Sycorax's Daughters

by Kinitra Brooks, PhD

  Even in Bend, I had never seen anyone like her. She looked like a black gypsy dressed in a brilliantly multi-colored skirt, orange cotton blouse, and golden earrings; a red silk scarp was tied around her jet-black curls. Her ebony skin was a smooth and clear as a baby’s. She had to be close to eighty-years-old.

  “See anything you like?” she called, in a voice soft as a whisper.

  “What do you sell?” I felt like a complete fool, as it was obvious from the stacks and stacks of photo albums that she specialized in old photographs. Of all the items at an antique fair, old photo albums of dead folks I don’t know are at the bottom of my “want” list.

  “Potions and dreams,” she replied, with a gapped tooth smile that reminded me of a distance ancestor’s distance ancestor.

  “I’m not in the market for either,” I said, taking a step toward the next booth.

  “Everyone has dreams, even these poor folks.” She waved her hand over a thick photo album covered in red velvet.

  I stopped and looked at the faces of four women and two men on the open page before me. The people were dressed like city folk out for a Sunday stroll at the turn of the 20th Century.

  They looked content, serene, at peace, all six smiled. One of the men stood apart as if he were a family friend and not related to the others. He had a dazzling smile, firm mouth from what I could see under the thick moustache and clear, dark eyes. It was as if he were smiling directly at me.

  “Isn’t it unusual to find family portraits of black folks for sale?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “I just think it’s strange to find black folks pictures here. So many of our folks have family members who keep things, almost everyone has some old aunt who remembers every birthday, holiday and when pictures were taken and who were in the photos,” I said.

  “Then there are others who like to share, I guess.” The old woman gave the album a loving pat, as one would a favorite pet and gently strokes the velvet cover.

  I thought I saw tiny sparks fly from her fingertips.

  “Lots of static electricity from the velvet, huh?” I asked. “No—yes—yes, you must be careful especially if you keep

  the album in the sun.” The old woman looked flushed as if I’d caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Well, it’s very beautiful but I don’t want pictures of folks I don’t know. Have a good sale.”

  “Enjoy your day.” The old woman replied as if it were a mantra.

  #

  I walked away and visited many other booths during the rest of the morning. I was almost ready to leave for the day, the rain had let up and one large broken part was allowing bits and pieces of sunshine to fall on silverware, crystal and mirrors.

  One of the mirrored doors on a beautiful armoire caught my attention.

  It was when I passed the last armoires when I saw him, a tall, dark man with a dazzling smile and a thick moustache just like I’d seen in the photograph. He was reflected in the beveled mirror of a rich mahogany armoire, only this man was dressed in worn jeans, a pale green cotton shirt and work boots. He had to be the great, great grandson of the man in the photo. I looked around but couldn’t see where he was standing. I started to go towards the old woman’s booth but it was packed up and she was gone.

  I turned to tell the man about his ancestors’ picture but he seemed to have disappeared into the glass fragments making up the mirror. All I noticed in the bright sunlight were swirling dust motes appearing to take on a life of their own Oh well, I knew I would see him around town, as I said earlier there weren’t many black folks in Oliveview.

  #

  I wasn’t planning on purchasing anything but the more I looked at the armoire, I’d seen earlier, the more I thought it would look wonderful in my living room. I was standing in front of it admiring the workmanship and imagining my television set, CD player and a couple of shelves of books resting in its cozy interior.

  “How much is this armoire?” I asked the young white man seated in the corner of the booth.

  “Oh you have excellent taste, this is one of our finest pieces. It’s just $2,000. It’s very old. I believe it was in a plantation in Florida back in the 1700’s.” He got up slowly and walked over to where I stood. His pale skin and clear eyes reminded me of some storybook ghost. He was as opposite of the man in the photo and the man in the mirror as any human males could be.

  Where they had broad smiles, firm lips and smooth skin, his smile appeared forced as if it weren’t something he did very often. His lips were narrow slivers, barely making the impression of lips and his skin was pockmarked like folks from years ago, when Smallpox was a dreaded disease, yet he looked to be about thirty-years-old. Smallpox was eradicated years ago and even the poorest families were vaccinated before the children attended school.

  “Do you know who owned this piece before you?” I asked.

  “No, not really, I just purchased it myself. My cousin works for a salvage company and an old, old woman asked him to remove it from her home. He knows I occasionally come out to antique fairs, such as this one, and thought I might find a buyer. My cousin thinks it’s haunted.”

  “Haunted?” I asked.

  “He swears during the week he had the piece folks walked in and out of the armoire as if searching for something or someone.”

  “Did you ask the old woman about it?”

  “No. She was from one of the islands in the keys. She died a few days after she sold the piece. Perhaps he saw her spirit saying goodbye.”

  I looked at the man to see if he was kidding but his stoic face remained rigid.

  “Yes, well it’s the 21st century and I don’t believe in ghosts. Let me think about this piece. Do you have a card, I can call you if I decide to purchase it?”

  “Sure, here’s my card. Call me and we can arrange to have it delivered, if you decide to purchase it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I put the card in my jacket pocket and walked to my car.

