by J. D. Horn
“From your brother,” Jilo said, and Ginny nodded.
“Edwin, he’s fascinated by her. Infatuated with her. He won’t intend to, but he will take her and destroy the light that’s in her. You can’t let him.”
Jilo grasped Ginny’s hand tighter. “Can’t you do anything to discourage him?”
Ginny shook her head. “Not my brother. Once he’s set his heart on possessing . . .” She paused. “And yes, it shames me, but that is the right word, he won’t give up. What I can do is try to find someone shinier, someone less innocent, to draw away his attention. But it’s up to you to show your sister that a man like Edwin is not the man for her. That’s not the only reason I’m here, though. Your sister, she isn’t my main concern. You are.”
Jilo shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” Ginny said, looking her up and down. “I felt you draw on my power.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I felt you access my magic.”
“Your magic . . . ?” Jilo said, flabbergasted. A wave of panic washed over her as a memory began to surface. The sight of Poppy, hunched over, her eyes red as hell’s most precious rubies, murderous. Jilo herself rising. Lifting off the ground. She pressed her hands to her temples, refusing to let the memory claim its rightful place in her personal history. “You’ve had too much to drink. You need to get on home now.” She moved to shut the door, but Ginny held up her hand. Visible ripples, like heat coming from hot asphalt, shimmered off it. The woman didn’t lay a finger on the door, but it felt like a strong man was pushing it open. Jilo slid back into the room as the weight of the door pressed into her.
“Stealing magic comes with a price,” Ginny said. “I don’t know how you managed it.” She stopped, seeming to search Jilo’s eyes. It was the oddest sensation she’d ever experienced, but for a moment, Jilo felt something akin to a tickle inside her mind. She shook her head, trying to put an end to the prickling. “Maybe you don’t either,” Ginny said, “but somehow you did, and it’s a dangerous game to be playing.”
“I’m not playing any games.” Jilo’s unease flared into anger.
“No, perhaps you aren’t, but we need to examine what happened tonight. If the wrong people learn of your abilities, if they learn this ‘Mother Jilo’ character you’ve created has real juice behind her, you’ll find yourself in over your head in no time.”
“I want you to leave.” Jilo put all her weight into the door, but it still wouldn’t budge.
“Of course,” Ginny said. Jilo was surprised to recognize a look of hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ve handled this badly. I was just so taken aback.” She lowered her hand. “I do still hope we can be friends.”
Jilo laughed. “I don’t see how that can possibly happen.” She slammed the door shut, the bang reverberating through the house. In her room, Robinson began to wail.
SEVEN
November 16, 1957
My dearest Jilo,
By the time you read this, Edwin and I will be gone. I wish I could have found the courage to speak my heart to you face-to-face, but I was afraid you’d try to stop us. I love him more than I could have ever believed possible. And he loves me, too. He swears his feelings are even stronger, but I cannot conceive how any heart could be fuller than my own.
Edwin isn’t the man you think he is. He really isn’t. He regrets how he treated Willy. And he regrets that he ever came between you and Guy even more. He hopes that without his being a distraction, Guy will get back to painting. Please tell Willy that Edwin is sorry for everything.
Edwin says that in Paris it will be possible for us to marry. To live as man and wife. That’s what he wants of me, to be his wife, and I can’t imagine living life without him.
Of course, Edwin’s parents would never approve of our marriage. He’s turning his back on them so that we can be together. I know, my sweet sister, that you, too, will not approve, at least not at first, not because you feel it is wrong for us to be together, but because you fear I might be hurt. I hope seeing how far Edwin is willing to go to make me his wife will convince you that he will never, ever hurt me. I hope that you will someday see that Edwin and I were meant to be united as husband and wife, and grant us your blessing.
I will write again, once we are settled, and let you know how to reach me, should you wish to write. I do hope you will, and that you know how much I love and will miss you.
Your sister,
Binah
January 8, 1958
My sweet Binah,
I received your letter from Paris this morning. I have read your words now several times over, and have done my best to understand what you have done.
