by J. D. Horn
May had ordered the Beekeeper away. Commanded her never to return. But even though the creature had not shown herself since then, her power continued to flow, as unwanted as ever, through May. Hypocrite, May thought. A part of her was more than grateful the magic hadn’t just dried up. For one thing, she hadn’t managed to track down Maguire’s demon, and she was grateful she’d have more than her increasingly disregarded prayers to protect her babies. Maybe Jilo had managed to take it out, or maybe it was just playing possum until it was strong enough to strike again. Besides, she couldn’t deny she’d grown accustomed to the little luxuries that the “donations” she received for working the magic, which folk mistakenly believed to be Hoodoo, could buy. Perhaps it was too late for her. Maybe she’d sold her soul just like Maguire—only he was better at bargaining.
Maguire. Without missing a beat, that damned buckra had gone from praising Hitler as a great thinker and a noble man to mobilizing his many factories to join the war effort against the German leader. As best she could tell, Maguire had made money from the Jerries before the war by selling them things they were now using to kill our boys. And now he was making even more money by selling our military the things they needed to fight back. It was all a big circle. A snake feeding on itself, and growing fatter from the feeding. May had no doubt regarding where Maguire’s true allegiance lay in all of this bloodshed. His only loyalty was to himself. She held a complete record of his weasel words and deeds, at least those reported in the local paper, in the form of the clippings she still collected about him.
Maybe someday, after May had passed, Poppy would find the scrapbook, and these clippings and the notes May made on them would help her begin to understand what May had been up against. Help the girl find a bit of forgiveness in her heart for her old nana.
Poppy blamed May for ruining her relationship with Henry Cook. Henry. He’d up and enlisted before the war, probably as much out of desire to put some space between himself and Poppy as to serve his country. Whatever romance had blossomed between the two was now good and dead.
May remained angry as a hornet at Henry for his part in Maguire’s plan, but still she said a prayer for his safe return. He should’ve warned her about what she was walking into that night, but he wasn’t a bad boy. Would he and the other black servicemen be allowed to see Betty’s show if it passed through where he was stationed?
The colored soldiers here in Savannah weren’t allowed to share the whites’ facilities. Folk were taking up money to buy a space the black servicemen could use for their own recreation. Those collecting funds for the cause had even stooped to taking money from May. Polite society had no room for “witches.” People who used to tolerate her as the daughter of Mother Tuesday had drawn the line once she started working magic herself. Even the folk who’d come to her, pleading for her help, treated her like she was tainted when they caught sight of her outside the house. Magic had cost her Poppy and her reputation. May wondered what she might lose next.
Of course it seemed the man who’d forced her into this life couldn’t lose. A new thought struck her. Maybe that’s what she should do with this article about Betty. Just slip it into the same scrapbook where she kept the clippings about Maguire. Forget she’d ever received it.
She laid the article down on the table and walked away to boil up a bit of chicory. It was an absentminded move, which had become more common for her over the last few years. She turned her back to fill a saucepan with water, not even noticing Jilo had come into the room until she heard her say, “They’d let her borrow books from the main library.”
May looked back over her shoulder to find Jilo hunched over, her elbows on the table, examining the story without laying a hand on it. “What’s that, sweetheart?” May looked deep into the girl’s intelligent black eyes, grateful that Jilo’s own logical nature had, with some careful and repeated prodding, reenvisioned the demon’s attack as a bad dream. Even more grateful for the role Jilo’s nature had played in May’s efforts to convince the girl there really was no such thing as magic. May would gladly have her granddaughter believe her to be a shyster if it meant she’d never believe in, or be tempted by, magic. The cycle would be broken.
“Mama. She looks enough like a white woman, I bet they’d let her take books out of the main library.” May’s heart broke from the knowledge that Jilo dreamed of the day she could borrow books from the big library over on Bull Street.
