Blue Bottle Tree

by Beaird Glover

  She scooped tea leaves out of a clay jar with a special double spoon. The spoon on top had holes. This was the first time I had ever seen anyone use a real tea infuser. But with her doing it—carefully, lovingly—it seemed like the only way you could make tea, if you wanted to make it right. And it was delicious. Maybe she had special tea. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it was sweet like a flower smells—sugar would have ruined it. She had been quizzing me a little, seeing if I was smart or not. She said, “You can never step in the same river twice. Do you know why not?”

  “Because it’s different water. The old water is washed away. Rivers are changing all the time.”

  “Have you heard of the River Jordan? Did you know that’s where Jesus was baptized?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

  “What church do you go to?”

  “We don’t really go that much. Which church do you go to?” I asked boldly, trying to keep my cool. Everyone in Bellin was tied to one church or another—it would be unthinkable not to have a connection to one. Knowing which church a person went to was like knowing their whole family and all their friends. It was both a reasonable, general question, and the keys to the castle at once. It revealed everything.

  “Well, I’m Baptist, of course.” There were four Baptist churches in Bellin, all of which were defined by another qualifying name, which she neglected to share. “It’s the only true religion. You know that Jesus was a Baptist? Baptized by John the Baptist.”

  I could not tell if she was serious or joking. But she had also been testing me, so I had to say it. “Wait a minute. Didn’t they call him John the Baptist because he baptized Jesus? I don’t think there were really any Baptists yet, back then.”

  “Humph. I would not argue with the Good Book, my baby. If the Good Book says he was a Baptist, then a Baptist he was.” The way she said baby was different that time. I detected a hint of inauthenticity—like she was not even an old lady, just pretending to be. She was also smiling behind weird pink eyes and there was a giggle there. She knew more than I did. I was beginning to think she knew more about everything than I did. She pulled out a fancy chopstick that was holding her hair bun together and tossed a white mane down her back. The bun had not been pinching back her wrinkles. She did not have any wrinkles.

  Her nose twitched and it was like an internal buzzer had sounded. She slid out of her chair and took the bread from the oven in a second. She held the loaf between two mittens, tore it in half, and gave one of them to me. Steam poured out and I laid it on my plate to cool.

  She said, “Do you know what it means, to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

  It was not accusatory, but I must have offended her. “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. Thank you, I’m very thankful. This bread smells so good and the tea was so …unusually good. I wasn’t thinking and forgot my manners. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay, baby. But do you know what it means—don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”

  “No, I—not really.”

  “If someone gave you a horse, back in the old days, that would be quite a gift. And if you inspected his teeth to see if the horse was good enough for you—that wouldn’t be very nice. That’s what it means to look a gift horse in the mouth. Now, you wouldn’t have any way to know this, but a long time ago horses were more common. And people who knew horses—not just the vets and doctors, but everyone—knew to look at a horse’s teeth. Good strong teeth are the best sign of a healthy horse.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m thankful. I really am.” She smeared butter on the bread and indicated I do the same. The first bite triggered my appetite and I bit again. Feeling like I must have fallen far behind in etiquette, I said, “I’m sorry to come up on your property like that, unannounced.”

  She chewed slowly, examining the flavor. “I don’t mind you being here, but you ought not touch those bottles on the tree.”

  Her lips were hiding a smile and I felt like she wanted me to ask, to take an interest. “What are those blue bottles for, really? Will you tell me about it?”

  “You don’t know? I thought you knew things. Humph.” She followed my gaze to her shrine in the adjacent room. “Saint Peter is the god of the crossroads. Sapphire brings protection, and strength.” She stood up, went to her kitchen window, lifted it. “It’s going to rain soon. I like the smell of rain.” As soon as she had locked the window open, a brown bird fluttered onto the sill.

  “Hey,” I said, “that bird…” I scrutinized it.

  Whippoorwill.

  “That’s it! That’s the same one. That bird followed me here!”