Know that I, too, love you. I hate that you’re so far away, that I can no longer see your beautiful, shining face each morning. It pains me deeply that you felt you had no choice but to leave home without saying good-bye. I would have so dearly loved to hold you once more, to wish you well. But maybe you were right after all. If you had given me that chance, I might never have let you go.
Edwin is not the man I would have chosen for you, but then again, we both know I’m not that skilled when it comes to picking men. We Wills girls always listen to our hearts. I hope yours has served you better than mine appears to have done me. Still, we have made the choices we needed to make, and with those choices we must live.
If Edwin brings you happiness, if he watches over you and cherishes you the way you deserve to be cherished, then I give my blessing and my love to both of you.
Just imagine, my baby sister in Paris! Yes, my Binah is in Paris, but you’ll always be in my heart. Please write often, and share your life there with me.
With all my love,
Your Jilo
EIGHT
April 1958
Jilo had hoped she could help Guy get back on an even keel, once he was out from under Edwin’s influence, but the opposite had proven true. Edwin’s departure had signaled Guy’s collapse. Guy took to bed for days after Edwin and Binah ran off together, just lying there as still as the dead, refusing to speak, facing the wall, like he’d lost his life, a limb, or a love. It was a relief when he rose and returned to drinking. At least for a few days, it was.
Now he sat in her nana’s old chair, his “throne,” he’d come to call it. Red-eyed and simmering, the king was waiting for any excuse, any perceived slight to use as an excuse for another bender. Only two days ago, he’d come back from one that had begun three days before that. He’d stumbled in stinking of whiskey and another woman. Ignoring both scents, Jilo had covered him with a light blanket and left him to sleep himself sober.
Watching now from the corner of her eye, she wondered again, “What is wrong with me?” She loved this man. Loved him. Shouldn’t a good woman’s devotion be enough? Still she couldn’t manage to pull him out of the ditch where he seemed determined to lie. Maybe she wasn’t good enough. Maybe she wasn’t woman enough. Because she sure seemed to lack the ability to help Guy become a better man.
The sofa stuck out farther into the room than in the past; the canvasses Guy had purchased when he first came around remained propped up behind it, blank. The tubes of oil paint remained unopened, buried at the back of their tiny shared closet, in an old tackle box he’d adapted to hold them. “Maybe later, you could set up your easel, paint me like you used to do back in Atlanta,” she said, thinking that her participation might again inspire him. Or New York, she thought, fearing that only in some state of perfected absentia could she still act as his muse. Perhaps not even then.
“No,” Guy said, kicking out his feet, reclining deeper into the chair. “I’m not up for it right now. I’m having a dry spell. Just need to rest a bit. Need to recharge. Besides, the light’s all wrong in here.” The light was plenty clear for her to see the truth. He didn’t need any more rest. And he sure didn’t need any more drink. A day or two of honest work would be plenty to put an end to this dry spell of his.
She sat
on the sofa, placing her hands on her lap, preparing herself to walk through a minefield. “You know, I heard they’re hiring over at that new hotel they built where the Pinnacle burned down.”
“Naw, I don’t want you leaving Robinson with that . . .”
“No,” she stopped him before he could insult poor Willy once more. “I didn’t mean me, Guy. I was just thinking that it might do you good to get out of the house a bit until you feel up to painting again. Have something to occupy your time . . .”
He pressed his fingers against his temples, and looked at her through slitted eyes, his jaw jutting forward into a snarl. “Nothing would make you happier, now would it? You’d love to see me out there, nothing but a common laborer. You don’t understand my work,” he said, laying the needle back on a record he’d played a thousand times. “You’ve never appreciated my work.”
“That’s not true,” she began to protest. But just then Robinson came tearing into the room, all dressed up in his new Easter outfit.
“What the hell is all this then?” Guy said, dropping his hands from his temples and gawking at their son. “Where’d you find the money for that getup?”
