by J. D. Horn
But this one here, he was hers. No one would ever take this boy away. She forced away thoughts of Guy, even though this child in her arms was the spitting image of him. Yes, Robinson looked like his father, but she was his mother. She’d be the one who would help determine what kind of man he became.
Rain hammered on the roof above, so loud it sounded like hail had entered the mix. Her eyes drifted up, settling on the eternal summer-sky blue her Nana had chosen for the room that had once been hers, and was now Jilo and Robinson’s. During Nana’s time, the walls had gone unadorned, giving the monochrome chamber a sense of expanse, making a body feel like she could be flying, or maybe falling, depending on the longings or fears in her heart.
Jilo had chosen to break this illusion by hanging photos along the wall, each spaced an equal distance apart: one of her father; one of a much younger, and oh, so pretty, Nana; one from Opal and Nate, showing their ever-expanding family; and a recent one of Poppy and her new husband, Isaiah Davis. Shame Nana hadn’t lived long enough to hear the news—for Jilo knew Nana would have been thrilled. In spite of the rupture between the two stubborn women, Nana had always hovered over Jilo’s shoulder whenever a letter from Poppy came, eager to read her news.
They’d all pretty much given up on Poppy ever finding herself a man. She was a pretty, tiny, little thing, so she had never lacked for suitors, but she’d put off marrying, focusing instead on the garment business she’d built up all on her own. As of her last letter, Poppy employed a dozen other women up in Charlotte.
It struck Jilo that she was the last of the Wills girls; Poppy was now Mrs. Davis, and Opal had long since taken the name of Mrs. Lofton. Certainly, Binah, too, shared the Wills name, but it was a secret to no one, especially Binah herself, that this name was a mere matter of convenience. After Nana’s passing, the two sisters had even managed to laugh about it. “Mama must’ve kept her legs closed real tight to hold on to me so long,” Binah had joked, once Nana was no longer there to get angry over such talk. Jilo knew that in Nana’s mind, Nana was every bit as much Binah’s grandmother as she was the other three’s. That meant Jesse Wills was Binah’s father, mathematics and biology be damned.
Jilo found herself staring at the photo of Nana’s sweet, young face. Oh, how she missed her nana.
Though May Wills had always been an old woman in her eyes, she’d come to believe, as irrational as the thought may have been, that her nana was somehow eternal, that each wispy gray hair on the woman’s head was a testament to her ability to withstand anything, even time.
Jilo felt her eyes tearing up, so she looked away, and her gaze was once again caught by the turquoise-blue of the walls, ceiling, and floor. Even faded, it was the color of the heavens. A memento of a July sky on this darkening winter day.
The thought of summer used to bring her happiness, but as she sat on her nana’s old bed, rocking to the rhythm of Robinson’s nursing, she wondered how they’d manage to hold on until summer. If Jilo had the slightest idea of how to sew, she’d call Poppy to see if her sister might take her on at her factory. But Jilo couldn’t even thread a needle. And Poppy had been so distant over the years, staying up in Charlotte, always finding one reason or another not to come back to Savannah, even for a short visit. She’d written a lovely letter after Nana’s passing, but she still hadn’t bothered to come down for the funeral, even though Opal had made it all the way from West Texas, where Nate was now stationed.
Jilo had often wondered what had happened between Nana and Poppy the last time she’d come around to visit. It had been back before the war, fourteen or so years ago now. Maybe Jilo should call and ask Poppy to come home for a visit.
Then again, what would they do if she accepted? Once Poppy arrived and saw how close to the bone they were cutting things, she would be bound to view the invitation as a petition of charity. Jilo did not want charity from anyone, especially family, but she knew she was going to have to come up with a way to earn a living quick. She and Binah had torn the house apart to look for stashes of cash Nana might have left behind. Her nana’s closet yielded no cash, just her clothes, a few hats, and—much to Jilo’s surprise—her old doll, the red-haired one that had gone missing years earlier. The doll’s pretty face had been smashed, though whether by accident or design, Jilo would never know. For years she had thought it was lost forever, but now it seemed as if Nana had kept it stashed in her closet all along. Perhaps out of guilt for having caused the damage, certainly with the intent of having it repaired. The doll was clean, but its dress carried a musty scent, almost like it had been buried in earth.