  The bird tilted his head, picked something from a wing. “Are you sure he followed you?”

  “Well, yes …I mean …it was weird.”

  “Stranger things do happen, ma chérie.”

  “I think he was… We were …communicating.”

  “Does that seem unusual?”

  “For a bird to…” Whippoorwill. “…like that. Yes, it is unusual,” I said, defending myself for admitting an absurdity.

  “What do you think a whippoorwill should say?” Marie called whippoorwill herself, in a brilliant whistle—a perfect replication of the tone. The bird darted to her, lit on her shoulder, and twitched his head.

  “Oh, I see. It’s your pet.”

  “No, no. This bird is wilder than you, or me. But we all go back. We’re three old souls. Did you have family from New Orleans? Maybe, a long, long time ago?”

  “Yes, I think so. I’ve heard that.”

  “Well, it’s not unusual for this to happen.” Lightning flashed in the distance. “Thunder is a more unusual thing.” She flung her hand open and thunder cracked, like she knew exactly when it would be.

  “Okay, yes. That’s what I mean. Unusual for me.”

  “Some animals are spirit guides. You’ve heard that, haven’t you?”

  “Well, yes. But not …to me.”

  The bird had heard enough and flitted away. Lightning flashed closer and thunder boomed behind it. “What do you see?” She was standing in her living room, directing my eyes to a low table.

  It had a plush red fabric draped over it and furry lavender pedals spread out before a framed image of Saint Peter. It was an altar with beads, crucifixes, and small old pictures. “You’re not Baptist, you’re Catholic,” I said, which actually explained a lot. Tiny blue sapphires sparkled in a bowl.

  She made a tsk-tsking sound and a candle snuffed out on Saint Peter’s left side. The air in the room felt still—suddenly stuffy. It was harder to breathe and I knew I had said the wrong thing. The mood turned so fast, as if a candle burning out at just that moment meant something. Then I felt a gust of chill wind and there was the pitter-patter of a spring shower on tin. “It’s raining now,” she said. Her voice was changing. “Snails will be out soon.” This also meant something. Something deep. She was teasing me, had me in the palm of her hand. “You’re Penny Langston, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I um, I think I have to go.” My legs prickled.

  “What were you doing out here? Why’d you come all the way down that old road anyway?”

  It did not make sense anymore. I wasn’t looking for Seven’s mother, or on a crazy quest about the bones. The tune I thought I had made up came back to me. I saw the finger positions, thought through it, and it was so easy. I remembered it perfectly again.

  “Are you in love, Miss Langston?” Her eyes were warm and personal. She could flick it on and off like a switch.

  “Oh, no! Far from it.”

  “But you have been? You’re not exactly a child.”

  I felt a burst of pride. “No. I’ve …I’ve had crushes.”

  “Women do.”

  I wanted to jump up and hug her for this. No other adult had ever called me a woman. “There’s a boy I used to like. But he was so shy. He didn’t talk. Or, maybe he just didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Boys are not as expressive as we are. Sometimes they need encouragement.”

&nb
sp; I remembered an opportunity that I might have missed, and how the other kids did it. “Like saving the back seat on the band bus, just in case…”

  “That’s one way,” she agreed. “And there’s another, even better. Loves can get fixed on people, you know. Did you know? Tell me whom you love, and I’ll tell you who you are.”

  I shook my head. “I think it’s over now.” The rain let up, and I almost ran.

  She inhaled the sweetness of the shower and her eyes faded to a shade even lighter, pink irises disappearing into white and leaving only ghostly pinprick pupils—like someone else had taken residence there. Her accent rolled to the depth it was seeking and I was going crazy, but she seemed like she was someone else now, from another place, another time. She launched into a story. “One of my daughters was in love with a man. It was a long time ago, in New Orleans. They were young, and crazy like kids are, not much older than you are now. They were set to be married, but the man didn’t have money for a family. He joined the army and they sent him overseas. While he was gone, another man came to my daughter. He was old. Old enough to be her grandfather and he was rich—one of the richest men in Louisiana. When he saw her, he decided he would have her. He didn’t just want her and wish for her like an old man who should have known better. He was obsessed. He swore he would have her. With her fiancé gone away, why, he brought her gifts and jewelry. And he begged. Said he would give her everything he had, if only she would be his.

