Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)

by Giuliana Sica

  While in college she worked at a convenience store. One evening, during a graveyard shift, an idiot decided to rob the store. He hit Benedetta in the head with a jumbo beer can. He hit her really hard. She lost consciousness and was left for dead until a customer walked in and called an ambulance, saving her life. They caught the robber with the help of the security camera. He wasn’t new at this; third strike and he was out. Benedetta followed the trial from her hospital room. Nevertheless, even knowing that he had been locked behind bars, she still struggled with safety issues for months afterwards. Hence, Eros, her trained Doberman killing machine. Once in a while she gets horrible migraines, but most of the time she’s busy feeling, tasting, absorbing life, and hugging Georgia signs. And she discovered Wicca.

  “Ready?” I asked her, before she would decide to get frisky with the sign and start licking it.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  She jumped back in my car and landed on the forgotten water bottle on her seat, smashing it. “Uh—I think I just had an accident,” she whined in a childlike voice. A dark stain spread like a shadow under her yellow shorts.

  “Have you got a change of clothes?” I asked, assessing the damage.

  “Yes, in my bag in the trunk.” She hopped out of the car, dripping water as she went.

  I popped the trunk open and heard her rummage through her stuff, whistling softly under her breath. She’s an incredible whistler. We would have to hurry or the entire Georgia state bird population would soon show up to accompany her.

  *

  She was still whistling when we pulled into the well-lit parking lot of Aunt Delilah’s Roadside Café.

  The place buzzed with lively energy. I had to drive around the ample parking lot twice before I finally managed to squeeze my car in between two monstrous pick-ups, one of them sporting a huge rebel flag and a bumper sticker that read, “Fight violence, shoot back.” Indeed.

  We stepped out of the car, filling our lungs with the breezy evening air and a strong whiff of whatever was cooking inside. With watering mouths we walked up to a spacious front porch where customers chatted. One tickled a guitar and lazily rocked on a swing. I couldn’t tell if they were waiting for tables or if they liked the food so much they had separation anxiety issues. Just like me a week earlier in Adelaide, but I was supposedly leaving the love of my life behind. These people had bean soup issues; but then, I hadn’t tasted the soup yet.

  Framed in ancient wood that must have been painted light green circa the Civil War, a mosquito screen introduced itself to us as the front door. Amazingly, it didn’t squeak when we opened it. But who would have heard it anyway? The kind of southern blues that grips your soul reached our ears while our nostrils filled with the teasing aroma of smoked ham swirling weightlessly, directed by several ceiling fans working overtime.

  The dining room was full. Packed.

  As we entered, the entire room turned to look at us, and we stood there, a bit uncomfortably, taking it all in. I was wondering where to go from there when an older man wearing a stained apron welcomed us with a genuine gap-toothed grin. With a strong hand on my shoulder, he moved us to a table in the back of the restaurant by an open window.

  “Welcome to Aunt Delilah’s. What cannah get you to drink?” A crooked smirk hooked his ageless face, reminding me of a well-tanned Popeye.

  Benedetta often and randomly reads my mind. “Nice to meet you, Pop. My name is Benedetta, and this here is my friend Porzia.” She introduced me with her hand. “What do you recommend?”

  Pop smiled. He patted Bene’s head lightly and mumbled something about leaving it up to him. In less than two minutes he reappeared, out of nowhere, with two jumbo, frosty mugs filled to the rim with ice-cold beer, and a platter of fried okra.

  He winked at Bene, then turned to me and asked if I was there to meet Delilah.

  I nodded, dipping my nose in the beer head.

  “She’s in the kitchen, brewing tomorrow’s stock,” he said. “After you eat, I’ll take you back there.” He left us to tap our feet to the crescendo rhythm of the music.

  I sipped my beer. Caspita! One of the best I’d had in a while.

  By the time Pop came by, we had drained the mugs. He placed two bowls of the renowned bean soup in front of us along with a basket full of corn muffins and a crock of whipped butter.

  It smelled heavenly, if heaven smelled of smoked ham and hearty beans.

