, he says, into her ear. So does my husband, she says, he wants me, too. Well what do you want, he says. She turned and went into his chest. I want you, she says, so soft he more felt than heard it, my warrior, my fearless warrior. His heart swells and his power glows hot like a burning sun. And when he comes in her he is claiming her. Thats what he tells himself, convinces himself. Murmurs in her ear as she comes on him and he in her, Do you want me to be faithful to you baby, do you.

  Oh yes, she moaned, oh yes baby yes.

  But it was walking the little streets of the Quarter, weaving through festive New Year's crowds of tourists and natives in beads, sequins, and feathers, that he is happiest, holding her hand and being a couple. I'm going to drop all my women, he talk her, all my negotiations. I'm going to tell them all I'm in love with you.

  I can't ask you to do that she says. I can't be that to you.

  That's why I asked when I did.

  They wander into Congo Square and the milling New Year's Eve crowds are left behind in the Quarter proper. The Square is quiet and fittingly somber with thick willows draped over it like dignified sentinels. The enslaved used to come here to do their sacred dances, she told him, you can still feel the history here. They are sitting beneath a sprawling elder. It is a comfortable moment. Until she says, if I do leave my husband, it doesn't mean I will get married again.

  He ignores the heart beating in his chest and asks why not.

  Why would I, she says, fingering beads she has accumulated. Been there done that.

  He blinks. Pulls off a silver mask. Maintains cool. He knows she resents her husband. Sees marriage as an unescapable trap. I dont read books written by men she once told him. She rarely speaks about her marriage but the conjureman always listening. Dude got oldschool ways. She had to wait till he left the country to sneaklearn how to drive. But Highjohn ain't much better. Always been the boss. Assume any woman he with to adjust herself to him. His work. His way. But to be with her he has had to adjust himself to her rhythms and it has been a revelation. He been thinking optimal scenario: Angel leaves husband Angel marries him they live happy ever after. But no. He will be dancing forever. Her husband has forgotten the steps and no longer hears the music. Most likely never did. De conjureman he open she armored heart with massive doses of unconditional affection.

  If I were to come with you, you won't always love me like this.

  There is nothing I would not do to keep you happy. Nothing I would not be.

  Both sincerity and intensity speak to her and they spend the night wrapped in the passionate moment. Lying face to face in a moment of acute satisfaction, he says, I am jealous of him. Of your husband.

  In a twenty-year marriage, she says, theres not a lot of sex left.

  Well that's good, he thinks, but not what he's jealous of. It's the rest he wants. I'm jealous of him snuggling up with you before you go to bed. Wiping your brow when you fevered. That burn you got taking that apple pie out of the oven. Hurried breakfast before rushing out to your jobs.

  I'm the only one rushing out. He takes a deep breath. Well he said, is he going to get a job. Or are you going to keep supporting him. No, he's not she said. I'm going to keep working. He pushes it. That's okay with you? No, it's not, she said, I want a chance, too. She turns her back to him and his fingers trace the knobs of her spine like a blind man finding his way. You aren't a gardener, she said, but it's like two plants and over the years their roots are twisted up together and one is suffering but if you try to break up the roots you might destroy them both.

  You deserve more than that, he finally gets out. Fucking pimp.

  She shifts, sits up. My husband is a good man. And you dont know him. You dont know what it is about him that keeps me with him. In his own way my husband is good to me.

  If he is that good to you, he thinks, you wouldn't be here with me. But what he says is I'm sorry. I knew what I was doing when I said it. I know you did she said and turns on the bedside lamp. Thats when she leaned over him. Asked what happens when the dream dies. Told him he had to leave.

  Cool. Since I have known her I have been braced to be fired. Okay baby, he said, New Year rising up wild around them. I will officially quit chasing you. This time I will make it stick. Can you, she asked. Can you quit.

  When he got back to Memphis he disappeared into the leafy sanctuary of the park.

  A letter finds him. Postmarked New Orleans. He sitting on the landing of steps that run up the side of house. There is a hurricane building in the Gulf and Memphis is braced for the fringe. It is the deep breath quiet before a delta storm and dont nothing move, not a leaf not a wind, and the world waiting still like a mountain's heart. He put he roots down he open he letter. She thinks they should just be friends. Says she doesn't think hes ready for a real commitment. Real life. Real world. Says she is not a real woman to him. Say she wont be no mans fancy. Says he has control issues. Too fond of headgames. And finally, she says, I am committed to somebody else and am unable to give you the love and attention you need. Can you, she asks. Can you really quit.

  Well. At least I'm a free man again. The old Highjohn that I know and love. Tired of being a beggar anyway. A fucking supplicant. I don't need her. I am free of her spell.

  Then the delta wind come moaning and around him trees bow low and sing homage. Windsong whistling in great gusts through the trees shift he roots ever so faintly and lift he dreads in a whipping halo. Branches brush against the walls of his aerie in aboral symphony, and the sky opens wide and the rains they come. Stormbringer raises his head to the cooling spray.

