by Cutter, Leah
He also wore a golden charm, like Grandma Loretta’s and Reverend Stevens’ and others. Only it was in the shape of a flute.
Roberta and Buddy sat on the stoop one evening while both Mama and Papa were working late, talking with neighbors and hoping to catch a cool breeze, when Buddy mentioned playing in a second-line.
Jolene interrupted to ask, “Y’all play the flute, don’t you?”
Buddy stared at Jolene like she’d grown crawfish tails in her new weave. Even with his dark coloring Jolene could tell he’d grown a little pale. “I ain’t never played the flute!” Buddy shouted at her.
Jolene stood up and started backing away, one step at a time, off the front porch and into the house. Buddy followed after her, still yelling. “That ain’t a man’s piece. That’s for women and kids. I play a drum. I keep the heart of the line.”
“Young man,” Grandma Loretta said, thumping her cane as she rose slowly from where she’d been resting on the couch. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Buddy went from spitting mad to contrite in seconds. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, visibly shrinking. “It’s just Jolene here was accusing me of playing the flute.”
“I just asked—”
Grandma Loretta glared at Jolene like she was the one in trouble. And she was, now, for talking back.
Jolene knew she was right, though. Buddy sometimes played the flute, in secret. She could see it, a ghostly image, bent over, beside him. However, it wasn’t manly enough as far as he was concerned, and it shamed him something awful.
“I’m sorry,” Jolene said. “I’ll never ask again.”
“That’s good,” Buddy said, his words soft, his stare hard and mean.
“Now y’all kiss and make up,” Grandma Loretta directed. She raised her cane and indicated they should get closer.
When Buddy kissed Jolene’s cheek she saw even more. He had talent with the flute. He needed to fly free above the others, lead the band as they marched. The drum made his feet sink into the ground, so he trudged through the earth, always losing time. His captain was about to kick him off.
Buddy was not ever going to follow his heart.
Once Buddy left, Grandma Loretta warned Jolene about her gift again. “You can’t just speak out. You gotta dance up to it.”
“Ain’t it better to know?”
“Not everyone will thank you for it,” Grandma Loretta said kindly. As Jolene made her way back to the kitchen to fetch Grandma some iced tea, she heard her mutter, “Rather deal with the dead any day.”
* * *
After Buddy, Jolene ran away from anyone she saw who had a charm. She didn’t want her gift, didn’t want to know anyone’s path. It wasn’t as if the few people she told had wanted to know.
Jolene still spent time in the mirror looking at her reflection in all kinds of light, trying to catch a glimpse of her own golden charm, but she never did see any. She was always both sad and relieved at her failure.
One fall day when the heat wasn’t too bad and the wind from the Mississippi blew steady and strong, keeping things cool, Jolene called in sick to Jimmy’s bar and restaurant, then caught a series of buses all the way to the French Quarter, more than a few miles from their house in the Bywater.
Fortune-tellers traditionally set up tables in Jackson Square, on the side closest to the big, fancy church. Jolene walked past palm readers, tarot readers, even a crystal fairy reader. None of them were anything special. She didn’t know how she knew; she just did. None of them had a gift, not like hers. Plus, there was only one other black person there—ripping people off by giving false hope seemed to be mainly for white people.
Jolene hadn’t come to the Quarter with anyone; she hadn’t told anyone what she was doing. Grandma Loretta wouldn’t have approved. Her sisters didn’t understand why she couldn’t tell them their fortune, or anything about their fate—it seemed to only be certain people who had a true path. Everyone else just rambled along doing the best they could.
Now it was Jolene’s turn to ramble, up and down the streets of the Quarter, along the broken sidewalks. Bars on Bourbon belched music with a driving beat, as did the T-shirt tourist shops. Courtyard scents of jasmine fought with the stale beer and sour sweat on the street. She realized later that she was, indeed, looking for something, letting her nose lead her.
On one of the short streets, the smell of overly sweet incense flared out around Jolene, making her stop and sneeze. When she looked up she realized she stood outside a voodoo shop.
