Marie Laveau

by Francine Prose

  “I’m not. I can’t do it without you. When are you coming back? Where can I find you?”

  “You won’t need me. Your daddy won’t need me.” Marie touched Ti-Marie’s face. “You keep on. Everything will be all right.”

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  FRANKLIN MIDNIGHT’S SHACK changed from day to night. In daylight Marie recognized her refuge, the shelter of her solitude, the calm place which had restored her courage and power.

  At night it became the black home of her bad dream. The terror started promptly at twilight. She could no longer feel Franklin Midnight’s steady vibrancy or her own strong presence, nor hear the familiar night sounds.

  There was nothing but fear. It seeped inside the shack, thickening the air, pushing against her chest, treading her stomach like a cat. “Are you ready?” said the voices. “One year left. Are you ready?”

  She stuffed her fingers in her ears, shut her eyes. The voices stopped, yielding to that bad dream replayed over and over inside her eyelids. She faced the baron, shared his meal. But now when she asked the mirror “How long?” she no longer saw the series of doubles. Now she saw a procession of grotesque solitary images. Ones.

  It wasn’t even a dream—just the vivid memory of one. Marie didn’t dream; she hardly slept. When she did sleep, she awoke to the nausea, the pain, the voices saying, “One day less. Why are you wasting it here?”

  Marie didn’t know. This time the shack wasn’t healing her magic. It wasn’t even comforting her—it couldn’t make the knowledge go away.

  Her days were good. She walked through the shady bayous, her heart flooded with their beauty, as happy as on the day she’d spent there with Jacques.

  But she paid for her days at night. “Why?” said the voices. “Why are you paying? What are you waiting for?” Marie had no answer. Surely there were better places to wait for death—at home, in bed with Christophe, anyplace where there were people around, hearts to love and help her. Why wait alone?

  “Maybe I’m waiting for my dream,” she thought. “Waiting for the baron to come visit, then the loup garou, the storm. Maybe I’m waiting for that peace, that simplicity.”

  It rained often. Marie shivered in the dark, listening to the raindrops, wondering why she couldn’t recall one rainy night from her previous stay at the shack. “Maybe this is it,” she thought each time she heard the first spattering on the roof. “Maybe this is the storm with my name on it.”

  Soon the nights were poisoning her days. Lacking sleep, she lost the desire to walk and lay indoors, shaking like malaria in the afternoon heat. Her hours grew longer, harder to fill, more painful than the hours she’d waited for Jacques, scarier than the time she’d anticipated her duel with Doctor John. She’d been busy then, waiting in love and heartbreak. Now there was nothing to do.

  “Maybe that’s what it’s about,” she thought. “The waiting itself. It makes my time last longer—maybe the saints and loas are doing me this favor.” But it didn’t seem like a favor—she would never have chosen to make her time last like that.

  Still she kept waiting, knowing she had to, ignorant of what she awaited until it came.

  The knock on the door.

  It was a cold, foggy night, unseasonable for June. Marie lay huddled up, half-terrified, wondering if she should give up and go back to the city, find some other way ...

  The knock on the door.

  Marie jumped up. Her first thought was: I’m awake. Her second: This is what I’ve been waiting for. Her third: This isn’t the way the baron knocked in my dream.

  The baron had knocked like the law: Rap. Rap. Rap. Heavy. Important. Ominous. This knocking—a series of short taps—was just as insistent. But with a lighter touch.

  Marie stumbled to the door. There on the threshhold was the loup garou.

  The creature was surrounded by soft light, orange as candle flame, strong enough to illuminate the doorstep. It stood upright on a tall man’s body covered with gray fur, but sinewy, well proportioned, handsome. Staring up at the grizzled wolf’s head, Marie found it oddly beautiful. The line of its jaw reminded her of Doctor John. And its eyes were as gentle as Jesus’.

  “I am awake,” she thought. “This isn’t the monster from my dream.”

