Will Do Magic for Small Change

by Andrea Hairston

  Commander Williams flinched at Aidan’s southern cracker accent then covered this with a cough. “Drive? In this weather?” She forced a smile.

  “Been driving since before you was born,” Aidan said.

  “That’s what the woman’s worried about,” Redwood said. The elders laughed.

  Klaus and Marie gaped at her grandparents and great aunt as if they were space aliens. Mrs. Beckenbauer did too. Commander Williams contemplated her watch and snuck peeks between sighs. Aidan wore jeans, a work shirt, and rubber boots. He had a thick white braid to the middle of his back and a walking stick with leather strands of beads cascading down the side. He could have been an ancient hipster or new age cracker freak, but Miz Redwood was too elegant to put up with freaks. The crown of purple and green silk on her white hair told you that. Iris styled leather working boots under a dress fashioned out of Adinkra cloth from Ghana. The crosses and fat butterfly patterns meant: the spirit never dies. This was Iris’s favorite wise word cloth. A banjo case banged Iris’s back and twanged. They could pass for an antediluvian blues band.

  “We couldn’t leave the banjo home, could we?” Redwood whispered.

  “I got songs for you, princess.” Aidan flexed his fingers.

  Cinnamon laid her cheek against the worn leather and felt the strings buzzing inside. Would she still like Aidan’s hillbilly country music?

  “Opal’s thin as a whiff of smoke,” Iris said. “What have you been eating?”

  “Don’t tell her. Sister don’t really want to hear,” Redwood said.

  “When can Mom come home?” Cinnamon strained toward the corridor of doors. “Can I see her?”

  “She’s sleeping.” Aidan held on to Cinnamon.

  She was close to a tantrum. “I can watch her sleep.”

  “OK. I’ll show you.” Redwood gripped Cinnamon’s arm with what Aidan called her storm hand. Supposedly she could catch a hurricane or stop a heart from beating with that hand. Feeling a power surge pulse against her bicep, Cinnamon didn’t doubt it.

  Redwood ushered Cinnamon to the first room on the left. She barely touched the handle with her storm hand and the door swung wide. The room smelled of industrial strength cleaner, old coffee, and wet clothes trying to grow mold. Cinnamon swallowed a sneeze, and they tiptoed in. Opal lay in a forest of tubes and a cloud of sheets. Her skin was brown again, not gray, not drawn tight over her bones. Her eyes fluttered in a dream. Muscles twitched, hands and feet aching to move, but motion inhibited. It looked to be a good singing and dancing dream. Maybe Opal and Raven were doing the funky chicken in desert sand or hiking a canyon, singing the Blues.

  “Opal’s not ready to leave us yet,” Redwood declared.

  Cinnamon turned into her grandmother and burst into tears. Twice in one night! Redwood’s silk river scarf flowed across her cheeks and took the sting out of the tears, took the hitch out of her breath. Opal would get better, and Raven might come back from that coma too!

  The other occupant of the room, an old white lady with a few less tubes than Opal, waved. “I’ll tell her she had good company when she wakes up tomorrow.”

  “Can’t we wait to tell her ourselves?” Cinnamon said.

  Redwood pulled her out of the room. “They get the night to themselves.” She closed the door and drew Cinnamon to the nurse’s station. “We’ll come tomorrow. I promise.”

  All eyes were on Cinnamon. “My mom looks better,” she reported. “She’s not knocking on death’s door demanding to be let in. That’s something.”

  Klaus spewed German at Mrs. Beckenbauer. She ran to Cinnamon and squeezed her hands, mumbling German. How long had this woman been in America without speaking English?

  Aidan smiled and tipped a non-existent hat at the ladies. “Introduce us to your friends.” They hadn’t done that themselves yet?

  Redwood waved everybody over. “Come closer. We ain’t goin’ bite.”

  Cinnamon rattled off names and relations. Aidan didn’t sound Native American but heavy Georgia cracker. He and Redwood were so country it made you itch, and Iris was so afro-centric and Indian Power radical, what would anybody think?

  Marie shook Aidan’s outstretched hand. “I thought you’d be…” Black and Native, not Irish and Seminole.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wildfire.” Klaus covered the awkward moment.

  “Klaus and Marie are music theatre people.” Cinnamon bubbled on about talents and wonders. Motown Marie and Prince Charming Klaus blushed as she praised them.