They did uncover forty-two dollars in a mason jar, in the pantry, shoved in behind a row of bread-and-butter pickles, but that was about the only windfall they’d discovered. The search also unearthed a scrapbook beneath Nana’s mattress, filled with clippings and notes made in her nana’s hand about a family by the name of Maguire. Jilo had barely even scanned its contents; she was looking for cash, and the clippings seemed worthless. Still the scrapbook held some value to her nana, so rather than toss it, she put it on the closet’s top shelf, next to her father’s old cigar treasure box containing the cock feather. Neither was going to put food on the table.
The rain made another assault on the roof, coming down so hard that it sounded like a frantic banging of a lost soul seeking refuge. An angry flash of lightning, unexpected from a storm on a day nearly cold enough to snow, lit up her window, just before the electric light of the lamp on her nightstand flickered. The wind picked up, giving the old house a couple of good shakes. The closet door creaked slowly open. A trick of the flickering light made her, for the shortest of moments, think she saw the fingers of a lace-gloved hand reach around the closet door. An involuntary yelp escaped her, causing Robinson to pull back and look up at her, his tiny eyes widening in surprise, his face quivering, trying to decide if he should cry. Jilo blinked, and the illusion was gone. She patted Robinson’s back and turned him so that he could feed from her right breast.
An easily distinguishable chain of natural events, but the illusion still sent a cold bead of sweat down between her shoulder blades. She made herself chuckle at her own nerves, but she still held Robinson in a tighter grip. A rap on her door made her jump.
The doorknob jiggled, and the door began to open before she could invite her visitor in. “Jilo,” Binah called in a hushed voice through the enlarging crack. “There’s some white woman out front, banging on the door.” For a moment Jilo had a sense of déjà vu—an old memory very nearly surfaced before slipping back beneath the waves of the past.
“Well, go see what she wants,” Jilo said, her tone meant to convey that this was the obvious action. She tugged Robinson off her tit and settled him down next to her on the bed. He began to fuss. “Shh. Shh,” she repeated, trying to comfort him as she tugged her nursing bra—a gift from Poppy—into place, and pulled the top of her dress back up.
“I don’t want to. You come with me,” Binah said, casting a nervous glance back over her shoulder as a more insistent knocking sounded on the door.
Jilo quickly hooked the buttons of her dress through their loops. “She’s probably had trouble with her car. Maybe an accident out there in the storm.” After placing a cloth over her shoulder, she hefted up her growing boy and rubbed gently between his tiny shoulders. “She may be hurt,” Jilo said in a firm tone, hoping to spur her sister into action, but Binah just stood there shaking her head.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, girl. How much trouble do you think one woman, even a white one, is gonna cause you?” The baby gave out a loud and liquid burp. Rising to her feet, Jilo wadded up the cloth with one hand and handed it to Binah. “Here, you might as well be of some use around here.”
Another series of loud bangs sounded on the front door. “Yes, ma’am,” she called out. “I hear you. I’m coming.”
Jilo padded down the hall and through the front room, then thought twice before opening the door. She turned back to find Binah creeping along at
her heels. She held the baby out to her. “Take Robinson to your room. I’ll see what the lady wants.” Jilo was amazed by her sister’s trepidation at meeting the strange woman. Binah snatched the baby from her and took off like a shot. Another knock wrested Jilo’s attention back to the door.
Jilo switched on the porch light, then opened the door just enough to get a good look at the woman—and to make certain that she was alone. The woman was older than Jilo. Certainly thirty, probably forty. She was well dressed, in a gray box jacket suit with trim in a darker shade of gray. A red pillbox hat topped with a pearl stickpin and a black birdcage veil. Her lips were painted a red that mirrored the shade of her hat. She stood there drenched and trembling in the cold, mascara running down her cheeks. But still she held her chin high, looking down at Jilo over the bridge of her nose. Her eyebrows were raised as if in expectation that Jilo would pay her obeisance. As Jilo took her in, it struck her to see how such vulnerability could be paired with such a look of haughtiness.
“May I help you?” Jilo asked, adding as an afterthought, “Ma’am?”
“I need to speak to the old Negress,” she said, yanking on the screeching screen door with such vehemence, Jilo feared this cry might be its last. “Oh, do let me pass,” she said, pushing past Jilo, her tone impatient and irritated.