“They got all the books there. Not like at Carnegie.” The Carnegie branch over on East Henry Street was the closest library where coloreds were allowed. Those weeks when Jilo was good, when she did her chores without fussing, May would see to it that the girl got to go, whether she walked Jilo there herself or paid one of the black taxi companies to drive her there and bring her home an hour later.
Well, okay. At least that resolved the problem of whether May should share the news article with Jilo. “Yeah,” May said, forcing a smile on her face. “They just might, at that.” She paused, searching Jilo’s face. “You remember your mama?”
“I remember when she came. When she brought Binah to us. But I’d forgotten what she looked like till I saw this.” Jilo’s eyes rose to meet May’s. “I thought she looked more like the doll she brought me. The one I lost.”
May felt her lips purse. That doll hadn’t been lost. May had found a way to bind Jilo’s ability to access magic to this doll, then buried it out in a part of town Jilo would never have need to visit, miles east in a grove cut through by Normandy Street. May set the sauce pot down and crossed the room to her granddaughter. “She’s a very pretty lady, your mama. Real good singer, too. See?” She placed a hand between Jilo’s shoulders and traced along the photo with the fingers of her other hand. “She’s going overseas to entertain the troops. Doing her part in the war effort. You should be real proud of her.”
“Binah wouldn’t know her,” came Jilo’s reply.
May circled around and sat in her chair. “Well, no, I reckon she wouldn’t . . .”
“But Binah looks a lot more like her than I do.”
May felt a bitterness rise up in her. “She’s done tried real hard to look more like Binah.”
“Binah gets her hair from Mama, doesn’t she?”
May failed to repress a chuckle. “No. Binah gets that from her daddy’s side. Your mama gets it from Mr. Nestle’s side.”
“Mr. Nestle? Who’s he?” Jilo’s innocent eyes made May regret the joke.
“Ah, Nana’s just joshing,” she said. “Nestle’s the fellow who sells the auburn henna your mama uses to change her hair’s color. Your mama’s real hair looks just like yours.” She patted Jilo’s hand. “Though you get the rest of your good looks from me.” She reached up and pinched Jilo’s cheek, provoking a laugh from the girl.
“She must be sad,” Jilo said after a moment, the smile falling from her face.
“Why do you say that?” May said, glancing down at the photo. To her eyes, Betty looked happier than she had any right to be.
“ ’Cause she’s pretending to be someone she’s not, and she’s got no one to love her. Not for who she really is, at least. She’s got no one else to be proud of her. That’s why she sent this to us. I don’t ever want to be like her. Making believe like I’m something I’m not.”
May felt her shoulders relax. “Ain’t no need you ever should.” She put her hand over the article and slid it toward her. “How about we put this away somewhere safe, till your sister is old enough to read it?”
Jilo nodded.
“That’s good. Real good.” May leaned back in her seat. “You go on and get your schoolwork done now. Nana’s gonna get supper started.”
BOOK TWO:
JILO
ONE
Atlanta, Georgia—April 1952
“Why does that man insist we get up at the goddamned crack of dawn?” Jilo pulled the pillow over her face to shield herself from the demanding brightness of the overhead light. Her mouth was dry, her tongue wooden, and a heada
che was forming behind her eyes.
“I don’t see what you’re complaining about,” Mary said, tearing the pillow away. She stood glaring down at Jilo’s bed, the merciless light’s halo giving her the appearance of a smug angel. “They used to make the girls who lived on campus get up at 4:30 a.m. every day to wash and iron their dresses. You’ve gotten to laze around until the sinful hour of six.” Jilo reached out for the pillow, but Mary snatched it away and tossed it over to her own bed. “And you better not let the pastor or Mrs. Jones hear you taking God’s name in vain. They’d kick you right out of this house, or at least take a switch to your backside.”
“They might kick me out,” Jilo mumbled as she closed her eyes, “but it will be a cold day in hell before that man lays a hand on me.” Still, she knew at least part of that statement was true. The pastor and his wife ran a tight and God-fearing household, and she lived under the constant threat of being sent packing. It was a delicate dance. Jilo hated it here. Nothing would make her happier than to leave. After all, there were other boarding houses near campus, nicer ones. And cheaper, too. But Nana worried about the effect the big city would have on Jilo’s moral comportment.
