Will Do Magic for Small Change

by Andrea Hairston

  Bob pretended he spoke no English and responded in patois: “Cut your chains and you become free, cut your roots and you die.”

  Liam took off with Ghost Dog for the Wild West Show while we explored the White City — Greek temples, fountains, and great halls. Plaster and wood masqueraded as marble and stone. A twin sister to Lady Liberty presided over a lagoon. Electric lights sparkled in dusty twilight air. Desert people, snow people, travelers from island paradises and mountain retreats laughed, told tall tales, and ate delicious food. They sported costumes invented for the night or worn by humans for a thousand years. Skin was tattooed and scented or simply star burnt and wind etched. Musicians serenaded us, playing strings, gourds, reeds, and gut. We laughed for no reason but good spirits.

  As we marched beyond the lagoon, the air twisted and broke apart. Kehinde gripped my hand. Two people glided through the spaces between things and stepped from a future place into our moment. They smelled of rainstorm, wood smoke, and decayed leaves. She had a purple flower stuck in fat braids. He had a colorful turban wrapped around stringy black hair. Redwood he called her, and he was her Aidan. Gawking at the open air museum, they almost stumbled into us. We made a space to let them pass. Aidan gaped in my eyes. Redwood nodded a greeting. Kehinde and I nodded back. Oblivious, Somso chattered about a surprise to come; Bob, still in a foul Chicago mood, brooded. Redwood took Aidan’s arm and ambled away before I could ask about their mode of transport.

  “I bet they’re royalty from Africa, Dahomey or Abyssinia,” Redwood whispered, delighted by us. “They came from their castles in a great ship ’cross the ocean.”

  “What if they’re regular folk just come to the Fair?” Aidan said, dazzled also.

  “You mean same as you and me?” Redwood smiled and mimicked Kehinde’s warrior ahosi stride for Aidan’s wide grin. “Can’t believe your eyes, huh?”

  “Of course I do.” Aidan scooped up a bead that had fallen from my waist. He stuffed it in his pocket as he and Redwood hurried off.

  “When you first appeared, the air twisted so,” Kehinde said to me. “Who are they?”

  “The future,” I replied. “Eshu favors us with tomorrow.”

  Kehinde considered them. “Eshu never reveals the whole truth in one glance. Who’s to say if they’re a good sign or bad? Eshu favors no one. Only a fool thinks otherwise.”

  Just after bumping into the future, we collided with the past. Yao the incorruptible had shipped with Xavier Pené to perform African savagery and primitive derring-do in the Dahomey village. He jumped from the basket of a giant hot air orb. I didn’t recognize this muscular Fon warrior with scars over his heart striding toward us. Eshu had been riding me the day he attacked us in Ouidah. Kehinde thrust me behind her. Bob stood shoulder to shoulder with her. Somso ran into Yao’s arms. Surprise! She’d met him earlier and planned this rendezvous. Kehinde drew her cutlass.

  Thus ends the best Chicago memory.

  Heroes

  “This is from Taiwo’s waist beads!” Cinnamon displayed the mosaic bead Redwood and Aidan had given her.

  “Wow.” Klaus passed the bead to Marie as if it were a sacred artifact.

  Marie rolled it around her weird hand. “Time travel, really?”

  Klaus smiled. “Can they still do that?”

  On cue, Redwood boomed at the front door. “That fool bus dispatcher be looking up his behind for yesterday and tomorrow. Why feel sorry for him and not me and Opal?”

  “She got her job back,” Iris said. “Bus company couldn’t fire a hero-mom.”

  The elders laughed on the porch as Commander Williams roared up in her silver Audi. Mrs. B was riding shotgun. It was past midnight — no time to read about Somso and Yao’s dastardly scheme. Marie hitched a ride with Klaus and put the ten-dollar cab fare in the Squad’s emergency fund. High on each other, they danced down wet, slippery steps. At the bottom, Cinnamon pulled them into a three-way hug. Her heart ached. Commander Williams threatened to honk the horn. Marie kissed one cheek and then another; Klaus did the same — a Euro-chic cover for young lust.

  “Sunday brunch is at eleven.” Iris called from the porch.

  How would Cinnamon last until Sunday? “We’ll read Chronicles 23 together.”

  Klaus and Marie nodded and said, “Ciao!” as the Audi sped off in a cloud of drizzle.