  As I put the key in the car’s door I had the overwhelming desire to run back to the armoire dealer and purchase the piece, which is just what I did.

  #

  The next day the armoire was delivered to my home. I paid the movers to install my television set and I arranged the CD’s in the drawer under the television. I stacked reference books on a shelf above the television. The armoire looked like it had been in my home for years. It complimented the soft fall colors in my sofa and guest chairs and made the living room look relaxed and homey.

  I poured myself a cup of tea and sat on the sofa, turned on the television and waited for the news. Instead of the news I found myself looking at a black and white version of an old horror movie. I turned the channel. The next channel also contained an old black and white movie, this time a comedy. I picked up the remote and clicked to the cable channels. None of them came through. I went back to the local stations I again found myself looking at old black and white programs. I’ll have to call the cable company. I guess I switched wires when the movers were installing the television.

  “Where’s the TV Guide®” I asked out loud. Since I live by myself I didn’t expect an answer.

  “What’s a TV Guide®?” A male voice asked.

  “Who’s there?” I called out as I jumped from the sofa and looked around the brightly lit room. I was alone. I slowly searched the house room by room. Yep, I was alone, and the doors and windows were locked.

  I returned to the living room after giving the bathroom, bedroom, dining room and kitchen a second search. I was totally alone. I don’t even have a pet. I would not have expected one to speak even if I had one.

  “Must be my imagination going crazy,” I said to myself, and took a sip of the now cold tea.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” the male voice said.

  “Who are you? Where are you and how’d you get in my house?” I asked, too scared to move.

  “You brought me in. I’m here by this picture machine.” “Picture mac
hine? Oh, you mean the TV?”

  “TV?” he asked.

  “Why… why can’t I see you?” I asked as I sat firmly on the sofa. My mobile phone just inches from my fingertips. Who would I call and what would I say? My heart was pounding.

  “Paula, wake up you’re dreaming,” I said as I slapped my face a few times. I must have dozed off.

  “So your name is Paula. I’m Marc. Marc Robinson.”

  With those words the man from the photo I’d seen reflected in the armoire’s mirror stepped from the TV and stood before me in my living room.

  “Now I know I’m dreaming,” I said. “Wake-up. Wake-up.”

  I jumped from the sofa, ran into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. I wiped my face on a bath towels and returned to the living room. Seated on my sofa was the person who called himself Marc Robinson.

  “You think you’re imaging me but I’m real. I’m as real as you. I was tricked into the armoire by Edna Ann. She was afraid of me. I tried to tell her if she just let me stay with her, she wouldn’t get old, die or be lonely. She locked me in the armoire then sold it when she decided to die.”

  “Edna Ann?” I asked.

  “The old woman who sold our armoire to the antique dealer.” The thing who calls himself Marc Robinson said as if speaking to a child.

  “I don’t believe I’m sitting here talking to a—what a ghost, or a figment of my imagination? What?” I asked.

  “Anna Rose told me about your dreams, so here I am,” Marc said. He was still dressed in the worn, torn jeans, green cotton shirt and brown work-boots he’d worn the day before at the antique mall. When he moved he left tiny patches of cobwebs on the sofa. He smelled like an old museum, musty and stale but with a hint of wild sage. An army of dust motes swamped around him, coming to rest in his thick, curly dark brown hair.

  “Anna Rose?” I asked.

  “She showed you the album with my friends and my picture.

  She knew you needed me, so here I am.”

  “I don’t need you or anyone else. If you don’t leave this house immediately I’ll call the police,” I said, as I got up from the sofa to open a window. The living room had gotten very stuffy.

  I needed to get Marc out of my house.

  “No one can see me, but you. No one can hear me, but

  you.”

  “Nonsense, I’m calling the police.” I got up and

  accidentally put my hand on Marc’s knee. I screamed. My hand went through his knee to the sofa. I screamed again.

  “No one can hear you. You sent for me just like Edna Ann did seventy-five years ago. I’m here to fulfill your dreams. Relax, you can tell me about this picture box, uh—television—Edna Ann had a small picture box which she rarely used. It only showed grainy black and white pictures. I don’t remember her saying anything about a TV. Let’s see what this large one shows.” The television screen turned color and showed the latest golf game.

  “I don’t care if no one can see you or not, you have to leave this instant,” I said as firmly as my shaky voice could muster.

  “Remember your dreams?” Marc asked, as if I hadn’t said a word.

  “I don’t remember dreaming about you or any other old ghost.”

  “Just last night you dreamed about how nice it would be to find a nice young man and live here near the ocean, maybe have a family. I can be that person. I can be as real as you want me to be. I can make myself solid so your hand does not go through me,” he said.

  “I want you out of my house.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want. I’ll leave, but if you invite me back I’m here to stay. We can be together forever. You will not need to age, we will be able to enjoy our lives through the centuries to come.”

  “You’re mad. Who wants to live forever? What makes you think that I’d want you, even if what you say is possible?” I couldn’t believe I was having a conversation with a collection of dust. I relaxed; this was by far the most interesting dream I’d had in a long time. It must have been the look of the man in the old photo.