Three months before Jilo began classes, Nana had made the trip to Atlanta with her. Nana had given her the choice of either living here in Pastor Jones’s virgin vault or heading right back home to Savannah. It wasn’t really a choice at all.
Living under the pastor’s roof meant spending the greater part of every Sunday with your bottom stuck to one of the hard pews at Pastor Jones’s church. It also entailed rising every morning for devotional prayer and Bible study. Jilo had wanted none of that. After all, she couldn’t even remember the last time Nana herself had attended church. Pointing that out in a less than respectful tone had not gotten Jilo very far. Her nana knew how badly she wanted an education. Somehow, and she wasn’t quite sure how, Jilo had managed to survive nearly three years under the good reverend’s supervision.
“He isn’t my daddy. He’s just the landlord.” She could feel sleep, warm and delicious, calling to her. She tried to roll over and answer its bidding, but Mary caught her feet and spun them around and over the side of the bed.
“No,” Jilo protested, but Mary had already taken ahold of her hands and was pulling her up.
“You need to get up and get dressed. You cannot be late for morning devotional . . . again. Mrs. Jones will give you another demerit.”
Jilo had collected at least thirty of these demerits, when the official rule was that a girl would be kicked out after accumulating three. The pastor and his wife liked to make their threats, but they didn’t have the stomach to back them up. “Her damned demerits don’t mean a damned thing. Mrs. Jones can take her demerits and stick them up her—”
“You are lucky enough you didn’t get caught sneaking in at two a.m. We both are . . .” Mary’s voice fell off under the weight of worry. “I could get in trouble for covering for you. Or maybe,” Mary continued, her tone turning defiant, “I should just go down and tell Pastor and Mrs. Jones what you been up to. Sneaking out at night and going off to Auburn Avenue. Just what are you getting up to in that Kingfisher Club anyway? You meeting a man there, ain’t you? Is it him?”
Hell. She certainly was not going there to meet a man. Oh, sure, there were plenty of them buzzing around her, hoping to plant their little stingers, but a man was the last damned thing she needed. At least right now. A man would be fine someday, but she wasn’t going to let a pointed pair of trousers stand between her and what she wanted. The only man Jilo had room for in her life right now was her biology teacher and mentor, Professor Ward, the “him” of Mary’s inappropriate question.
The country had medical schools now that were graduating women. Black women. Professor Ward had promised her he’d do all he could to see that she was accepted into one of them. Professor Ward. She’d learned not to mention his name to Mary anymore, as Mary kept insisting Jilo was infatuated with him. But Mary didn’t understand. She was too old-fashioned to believe a man and a woman could share a purely intellectual connection, an appreciation for each other that lay beyond any physical attraction that might exist between them.
It was true that the professor was a handsome and fine-minded man, but their relationship was platonic, built on the mutual respect they shared. Besides, even if there had been a physical element to the attraction, the professor was a married man. Nothing would happen, could happen, between them. Still, he had warned her that she mustn’t speak too freely to others of the private discussions they shared; small minds might make something sordid out of their friendship.
It was absurd, really. Her interest in the professor was anything but romantic. The world was changing, and she was going to help it change. Other girls could waste whole trees of paper scrawling their names as Mrs. This or Mrs. That, but not her. When she sat dreaming, the name she scribed for her future self was Doctor. Dr. Jilo Wills.
Still, a body needed to have a little fun from time to time, so on occasion, Jilo sneaked out to the clubs on Auburn. Hardly a sin, and sure as hell not a crime.
She opened one eye, doing her best to remember how much she loved this girl yapping at her. “Mary Ellen Campbell. You know better than to say ‘ain’t.’ You are an educated woman. You need to speak like one.” Pulling her hands free of Mary’s grasp, she let her other eye pop open too, her vision still a little blurry from sleep. “And no, I don’t go there to meet any goddamned man. I go for the music.”