Jilo faced the intruder, amazed to see this buckra woman standing there before her, steam starting to rise up from her damp garments.
“Well, where is she? The woman”—she seemed to be searching her memory—“May. Yes, Mother May. She helped me before. Years ago now. I need her help again. I went to the cemetery three days in a row now, and she hasn’t shown up like usual. I know this is where she lives.”
“She did live here, ma’am . . .”
“Did?” the woman interrupted her.
“Yes, my grandmother passed some months back.”
The visitor’s face hardened. “This is very inconvenient. I am in great need of her services.”
Jilo had to swallow back a laugh. “I apologize for the inconvenience my grandmother’s death has caused you,” she said, a good dose of sarcasm creeping into her words, though she had done her best to modulate her tone.
The woman didn’t seem to notice. Instead, her gaze narrowed on Jilo. “Wait, you say she was your grandmother?”
Jilo nodded. “Yes, ma’am, she was indeed.”
“Then you can help me, can’t you?” The woman grasped Jilo’s forearms in her small, pale hands, made to look even paler by the scarlet nail polish she wore. “That’s how it works with your kind and this Negro magic isn’t it? It gets passed on through the blood. Right?” The woman shook Jilo’s arms, tugging hard enough to make Jilo take a step closer. “You can help me.” The words sounded more like a statement of fact than a question.
Jilo smiled and began shaking her head. “No, ma’am, I can’t . . .”
“I’ll pay you.” To Jilo’s surprise, the woman fell to her knees sobbing, pressing Jilo’s hand to her tearstained cheek before pulling back to kiss it.
Jilo jerked her hand free. “I don’t know,” she said, the wheels in her mind spinning fast. “The work is dangerous. And I’m not as practiced at it as my grandmother was.”
“I will pay you well.”
Jilo took a couple of steps back and placed her hands on her hips, giving the fine lady the very same stink eye she’d given Binah only minutes before. “You tell me what Nana—I mean, Mother May—did for you, and I’ll see if I can help. No promises, though. And it’s cash up front.”
The woman’s hand flew up to her breast and she froze in place, suddenly, it seemed, cognizant of her humble position. “There’s a woman. An ungodly and lascivious woman. A rival for my husband’s affections.” She rose, turning her back to Jilo, undid a button on her suit, and tugged a stash of bills from her brassiere. “Again. Last time, she tried to turn my husband’s affections from me. This time, she’s determined to take my life so that she can have him. She’s put a fix on me.” She carefully peeled off two five-dollar bills, which she held out to Jilo. “I need you to remove it.” Jilo stepped forward, amazed at her own temerity, and took the rest of the bills from the woman’s other hand, leaving the woman clutching the two fives.
“But that’s so much more than your grandmother would have ever charged,” the woman protested.
Jilo tilted her head and rested her left hand on her hip. “My grandmother’s just a bit up the road at Laurel Grove. You think you can get a better deal from her, you’re more than welcome to try.” She wanted to sound confident, and to her own ears she did, but she held that wad of cash in a death grip.
The woman relented, lowering her head. “All right. But this had better work.”
Jilo stuffed the bills into her own bra. “Like I told you, there are no guarantees. Don’t try my patience. The spirits,” she said, stretching the word out, giving it a sense of fearsomeness, “are taxing enough.” She secured another button on her dress, just to help make the money harder for the woman to retrieve. Jilo would never have treated a buckra woman with such audacity outside her home, but this woman seemed torn between her belief in her own superiority and her fear of Jilo’s mysterious Negro powers. It was as clear as water that the story of what happened here tonight would never be shared with a single soul. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to threaten the buckra with unpleasant repercussions if she were to speak of the secrets she saw here.
“Come through to the kitchen. We can talk better in there.”
She rapped on Binah’s door as she passed by. “Get on out here,” she commanded. “We’re calling on the spirits.” Binah opened the door a crack, her eyes wide and brows arched in a mixture of worry and confusion. Jilo gave her a wink. “The missus here has paid us to approach the spirits on her behalf.”
Binah’s face froze in disbelief, but she quickly recovered. She opened the door fully. “Then I should bring the baby, too. His innocence will protect us from any unclean ones.”
Jilo smiled and nodded. “You are a wise child.”