  Cinnamon hurried to her room. She squeezed the flames of flickering candles. Pulling on wildcat PJ’s, she was itchy and tingly. Punches, kisses, and a tap from Raven echoed across her skin. Too weird and wired for sleep, she ran into the hall and bumped into the elders, coming to tuck her in.

  “Mom won’t get better at Aunt Becca’s,” Cinnamon declared. “She’s running.”

  Iris sighed. Aidan and Redwood sang:

  Running won’t set you free

  Yeah, a man could still be a slave

  On the loose and-a acting brave

  In shackles he just don’t see

  No — Running won’t make you free

  They had a song for everything, but she wasn’t a baby anymore.

  “Did you two meet Griot Joe in 1893?” Cinnamon climbed under the covers.

  Aidan shrugged. “Opal’s famous, made it in the papers.”

  Redwood dropped an article from the Pittsburgh Press in Cinnamon’s lap. Gwyneth Fraser, the glass slipper lady who dumped Harry for Tom, had written a story on Opal: STAGE MOM A TRUE HERO: Making The World Real With Every Breath. Hero Opal Jones set knife boy on the right track, stood up to coke dealers, and got out the vote. She put her older brother through law school, showed up for her man in a coma, and believed in her daughter’s theatre dream when no one else would.

  “Is this true?” Cinnamon was shocked. “Helping Uncle Clarence?”

  “Viet Nam nearly wrecked him,” Redwood said. “Opal had to do something.”

  “She never let Clarence tell anybody,” Aidan said.

  “Wow.” Cinnamon read the article again. “When did this come out?”

  “Two weeks ago. Opal hates public display. Especially since she lost Raven to that coma…” Iris’s face lit up. She slipped into the hall, down the stairs, and up again.

  Redwood watched her. “Following a hoodoo trail.”

  Cinnamon yawned. “What trail?”

  Aidan winked at her despite what a bitch she’d been. “Get some rest.”

  “OK, fine, don’t tell me.” Reading the article again, Cinnamon fell asleep.

  Early Saturday morning, Kevin stopped by to pick up clothes for Opal. Cinnamon was ready for him. She jumped in the front seat and buckled up. “I’m coming with you.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes and put the Toyota in gear. They drove twenty minutes in uneasy silence. Subtext crackled. Becca lived in Highland Park, a nice neighborhood near East Liberty. Wilted crocuses dribbled color on muddy ground in her yard.

  “A liberty was common land right beyond the city,” Cinnamon said, cheery and sweet. “Look, the pussy willows have buds. I’m missing spring.”

  Kevin grunted and parked. “No mess, you hear me?”

  “Right.” Cinnamon snatched the garment bag and followed him in the side door.

  Becca hugged Kevin and kissed him deeply before noticing Cinnamon. “What are you doing here, baby girl?” Becca took the garment bag.

  Cinnamon shrugged. “Can’t I —”

  “Who turned the music off?” Skinny Opal straggled in from the kitchen wearing baggy pants and flip-flops. Her skin was ashy. Twists of hair broke out of an oily scarf. She clutched her purse and pressed buttons on the cassette player.

  “Hey, Mom, how you doing?” Cinnamon smiled.

  Bob Marley wailed Redemption Song. Opal leaned against the mantle over the fake fireplace. “Since when are you up so early on Saturday?”

  “Since I read that article.” Cinnamon stepped inside Opal’s battered shields and hugged her. The smell of hospital disinfectant mingled with coffee. “You’re a hero.”

  “Naw.” Opal grimaced and pushed Cinn
amon away. “That’s your daddy.”

  “You too. You shouldn’t keep that to yourself. I only knew the knife-boy story.”

  “Reporter dragged that crap out of me when I was drugged.”

  “They brought you some clothes.” Becca held up the garment bag.

  Opal waved her hand. “Nothing’s going to fit.”

  “Elastic waists, good and tight,” Cinnamon said.

  “I don’t need anything squeezing me.” Opal snatched the clothes from Becca and shoved them at Kevin. “Take ’em back.” Kevin blinked at her.

  Becca grabbed the bag. “What’ll you wear?”

  “New clothes,” Opal said as LaBelle sang Voulez vous coucher avec moi? “I love this song.” She bumped her butt in everybody’s face.

  “Medication is still making you dopey.” Kevin did a few moves with her.

  “Free at last! I can have a cigarette without a damn alarm shrieking.” Opal rifled her purse. “Where are my cigarettes?”

  “No smoking in my house,” Becca shouted. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, kill yourself out on the street,” Cinnamon said, “on that bridge to nowhere.”