Same place I find all the money around here. Mother Jilo, she earned it, Jilo thought, then pushed the notion away before it had time to register on her face, where Guy might see it lurking deep in her eyes.
“You come here and let Mama get a good look at you.” Jilo knelt before Robinson, placing her hands on his tiny shoulders. He looked for all the world like a little man, dressed up as he was in his new black suit and red tie. “You are the handsomest young man your mama has ever laid eyes on, you know that?” Robinson nodded yes, and Jilo laughed and tugged him into a tight embrace.
“Why do you got him dressed up like that?”
“It’s Easter.” The words came out almost like a defense, or maybe even an apology.
“You taking him to church?” His expression changed in an instant, and the look on his face was wide-eyed and smirking now, as if he would’ve been less surprised to hear she was planning to send Robinson to the moon. “Mother Jilo, she don’t go to no church,” he said, mimicking her in her professional guise, “won’t do to have them good Christian folk see Mother here poking around. Might scare them near to death.” He tilted his head to the side, dropping his imitation, and continued, “Or maybe Mother Jilo’s the one who’s afraid. Afraid the church is gonna fall on her if she tries to step in.”
Jilo knew he was only joking, but his words still made her cringe; there was a patina of truth to them. Before the Taylors, before she’d learned that magic might be real, it had all felt like playacting. A bit deceitful perhaps, but not dirty, not damning. She had come to know she’d been wrong about magic. She had to wonder if she could be wrong about other things as well. “More like sending him,” she said, “but yes. Willy’s going to take him into town.”
“Well, I don’t know how I feel about that. I don’t like having that pansy hanging around here, and I sure don’t like my boy spending time with him. Not one little bit,” Guy said, then, “Get over here, boy. Let me see what your mama has put you in.”
Robinson hesitated, but Jilo gave him a gentle nudge. “Go on, let Daddy see how nice you look.” She tried to sound confident. Reassuring. “They aren’t going alone,” she said, this time addressing Guy. “Mr. Poole, that nice fellow from the new church over on West Broad, he’s coming to pick them up. Any moment now.”
“That fool Tinker?” Guy asked, never taking his eyes off Robinson.
“He’s a good man, Guy,” Jilo said, an odd flutter in her heart as the truth of what she said hit her. Everybody around knew they weren’t churchgoing people, but two weeks back Tinker had sent one of his employees by with a note for her, asking if she’d agree to let him take her boys to services for the holiday. She couldn’t find the heart to turn him down. “He’s no fool. Just kind.” Jilo stood and smoothed down her dress, trying to make the movement seem natural, unhurried, but still wanting to be ready to put herself between Guy and their son if need be. It only amounted to horseplay, what she’d witnessed so far, but Guy had started getting a little too rough with Robinson. Guy said it’d toughen the boy up, but Jilo had drawn a line, and she, by God, was going to see to it that Guy stayed on the safe side of it.
Guy leaned forward, turning Robinson in a circle, then flopped back against the chair. “Done been Easter three times since he was born. You’ve never worried about getting him religion before. At least not since I’ve been around.”
“This is the first year he’s old enough to understand. To remember.” Jilo stepped forward and took Robinson’s hand, pulling them both beyond striking distance. “I just want him to learn a bit of what’s decent,” she said. He’s seen enough of our kind of living. These last words went unspoken.
Robinson began tugging on her hand, trying to get her attention. When she looked down, he held up his arms to her. “Naw, baby, you’re getting too big for Mama to carry around.” He wasn’t. Not yet. Not really. But that’s what Guy had decided. He didn’t want her coddling Robinson. Turning him soft. “And I don’t want to wrinkle your nice suit.”
She looked out the door at Willy, dressed very much the same as Robinson, hovering near the end of the hall, doing his best to remain out of Guy’s line of sight. The older boy looked handsome, too, but it seemed odd to see him done up in a coat and tie. Like he was some kind of actor in costume, preparing to play a role for which he was ill-suited. With a nod, she signaled Willy to turn back and head to the kitchen. She looked at Guy. “I’m going to take him to the kitchen for a glass of milk before Mr. Poole arrives for the boys.” Guy didn’t seem to care. He didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair.
