by Baxter Clare
13
The Slauson exit was coming up. Frank was on her way home, but she wasn’t in a hurry. The only thing waiting for her tonight was the impassive steel in her weight room. She swung onto the off ramp, crossing back under the Ten, not at all curious about why she was going to the Mother’s headquarters. It was close to 5:00 PM and traffic was heavy on the east-west artery. That was good. Frank parked across the street from the brick complex, her old Honda indiscernible amidst all the other cars.
For an hour she watched, and waited, for what she didn’t know. Frank was enjoying her secret proximity to the Mother. She’d always liked surveillance and thought she would have made a great spy. She had a fine view of the entrance fronting Slauson and noted three people go inside, stay a few minutes, then leave. The first was an old black woman, followed by a well-dressed Hispanic woman, then a nervous middle-aged black woman. A thin blonde woman came out fanning herself. None of them looked like cluckheads and Frank guessed they were some of the Mother’s hoodoo clients.
Debating whether she should go in or not, she saw a ragged figure shuffling towards the building. Despite the heat, a wooly gray head poked from layers of uniformly tattered and dirty old blankets. Frank couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. She got the uneasy feeling it was the same beggar she’d seen when she’d been riding with Lewis.
Frank watched the figure inch its way toward the door of the slaughterhouse. It wavered about twenty feet short, seemingly unable to travel any farther. The grimy bundle settled against the warm brick wall and sank to the sidewalk. Its blankets puffed around it like a toadstool. The figure remained still for a long moment, then slowly lifted its head.
The face was leathery, the eyes clouded and sightless. The gray head pivoted, noting its surroundings like some ancient, lumbering reptile. Satisfied, it stopped, its face square to Frank’s. Through the rush of cars and trucks, Frank saw the pink mouth widen into a grin. The dead eyes were straight on her.
Frank stared at the ruined visage. It was impossible, she told herself. Just coincidence. A trick of the light.
She held the relic’s leer. There was no way it could see through the thick film over its eyes, yet it stared. Right at her. Despite the broiling sun, Frank shivered.
The relic grinned. Suddenly its chin dropped to the blankets, like someone had yanked the plug on it. Frank watched a minute longer, half tempted to roust the old fuck and find out what its story was. But she didn’t. Instead, she started the car, expecting the relic’s eyes to fly open and fix on her. It didn’t move. Frank eased into traffic, careful not to look back.
After work the next day, like a kid determined to walk by a haunted house to prove she’s not afraid, Frank cruised by the impassive brick building. No one loitered out front and the thing in rags was nowhere in sight.
Continuing down Slauson, she angled southwest toward the Mother’s church. Frank recognized her vintage, cherry-red Cadillac parked at the curb. Admiring the finned drop-top’s showroom condition, Frank wondered what she was doing here.
She’d come as if on autopilot. She had nothing to confront the Mother with and the woman was far too savvy for Frank to run any type of bluff on. Bludgeonings, poisonings, drownings, shootings, shovings, shakings; electrocutions, defenestrations, exsanguinations, eviscerations, disarticulations, immolations—there wasn’t an “ing” or a “tion” Frank hadn’t seen. The Mother’s alleged homicide was only slightly artful, yet Frank had to admit that after almost two decades of dealing with mentalities that natural selection had somehow overlooked, she was intrigued by the Mother’s guile and ability. Was she really that good a con? Did she have connections in the system?
Maybe she put good luck spells on herself, Frank mused. Curiosity drew her from the car. The engine ticked behind her as she stepped across dead, yellow grass. The lawn was dried out, but neatly trimmed. Beds of flowers flanked the entrance to the simple, white-washed building. There was no graffiti on it and the church’s name was high above the door where taggers would really have to work to get it.
The large, double door was locked. Frank stepped around the side where a smaller door stood open. Pushing her RayBans onto her head, she peered inside. She quickly noted a rectangular, windowless room, painted scarlet and banana-yellow. Plants splayed from clay pots. Fronds and vines were trained over a sky-blue ceiling. Rows of white benches were lined symmetrically on both sides of the center aisle. They stopped a respectful distance from a small pulpit.