  “But she didn’t want him. And that man came to me. He asked for my help. He asked if there was anything I could do to make her—make my daughter—love him.”

  “But why would you help him?” I asked, incredulous. I was unable to hold back. “He sounds like a creep.”

  “I told him they would be married, and I gave him a gris-gris bag to make it happen. The bag had a lock of her hair and the dried testicles of a rooster. He had to wear it around his waist, close to his own.

  “Two weeks later, my daughter said she would marry him. She said she was done with her old love, her high school sweetheart who was overseas. She didn’t care if he ever came home or not.

  “The marriage was quite a spectacle—the finest New Orleans had ever seen. My daughter wore the most beautiful dress that money could buy, and diamond earrings. She was the loveliest bride. And after the wedding they danced.

  “The old man took her in his arms and waltzed her across the floor like a man half his age.

  “But then suddenly he let her go and grabbed his chest, gasped his last breath.” I nodded.

  She raised her eyebrows and her forehead furrowed with deep, deep lines. “The whole place went quiet as a cemetery. Natural causes, of course. And afterward, everybody came to me and asked about it. They said I had to be involved. Of course, I wasn’t. I only promised the wedding would occur…”

  She drifted across the room and took a tiny blue sapphire from the bowl. She kissed her finger and touched it. Then she sprinkled a pinch of salt and dropped it in a small red flannel pouch, one for a ring. She added four tiny blossoms of lavender and two slivers of metal.

  “What are you making?”

  “A little gift for you, my baby.” It was like the music in her voice had stopped and we were back to the place we had been before.

  “Oh, no thank you.” I cleared my throat. “You’ve done enough already. I really should get going.”

  “Let the needle pass, and the thread will follow.”

  My fingers flung up to my mouth and I had the sensation of being pierced and sutured, my lips sewn shut.

  Gently, she said, “No dear, not like that. I’m not that kind.”

  She was all riddles. Riddles and more riddles. Still testing me. In the back of my mind I felt a door open. Behind it there were things I had forgotten, things in my subconscious that were there since before I was born—not quite memories, not quite unknown. “What kind are you?” My boldness surprised me again. My back bolted straight in the chair and I rose up.

  “Catholic mostly,” she said, crossing herself the way they do. “Plus a little lagniappe.”

  In an ornate silver frame on her alter there was a picture of a little boy, maybe five years old, and he had a crazy shock of black hair just like Seven’s. A low moan warbled out and I almost lost it. I was in his house. I could have screamed. Of course this was his grandmother, the witch! I clenched a fist so she couldn’t see me, strained and channeled all my freak energy into it before my fucking head exploded. She added ingredients to her little bag, all done just so.

  “These horseshoe nails will improve your luck,” she said, dropping them in. There was no point in arguing now. She pulled thin gold plaited cords to clench it shut, held it over the Saint Peter candle, and blew out the flame. A curl of blue smoke spiraled up into the fabric, did not come out the top. The smoke was absorbed, more smoke than seemed possible for one candle, but I saw it. “That’s how you feed it,” she said.

  “Feed what?”

  “Your gris-gris.” Gree-gree she was saying, and I remembered the phrase from before. Seven had told me about these. Good luck charms, or bad luck …depending. “It’s awake now, it’s alive.” She held her work up by its cords and tapped it, let it swing. I felt hypnotized as she glided toward me. I might have been hypnotized the whole time. “Keep this with you. Do not open it, and don’t let anyone see it. It will lose its power if you do.” She slipped it into my palm and I wrapped my fingers around it.

  “What is this?”