  “I... didn’t expect you,” she stammered. “Like this ...” Inarticulate, she nodded towards the window, then looked into the loup garou’s eyes and saw them reading her mind.

  “When you were little,” it said in a deep resonant voice, “I peeked in your window. When you were becoming the queen, I flew straight at you. Now at the end of your life I knock politely at your door. And you answer.”

  Marie listened unafraid, knowing the creature meant her no harm. “You’re different,” she said. “Different from those dreams, that duel ...”

  The werewolf smiled. Marie stared at its sharp teeth, lovely as ivory spinet keys. “As I grow older,” it said, “I grow more beautiful. Now may I come in?”

  “Forgive me,” said Marie, making way. Inside, the loup garou’s aura lit the room, dispelling the dangerous shadows, quieting the voices, bathing the shack in a hearthlike glow. It crossed the floor—not arrogant like Jacques or obscene like the baron—but curious, respectful—like someone revisiting a childhood home. It stopped and leaned its long back against the wall.

  “Who are you?” asked Marie.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Doctor John?”

  “He’s in me. But I’ve got some of Jesus’ blood in me, too. Some from all the saints and loas, Makandal, Marie Saloppe, your mama—all of them. And that’s just the start.”

  “And the devil’s blood, too?”

  “Of course. If there’s Jesus in me, you know the devil’s got to be hiding in there somewhere.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You were waiting for me. So I came. Simple as that.”

  “Why?”

  “To help. No other reason. To show you the way.”

  “Where to?”

  “You know the answer,” the loup garou said patiently. “The way beneath the waters.”

  “Then help me,” said Marie. Gratitude welled up inside her but she couldn’t thank the loup garou yet. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is that what you’re here to say. ‘Nothing?’”

  “Do nothing,” it repeated calmly. “Just slide in like a smooth, easy dive. It’ll take care of itself.”

  “Thanks for the kindness. But it’s nothing to me. No help.”

  The loup garou seemed surprised. “Why not? It helps many.”

  “It’s not my way. Never has been. Certainly not now.”

  The loup garou laughed—a friendly laugh which boomed through the shack with a low roll like thunder. Then it resumed its walk around the room—not pacing, but measuring—perfectly even, but for a slight bob of the shoulders which again recalled Doctor John.

  “Please be patient,” it said. “You’ve been waiting so long—give me one more minute. Let me say the rest. I’ve told you the ‘how’—the most important part. Now I’ll tell you the ‘where’ and ‘when.’”

  “The baron told me when.” Marie tasted the familiar sourness in her throat. “Two years from that dream.” She thought, quickly recalculating. “Six months from now.”

  The loup garou sighed, filling the shack with the scent of ripe strawberries. “The baron shouldn’t have told you. No one wants to hear their sentence, though they’ll beg you for it all their lives.”

  “I did. And he told me. Two years.”

  “More or less. Two years more or less. But that’s not help. Help is the where and when that are part of the how ...”

  “Metaphysics,” snapped Marie, praying as she spoke that he’d forgive her meanness, her impatience. “You’re worse than Doctor John.”

  “Then I’ll be plain,” said the loup garou. “Put it simple. Give a party.”

  “Give a party? If I’m about to die, I better find someone to give
that party for me.”

  “Have your own party. Then you can come back and have parties till the end of time.”

  “What kind of parties? Funerals? Wakes?”

  The loup garou smiled again. “Birthday parties. Anniversaries. Weddings. Dances.” A gust of wind lifted the feathers on its wings; they settled slowly, gleaming in the light. “You know what kind of party I mean. One of those big dances, like the one you had on Bayou St. John, the night you killed that bull. Just get it rolling—get the drums out, the music, the dancers. Invite everyone you know, everyone you’ve ever known, all the saints and loas, don’t forget one. The rest will take care of itself. You’ll see how easy it will be.”

  “Let me think it over,” said Marie, then realized she didn’t need to. Already she could imagine the drums, the flutes, the taste of rum. Already she could feel her feet tapping, her body taking pleasure in the dance.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll give a party—it’s a better way to go than most. If nothing else, it’ll give me something to look forward to. But where? Where should I have it?”

