Cripes! What am I supposed to do with this stuff? Why did I take the bag from her? Why did I bring it home with me? Wasn’t the whole point of going to the shop in the first place to get rid of that stupid Voodoo doll? I must be out of my freakin’ mind!
It was too big to hide in the laptop case; I wrapped a blanket around the bag and stuffed everything into the armoire. I hoped it would be enough to keep the bag away from Kate’s prying eyes if she snooped around in my things, as I had with hers.
I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face. I’d need to shower again before bed. Doesn’t the heat and humidity ever let up? God, I hate this place. I was sweating like a pig. Do pigs sweat? I had no idea. Drained and fighting a sugar headache, I went down to the kitchen for something cold to drink.
Kate’s note was still on the refrigerator. I’d completely forgotten about the food she fixed. I was starving. Having had only cookies and beignets since breakfast, I now craved protein and salt. Opening the fridge, I was unsurprised to see it well stocked and organized. At least I would eat well if I had to live here. I loaded up a plate, grabbed a bottle of chilled water, and carried a tray out to the glass-topped wicker table on the front porch. I turned on the carriage lights and the ceiling fans, settled myself on one of the rockers, and watched the tourists hurry past. Bright, jagged lightning split the sky in the distance, thunder rumbled soon after, the trees swayed as the wind picked up; another storm was rolling in. Perfect, just perfect.
Numb from my day, I began to eat. The food was fabulous, but I had a hard time appreciating it. I was exhausted beyond comprehension. Resting my head on the back of the rocker, I watched the ceiling fan spin lazily overhead. What would Dad do if he were here? First, he would hug me. Next, he would scold me. Last, we would hit the Net to learn what we could about Voodoo. We would approach the situation logically. That was how we always did things. Together. Now I’ll have to do everything alone. However, I don’t need to do anything right away. My energy was completely sapped, and resting here for a few minutes seemed like a good plan to me. I closed my eyes and crashed.
Chapter Twelve
I awoke with a start when a boisterous group of people passed in front of Kate’s house. All were carrying oversized plastic cups from a frozen daiquiri shop in the French Quarter. None appeared to be bothered by the impending storm.
I didn’t understand the attraction to the fluorescent colored slushy rum drinks, but alcohol wasn’t my thing. The few drinks I’d tried at a party back home in Alabama were overly sweet and made me sick. The kids at school thought I was an uppity outsider. Of course I wasn’t. Outsider, definitely, but uppity? Me? Not a chance. Aside from being underage, I prefer being in control. If my attitude put me outside the “in” crowd, so be it. I didn’t care. Dad worked as a consultant upgrading I.T. systems for different companies, moving from city to city to city. We were never in one place for very long. Making friends wasn’t really my thing either. Who cares what anybody thinks anyway?
I finished the last bits of food, picked up my tray, and went inside. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and the tray back on the sideboard and got another bottle of water. It was impossible to stay hydrated in this heat. I picked a lemon cookie from the clear glass jar in the pantry and took a bite. It was tart, not overly sweet. I helped myself to three more and headed upstairs. So much for no more sugar.
Instead of going directly to my room, I detoured at Kate’s office. Like everything else in the house, her office was well organized, yet it was cozy and informal. Lace curtains hung on either side of the French doors that led to the balcony. Bookcases with glass doors filled one wall from floor to ceiling; a varied collection of cookbooks occupied the bottom half, leather bound classics and legal tomes were higher up. It was a nice-sized room with a small closet and a door that led to the bathroom. The furniture was antique (big shock), but the computer and the printer/scanner/fax were brand new. I crossed the room, opened the French doors and listened to the laughter and music floating in on the gardenia-scented breeze.