  Opal crumpled, as if a bomb exploded her insides. Her wheezing was so loud — Cinnamon couldn’t think or breathe or take her mean words back. Becca dropped to the floor with Opal, talking softly. Kevin dragged Cinnamon to the car.

  “I told you, no mess.” He blasted Michael Jackson’s Thriller and drove too fast in pounding rain. She gripped the dashboard for fifteen tense minutes and banged her knees when he jerked to a halt. “Getting out?” He left the motor running. “Or do you plan on messing up the rest of my day?”

  “Sorry.” She stepped out on wobbly legs. “I haven’t been right for a while.”

  “What you goin’ do about that?” Driving away, Kevin splashed muck on her.

  Secret Stash

  Cinnamon hid in her room the rest of Saturday. She did three weeks of math, wrote a paper on the Yoruba, Fon, and Igbo for world history, finished To Kill A Mockingbird, and started 1984. She fell asleep on Opal’s hero article. She woke to a warm and sunny Sunday. Forsythia had blossomed overnight. She stared out the window, panicked. No more chores, homework, or bad weather to blame for being evil.

  “Go get some sun before brunch.” Redwood shoved her out the back door.

  The neighbors were at church. Cinnamon unchained Rain and let her jump the fence. She sat on a rock with Rain’s head in her lap. “Doing the evil attack dog all day must be a drag.” Petting the Doberman, she missed her Squad’s arrival in the front. Klaus brought a Passamaquoddy thunderbird story for Aidan’s collection. Marie had found a Quillayute one. This celestial bird had graced Indians from Washington state to Maine. They wouldn’t tell Cinnamon these marvelous stories. She had to find her own tale first.

  “Go look under your bed,” Aidan said.

  “It’s time for brunch. I’m hungry,” she said.

  “Iris say Sekou left you a treasure trove.” Aidan squeezed her nose. “Go on. Your friends will help.”

  Cinnamon’s stomach flip-flopped when they charged upstairs to her room.

  “You have a box from Sekou under your bed all this time?” Klaus tugged her braids.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t look.” Marie peeked underneath.

  Cinnamon shrugged. “I want to look now, OK?”

  Marie and Klaus pulled the bed away from the wall. They pushed aside ratty sneakers and an old gym towel. Dust bunnies made everybody sneeze. Marie dumped newspapers from December 1984 on the desk chair, and Klaus dragged out a cardboard box wrapped in crinkled paper — planets, stars, and galaxies on navy blue black.

  “Go on,” they said in sync.

  Cinnamon made herself open the box. There were nine things, a hoodoo number:

  1: The thunderbird tee-shirt Raven silk screened on top of everything

  2: A bear claw on a leather thong that Aidan sent for Sekou’s eighteenth birthday

  3: A stack of letters from Iris wrapped in Redwood’s river silk

  4: The mix tape of Sekou’s last jams with Dr. Bug-Man Lexy

  5: A purple owl butterfly with wings that mimicked owl eyes

  6: A broken banjo string looped through three tiny keys

  7: A manila envelope with thirty dictionary-boy words on poster board

  8: A Rain Forest Lounge Exhibition list — thirty words paired with dimensions

  9: A tee-shirt at the bottom: We’re all mostly space and the force to hold it together

  Dazed, Cinnamon handed Marie the thunderbird tee. Marie slipped it on. Cinnamon thrust the bear claw at Klaus. He shook his head. Marie grabbed the thong and tied it around his neck. Cinnamon sank to the floor. Klaus waved the mostly space tee in her face. Marie tugged off Cinnamon’s sweatshirt and with Klaus’s help got the iridescent green and purple tee over her DD sports bra. Cinnamon shivered, too out of it to be embarrassed.

  “What’s the Rain Forest Lounge Exhibition?” Klaus picked up the list.

  “I don’t fucking know!” Cinnamon regretted yelling. “Sorry. The box was like Sekou hiding under my bed. Opening it, it’s like he’s gone for good. Stupid, huh?”

  “It’s cool,” Marie said.

  “Mallemaroking?” Klaus handed the list to Marie. “Is this good English?”

  “Probably.” Cinnamon glanced at it. “Like Douroucouli and Magniloquent.”

  “Adumbration is number one, but the list isn’t alphabetical.” Marie tapped a word. “Xenophilia. That’s the opposite of xenophobia.”

  “Sweet potato pancakes. Hot dog!” Aidan shouted from the hall.