  “Same place. Down on the lake shore where the bayou runs into the beach.” The loup garou looked around the shack. “Start it here. Get ready out here. And afterward ... end it here.”

  Marie nodded. His last three words had been pronounced very deliberately. “When?”

  “Same time. St. John’s Eve. Start at midnight.”

  “That’s a powerful night. It’ll take a whole lot of energy to keep dancing that night.”

  “John the Baptist will be honored. You can count on his help.”

  “You know John the Baptist?”

  “We’re old friends. I’ve been trying to keep him on the wagon for two thousand years, but it never works. ” Marie laughed. “Good enough,” she said, then quickly, as the loup garou stepped towards the door, “Are you going to be there?”

  “Of course. But you won’t need me. You might not even notice me.” It smiled, an almost rueful grin. “One more thing. I almost forgot. Bring that blue velvet bag your mama gave you. With your caul in it. Have it with you at the party. Don’t forget.”

  “I carry it all the time,” said Marie, touching the soft bulge beneath her waistband. “For good luck.”

  “Good luck to you,” said the loup garou, drawing near. Then it extended its wings and crossed them around Marie. Gentle as a lover, as a mother cradling her child, it embraced her, rocking slightly from side to side. At last it kissed her on the forehead, brushing her eyes with its soft dry fur.

  “Everything will be all right,” it whispered in her ear. “Everything will be all right.”

  The loup garou released her and walked out the door. Following it outside, Marie watched it spread its wings and fly off, followed by a bright trail, the sweet and joyous color of blood.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  MARIE LOOKED IN the window and saw herself consulting with a client.

  On her way home from the shack, she’d noticed a light coming from the consultation room. “Ti-Marie’s up,” she thought, hurrying. “Maybe there’s an emergency case ...” But something made her stop short of the door and tiptoe up to the window.

  Marie looked in and saw herself at her table in her best red satin skirt, turquoise ropes around her neck, gold earrings, loosened hair, eyes red as rouge. Opposite her was Martin Harris, Elspeth’s husband.

  “I know who you are,” Marie heard her own voice emanating from within. “And I know why you’re here. I know Elspeth is tired of you. I know you want her to love you again.”

  “How did you know?” asked Martin.

  Crouched outside the window, Marie watched herself stride over to stare into her client’s eyes. “I have my ways,” she said.

  “Please,” said Martin. “Help me.”

  Outside, Marie thought: You deserve this. You treated Elspeth mean long enough. But the Marie inside gave no sign of sharing her response. “I’ll do what I can,” was all she said.

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  “But people say ... an acquaintance told me ...”

  “Five hundred dollars,” she repeated, while her double outside stifled the impulse to applaud.

  Martin Harris reluctantly handed over five crisp bills. The voodoo queen reached into her desk and took out three paper packets and twelve red candles. “You pay for the wax,” she said, handing the objects to her puzzled client. “Now take these. Write Elspeth’s name on some paper and sprinkle it with a little powder from each of these packets. Stuff the paper into a green glass bottle and burn one of these red Work My Will Candles in front of it every night for twelve nights. And pray to Jesus hard as you can. Understand?”

  Martin nodded. “Will it work?”

  “Absolutely guaranteed. Everything will be all right.”

  Halfway to the door, Martin turned back. “Thank you,” he said. “Five hundred dollars is cheap for this service.”

  “My magic ain’t cheap,” Marie called after him. “Don’t fool yourself.”

  Marie waited in the shadows to make sure no one else was coming. Then she stood up and entered the consultation room.

  Ti-Marie studied her mother. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said after a while. “I know why you’ve come.”

  “She’s joking,” thought Marie. “She can’t be saying this to me.” Then she saw that her daughter was serious. “I read it in the mirror and the cards,” said Ti-Marie. “I saw you at the shack. I saw how you knew you’re dying, how scared you were. I saw the loup garou visit you. I saw that you need me to take over.”