The old leather banker’s chair squeaked when I sat at the desk. I opened the center drawer. Pens, Post-its, paper clips, and 3 × 5 note cards were housed in a wire mesh drawer organizer. The large desk drawer on the right contained Kate’s household files. The drawer on the left held hard-copy recipe files. I tapped the keyboard, the screen came up. No password protection, not a good idea. I double-clicked on an intriguing icon. Well, this is interesting. Kate is writing her own cookbook. One of her secrets? She hadn’t mentioned it to me. Then again, we hadn’t talked all that much since I arrived. And, so far our conversations had been a little less than friendly. According to the file date, this was her latest draft. I clicked through her recipes until I found the lemon cookies: almost no sugar, loads of lemon juice and zest, with plain Greek-style yogurt. The cookies were soft, chewy, creative, and yummy. Leaning back in the squeaky leather chair, I rubbed my eyes. Tiredness was taking over. My mind wandered to an unhappy place.
I never got to know my mother very well; her fault, not mine. What I did know, I didn’t like. Growing up, I always felt the Army totally suited Mom’s personality. She was cold, unfeeling. And, of course, absent for most of my life. I never understood what my dad saw in her. Still can’t. It must have been the sex. Although I had difficulty imagining that she ever gave herself fully to him. All I knew was she never gave anything of herself to me the few times she graced us with her presence over the years. What a waste her visits were. Why did she even bother? Some sick sense of maternal responsibility? Well, she slammed that door shut seventeen years ago.
And, how about Kate? She appears to be my mother’s polar opposite. She definitely isn’t all buttoned up and self-absorbed like her older sister. But, it’s clear Kate still has unresolved family resentments. One could say we have that in common.
I closed my mind to the bitter memories, then closed the cookbook folder and browsed the other icons. Kate had already set up a folder for the soon-to-be-scanned family photos.
On the floor next to the desk were two small, dusty old cardboard boxes of photographs. Unlike everything else in this house, the boxes were not organized. Everything had been thrown in and, judging from the amount of dust, never looked at again. I had expected it to be a quick and easy gig, but that wasn’t the case. I’d have to organize everything myself before I began scanning. If I started working with the photographs now, I could put off looking at the bag of Voodoo stuff until later. Kate would be home soon. Going through the bag was something better handled when I wouldn’t be interrupted, maybe later tonight after Kate was asleep.
I moved from the chair to the floor with my water and cookies, started sorting through the pictures: color in one pile, black-and-white in another. I would separate the two piles chronologically later, as best I could, anyway. Some of the photographs were so old, they pre-dated Polaroid. The resolution wasn’t good on any of them. I wondered if Kate had Photoshop? I got up, checked the computer’s program list. No Photoshop. Note to self: ask Kate to buy Photoshop. I should be able to clean up a lot of them.
From the quick color/black-and-white sorting, I could tell that almost all of them had been taken before my mother’s hasty departure from New Orleans seventeen years earlier. Unless there was another box in the attic, it appeared that very few family photos were taken after she left. Maybe the family broke then and couldn’t be put back together. How sad for them. How sad for me. I had been denied in a way I could neither understand nor explain. This was going to be a lot harder than just organizing photographs. This was like trying to piece Humpty Dumpty back together again to make a “family portrait.” One that I’d had no part of until yesterday.
I sipped my water and finished my cookies while I deliberated how to proceed. Start with the oldest black-and-white? Or, would the color photos go faster? I began to turn over the black-and-white photos. There was little or no information on any of them. I’d just have to go with my best guess as to the se
quencing, using clothes and cars as my guide. Maybe Kate could help with identifying the “who and where” after I took care of the “when.” I started with the ones that looked the oldest—no gloss, just photos that looked like they had been rolled onto the paper. They had a kind of silvery sheen and were slightly faded. They hadn’t been very well cared for. I soon got into a rhythm and became immersed in the project.
This, this is my family! I’d never given any thought to Mom’s side of the family before. She never talked about them and I never bothered to ask. I didn’t care. Mom was more like an out-of-town guest whenever she visited during her infrequent furloughs. She certainly didn’t act like my parent, or my idea of what a parent should be. And now, I’ll never have the opportunity to ask my dad about her. Even though she dumped him and left me on his doorstep, my dad loved her until the day he died. Go figure. At some point in their complicated relationship, they must have gotten wise to birth control, because I have no siblings. Totally fine by me.