  He grabbed the empty beer mugs. “Ready for another round?”

  We nodded.

  In no time Pop brought us the second round and grabbed a chair from a nearby table. He sat on it backwards, using the chair’s back as a support for his elbows, wiping his forehead with his stained apron.

  “How’d you like it?” he asked, pointing at the mugs.

  “It’s excellent,” I answered. “What is it?”

  He grinned and balanced the chair closer on two legs. A conspiratorial look spread across his face. “Delilah’s own secret brew.” He shifted his shrewd eyes to Benedetta. “So—your parents thought you were a blessing?” he asked as if it were the most natural thing on the planet to find an old grandpa at a truck stop able to translate Benedetta’s name.

  “Yes, they did.” Benedetta lifted her head to answer. The soup had steamed up her glasses.

  One would probably think we were nuts to eat hot soup on a sticky, warm August evening, but with my job’s deadlines I’m used to it, like models get used to wearing bathing suits in January. Besides, an entire dining room agreed with me this evening. The ice-cold beer married superbly with it, like Parmigiano e maccheroni.

  Benedetta took her glasses off to wipe off the soup steam and smiled at Pop with her nearsighted, angelic blue eyes. She’s cute with her glasses on. She’s not of this world when she takes them off. I suspect the gods made her nearsighted so humans could handle looking at her, and vice versa.

  “Hey, Dad, are you so busy charming these pretty young ladies you’ve forgot the rest of the room?”

  Pop turned his head to look at an incredibly handsome man with chiseled features.

  Did he just say “Dad”? I wondered. My eyes darted, all unglued, between Pop and the black Adonis towering right behind him. It was like thinking of Geppetto manifesting the David instead of Pinocchio out of a piece of wood.

  No way.

  Benedetta’s glasses dropped in her soup.

  “Ladies, may I introduce to you my son, Jason,” Pop said, grinning proudly, not without a hint of sarcasm. “Named for the leader of the Argonauts and Medea’s main love disaster.” Pop tugged at Jason’s shirt trying to make him take a bow.

  I was speechless. Pop a mythology expert? Oddio, what next?

  Jason swatted a rolled kitchen towel at his astute father. He then shook hands with us, offering Benedetta another bowl of soup. She nodded, hastily wiping her glasses so she could take a better look at him.

  Pop got up with a look that told us he wouldn’t be long and followed his stunning son into the kitchen.

  “Benedetta, stop staring at his butt.”

  She turned around. “Can’t help it.” She grinned and reached for her beer. She took a long gulp and smiled at me, curling up a white, foamy moustache. “This is a hell of a place.” She cast her arm out in a vague general direction. “Your mailman told you about it?”

  I nodded with chipmunk-size cheeks grinding beans. “Uh-huh. He always has great tips.”

  “I bet Pop’s real name is Aeson,” she said knowingly.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, busy counting the different varieties of beans in my bowl. So far I had recognized seven—no, eight—I had just noticed the black-eyed peas.

  “You know I’m fascinated by Greek mythology. The Argonaut Jason, his father’s name in ancient mythology was Aeson, then the Medea disaster and blah, blah, blah . . .”

  “When did you sta
rt learning all this?” I interrupted, curious.

  She reached across the table to dunk half a corn muffin in my soup. “I was taking it in college when we met. Then continued researching on my own, among other things. Did you know that the philosophers called their narrations myths? Look how we’ve distorted the meaning of the word now and relegated it to something invented, fable-like.” She brought the soaked muffin up to her mouth and took a bite. Amazingly, it didn’t crumble. It made me want to do the same. I reached for the breadbasket as Jason approached the table carrying a professional camera and Benedetta’s soup.

  “I should have known you were from Gusto. Dad just told me.” He extended his hand. “I’ll be taking the photos for your article,” he added, smiling.

  I raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. “You’re the photographer?” I asked, not quite believing him.

  He nodded. “They should have told you at the magazine that Delilah doesn’t allow strangers to take photos in her establishment.”

  I liked that word: establishment.