  “Theatre people.” Redwood smiled approval.

  “Hot dog,” Aidan said, “you know we like the sound of that.” Who says hot dog?

  Iris whispered German to Mrs. B, who gushed at her. Iris waved a hand, and Mrs. B slowed down. Aidan put his arm through Cinnamon’s, holding her up a little on the sly. He looked seventy-five, hale and hearty. He winked at her. They had come to rescue her, like always. Cinnamon wouldn’t let Opal send anybody back to Massachusetts.

  “I know nothing about Seminoles,” Klaus said to Marie more than Aidan. “They don’t teach us anything. It’s only Winnetou stories in Germany.”

  “Winnie who?” Redwood wrinkled her brow. “Sounds familiar.”

  “Knowing what you don’t know is a good start,” Iris said.

  “What you think you know that ain’t so…” Aidan hesitated.

  “That can make you a slave,” Redwood finished the saying.

  “Fellow from over there in Africa used to tell us that,” Aidan muttered, dazed.

  Redwood hugged him close. He was flying off somewhere. Redwood flew with him and stood her ground too. They soared and stumbled, a slow motion jitterbug, sexy and bittersweet. Iris jostled the banjo on her back, so it twanged a drum rhythm.

  “Where are you, Granddaddy?” Cinnamon took his hand.

  Aidan found his way back to right here, right now. He tweaked Cinnamon’s nose as if nothing strange had happened. “Ain’t no memory, no dream sweeter than this moment with you folks.”

  Commander Williams cleared her throat. The chitchat died out. She offered to drive anyone home who was leaving right away. Cinnamon promised to pay everybody back for helping her. She tried to give Klaus his fancy coat. He wouldn’t take it. Marie shoved a phone number at Cinnamon after making Klaus write his down too. Cinnamon didn’t have a number. Opal’s phone had been turned off.

  “They got pay phones everywhere,” Marie said. “You better call us.” She tied her furry scarf around Cinnamon’s neck. It smelled of lavender and sage. “Stay warm.”

  Cinnamon, ignoring Marie’s protests, put Oshun’s comb in her thick hair. “We can share.” Cinnamon pulled her and Klaus into a three-way hug. Doing theatre made folks feel tight fast. Would anything be real in the morning? Would they remember how close they’d gotten? Marie turned away, hanging onto Klaus, probably ’cause she wanted to touch him or maybe so Cinnamon wouldn’t see her face break apart into tears again. Marie didn’t like being a wimp any more than Cinnamon did.

  Klaus punched Cinnamon’s shoulder. “We could run away together, get lost in the night and never come back.”

  “Are you serious?” Cinnamon said.

  “Just kidding. Ciao,” he murmured.

  “Ciao.” Cinnamon punched his shoulder and rubbed Marie’s bony back.

  Mrs. Beckenbauer nodded at Cinnamon and shook the elders’ hands. Her eyes were red. Vati had her spooked too. A weary nurse returned to her station, glancing at everyone. Aidan and Redwood snagged her with an Opal query. Cinnamon’s international family trooped to the one working elevator, and Commander Williams pounded the down button. Cinnamon turned away from this melancholy departure and edged toward Opal’s room.

  “Go on.” Iris nodded in her direction. Nobody ever put anything over on her.

  Not Over Yet

  Cinnamon pushed open Opal’s heavy door, hung Klaus’s bear on a hook, and sat by Opal’s bed. There weren’t that many tubes —three monitoring devices and an almost empty bag dripping into
her veins. Rapid eye movement indicated Opal was still roaming a dreamscape. Opal never slept this well anymore. She and Raven used to watch Cinnamon sleep when she was little. Cinnamon had considered this behavior boring parent weirdness. Watching the steady rise and fall of Opal’s chest, Cinnamon was thrilled. Breath struck her as a miracle. She felt happier than she could remember.

  Her stomach howled. She dug in her orca knapsack for stolen reception-snacks. The crackers were dust; ink from a pen had turned the yellow cheese green; only the cashews looked edible. She savored their salty, greasy taste then pulled out her magic-words journal. If she waited for morning to write the night’s adventure-quest, she’d lose half of what had happened and think the other half was a wild story storm, truth but not necessarily fact. She used a purple magic marker for direct quotes. What you think you know that ain’t so can make you a slave was a great line for her Eshu poem. The journal pages were thick; nothing bled through, and each sentence lifted her spirits.