One of the Mother’s twins was watering plants and the Mother was adding greenery to the pulpit. She paused, turning toward Frank, even though Frank had entered without a sound.
“You said to drop by.”
“Well, here you are, then,” the older woman replied with a sweep of her bangled arm. “Welcome to my church.”
Frank walked to the pulpit, while the Mother eyed her from soles to crown. Frank was aware of the twin cautiously returning to his work. She took in a life-size black Jesus crucified on the front wall and two child-sized plaster saints at its feet.
“Who are they?” she asked, more to make conversation than out of curiosity.
The Mother looked at the statues, appearing amused.
“They are Saint Michael and Saint Barbara.”
“So this is a Catholic church?”
“Not quite,” the Mother flashed a bright grin. “But some of the saints are associated with the gods of my faith.”
“Which faith is that?”
With the same air of bemusement, the Mother replied, “You have a lot of questions, child.”
“That’s ‘cause I don’t have a lot of answers.” Frank took in the room, asking, “So what do you do here? Save souls or something?”
Now the Mother laughed outright. It was a high, clear sound, like a bell tinkling, and Frank smiled, willing to be the rube.
“I can’t save anybody’s soul for them. We save our own souls.”
“You don’t wash them in the blood of the lamb and all that jazz?”
The Mother stared as if Frank was teasing her.
“No, I’m serious. How do you run this place? What do you do for the people that come here?”
“I am a bridge between the people and their gods. The people are here, the gods are here. Sometimes they just need help coming together.”
“So you’re like a spiritual matchmaker?”
“I guess you could call me that.”
Mother Love hit Frank with a dazzling smile, her intensity mesmerizing. Frank searched the keen amber eyes, understanding how the Mother could had such loyal followers. She broke from the Mother’s charismatic tug to examine a framed document on the back wall. A stamped and sealed certificate ordained the Mother as a spiritual minister. Three other frames showed a business license, the church’s articles of incorporation, and another ordination certificate recognizing Crystal Love Jones as a priestess of the Church of Lukumi.
“This Church of the Lukumi,” Frank said. “That’s santeria, isn’t it?”
The Mother scoffed, “Santeria is a Latin corruption of the ancient African religion. What we practice in the Church of the Lukumi are our ancestral beliefs.”
“So santeria’s Latin and Lukumi’s African?” Frank pressed.
“Lukumi is pure. It doesn’t have the mix of Catholicism that santeria does.”
Waving at the saints, Frank contended, “Seems like you got some taint going on here.”
The Mother’s eyes lit up and Frank realized the Mother wouldn’t brook challenge.
“It’s for them,” the Mother said with a finger toward the door. “The ones who don’t accept the true faith. I don’t need these false gods, they do. Many of my worshippers have been with me since I started the spiritual church. I didn’t want to alienate them when my faith turned down a new road. The saints are easier for them to understand than the African deities, and because the deities correspond to the saints, I use them here. This satisfies all my worshippers.”
“I s
ee. They make your brand of paganism easier to swallow.”
“I’m assuming”—the Mother etched her words with acid—“that you didn’t mean to offend me but are simply showing your ignorance.”
“Please assume that,” Frank said with a show of humility. “I just meant paganism as opposed to conventional Christianity.”
“The Church of the Lukumi is based on African beliefs older than any white belief system. If anything is pagan here, it’s Christianity.”
“You don’t have to preach to me,” Frank protested. “I don’t care one way or the other.”
“Child, of what faith are you?”
“Lapsed Catholic,” Frank lied, uncomfortable admitting she was of no faith. “You wear quite a few hats. Minister. Priestess. Fortuneteller.”
The Mother surprised Frank by laughing, “Oh, I wish I could tell the future. I have a gift, child, that’s all. Sometimes I can see things before they happen and I often make accurate predictions using the diloggun. Those are cowry shells,” she explained patronizingly. “The deities speak to me through them.”