Something was in the shop. Something special. Jolene nearly turned away, but she found she wanted to know. It was why she’d come to the Quarter.
Even though the street had been shaded from the bright afternoon sunshine by the old houses, inside was even darker. The smell of incense faded, replaced with a musty, animal smell, like fur and scales wet by river water. A bookshelf stood immediately in front of Jolene, filled with packets of ingredients for spells. Gris-gris voodoo dolls, hand sewn and obviously for tourists, sat propped up on the shelves on the far end of room.
Off to the left, a low table perched. Seated behind it was an old white man, with fat hands, jowls that hung low, and watery blue eyes. His white hair had been shaved close to his head and stood straight up on the edges. He talked in low, sliding tones to the young white couple who stood before him, clutching pamphlets in their hands and listening wide-eyed as he told of the ghosts they’d hear about on the tour.
Jolene nearly turned around and left. But the man pinned her with a sharp gaze, his eyes turning golden for the briefest moment.
When the couple finally left, the man turned to her. “Little Seer,” he said softly, beckoning her closer. “How can I, the professor, help you?”
“Seer?” Jolene asked, not wanting to come forward but feeling like she must.
“Little Seer,” the professor wheezed. “You don’t see a lot. Not as much as me.”
Jolene bristled. “And what do y’all think you see?” She took a step back when his eyes changed from pale blue to gator gold.
“More than you. You’re human.”
Grandma Loretta had warned Jolene about the ones who weren’t human. No wonder she didn’t go to the Quarter, and always complained about the creoles, the ones of mixed blood and spirits. “Then what do you want from me?”
“Thought you’d come looking for me, looking for answers.”
Jolene wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said. It wasn’t as if anyone asked her to decide anything. Grandma Loretta said everything would just work out fine. Her sisters glided from one crisis to the next. Not Mama or Papa or any of her aunts or uncles gave her directions. They all just expected her life to go on as it always had.
But a pressure was building inside Jolene, like her skin was shrinking and wouldn’t be big enough to hold all of her soon. Grandma Loretta had told her she needed to use her gift more, but Jolene refused.
“What do you see?”
Jolene took the professor literally. She looked around the room, dismissing most of it as tourist kitsch. The old man shone the brightest in the dim light. She was about to tell him when she noticed a purple crystal geode on a shelf close to the desk. It felt warm against her palm and beat with a slow rhythm, like a funeral dirge. When she turned it over, she saw the top purple color gave way to ash, hard stone and something else.
That rock wasn’t something, but someone, buried deep inside.
She put it back on the shelf, dropping it as if it’d burned her.
The professor pursed his lips. “You don’t see much, but you see enough. What do you want?”
“I don’t know!” Jolene said, frustrated. “A good job? A husband? Kids? A normal life?” As she listed off things, Jolene realized she was speaking the truth. She wanted a husband who would treat her good, a couple of kids, and house of her own.
“A normal life,” the professor sneered. “Then you don’t need me. Go and find yourself a man. Human,�
�� he added, a caution Jolene didn’t need.
“Will that be enough?” Jolene asked, that extra bit of something still buzzing under her skin.
The professor shrugged. “Don’t know. Depends on you. Could be, though.”
Nodding, Jolene turned to go. She paused, turned back. “Thank you,” she said. He hadn’t actually done anything but help her say out loud what she wanted.
“You’re welcome. But next time, you need to go ask the lady in the wall. Bring her whisky and good beads and she’ll tell your fortune.”
Jolene had no idea what the professor was talking about. It didn’t matter. There wouldn’t be a next time. Jolene had a plan.
* * *
As much as Jolene tried to deny her gift, when she met Simon, she knew he was the one. He did prep work for Cafe Amelie, was kind and thoughtful, and crazy about her. For Grandma Loretta’s birthday they went to his restaurant for brunch, sat in the courtyard, and ate fancy tourist food. Spring breezes kept them cool and the fountain splashed merrily.