  “It’s true,” said Marie, sighing with relief. “There’s very little time. Then you’ll have to do it all yourself.”

  “I’ve been doing it myself.”

  “I can see that.” Marie pointed at her daughter’s dress, her eyes, her hair. “When did you start being me?”

  “The night you left. I knew you wanted it—I knew it was your plan. You can’t let go. You want people to think Marie Laveau never dies, her magic lives forever, coming back. Besides ... it helped me. I was scared at first. But when I found I could make them think I was you, the magic worked better. No one had reason to doubt or test me, nothing to rock their faith.”

  “Did anyone guess?”

  “No one. Not even Sister Delilah. All she noticed was my hair looking better.”

  “And Christophe?”

  Ti-Marie blushed. “He doesn’t think I’m you.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. He did say something. About a week after I went to work. After you left. He was in the parlor one night, dozing over one of his books. His eyes widened when he saw me walk through.

  “‘Maire,’ he said. ‘Come over here.’

  “‘It’s Ti-Marie,’ I said, feeling very strange.

  “His eyes blinked wider. ‘So it is.’

  “I went to him. He didn’t touch me—just took a good look. ‘You’re doing the work,’ he said. ‘The business. They’ll think you’re Marie. Do you know what you’re doing?’

  “ ‘It’s what I want,’ I said. ‘My own free choice.’

  “ ‘If that’s what you think is right,’ he said, ‘my blessings to you.’ He hugged me like somebody saying good-bye. Then he went back to his book and I came out here to the consultation room.”

  “Does he know I’m dying?”

  “He knew that all along. He’s got his ways—he didn’t need cards or a mirror. A few nights after I found out, I told him. He was drinking coffee. He paused an instant, then took another sip.

  “ ‘I knew that the day she started shaking,’ he said. ‘At first I was worried. It wasn’t till after she left that I understood: If she’s dying, it’s her choice, just like everything else your mother’s ever done. She talks about the spirits taking her places she didn’t want to go. But I think she picked every turn—just like she picked me. And you.”

  In the silence, Ti-Marie looked at her m
other—still her near-replica despite the grime and sweat of a long walk, despite the presence of death. Marie paced the room, picking up candles, bones, rattles, shuffling the cards. “Do you think it’s true?” she asked. “That the dying is my choice? That all of it was. And what you told him—that following me is your choice—do you believe that?”

  Ti-Marie’s gaze drifted off, disdainful as a voodoo queen whose client has just asked some unseemly personal question. “No,” she said. “I don’t think we chose it. No more than Jesus could choose whether or not to climb up on that cross. I think we were marked from our cradles, called by the saints and loas, or by each other, or our black voodoo blood. There was no way not to answer.”

  Marie sucked in breath. Suddenly tired, she put down the scorpion fern she’d been holding. “You’ve changed,” she said. “Did something happen?”

  “Yes. Something happened. But I’m not at liberty to say what.”

  Marie wheeled around, ready to demand a full explanation. But the minute she faced Ti-Marie, she understood that her daughter could no longer be cowed into submission. She saw a voodoo queen who wasn’t about to reveal the sources of her secret power. She saw that her daughter had learned to keep her own secrets.

  The room began to spin. Marie groped for a chair and sat down, closing her eyes against the dizziness—not dizziness, exactly, more like giddiness, like the deep relief she’d felt when Doctor John had healed her, the warm relaxation of lying beside her lovers, sweet drunkenness, the soothing edge of sleep ...

  Through it all she heard Ti-Marie’s voice approaching through the spinning darkness, whispering in her ear. “You just relax,” said the voice. “Marie Laveau will heal you. She knows what your pain is and she knows how to cure it. Marie Laveau’s been expecting you, and she’s going to make everything all right...”

  Marie opened her eyes to see Ti-Marie kissing her forehead. Tears ran down her cheeks as the calm descended on her, the same comfort and simplicity she’d felt at the end of her vision in the shack.