  Without meaning to she was singing, Ain’t No Sunshine When He’s Gone.

  “Is that you, baby?” Opal murmured after the first two verses. She hadn’t called Cinnamon baby since she was three. “You sound good.” That was a lie. Cinnamon’s voice was shot. “You OK?”

  Cinnamon grunted. “You’re the one we gotta worry —”

  “I’m fine.” Opal squinted in the fluorescent light. “Just, high as a space shot.” Her face creased into a shit-eating grin. Drugged for sure. “I dreamt you got lost in a big snow ocean. You were on an ole-timey steamship floating in a sea of fluffy flakes.”

  “We were, sort of.” Cinnamon smiled.

  “You gonna give me a kiss, baby?”

  Opal had never been a touchy-feely, cuddly mom. Afraid to hug too hard, Cinnamon gently scooped Opal close and kissed a sunken cheek. A cigarette smell clung to hair that had more gray than Cinnamon remembered. Opal’s breath was syrupy sweet. Her skin was warm. Was this healing, or drugs?

  Cinnamon sat back in the chair. “What are these?”

  Two African statues, a female and a male carved from dark wood, stood guard on Opal’s nightstand. Both statues wore knife-in-the-head headdresses. The female was kneeling and holding erect breasts, offering them. The male crouched and held a rigid penis, offering this too.

  “A friend of Raven’s gave me those,” Opal said. “Joe? Yeah Joe.”

  “Joe?” Cinnamon stroked the statues. Static electricity shocked her. From wood? “Whoa.”

  “Joe and Raven were always talking AFRICA, always scheming and dreaming revolution. You remember Joe?”

  “Not really.” Cinnamon traced an Eshu feather and cut her finger. “Owa.”

  “You never remember anybody! Who do you get that from?”

  “Myself.” Both feathers were razor sharp.

  “Maybe it’s Junkyard Joe.” Her mom’s face was soft and open. The poker glare was tucked in a drawer somewhere with the rest of her regular Opal uniform.

  “So what’s this Joe look like?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Brown-skinned, sad eyes. Crooked legs and back. He’s got that wild bush hair and scars from the war.” Opal paused. “But he never looks the same.”

  “He came to Sekou’s funeral.”

  “Joe wasn’t there. Only family.” Opal groaned. “Your Uncle Clarence was —”

  “Not inside the funeral home,” Cinnamon deflected Clarence, “in the parking lot. He was asking for spare change.”

  “Panhandling at Sekou’s funeral?” Opal brushed cracker crumbs from the sheets with an antique handkerchief. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Cinnamon worked Redwood’s spell #7 — say what you love. “The funeral was a hard day. Griot Joe smelled like trouble. You were busy holding up the world.”

  “Joe was cleaned up today, gave me his handkerchief.” She waved it. Embroidery around the edge ended in a “B,” for Bob? “He left those statues to keep me company in my dreams. A female statue’s rare. I hope he didn’t steal —”

  “Naw.” Cinnamon pointed at the feather-knives in their heads. “Eshu.”

  “Eshu, yes. I thought he was sneezing or high.” Opal almost laughed. “He said Eshu threw a stone and hit a bird yesterday.”

  “Eshu’s an orisha, force of nature, guardian of the crossroad.”

  “From West Africa, right?”

  “Yeah, but Eshu belongs to the whole universe like, like black holes and sonnets, like electron clouds, honey-bee dances, and the Blues.”

  “Go on with your bad self.” Opal actually sounded proud. She pulled Cinnamon close. “Joe, high as a satellite, visits your Daddy, religiously. Star Deer too.” She frowned. “Ms. Washington is back tomorrow. Star’s substitute gig is up.” She squirmed. “I can’t get myself to that nursing home. What’s the point?”

  “I understand,” Cinnamon said mildly. Opal had given up on Raven, but Aidan would take Cinnamon to see Daddy. If Opal refused to tell where the nursing home was, Aidan would still find it. Iris claimed he could track anything, even haints and wayward spirits. Aidan didn’t need to be a ghost scout to find a man lying stock still in a coma, his one and only son to boot. “How’d Joe know you were here?”

