Sunday I’ll be meeting up with my contact, Valentine King. Though we were connected by a mutual friend in Chicago and have exchanged a few emails, I don’t know him at all. Deciding I should make sure I know how to get to our meeting place, I close my tab and ask Gable for directions.
“Cafe du Monde?” he asks. I nod. “What you need with that tourist trap?”
“Isn’t it like a rite of passage here? Besides, I’m meeting someone there in a couple of days. I just want to make the walk to make sure I know where I’m going.”
Gable nods and gives me easy directions to the famous place for beignets and café au lait. Again, I try to stick to well lit areas and blend in with larger groups when possible. Near Jackson Square a young woman catches my gaze. Dark eyes lined in heavy black makeup stop me in my tracks. She’s dressed in lots of colors, rings on every finger. Her long black lashes flutter as she waves me in.
“Your fortune for ten dollars?” she says, motioning to the stack of tarot cards on her table.
Not being a believer in such things, I figure it could be fun to see what she says. Maybe a small piece of me, buried deep inside, hopes to hear that my future will be better than what I have now.
I shrug, pay the money, and take a seat in the shaky chair across from her. It is a moonless night and the soft flickering shadows from her candle dance across her face as she shuffles the cards. She asks me to cut the deck and I follow her instructions without a word. I watch as she flips the cards over and makes predictions about my life.
“You’re not from here, but you’ll be staying,” she says.
I nod and try not to roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be staying a little while.”
“That’s not what I said.” With one pointed glance I shut my mouth and listen. “You’ve experienced great pain. You’re running from something.”
My gaze darts from her face to the cards, a sense of dread settles in my stomach. She flips another card and grins.
“It seems you’ll find the answers you seek and much more.”
I chuckle at how vague her predictions are. These statements could apply to almost anyone who would sit down.
“You’re not a believer.” It does not escape me that this is a statement, not a question. I hold her dark eyes with mine, never wavering, and shake my head. She smirks and flips over the last two cards. “Ah, well, he will change that.”
“He?” I ask, waiting for further explanation. The girl nods and gathers the cards, stacking them neatly near the edge of the table.
“Let go of the pain. Embrace the healing. Thank you, miss. Goodnight,” the girl says, dismissing me with a flip of her hand.
I lay in bed for hours thinking about her voice, her haunting eyes, and what she claimed to see in my future. Could I possibly stay in New Orleans? Sure, I’m liking it so far, but I’m not convinced that I could live this far away from my family long term. Right now, being here is an escape. The best kind of escape. I fall asleep to the hum of my A/C window unit and into my usual nightmares.
2
ON SATURDAY EVENING, I sit in what has become “my spot” and watch the bar. Two girls are flirting with two men on the other side of the room. They’ve adjusted their cleavage and applied lip gloss too many times to be qualified as a touch up. Their show makes me grin because I love the game. I love watching people communicate through body language and stolen glances. I guess that makes me a voyeur, a label I’m just fine with.
As the guys finally abandon their spot to approach these girls, I find myself no longer interested in what happens next. I swivel on the stool and face the wall of bottles again. Gable moves into sight and I point to my empty glass.
“So soon, Delaney?” I raise an eyebrow at his insinuation and patiently wait for my next drink. I’ve endured enough judgment and questioning looks from people I know and love. I certainly don’t need it from strangers. With a forced smile, he delivers.
“You wanna talk about it? We all got problems,” Gable says. “Even pretty girls like you.”
I glance around at the nearly empty bar and shake my head. I don’t ever want to talk about it. I like to keep it buried deep. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me your problems?” I ask.
Gable grins. “Well, let’s see. Most recently, my girl left me, took the dog. I work two jobs and stay broke. Sounds like a country song, don’t it?”
“Ha, yeah it does. A sad, sad Rascal Flatts song.” Gable gives me a blank look. “I imagine that reference is lost on you. What’s your other job?” I ask.
“I’m a land surveyor for the parish—boring government job, but the benefits are good.” I sip my new drink and remain quiet as his low voice wraps around me. “This is your third night here. Every night, alone. I can hook you up with a local if you want,” he says.
“I appreciate it, but no,” I answer, holding a hand up to stop him.
He rolls his eyes as if I don’t understand. “I don’t mean a meet the parents kind of relationship. Just company for the night. I got this friend who–”
“I’m good, thanks,” I interrupt.