I put the brakes on that train of thought and started sorting through more photographs. I came across a few old photos of African Americans, probably dating back to the early to mid-1800s. Who were they? House servants or plantation workers or, God forbid, slaves? It would be odd, though, keeping photographs of the servants, right? Whoa! What the . . . ? Stunned by the next picture, I stopped sorting.
The photo of a woman with a turban wrapped around her head was almost identical to the picture I saw hanging in the hallway of Angel’s house. According to Angel, the woman was her great, great, great, great grandmother. Was it possible this same person worked for my ancestors? That’s feasible, right? I had no way of knowing anything about her, but maybe Kate knew.
My legs were cramped, I needed to get up and move around. Collecting the empty water bottle, the plate, and my phone, I headed back down to the kitchen. Before leaving the office, I slipped the photo of the woman with the turban into my pocket. I’d ask Kate about it when she got home tonight. My cell rang; it was her.
“Hey, what’s up?” asked Kate. “Everything okay? Just thought I’d check in.”
“All good.”
“I wanted to let you know that I’m going for drinks after work and won’t be home until later. Will you be okay on your own?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I asked sharply.
“Is my going out a problem for you?”
I took a deep breath and huffed, “No.”
“You sound like it’s a problem. I thought you’d be happy to have some time alone.”
“It’s not a problem. Really. Go ahead, go . . . Word of advice, though. If you’ve got a date, you need something a little sexier than that chef’s jacket and clogs you’ve got on. I hope you have something in your locker.”
“Oh, I think I can manage.” Kate laughed and disconnected the call.
Thunder shook the house—the storm was getting closer. The trees in the yard twisted against the rising wind, their shadows danced across the living room walls. The floorboards creaked overhead. Is there somebody else in the house? I jumped when the French doors slammed shut upstairs. Why does everything in this city feel so bloody haunted? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the haunted one. I shivered even though it wasn’t cold. What is up with all the shivering? Am I getting sick? I turned on the stove light, a lamp in the living room, and the chandelier in the dining room. Before returning to Kate’s office, I scanned each room for boogeymen. Finding none, I climbed the stairs, stopped halfway up, and went back to turn on the porch lights for good measure.
Back to the photos? Or go through the Voodoo goodie bag? I looked at the clock; I had plenty of time.
Bag it is.
Chapter Thirteen
Outside, the wind was howling, tree branches scratching at the windows. Inside, the curtains flapped as if trying to escape the windy assault. The house squeaked and groaned under the weight of the powerful wind. Did I lock the front door? The back door? Did I even unlock the back door when I came home? I don’t remember. I was reasonably sure I closed all of the windows downstairs and had locked all of the doors. Lights were on, everything was locked up tight; all was secure. That didn’t stop me from wishing I had Gumbo, or a dog like him, to keep me company. I hoped the thunderstorm would pass us by; I couldn’t bear to close my window again.
I stared at the armoire. I can do this, I know I can. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I threw open the doors, yanked out the bag, and dumped the contents onto the bed. There were books, black candles, incense cones with a burner and a tiny brown bottle of oil. There was also a beautiful red and black gauzy scarf. Underneath it all was another Voodoo doll and a gris-gris bag. I dropped the scarf back over the doll and the gris-gris bag and backed away. Make a decision! I began reloading the bag to take back to that woman, but stopped when I saw a letter addressed to me lying on the floor. I picked up the cream-colored envelope and stumbled over to the comfy chair. This is, officially, beyond bizarre.
Should I open it? How could I not open it? I’d never know what the letter said if I didn’t open it. I turned the envelope over. A glob of red wax with a fleur-de-lis sealed the flap. Nice touch. It looked like Kate’s butter pats, only blood red instead of pale yellow. Good stationery—scented, too. I sniffed. Gardenia? I got up, retrieved a letter opener from Kate’s office, and slit the top of the envelope, careful not to break the pretty seal. The cream-colored card was embossed with a small gold fleur-de-lis.