  “Everybody knows… Joe said Iris and your grandparents were coming. He said don’t be angry ’cause love powers even a rogue ship.” Opal furrowed her brow. “Joe looks like somebody else. He must have a twin sister or… How do you say twin in Yoruba?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Professor Iris talks that Motherland mess to you. And, baby, you don’t forget anything.” She reached for the water bottle. Cinnamon turned the straw to her lips. Opal drank it dry. She grimaced. “Drugs. Dripping in my veins, but nasty in my mouth.” Opal never smoked weed, drank wine, or sipped a beer. Claimed she couldn’t handle drugs: They handle me. Once when she thought Cinnamon was asleep, she told Aunt Becca, Why I wanna scramble my brains and spread my legs. Sekou was a marijuana baby. No more of that. “Wait. How did you get here? That’s what I want to know.”

  The Mod Squad blizzard-quest gushed from Cinnamon’s mouth at hyper speed. She left out ghost Sekou.

  “Slow down.” Opal waved a spindly arm. “Life goes fast enough.” When had she gotten so splintery? Iris was right. They had to eat better. Skinny folks had no back-up energy source. Cinnamon should get a job to help with bills, or — “What’s your rush?”

  Cinnamon snorted. “I hate slow.” Fast people couldn’t just decide to take their feet off a gas pedal. They were built fast. It was fast or nothing, fast or utter chaos. If she didn’t go at her speed, she couldn’t make sense.

  “You arguing with me in your head? Before you know it, you’ll be old and —”

  “Standing on a bridge to nowhere?”

  “Yeah.” Opal sucked on the empty water bottle. “God, I could really use a —”

  “You’ve got more than a cigarette to live for.” Cinnamon snatched the bottle and ran into the bathroom for a refill. “You’re not over yet.”

  “How did I get stuck with such a —”

  “I’m not a stupid optimist.” Cinnamon came back and slammed the bottle down.

  “So quit acting like one. Get in the real world.”

  Cinnamon waved at the tubes and monitors. “Is that where you are?” She cringed, wishing she could take the mean words back.

  Opal wiggled a loose fang on the orca knapsack “Aren’t you too old to be dragging this ratty thing around?”

  “Daddy gave it to me.” Cinnamon stuffed the journal through the fangs. “After I almost drowned and got saved.”

  “It was a seal supposedly saved you, wasn’t it, not a dolphin?”

  “This is an orca.” Cinnamon rubbed the soft underbelly against her cheek. She’d been talking to an orca at the aquarium, jumping up and down, and then she slid down a wall into a murky pool. She grabbed on to a musty creature who dipped in and out of icy water till they reached a sunny rock. The seal crawled off and Cinnamon clapped her hands like flippers. Eve
rybody, seals and people too, were clapping and laughing. Raven scooped her up and hugged her tight, water dripping everywhere.

  “No big lying like you do.” Opal yawned in more oxygen. “Did Raven make up a tall tale on this knapsack or did that shit really happen?”

  “I don’t know.” Cinnamon didn’t care. Her orca was full of memories and dreams. It had a mind of its own. Why throw that away?

  “Raven loved to tell that story.”

  “You don’t believe any of it?”

  “No.”

  Cinnamon held up the Adinkra cloth envelope — fire in the eyes. “Aunt Iris wrote me a bunch of letters.”

  “Iris and them hoodoo fools ’llowed to tell you anything.”

  “Why have you been keeping important shit from me?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “I’m no baby you got to watch sleep so I don’t get hurt in a nightmare!” Cinnamon hissed. “I pick your butt off the bathroom floor every other day.”

  “OK. You so grown you can take anything?” Opal clutched the bars on the bed. “I told Sekou that he might as well have pulled that trigger — a selfish little shit out there chasing some faggot who was too old for him, Sekou dragged my beautiful Raven down in the gutter with him.” Opal struggled for breath.

  “Stop.” Cinnamon didn’t want to hear any more.

  “Sekou took everything right to his heart. That’s why he picked up a needle.”

  “Stop. I know that!” Cinnamon shouted.

  The old lady roommate jerked awake and smiled at them. “Oh good, you two getting to talk.” She drifted off again.

  Cinnamon clamped her mouth tight. Her thoughts were loud enough. Sekou had a tough-guy-rapper act that fooled the masses, but when it came to folks he loved, he had zero defenses. If you loved him, you knew that. Scratch Sekou and he’d break out in a rash. Say something a little out the way, and he couldn’t talk to you for months, years. He was always throwing up shields, but Lexy or Opal on a rampage could batter Sekou’s shields to shreds in seconds if Cinnamon wasn’t around for backup.