  I’ve always been a sucker for men with Sam Elliott mustaches, and deep dimples who are the color of warm chocolate. I decided to see how this dream ended.

  “You disappoint me. I will stay here as long as you want me,” Marc said, sitting on my sofa, crossing his legs and leaning back.

  “If that’s the case then it’s time for you to get out of my home.” I reached for his non-existent arm, only to once again grab a handful of nothing. “Out—Out—out this minute. Once we’re properly introduced perhaps you can come back, but I have to invite you in.” I ran to the front door, held it open and pointed to the street. “Get Out!”

  Marc Robinson rose slowly, probably feeling all of his hundred or so years, smiled sadly and walked toward the door.

  His eyes grew wide and he began to choke as he neared the front porch. A light rain had begun, he turned to me, “If I walk out into this rain, you will never see me again,” he said in a whispered voice with an edge of fear.

  “Good, now leave. I never invited you in and no one ever died from a little rain. It will probably wash away all the cobwebs surrounding you.” I’d never seen anyone look as sad as Marc as he nodded his head and walked off into the rain. He quickly dissolved into a puddle of rainwater and flowed down the street into the creek at the bottom of the hill. It was like watching The Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz, only silently. I knew then and there I was dreaming but to make absolutely sure I went back inside, reheated my tea, gathered cleaning cloths soaked in rain water, and washed down the armoire. I didn’t want any more old dust mites returning to fulfill their dreams of immortality.

  Across town, in the middle of the forest, near a cave protected from the fresh rain, the old woman with the faded photographs, screams, “My Son, My Son, where are you?”

  A Little Not Music

  by LH Moore

  Washington, D.C., 1939

  Alice looped her arm through that of her best friend Bea, their infectious laughter making the people they passed by smile as they walked down the street. “U Street! Black Broadway!” Alice declared out loud, throwing her free arm out dramatically as Bea hip-bumped her. “This is where everyone wants to be!”

  The bars, clubs, theaters, and cabarets were hopping that night, like every night, their marquees and signs bright. Posters announced upcoming acts. Folks dressed to the nines in flashy furs drove shiny flashy cars. Everybody was out: numbers runners, laughing college students like themselves, stumbling drunks, couples out on the town. See and be seen. The energy was crackling all around them and Alice loved being a part of that. They stopped in front of the little restaurant where Bea served as a hostess, its orange neon sign blinking overhead. “This is me,” she said, her smile broad in her dark brown face. Bea adjusted her hat, a smart little number with a net veil, as she opened the door. “You knock ‘em dead tonight!”

  “And you know the truth! Don’t I always, darling?” Alice said before waving goodbye and making her way a few doors down. There was a crowd out in front of Club Crystal Caverns as always, clamoring to get in or hoping for a peek at a celebrity that may have come through that night. She sashayed effortlessly by them. Jimmy, the club’s bouncer, opened the door for her with a flourish, and greeted her with a nod as he tried to corral the eager group outside. She turned in a different direction than the club goers, making her way downstairs towards the back.

  Backstage was always hectic before a show. She took off her hat, undoing a few pin curls she had hidden underneath. Alice and the five other dancers were a flurry of fr inge, sequins, and makeup powder in their small dressing room. Shouts rang back and forth between them all and their harried assistant, who helped them dress and handled small crises. Alice stashed her bag after she squeezed into her costume and did her makeup. She got a chance to take a breath and looked around the room at the other dancers. Their spangled, sparkling costumes were all different variations on how much skin the management felt
they could get away with showing in a respectable establishment. Alice had been self-conscious the first time she wore it and still adjusted her costume to make sure that what needed to be covered stayed that way. She made sure to tie the ribbon of her low-heeled tap shoes with a bow right in the center. She tapped her foot a few times to make sure it felt right.

  Management also insisted that there were certain things they could do to look similar to one another. Physically they looked alike anyway, with all of them being fairer in complexion and small in height. Before she had more time to muse on that fact, Alice heard the stage manager call to them. She stooped down, so that one of the other dancers could help her put on one of the elaborate headdresses that they were all wearing that night. The dancers nodded and smiled at one another as they lined up,

  a mix of palpable anxiety and excitement, any rivalries set aside for the moment, as they got ready to entertain. All those years that my parents paid for dancing lessons have finally come in handy, she thought wryly, as one by one, they went out onto the stage.

  Alice could feel the thump, thump, thump of the music beneath her feet as they went through their routine, hips shimmying and feet tapping on the wooden dance floor. No matter how many times she had done this, it always felt the same—electric. The band behind them were pure energy: the frenetic flying fingers of the pianist, the blaring of the horns as their players swung them in unison, the bom bom bom of the bass, and the drummer setting the pace for them all. As she raised her arms, she was glad for her petite size as the club’s low ceiling was stuccoed and formed to look like an underground cave grotto, with faux stalactites always a misjudged arm swing away.

  Alice could see the audience out there, light glinting from their glasses as Washington’s Black elite were dressed in their finest, swilling champagne, and laughing and clapping, as they sat at small, round, white linen tables. She could see them smiling and didn’t care what anyone thought of her—or her skimpy outfit—when she danced. She whirled and kicked and found herself smiling back.