Though the offenders Frank dealt with rarely considered anything more complex than how to get laid and where to score, Frank nonetheless enjoyed seeing how a criminal mind worked. The Mother was giving her a toy store to play in. The woman was obviously bright, but short on humor; wary, yet boastful. Frank quickly pegged pride as a major gap in her defenses. Especially after such a long run of consistently defying the odds.
“Are you like a channeler or something?”
“A channeler, a priest, a psychiatrist, a doctor. Child, I’m all of those things.”
“A doctor?”
“I heal people. Sometimes all they need is someone to listen; unburdening their souls is half the cure. Other times they require teas or balms. When their ailments are more serious, I call on the gods to intervene on my clients’ behalf.”
“And how much do you charge for these services?”
“It depends.” The Mother lifted her shoulders.
“On?”
“The severity of the problem. How much time it will take to effect a cure. The materials I use.”
“What materials do you use?”
She shrugged again.
“It depends.”
Frank monitored the Mother’s reaction as she asked, “Do you sacrifice animals?”
“Sometimes,” was the offhand reply. “Again. It depends on the nature of the problem.”
“Give me an example.”
“All right. A client comes to me—”
“—are your clients the members of your congregation?”
“Sometimes. Not always,” the Mother answered, annoyed at the interruption. “They come to me with a problem. It could be something as simple as a client’s lost her wedding ring to a case as serious as someone’s boy got shot in the heart four times. Sometimes I can find the ring using the diloggun. The gods suggest where to look for the lost item. To thank them we offer their favorite food and drink. For something as complicated as saving a life, larger sacrifices are required. A life for a life.”
“Is that what those chickens and doves at your house are for?”
The Mother nodded.
“Do you ever use bigger animals?”
The Mother held Frank’s gaze easily.
“Sometimes a goat or pig. Once I sacrificed a bull”—her white teeth flashed—“but that was such a bother I’ll never do that again.”
When humans are so much easier, Frank finished for her.
“How’d you get into this? The spiritual and Lukumi stuff.”
“You’re born to it, child. Someone in my line’s always had the gift. Usually a female child but sometimes a boy. My uncle Kuban had the sight. He could heal. My mother had it. She passed it on to me. I learned how to heal from her. From my grandmother too. They were steeped in the Spiritual Church and I followed that for a time.
“Then a client introduced me to santeria and I realized that my true path was to follow the ancient gods. I studied to be an olosha, a priestess, and in 1994 I was ordained by the Church of the Lukumi Babalu Aye.”
“You see your clients—do your healing—over at Slauson?”
The Mother rearranged some flowers on the pulpit, purring, “That’s right.”
“Who’s that beggar that hangs around outside your place? The old one wrapped in the blankets?”
The Mother threw an eye at Frank.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Got cataracts, gray hair, wears about half a dozen blankets, even now, in the heat.”
“There are many beggars in this city. Am I expected to know all of them?”
“This one hangs around your place a lot,” Frank pushed.
Fussing with some pots around her arrangement, the Mother asked, “Why do you want to know?”
“I know a lot of them, but I don’t know this one. I was just wondering if it was a client of yours.”
When the Mother didn’t respond, Frank continued, “So you see clients at home and this is where you do church stuff, right? The singing and preaching. All that.”
The Mother laid a hand on Frank’s bare arm. Her touch was cool and dry and Frank was reminded of a snake shedding its skin.
“If you’re so curious, why don’t you come to a service and find out. There’s one tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Even better”— the Mother leered—“come to a bembe. You’ll really see something there. I’m having one two weeks from this Saturday. It starts at five-thirty. At my home. For a client’s daughter.”
As if leaving, Frank turned away from the Mother’s touch.
“What’s a bembe?”
“It’s an initiation ceremony into the faith. It’s where the initiate is chosen by one of the gods. I don’t usually allow outsiders, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”
“The initiate is chosen by one of the gods to do what?”