  “We have to find him a new happy phrase,” Cinnamon said.

  Iris appeared in the doorway looking devilish and spritely. “Black bean and cilantro patties too.” She dropped a handkerchief on the floor. Squawking and flapping her arms, she lifted a leg, bent down, and gripped the handkerchief with her teeth. Marie, Klaus, and Cinnamon fell over mimicking these backcountry moves. “Mr. Buzzard takes practice, but he never lies to you,” Iris said. “Tucking treasure under the bed runs in the family. Opal told Sekou to hide those keys. Let’s see what they open up.”

  Redwood and Aidan were staying in Opal and Raven’s room. Bright rectangles marked the walls where Raven’s paintings used to hang. Carved animals scampered on the shelves through pictures of Sekou and Cinnamon. On the dresser, a half-smoked cigarette butt stood at the center of an ashtray sculpture. Broken lighters, burnt matches, and ashes spiraled around the cut glass pyramid — a hoodoo altar.

  “Redwood wants to give that mess to Opal,” Aidan said. “I persuaded her to wait.”

  “She won’t like it anymore next week,” Redwood said.

  “Maybe she’ll laugh though,” Iris said. Cinnamon laughed now.

  “What are these?” Klaus asked.

  Two cedar boxes with padlocks sat on the rag rug. Aidan hauled a third box from under the bed. His back popped when he stood up. Cinnamon tossed Marie then Klaus a key. The locks opened on their first try. They lifted the lids together.

  “Daddy’s paintings! Mom didn’t burn them.” Cinnamon hopped around the room like a little kid. She twirled the elders and gyrated with Marie and Klaus. She halted at the center box. Her hands shook as she unrolled canvas #16. Gasps erupted at Kehinde dancing with moonlight in Dahomey.

  “That’s the image at the end of Chronicles 1,” Klaus said.

  “Daddy’s colors are more vivid,” Cinnamon said.

  The landscape was more playful, and Kehinde looked even fiercer. Klaus unrolled #3: the aje riding silvery waves and baby Cinnamon clutching seaweed hair. Raven had used her as a model for Melinga. Marie held up #27: Taiwo hugging a great iroko.

  “Everybody should see these,” Marie said.

  They covered the bed, floor, and walls with twenty-three canvasses. The paintings glinted in the gloomy light. Some pictures were unfamiliar, telling stories they hadn’t yet read. Cinnamon unfurled a galaxy image and squealed.r />
  “Let’s do an exhibit right downstairs, with good lighting. We’ll hang this star-scape on the ceiling and we’ll do a, a performance for Daddy’s birthday at the nursing home: contact, poetry, and music. Me and Granddaddy can write a black-bird song for crows and Ravens. Everybody has to come and be stimulating. A hoodoo spell. ” She tugged at Redwood and Iris. “You too. Please. It’ll be for all of us.”

  Aidan held his breath. Iris nodded, and so did Redwood. Klaus and Marie cheered.

  A timer went off in the kitchen. “Anybody hungry?” Iris said.

  After brunch Cinnamon and her Squad entertained the elders in the TV alcove with the continuing saga of the Wanderer from another dimension. Redwood and Aidan chuckled over their appearance at the Fair and lit candles for the next chapter.

  CHRONICLES 23: Chicago Nightmare

  “Yao the incorruptible wants Somso to run off with him,” I translated Fon for Bob. We headed for Buffalo Bill’s masquerade just outside the Fairgrounds. The deserted field at twilight’s edge was ominous. “Yao promises to protect Somso and Melinga from a fate worse than death with American showmen.” Melinga fussed. I plucked her from Kehinde’s back and threw her high. She sang a sea-mammal song. Somso flinched.

  “I’m a man of honor,” Yao declared, “not an oath-breaker who pierced his brother’s heart.” He watched me fly to catch Melinga with blood in his eyes. “Decide.”

  Kehinde slashed creeping mist with her cutlass. Cannons at the Wild West Show roared, and horses shrieked. Cowboys, Indians, and the cavalry played life and death. Liam and Ghost Dog were to meet us after the stagecoach raid. I hoped they came soon, before Kehinde or the aje squandered Yao’s lifeblood.

  “Kehinde’s betrayal cost many ahosi warrior lives.” Yao spit disgust at her feet.

  Appalled, Bob halted. His Yoruba robes fluttered in the wind. We all halted.

  “What do you know?” Somso pulled Yao out of cutlass range. “Abla said you were at the river.”