Ma chère April,
You are reading this, so good for you, you have taken the first step in overcoming your fear of the unknown. You will find in your bag: “The New Orleans Voodoo Handbook” to give you some history, “The Voodoo Hoodoo Spellbook” to give you understanding, and “Women and New Orleans: A History” to give you inspiration. I hope you enjoy the books.
I invite you to visit me when you are ready to delve deeper and learn how to use the rest of the items.
À bientôt, Marguerite
I reread her handwritten note before sliding it back into the envelope. Is she serious? Delve deeper? What does she mean by that? Do I even want to know? I had to admit, I was sort of intrigued by her. She was refined and elegant, and appeared to be well-educated. But there was something unsettling about her. She was a little spooky, otherworldly. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but there was definitely something different about her. She was being nice and trying to help me. But why? She put together this Voodoo swag bag for me. Again, why? What was her motivation?
I went back to the bed to inspect the items. I stacked the books and put them in the armoire, so Kate wouldn’t see them. It couldn’t hurt to flip through them at some point, could it? After all, they were only books. I placed the candles on the dresser. If Kate ever asked about them, I’d tell her I bought them in case the lights went out again, black being my favorite color. I picked up the tiny brown bottle labeled Holy Anointing Oil and read: For spiritual strength, dab forehead and temples. I opened the bottle, took a whiff. I didn’t recognize the fragrance, but it wasn’t unpleasant. As directed, I dabbed a little on my forehead and temples, inhaled deeply. Not so bad—not bad at all. I slipped the bottle into my handbag.
I picked up the fringed red and black scarf and wrapped the gauzy fabric around my shoulders. It was large, more like a shawl. I put the incense cone on the burner, found last night’s matches, and lit the peak. I danced around the room, twirling with the shawl. I was beginning to feel other-worldly myself. I flopped back down in the chair and laughed long and loud, getting into the spirit of things. Or maybe I was finally just losing it.
The wind died down; the air was hot and still. The house, at last, was silent. Since it hadn’t rained, it was even more humid. Ugh! The cloying smell of incense hung in my room like an odorous fog. I’d better try to air out the room before Kate came home. I glanced at the clock; she would be home soon. I removed the shawl, wrapped the Voodoo doll and gris-gris bag inside, and placed everything in the armoire. I was ready to call it a nig
ht when “Happy” sang out from my phone. It was Miles.
“I thought you were working.”
“I am, but I have a few minutes before everyone gets back on the van. We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”
“Tomorrow?”
“You said you wanted to go with me to the housing project. Volunteer your time, talent, and good humor, remember?”
I’d forgotten.
“Of course I remember! What time?”
“Nine o’clock?”
“I’ll be ready and waiting.”
“Okay, then. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“It’s so hot in here, I doubt they have the energy.”
I heard someone downstairs. “Gotta go, Miles, Kate just got home.”
“And, you’d rather go see her than talk to me? Ouch!”
“See you in the morning!” I laughed, ending the call.
I found Kate in the kitchen, unloading her tote bag. She looked amazing in a turquoise off-the-shoulder top, a black pencil skirt, and four inch peep-toe stilettos.
“You keep that outfit in your locker?”
“I do,” she smiled sheepishly. Kate tossed her chef’s jacket and pants into the laundry basket, put her clogs by the door.
“Where did you go?”
“We went to the Napoleon House.”
“Napoleon House, like the Napoleon?”
“Yes. Napoleon intended to live in that house. Believe it or not, his supporters planned to spring him from exile and bring him here to rule as King of New Orleans. The plan was a bust, but the name stuck. If you’d like, I’ll take you there to eat. They have great gumbo.”
“What else?”
“They have panini, too.”
“Not food! Your date. Tell me about it!”
“Well, let’s see. He’s a flipper.”
“A flipper?”
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