  I suddenly recalled my conversation with Oscar, the editor in chief of Gusto, the magazine that commissioned me for this article. He had mentioned something about Delilah’s voodoo belief that pictures could steal souls.

  “So here I am, at your service.” Jason bowed gallantly.

  “So why are you so special?” Benedetta asked him.

  Jason grinned somewhere up around a thousand watts and made matters even more intriguing, telling us that Delilah not only was his mother, but also his generous benefactor. She had paid for his art school tuition.

  Benedetta and I exchanged a look. That made Pop Delilah’s husband. I couldn’t wait to meet her.

  Skimming the livid glare of a row of Carmen Miranda look-alikes at the bar, Jason escorted us into the kitchen through a multicolored beaded curtain that tinkled like chimes as we passed through. We stepped into a spacious kitchen with industrial-sized appliances. On the walls chilies and garlic garlands held hands, festively hanging between wooden shelves stacked with jars of spices, herbs, legumes, and rice. I believe I saw frog legs and lizard’s tails. Or maybe a hint of voodoo fueled my imagination.

  A back door opened onto a small courtyard allowing a cool breeze to ventilate the space and tousle the beaded curtain behind us. On a miniature altar, a porcelain Virgin Mary looked down on a tiny vase of fresh daisies. A fake snake coiled by her feet, strangling a shot glass filled to the rim with what I suspected to be spiced rum.

  Holy Mother, may I introduce to you Damballah?

  The mouthwatering aromas of steaming bread pudding tickled my nose, and my eyes landed on an ancient black woman standing on a small stool stirring a large pot. She smiled at us as we approached her, then, without missing a beat of her stirring, she called over her shoulder in a raspy voice, “Delilah! Your guests are here!”

  Framed by the open back door, a silhouette appeared. A ghostly line of smoke rose off a cigarillo hanging from the naked lips of Ezili’s human manifestation. The Haitian goddess stood in front of us dressed in a brightly flowered sundress. A jet-black braid crowned her head, and yellow tiger-eyes smiled at us warmly above flawless mocha cheekbones so high and sharp they could cut through glass. She pushed off the doorframe, extending her arms. Now I knew where Jason got his looks.

  “Welcome,” she purred, taking both my hands in hers. “You must be Porzia.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Delilah.” I wondered if I ought to curtsy.

  “And this must be your . . . blessed friend.” She let go of my hands to take Benedetta’s.

  “Hello,” Benedetta said in her cool, friendly voice.

  “Hello,” Delilah answered. “I dreamed about your visit.” She stared at Benedetta. “Evil has been lingering. I dreamed a blessed soul would come and restore balance.”

  Delilah’s words sent shivers down my spine.

  “This night calls for a celebration. Aeson, honey, would you fetch some of Mama’s agua?” she asked her husband in a purr.

  I gasped silently. Benedetta had guessed right about Pop’s name. What the hell was going on?

  From beans I had been catapulted into Congo Square. I could feel Marie Laveau oozing in from the afterlife. It was happening quite often lately; I kept finding myself in the midst of some sort of esoteric endeavor. I shook my head and trailed behind Benedetta and Delilah out the back door into the small courtyard.

  Aeson followed with a tray holding three small shot glasses and an old bottle filled with a foggy liquid. He left us as we sat around a cast iron table on matching chairs covered with floral-print cushions.

  Night jasmine and honeysuckle sweetly scented a gentle breeze. A tall brick wall surrounded the courtyard, giving us a sense of privacy and the feeling we were all alone.

  “Gerome called. He said you’d be coming up to write about some of my recipes,” Delilah said as she poured the liqueur. “How is he?”

  Gerome is my mailman and second cousin to an innumerable amount of culinarily dedicated relatives sprinkled throughout the Bible Belt.

  “He’s doing pretty well,” I answered distractedly. My eyes widened as she lit a match and set the contents of the glasses on fire.

  “What are you doing?” Benedetta at her best, mincing no words.