“Why, to serve!”
The Mother bared her teeth in a shark’s smile. Frank ignored the shiver crawling up her spine. With an effort at nonchalance, Frank answered, “I just might show up.”
14
Anthony Dalton had married a woman younger than his first granddaughter and was feeling like his mojo needed freshening up. Mother Love agreed, fixing him up with a new hand and a prescription for Uncrossing salts and High John the Conqueror oil. She guaranteed that before the week was out he’d be restored to his full manhood. He believed her; his sweet little girl had balked at marriage until he’d visited Mother Love for a magic potion. By the end of that month his sugar was Mrs. Anthony Dalton.
Isabel Salia had love trouble too; her husband had left with another woman. Mother Love told her she had to get her husband to drink a glass of sweet wine with some of her own cat juice mixed into it. That would make her man come back and stay. She recited a prayer for Isabel and dressed a black candle in Crossing Oil. Isabel had to carve her rival’s name into the candle, light it, and repeat the prayer over the flame for nine nights, as well as sprinkle Hot Foot Powder across the woman’s front door. That woman would leave and never come round again. Isabel had been doubtful about visiting this Mother Love, but her sister had convinced her, swearing she’d been promoted and found her lost diamond ring within nine days of Mother Love’s cleansing her for good luck and fortune.
Rita Kincaid wanted to know if the man courting her was serious or just milking the cow for free. The Mother patiently cast the cowries, making repeated notations in a thick ledger. The upshot was that this man only spelled trouble for Rita. Mother Love fixed her up with a spell kit to attract the right kind of man and Rita happily laid $100 on the table.
Meanwhile, Eddie Mae King had been waiting. When it was her turn to see Mother Love, she transferred her great bulk from the waiting room into the plant-cluttered office. Eddie Mae didn’t like it in here. It was too hot, too dark, and too crowded. She always felt like she was going to suffocate and collapse and they wouldn’t be a
ble to drag her big body out of there. She perched one buttock over a rickety little chair, fanning herself with a stubby hand. She started to cry, telling Mother Love her son had been stabbed in his belly and was dying up to Drew/King.
Mother Love got into Eddie Mae’s face, scolding, “Does he have a chicken scratch or is that boy carved up like a Christmas ham?”
“He’s in the ICU since last night,” Eddie Mae sobbed.
The Mother relented, claiming, “We’ll have to make ebo.”
Eddie Mae nodded. Her four chins nodded too. Mother Love scratched something on a piece of paper while Eddie Mae explained the circumstances about Tyrell. Lucian appeared after Mother Love pressed a buzzer. She handed him the paper and when he left Eddie Mae sighed, “I wish my boy had come out like your Lucian. He’s such a darlin’.”
“Your boy’d a come out right if you’d a knocked some sense into his head,” Mother Love answered coldly. “You always spoiled them children, Eddie Mae. Didn’t I warn you ‘bout that?”
“Yes,” Eddie Mae had to sigh. Lucian returned with a box and Eddie Mae recognized the offerings for Saint Lazarus. Babaluaye, is what Mother Love called him. That was his African name. Eddie Mae didn’t much mind what name they used, as long as she got results.
Mother Love propped a crutch and straw broom into a corner next to a small table. She started singing, one of those African songs that made Eddie Mae feel proud. And a little afraid too. She knew what was coming. Mother Love smoothed a square of yellow satin over the table. On it she put a Saint Lazarus holy card, a clay pot with a perforated lid, and two plastic dogs. She surrounded them with seventeen yellow candles.
Stepping back, she surveyed the table. She must have liked what she saw, because she gave a short nod, saying, “Now we’ll feed Babaluaye.”
Eddie Mae’s four chins quivered nervously. This was the part she didn’t like. She offered a silent prayer to Jesus, hoping He wouldn’t mind. She meant no harm, only wanted her son to be healthy. He could understand that, couldn’t He?