“There, at least you’re awake now,” Mary said, her eyebrows rising as a self-satisfied smile rose to her lips. “Now you better get moving.” She wagged her finger in Jilo’s face.
“You better pull that thing back unless you want to be left with a bloody stump.”
“Mmm,” Mary said, dropping her hand to her hip. “You sure are mean when you’re hung over. Maybe next time you sneak out, you should do a bit more dancing and a bit less drinking.”
Jilo wished she could see her own expression, because whatever came across her face was fierce enough to shut Mary up instantly. Her friend wandered over to the cracked mirror that hung on the wall, her back to Jilo, and began smoothing her hair. “I’m only trying to look out for you,” she said, an obvious quaver in her voice.
“Oh damn it,” Jilo whispered under her breath. She hadn’t even made it all the way out of bed, and she’d already hurt her best friend’s feelings. She pushed herself up. “Listen. I’m sorry.”
Mary spun back around. “You’re always pushing your luck. Trying to see how much you can get away with before you get caught.”
“I’ve been caught plenty of times.”
“Yes, and for some reason the rules don’t seem to apply to you,” Mary said, her voice heating back up, “the way they do for the rest of us.”
It was true. The other girls faced swift and certain repercussions when they stepped out of line, but that line did seem a little less straight and narrow when it came to Jilo. Though she wouldn’t say so out loud, she figured Nana must have cut a deal with the reverend. Seemed that the papists hadn’t completely cornered the market on the selling of indulgences.
Fat tears fell from Mary’s eyes, missing her cheeks entirely and dropping to the floor like rain through their leaky roof. “Sooner or later you are gonna go too far. And Pastor Jones is going to kick you out. And your nana, she’s gonna make you go home . . .” Her words petered out as her moist eyes widened. “And I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”
She eyed Mary up and down, testing her for sincerity, trying to determine if this was just another ploy to get her to do as she wanted. Jilo pursed her lips and looked down at the floor, doing her best to convey that she was not in the least little bit impressed by Mary’s histrionics. Still, it was the damnedest thing, but she could tell Mary really was worried.
“All right. All right.” Jilo threw up her hands. “I’ll get ready.” She went to the chest of drawers and took hold of the bucket where she kept her toiletries—her p
ermitted toiletries, that was. Her blue eye shadow and Venetian-red lipstick were hidden in the false bottom of a hatbox that she kept in the closet.
“I’ll make your bed for you,” Mary said, suddenly all sunshine.
Mary’s sudden transformation fired up the worst in Jilo. She said the one thing that was sure to get her friend going again. “The pastor has no business going on thinking he is morally superior to the rest of humanity anyway. None of this God stuff is true. There is no such thing as God.”
Mary’s mouth fell wide open, causing Jilo to chuckle at the sight.
“Oh, Jilo. Don’t you go saying that,” Mary said, once her jaw started working again. “I know you don’t believe any such thing. You are simply trying to get a rise out of me, but it ain’t gonna work.”
“It isn’t going to work,” Jilo said, correcting her friend’s speech automatically, out of habit.
“No it isn’t,” Mary said. It was easy to pin the exact moment when she realized Jilo hadn’t taken her point, and was just correcting her grammar again. “You don’t believe that. I know you don’t.”
Jilo wondered at her own mean streak. She had no reason to try and shake her friend up. No other reason beyond that it was too early, she was hung over, and, well, even under the best of circumstances, perkiness just kind of ticked her off.
“ ’Course not,” she said to mollify her friend. As soon as the smile returned to Mary’s face, Jilo looked away. She couldn’t risk having their eyes meet, for then Mary would know she was lying. Truth was, having grown up surrounded by her nana’s put-on magic, Jilo didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t see with her own eyes. Oh, sure, she couldn’t see things like magnetism, radio waves, and electricity, but there were scientific tests to prove that those things were real. That they existed. As far as Jilo knew, no one had managed to come up with a test that would prove the existence of the bearded old buckra in the sky.