As they finished, the head chef came out with Simon. He was a short white man, wearing a white chef’s coat. For a moment Jolene was worried that he was other than he seemed, more than human, but then he smiled and she realized it was just joy bubbling up inside him that made him seem so light.
“Heard we had a special lady here today,” he boomed, taking Grandma Loretta’s hand and then kissing her cheek.
Grandma Loretta laughed and said, “Hush, you. And thank you. It’s been lovely.”
“Thank you,” he said, kissing the back of her hand, then coming over to stand next to Jolene. “And here’s another special lady,” he said, smiling at her.
“Nice to meet you, Chef Gilbert,” Jolene said, standing to shake his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “You ever get tired of Simon, you let me know, all right, young lady?” he added with a wink.
Jolene looked over at Simon, who looked shyly at his feet. “Might be a while,” she told him. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”
“It might be a while,” Chef Gilbert said, releasing her hand. “Now, Simon, I think you had something to say.”
Simon bit his lip and walked forward, small steps, almost stumbling. He fished a box out of his coat, made of dark blue velvet that seemed even darker against the pink skin of his palms.
Jolene couldn’t believe it. The tiny box seemed to suck all the air out of her lungs.
Simon went down onto one knee in front of Jolene, then held up the open box, presenting it to her. Jolene felt her heart beating like crazy in her chest. They’d talked a little about getting married. It was still a surprise.
“Will you do me the honor of marrying me?” Simon said, his face open and bright as he smiled up at her.
Jolene reached one shaking hand down to box, afraid that it would pop like a bubble if she touched it. The fingers of her other hand pressed against her lips.
“Say something, girl,” Grandma Loretta scolded.
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” Jolene said, reaching out with both hands now to Simon, to draw him up and to his feet, to wrap around him, real and solid.
The chef congratulated her, and all her family came close to tell her how happy they were. She knew she was the happiest of all, though.
Her dreams of a normal life were coming true.
* * *
Jolene sat at Mama’s table shucking snap peas and praying the cramps would go away. She’d come over that night because though she loved her own house, Mama’s tiny kitchen gave her more comfort sometimes. It hadn’t changed at all since she was a girl: The table in the center was wooden and scarred by careless children, the chairs scuffed and needing another coat of paint, and while the stove was new, the pots hanging over it were well-loved.
Another cramp rolled through Jolene. She swallowed down the sudden bile in her mouth, determined not to have to excuse herself. She took short breaths and tried to ride it out.
“Jolene, you fixing to tell me what’s wrong or you just gonna keep murdering those poor peas?”
“Sorry, Mama,” Jolene said, contritely pushing the bowl of peas across the table.
“It isn’t that perfect husband of yours, is it? Something between you lovebirds?”
That was the name Roberta had given Jolene and Simon. After three years they were still very much in love, practically cooing at each other.
“No, ma’am. Simon’s still perfect.” Jolene sighed and rubbed her belly. “It’s me.” She couldn’t hold back the tears. “Mama, I lost another one.”
“Oh, baby girl.” Mama came around to Jolene’s side of the table, wrapped her arms around her, and held her tightly against her own stomach. “Shh. Shh. It’s all right. There will be others,” she said.
“What if there aren’t?” Jolene wailed. In three years she hadn’t been able to carry a baby more than a few months. “What if I can’t have a baby, Mama?” She couldn’t articulate her other fears: What if Simon left her because she couldn’t have a baby? And what if her powers kept getting stronger? Strange beings now showed themselves to her on the street, half human, half animal, as well as some things she couldn’t even name. She just wanted a normal life.
“Shh, shh. No need to get worked up over what-if’s,” Mama said. “I know it took Grandma Loretta a few tries to have me. But she managed.”
Jolene stilled. Was that why she couldn’t have a baby? Because she had a gift like Grandma Loretta’s? “Maybe I should talk with her.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mama said. “Why don’t you go wash your face and pop in to see if she’s awake?”