  “Un paquet, ma chérie.”

  I did not know what to say.

  “It’s a mojo hand,” she said. “It’s gonna keep that spirit off you—the one you set free. It might even bring you a little luck, and love. A woman needs love.” She gave it to me like a present and she was being nice, but there was more to it. I owed her something now. I didn’t even want the thing, but I couldn’t give it back. I scanned the room for a way out. The air was too still. I smelled something old, rotten. Something sick. I couldn’t breathe. Then I heard a groan. I think it came from the back of the house. This old lady was into some freaky stuff. She was probably torturing somebody back there.

  I bolted through the door in a flash. It felt like waking up from a dream and I was not sure how much of it had really happened. My racing thoughts slowed and I looked back from the crossroads. A drape fell over the old lady’s window and it was all quiet, no other movement inside. A bird chirped and I felt disappointed that it was not the whippoorwill. Cicadas sang. It was just a typical spring day after a shower, nothing weird in the air. The cows had come to the fence and were standing there in silence. The entire herd stared at me—not eating, not blinking, not doing anything. I lurched forward and the ones closest to me bucked in that awkward, dumb way that cows do. Others leaned over the fence to graze the tall grass on my side, which was evidently what they had been doing before I burst out the door.

  I emerged from woody Jack Rabbit Lane and noticed an old mailbox across the road, overgrown with weeds. Its plaque read Marie LaVey. My thoughts were so muddled I truly had to see it to believe it. Yes, that was Seven in the picture. It was like I had tripped and time was dragging out forever. I was swirling in a vacuum, still had not hit the floor. I passed the Bellin city limits sign before I realized I had forgotten my clarinet. It made me stop dead in my tracks. I was still clutching the little red bag and my thoughts raced again. The horseshoe nails dug into my palm. I did not open the bag, but smoothed out the small, squared nails so they would stop biting me. Marie LaVey had definitely left an impression.

  My heartbeat was fast and I walked faster. Everyone would be getting out of church soon. I looked back over my shoulder, keeping an eye out for the spirit that might be chasing me. I felt like a crazy person and the bag was heavier than it should have been. It was warm. I felt a connection to it. It was alive and part of me.

  6 Knight in Shining Armor He was Not

  When I was back in town again and cars started passing, I felt better. The proximity to no
rmal people reassured me. Soon I would see a familiar face, or otherwise cross paths with someone who might be overly curious about my little red bag. So I unstrapped it from my wrist, hung it around my neck, and tucked it into my shirt. I stretched out my hands and felt better—a weight lifted when the bag was out of my hand. Suddenly it was not so mystical. It was dumb that I had freaked out about it. I turned around slowly, taking in the surroundings. No one was there. Nobody was following me, no birds or animal spirits. It was just another day in Bellin. Church bells rang noon and the roads were drying, wafting little clouds away.

  It was an absurdity—a mojo bag. But my clarinet! I was definitely not going back out there. They had one at school I could borrow. I would say I left mine somewhere and had to use the school’s extra for a few days. No big deal.

  That was a plan, a possible plan, but it did not sit well. I chided myself for losing the clarinet. That was not like me. My thoughts were too loud, overwhelming, demanding I go back. I derided myself for being afraid and absentminded, which made me even more so. Muddled, chaotic, confused—not me at all. Something was terribly wrong. My heart pounded. I was lightheaded. My fingers looked pale like all the blood had been sucked out of them. I saw my reflection in a car’s window and I was white as a ghost. I looked more closely and the reflection vanished. I needed somewhere to sit before I passed out.

  Knight in shining armor he was not, but the deep bass thumping of Ray Dimple’s slick blue car preceded him. He came around a corner, eyeing me. The music got louder as he idled up. I was just standing there, my mind fluttering. Ray could go get the clarinet. I flagged him to stop, which he was already doing.

  He turned down his music and his weird, long neck bent in the middle. He stuck his head out the window. “You need a ride?”