  “This is Mama’s aguardiente. A distilled, mystical concoction I won’t divulge.” Delilah looked at us. “Once the excess alcohol burns off only the concentrated essence remains. That’s when you drink it, but we must wait until it has cooled a bit. Patience is everything.”

  We settled thoughtfully to wait while the ethereal flames danced and died.

  An irreverent breeze tousled my hair, bringing the notes of a blues guitar to my ears as if from a distance. High above, the moon had reached her peak and lingered, curious, to wait with us before resuming her descent.

  Benedetta is not good at waiting. “So, what am I supposed to do for you?” she asked Delilah bluntly.

  Overhead, I thought I heard the moon sigh in exasperation. Maybe it was me.

  Delilah’s amber eyes swept us. She frowned, struggling to find the right words. “Evil has been meddling with my ingredients, spoiling things up.” Her subtle accent told me Jamaica wasn’t that distant in her past.

  Benedetta pushed her glasses up her nose. “Uh—could you be a little more specific?” she pressed.

  “Humidity. This year it has been impossible. My saffron, for example.” Delilah paused dramatically, making a rubbing movement with her thumbs and two fingers, like sprinkling a pinch of salt on a dish. “Or my cayenne. Or cinnamon. Not silky dry, but pasty.” She paused again, dramatically. “Fungus-like.”

  Her words had such vivid impact I actually visualized the saffron clotting.

  “An oath has been spoken,” Delilah whispered, as if saying the words out loud would enhance the evil powers. Her eyes sparkled like topaz. She picked up her shot glass and gulped the agua down, throwing her head backwards. Amazing how her braid remained in place against such a sudden jerk.

  We tried to follow her example. She had made it look so easy, like a shot of regular water.

  It was fire. It burned down my throat. It stung my eyes and seared my lungs. It blazed in my stomach. I had just swallowed liquid lava. I coughed, I cried, I grabbed my stomach. I wanted to roll on the ground in agony. I wished I were a dragon to spit fire back at her.

  Benedetta fared no better. Her nose ran mercilessly, and her eyes glowed red. Her entire face was red. Smoke came out her ears.

  “Oddio!” I wiped my eyes.

  “What the hell was that?” Benedetta choked.

  “You said it right, sistah.” Delilah looked at Benedetta. She refilled our glasses and lit them up once again.

  Was this woman out of her mind? Frantically I searched for an acceptable reason to refuse the second shot.

  I have faced d
ifficult situations before, mostly in foreign countries where etiquette requirements differ and where offending your host is a matter of professional life or death, but to cross a voodoo believer in her dwellings—even though she offered us liquid hell—called for extreme caution.

  “Here, the second one is a lot smoother,” Delilah said, raising her tiny glass to toast us. There she went, throwing her head back again, enjoying every drop of it.

  Benedetta had more guts than me. She took the second shot and held a napkin on her face, crying into it. Screaming into it. Biting it.

  Oddio! I thought she said the second one was supposed to be easier.

  “This was as painful as losing my virginity,” Benedetta mumbled into her napkin.

  “Not as bad as childbirth,” Delilah observed, settling back in her chair. She lit a thin cigarillo and looked at me, waiting; her friendly tiger-eyes glittered, bemused.

  I pinched my nose, lifted my glass, and drained it. My tonsils burst into flames, and I closed my eyes for fear my eye sockets might detach like parts of the space shuttle skyrocketing into the universe. They were going to make a saint out of me after this. I momentarily toyed with thoughts of people crawling from far away to witness my miraculous remains, preserved in a crystal case for posterity, defying decay thanks to the agua I had been pickled in. The devoted pilgrims, totally unaware of such chemical mysteries, would babble miracle in a cacophony of foreign languages I couldn’t hear in the safety of my crystal cocoon.

  Devotees un corno. It was Benedetta’s babbling. She was trying to shake me back to life by shoving a glass of water down my throat.

  I drank like there was no tomorrow. I hoped tomorrow would never come. I couldn’t begin to imagine how my stomach would punish me come morning.

  “Are you back, Porzia?” Benedetta asked. She cradled my head in her hands.