Jolene nodded, then went and did as Mama suggested.
No one knew exactly how old Grandma Loretta was. She didn’t have a birth certificate, and refused to speculate. Mama was in her 60s, which meant Grandma Loretta could have been anywhere from 75 to 105. She spent a lot more time in bed now, saying she was “Dreaming between the worlds.” No one knew what that meant and Grandma Loretta wouldn’t explain.
When Jolene went to look at her, Grandma Loretta opened her eyes and said, “Come in, come in.”
Grandma Loretta’s room had changed some since Jolene was a girl. The crazy quilt had been replaced with one more patterned, pictures of grandchildren and great-grandchildren sat on the shelves above the bed, and the lone wooden rocker had been replaced by a big, overstuffed recliner, while a second chair waited next to the bed. The room still gave the impression of sparseness, as if the furniture didn’t fill the room at all, leaving plenty of room for all her ghosts.
“You lost another one,” Grandma Loretta said, reaching out for Jolene’s hand. Her fingers were like twigs wrapped in faded, brown skin. They didn’t shake at all.
Miserable, Jolene nodded, taking a deep breath to hold back the tears.
“It’s hard for women like us to have children,” Grandma Loretta said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jolene demanded. She winced at how harsh her tone sounded, but she really wanted to know.
“You always had your heart set on them. I’d had some trouble, but that didn’t mean you would. Plus, I didn’t know then.”
Jolene let the words sink in. “Didn’t know what?” she asked.
“Our gift makes us different,” Grandma Loretta said, tugging at Jolene’s hand to get her to look up. “While we’re part of this world, we’re also part of something else.”
“Is this what you mean? Dreaming between the worlds?”
Grandma Loretta nodded. “There are worlds and worlds,” she said, staring hard at Jolene. “Like a cluster of soap bubbles, all connected with thin walls.”
“I don’t understand,” Jolene said, wanting to pull away but making herself stay still.
“When we see, we’re catching a glimpse, a tiny sliver, of one of those other worlds.” Grandma Loretta paused. “Babies see everything their mamas do, but they forget when they’re born. Those other worlds, it scares them, keeps them away.”
Jolene pressed her lips together and just nodded. It sounded like nonsense. “Can I have a baby?” she finally asked.
“Lord, child, I don’t know. You need to ask a fortuneteller that kind of thing.”
The memory of the professor and the tiny shop in the Quarter came to Jolene. “Should I ask the lady in the wall?”
“Who told you about her?” Grandma Loretta asked, her gaze piercing.
Jolene merely shrugged.
“Hmph. She’s good, but she likes to play games. You gotta be careful with her. Sneaky.”
Jolene didn’t have any practice being sneaky, but she could try. “Where’s she live?”
“She’s on St. Philip, off of old Craps Street. You need to bring her good beads—not that bright trash that they throw at Mardi Gras to tourists, real glass ones—and whisky, the cheaper the better. Put a string or two at her feet, then pour the whisky on the wall. If she’s there, she’ll come and bargain. Make sure you hang onto the prettiest beads until after you’ve hear what she has to say.”
“Thanks, Grandma,” Jolene said, rising to kiss the smooth, warm skin of Grandma Loretta’s forehead. She remembered being five years old and needing to ask about her gift. She felt the same drive now; she needed to know if she and Simon should keep trying, or if that part of her dream for a normal life was just a dream.
“And you come right back here afterward, tell me what she said, you hear?” Grandma Loretta grabbed Jolene’s hand and squeezed it hard.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jolene said. Who else was she going to tell?
* * *
Jolene had no problems finding the lady in the wall. An old creole cottage stood just north of Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. Although the orange plaster wall facing the street was newly painted, it was still badly cracked. Jolene walked past it, then backed up to look again. The cracks formed the shape of a lady. Her hair was done up in a high bun and she wore old-fashioned clothes, with a bustle and long skirts. As Jolene stared she saw more details, like the table that stood before the lady and the wrought-iron chair she sat on.