  Conjureman can't help but be amused. Thought he would bring so much magic down into her life she would never consider leaving him and instead brought the magic into his own. Called himself hoodooing and got hoodooed.

  He handle he roots, he begin he story. One that will make the world as he wants it to be. One in which he dreams come true and he soul be saved. One that would be rest for the weary.

  FROM Church Folk

  BY MICHELE ANDREA BOWEN

  After a week of emotionally charged revival preaching, Theophilus was too spent to race straight back to the arms—and the demands—of his Memphis congregation. He was tired and hungry, and he needed so
me time alone. So he was glad to see 32 West off of Highway 55, the exit for Charleston, Mississippi, where he knew of a place to stay, Neese's Boarding House for Negroes. He had also heard about a place there, Pompey's Rib Joint, which had the best rib tip sandwiches around—not to mention being known for hosting some of the best blues artists in the region.

  It was in Charleston, a tiny Delta town thirty minutes west of Oxford, that the Lord's second and most important life-changing miracle for Theophilus occurred. It was his second miracle, the one he prayed for deep in his heart, not even aware of how intensely God was listening to him and not aware that the Lord loved him so much—He really did know the exact number of hairs on his head.

  He drove to the “Smoky” section of the town and found the Negro boarding house. As he walked in, he took care not to let anyone sitting in the living room area catch a glimpse of his robe. His workday was over and he didn't want to have to explain if he happened to run into someone from the boarding house over at Pompey's. He felt a little twinge of guilt about going to Pompey's after preaching a revival, but he shrugged it off by telling himself that Pompey's was probably the best place he could go to have some peace. The last thing folks at Pompey's would be looking for was a preacher to tell their troubles to.

  His room was simple, immaculate, and comfortable. The high double bed looked inviting with its starched white linens, and yellow and white cotton patch quilt. There was a large gray, yellow, and white rag rug in the middle of the worn but freshly waxed beige linoleum floor, and crisp white cotton curtains at the one window facing the bed across the room. There were even fresh daisies in a plain white pitcher with a yellow satin ribbon tied around it sitting on an embroidered linen runner on the dresser.

  Theophilus put his things on the bed and unzipped his garment bag to get some fresh clothes. He had no intention of showing up at Pompey's in the navy chalk-striped suit, white shirt, and blue, black, and white tie he was now wearing. He selected a pair of silvery gray slacks and a pale gray silk knit sports shirt with silver buttons down the front, and matching pearl gray silk socks. He got his bathrobe, toiletry bag, fresh underwear, and left the room in search of towels and the bathroom so that he could take a quick bath and shave.

  Thirty minutes later, he pulled into a dirt parking lot across the road from Pompey's Rib Joint. The smell of succulent ribs and the light from the hot pink neon sign that blinked POMPEY'S RIB JOINT—BEST RIBS IN THE DELTA led a straight path in the black night to the old brick building sitting off to itself on the other side of the road. Inside, where there was a rough wood floor, light purple walls, and unfinished wood tables and chairs, was packed. As soon as he walked in, Theophilus saw that the only seats left were at the bar.

  He pressed his way over to the bar and put his hand on a stool just as a short, round woman wearing an orange print dress and holding a big white pocketbook on her arm was about to sit on it. He had begun to apologize when she spotted some friends and gave him the seat. Mouthing thanks, he squeezed through the narrow space and a thin, light-skinned man with freckles and a broad smile moved his stool to make more room for him. He lifted his shot glass in a neighborly fashion when Theophilus nodded a quick “thank you” and settled his large, muscular frame on the shaky barstool.

  He got more comfortable and started looking around the room, unintentionally making eye contact with two women who were dressed in identical lime green chiffon dresses. One of the women ran her tongue over the top of her lip and blew him a quick kiss when she was certain her man wasn't watching her. He nodded at her, taking great care not to get caught by her man. It was one of those no-win situations. If he ignored that red-bone woman with “good” hair, chances are she would get mad at him and say something about him man. If he were too friendly with her, then her man, a wiry fellow with a process and dressed in a red suit, would get insulted and probably be inclined to fight. And the one thing he knew about little wiry-built men was that they were easily insulted, mean, and carried a serious weapon.

  Theophilus was relieved when the waitress finally came to take his order, making it possible for him to have a decent reason to stop the eye contact with that woman and her friend. But it took him aback when she walked up to him and right into the space between his legs as she rubbed his knee and whispered in his ear, “What you think you be wantin' tonight, baby?”

  All he could do was smile at first. He was fully aware that he should know better than to respond to such outrageous flirtation. But the man in him, the part that loved getting attention from good-looking women, couldn't stand to let her get the best of him. He just had to give her back as good as he got. So Theophilus sat back on his stool and smiled, looking her up and down, admiring how good she looked with her sepia-colored skin in that skimpy black satin dress she was wearing. He stroked his chin and said, in a voice that sounded to her like midnight on a clear summer evening, “I don't need much, sweetheart. Just a tall glass of iced tea with a few sprigs of mint leaves and a rundown of what you have to eat. And make sure it is something succulent for a hungry man like me.”