Robinson began jabbering about one thing or another, so she led him quickly down the hall before he managed to irritate his father. The second they were far enough for Guy not to witness the act, she swept her boy into her arms.
“You’re gonna be a good boy today for Uncle Tinker aren’t you?” she asked.
Robinson clasped his hands together and nodded, a big smile on his face. “I like Tinker.” Jilo knew Tinker was in the habit of treating the boys to candy or ice cream whenever he saw them together on West Broad Street, a habit that encouraged Willy to walk Robinson by Tinker’s business more often than he otherwise would.
A part of her felt she should set a clear boundary with Tinker, but she wanted both boys to see that there were kind, decent men out there. For Robinson to emulate, and Willy, well, she was beyond lying to herself anymore about that one, for Willy to love. She didn’t want either of them to leave her home thinking all men were like the ones she’d brought into their lives. Besides, treats had grown scarce around here now that she was supporting Guy’s habits—and those of his friends—with Mother Jilo’s earnings. And all this without a proper place to meet folk, now that she could no longer welcome them into the privacy of the haint-blue room. Deciding it was better to keep work and family apart, she’d followed in her nana’s footsteps, meeting folk in Colonial Cemetery rather than at home. She’d begun to understand what would have led her nana to setting up shop there toward the end of her life. She got fewer clients than she did before, but those willing to meet right where God and all the world could see tended also to be willing to pay a heck of a lot more for her services.
Yes, Mother Jilo earned plenty for the family. Plenty more than they should’ve needed. But Guy drank away a lot of it. And he spent a lot of it “entertaining.” She wondered how much of Mother Jilo’s hard-earned cash went up Guy’s nose, or into some whore’s veins.
“I like Tinker,” her boy repeated himself when she didn’t respond. Robinson was getting to be old enough that they could hold real conversations. Jilo felt proud to see him growing, but it worried her that he’d be able to pick up on the sharp words that passed between his father’s lips.
“I like him, too,” she said, whisking him into the kitchen. �
�But you need to show respect to your elders. You should call him Mr. Poole.”
“And that goes for you, too,” she said to Willy as she entered the kitchen.
Willy stood leaning against the counter, his neck craned toward the window, searching, Jilo surmised, for the first sign of Tinker’s arrival. “But,” Willy said, “he told us we should call him Tinker.”
“Mr. Poole is a kind and generous man. He may have said to call him Tinker, but I don’t care. You call him Mr. Poole.”
She pulled out a chair from the table and deposited Robinson into it. She took the pitcher of milk from the refrigerator and crossed to the cupboard to find a glass. “You want some?” she asked Willy, but he didn’t answer, even though she could feel the weight of his eyes on her. She turned back to see his lips all puckered tight like he’d tasted something sour. “And just what’s wrong with you? We made a deal, you wear that suit to church today, and I’ll . . .”
“How come you do it?” he said, his voice coming out hushed, his eyes darting toward the hallway.
“How come I do what?” She made her way to the table and began filling the single glass for her son.
“How come you let that man stay on here?” Willy’s words caused her to stop cold and set the pitcher down. “How come you let him treat us like he does?” His voice grew louder, almost like his courage was growing with each word spoken. “You ain’t stupid. You must know by now you can’t change him.” She raised her hands, a signal for Willy to keep quiet lest Guy overhear what he was saying, but the boy wouldn’t be hushed. “I don’t care if he hears me,” Willy said, standing tall. “I ain’t afraid of him. You shouldn’t be either,” he said, though his gaze was fixed on the kitchen’s entrance, telling her that his words were only so much bravado. “Not if there are two of us and only one of him,” he quickly added. “We can make him leave. We can go back to like it was before. Back when it was good.”