After leading the way to the kitchen, Jilo pulled a chair—one that faced away from the pantry—back from the table. “Sit here,” she said. The woman stepped into the kitchen, looking around it with wide eyes, filled with a mixture of expectation and fear, as if she might bolt at any moment. Jilo stepped back, giving the woman a clear and unhindered path to the seat. There was a moment’s hesitation, but the woman made the decision to do as she was told. She slid the seat an inch or so farther back from where Jilo had left it, then sat down, tugging on the hem of her skirt as she did.
Jilo decided to move slowly. She wanted the woman spooked, but not spooked enough to flee without feeling she’d gotten her money’s worth. Even if the woman never spoke of this night to a soul, a poor outcome could still lead to some very unpleasant repercussions for Jilo herself. A rich buckra like this could find other ways to strike back.
The woman looked around, taking in the exotic setting in which she’d found herself. “Should we dim the lights? Light some candles?”
“No,” Binah said, entering the room with Robinson in her arms. “Dim lights, dark spirits,” she said. Though she managed not to laugh, there was a twinkle in her eye.
“She’s right,” Jilo said. “The good spirits aren’t afraid of the light.” She nodded at the table, signaling for Binah to join their guest. “But they will only come to us if we provide them with an offering.” She paused. “I’ll only be a moment.”
She took her time crossing to the pantry, but once inside, she attacked the shelves, searching for ingredients she remembered from her first days of her Chemistry I class. On the lower shelf, not far from the front, sat the yellow box that held powdered sugar. The sugar was left over from frosting Nana had made for the cake she baked for Cousin Barney’s funeral, only a couple of months before her own. Jilo shook the box, disappointed that it felt so light, but relief swept over her when she opened it. There were about six teaspoons of the powder left, which s
hould be plenty for her needs.
One shelf up sat another box, also yellow, but with a blue circle circumscribing a hand wielding a hammer. Baking soda. Plenty heavy, nearly a full box.
“Don’t let me down, now, Nana,” Jilo mumbled under her breath. On the top shelf should be a bottle that Nana had forbidden the girls ever to touch. She went up on her tiptoes, her heart falling when she didn’t see the bottle of clear rum she would certainly have sampled if she hadn’t forgotten it until now. She strained, stretching up even farther, and ran her hand along the shelf. There. She nearly cheered as her fingertips found the round glass container. She grasped the body of the bottle, sliding it forward a few inches, and then snatched it by the neck.
After tucking the two boxes under her arms and grasping the bottle, she left the pantry and crossed to the table, assuming an air of solemnity as she placed the ingredients on the table before the woman, whose expression showed marks of skepticism as she stared at the elements of Jilo’s purported offering to the spirits.
Jilo acted quickly to circumvent any questions. “A simple offering for pure spirits. The dark ones, they demand blood,” she drawled out the last word, then flashed a sharp look at Binah, hoping her little sister wouldn’t forget herself and laugh.
But there was no need for worry; her sister proved quite the worthy actress. “No blood, Lord. No blood,” she said, shaking her head as she clutched Robinson close. “Don’t want any evil ones coming in here to lap it up.”
Her manufactured fear served to engender true terror in their visitor. “No,” the woman echoed Binah. “I don’t want to enlist any dark spirits . . .” She hesitated. “Unless it proves absolutely necessary.”
“Won’t be necessary,” Jilo said in a steady, reassuring tone. “We’re taking the fix off you. That’s white magic. Good magic. The dark spirits can’t help us with that.” She turned away and grabbed a spoon, a small mixing bowl, and a thick ceramic meat plate, arranging them next to the boxes and rum bottle. Then she lifted the rum bottle and unscrewed the lid. After pausing to nod at their guest, she lifted the rum to her lips and knocked back a shot. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Helps me get in tune with the spirits.” A shot’s worth of rum went into the bowl, too, and then she set the bottle aside. “The fiery water that separates our world from that of the spirits.” She grabbed the spoon and measured out four rounded spoonfuls of the sugar into the rum. “To remind them of the sweetness of the lives they led here on earth. Makes sure we only attract the happy, helpful spirits. Not the angry ones.” She set the nearly empty sugar box aside and clutched the baking soda. “To assure we get only the purest of spirits.” She added one rounded teaspoon of the soda to the bowl and stirred the mixture into a thick paste, which she then scooped into a ball and dropped on to the meat platter.