  She grinned at Theophilus, moved closer to him and spoke into his ear, this time allowing her lips to brush the tip of his earlobe, sending a rush of warmth across his neck and shoulders.

  “We has a rib tip sandwich special tonight. And baby, them ribs so good till they will make you want to do something real bad and nasty, if you know what I mean.”

  Theophilus gave her a sultry smile to let her know that he knew exactly what she meant. Then he winked at her and said, “So, tell me, sweetheart. What's on this sandwich that makes it so good it'll make me want to do something nassty?”

  She felt a little quiver in her thighs and had to take a few deep breaths before she said, “Them tips is just good, baby. They soaked in hot, homemade barbecue sauce, with potato salad on top, and Wonder Bread.”

  He smiled at her again. “I'm gonna trust you and take one of those sandwiches. But, sweetheart, if the sauce is real hot, bring me some ice water along with my order. I think I'll need more than a glass of tea to cool me down with a sandwich like that.”

  She leaned on him one more time, a big smile spreading across her face. She inhaled the scent of his cologne some more before saying in the sexiest voice she could, “I'll bring your tea real fast and then go get your order settled.”

  Theophilus smiled to himself as he watched the waitress walk away, deliberately giving him an eyeful of her fat, fine behind just swinging and swaying all for him. He thought to himself, “Boy, get yourself together, carrying on like that. Just a few hours ago you were all down on your knees at church and glad to be there, too. Shame on you, Reverend Simmons.”

  The waitress brought his tea just as the band performing tonight, Big Johnnie Mae Carter and the Fabulous Revues, finished setting up on stage. The Fabulous Revues was a good-size band—bass player, lead guitarist, tenor saxophone player, trumpet player, pianist, and drummer. These men, who were anywhere from the ages of thirty to fifty, looked good in crisp black pants with razor-sharp creases, light-purple silk shirts, shiny black Stacy Adams shoes, and slick black straw hats cocked on the side of their heads. When everybody was in place, the drummer raised his drumsticks high in the air, brought them down hard on the first beat, and Pompey's Rib Joint got to jumping.

  Big Johnnie Mae Carter, a tall, husky, square-shaped woman with big breasts and a headful of coarse bleached-blond hair piled high on top, was in rare form tonight. Decked out in a long light-purple evening gown with slits up to the knee on each side and rhinestones glittering in her ears, she strutted her stuff to the funky Delta blues rhythms of her band, from the front door of Pompey's all the way up and on to the stage. Then she finally stepped up to the microphone, throwing back her shoulders and whipped out the words of the song:

  “If you was a bee baby, I'd turn myself into the sweetest flower.

  “And if you was the rain, Daddy, and me the Mississippi? I'd flood this old Delta 'cause I couldn't keep all of your swe
et lovin' all to myself.

  “And if you just happened to be the devil. Then, Lawd, Lawd, Lawdy, just help me please.

  “'Cause see, I'd be tryin' to up and sell my soul just to make sure you kept on lovin' up on me.

  “I said, Lawd, Lawd, Lawdy, Help, Help, Help me please.

  “'Cause I know I'd be doing so wrong just to keep you lovin' up on me.”

  Big Johnnie Mae looked like she was feeling that music from head to toe as she stretched out her arms, snapped her jeweled fingers, and moved her hips from side to side. As the lead guitarist stepped forward to pick out his solo, she shifted aside, still dancing, rolling her hips in a sinuous way, and finally shimmying on down to the stage floor. The guitarist looked down at Big Johnnie Mae and smiled. She, in turn, smiled back up at him, pulled that dress up to her knees and rolled her hips some more. All the other musicians stopped playing and just let the lead guitar, accompanied by Big Johnnie Mae's dancing, carry the song.

  Now Big Johnnie Mae began to weave her way back up, all the while crooning around the melody, stretching to her full height in front of the microphone. Then the band rose up behind her full and strong, as she reached for a note that sounded like it had started way down deep in the basement and came on upstairs to blow the roof off the joint.

  A man sitting only a couple of feet from the stage jumped up and shouted, “Damn, baby. You sho' 'nough is hot tonight! Lawd! What I wouldn't give to be that there micro-ro-phone you holdin' on to right now.”

  The freckle-facedman leaned over toward Theophilus and said, “Now, that Negro don't have no sense. 'Cause the way she was movin' down on that flo', any fool would know he need to turn hisself into some wood.”

  Theophilus could only smile at this observation and raise his tea. He stopped short of nodding his head in agreement. He wasn't so sure he wanted to “turn hisself into some wood.” because he wasn't so sure he was man enough to hold all of the woman that was Big Johnnie Mae Carter. Theophilus thought that perhaps he could be the sound system that carried her voice to the ears of her listeners. He sipped his tea and nodded his head at that thought. It would be nothing short of a religious experience to feel her voice coursing through his body and on out to the eager audience. He sipped on his tea some more, bobbing his head to the beat of the next song. The tea felt good, too—cooling him down at the same time that Big Johnnie Mae and the Fabulous Revues were warming up his soul and making him feel almost as good as he had felt at church.