He sighs. “You come all the way down to New Orleans and all you want is rum? Damn, girl, what the hell happened to you?”
I tuck my lips inside my mouth and bite down, fighting the urge to expel the whole story at once.
“Have you ever experienced an event that changes everything? I don’t mean something good. I mean something so awful it reconstructs the person you are into someone new?” I ask.
Gable leans onto the bar and looks into my eyes. “That’s deep, honey. And you’re drunk.”
I nod, letting my confession die in my throat. He doesn’t need to know eleven months ago, I experienced such an event. It left the person I was a casualty, and this new woman discovering herself again. I feel the sadness spreading like a black ink spot soaking into paper. It starts in my chest and spills out in tiny rivers and branches until it feels like a lead blanket weighing me down. I shrug my shoulders as if I can shake free of it, but I never can. And just like that, I need to get home where I can be alone.
“Heading out, Gable.”
I throw too much money on the bar and stumble out the door. Drunk on alcohol and feelings of self-loathing, I stagger back toward my apartment. I navigate the sidewalk by carefully weaving between people and lamp posts. A block from my place, I trip and stumble into a passing group of girls, knocking us both to the ground.
“Sorry,” I slur, jumping up and struggling to keep my balance. I stand, looking at the poor girl sitting on the sidewalk. My manners demand that I offer her a hand, but my mind and body do not cooperate. Her eyes go wide when one of her friends grabs my shoulder and spins me around.
“I tripped. I’m sorry,” I mumble, not hearing any sincerity in my voice.
“You drunk bitch,” she says, before reaching back and slamming her knuckles into my cheek. The momentum of her punch sends me stumbling into the brick wall. Surprise gives way to the raw pain in my cheek and the bliss it stirs internally. I need more.
“Fuck you,” I spit.
The brick scrapes hard against my cheek as she hits me again, and a third time when I smirk at the pain. My eyes close in appreciation as I slide down the wall finally resting on the sidewalk. I watch as the group retreats into darkness cheering on their friend.
I make it back to my apartment feeling passionate about the ache in my face and adrenaline pulsing through my body. As I throw myself into bed, I rejoice in the discovery of pleasured pain and in the fact that I am—indeed—still alive.
_______________
I step out into the light and heat of a mid-May New Orleans day. Even with my shades in place, my eyes water from the sun. The air is thick with humidity, causing my shirt to cling to my back like a window decal.
Cars crawl down the narrow, one-way streets, honking at slow-moving pedestrians. The closer I get to Jackson Square the more crowded the sidewalks become. Herds of tourists meander, drink in one hand and a camera in the other.
Some have kids in tow; families on vacation, unable to resist the allure of the more sordid part of the city. It reminds me of the family vacation we took down here years ago.
On the corner of Toulouse and Royal I stop to listen to a man sing the blues. He sits on an overturned milk crate strumming a guitar. His face is wrinkled, not simply from age, but from a permanent smile. Crow’s feet at his eyes point to silver hair at his temples.
On the street lays a fedora hat holding only a couple bills and some change. I dig a few bucks out of my pocket and drop them in. His smile spreads wider as he nods and continues crooning away about lost love and broken hearts.
Swiping the back of my hand across my forehead, I make my way up Toulouse. In front of the St. Louis Cathedral, I notice a man napping on a bench outside. Even in the heat, he lays curled into himself, arms wrapped tight around his middle. He wears layers of clothing and has a plastic bag tucked under his head. No one bothers him, not even the patrons that empty out of the cathedral from Mass.
I continue in the direction of the levee bank, passing kids with tap shoes pounding out click-clack rhythms on brick pavers, artists with canvas paintings hung on the fence of Jackson Square, and women in flowing skirts promising to tell my fortune.
As I turn left on Decatur, I remember the first time I took this walk two nights ago. Under the cloak of night, I was easily persuaded to have my fortune told by the young girl lit by dripping candles. Her unnerving predictions echo in my head as I move down the sidewalk with a herd of tourists.
“Horse drawn carriage tour of the Quarter?” a heavy accent shouts, snapping my attention up. I startle and find a round man in a top hat, giving me a wide smile while stroking the neck of his horse. The horse whinnies before dropping its head to drink water from a trough.
“No. No, thank you,” I say.
When I spot the green awning of Café du Monde, my mind goes blank. What’s his name again? I dig into my pocket and pull out the crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it, I read the words, trying to commit them to memory. Valentine King. Valentine King. Valentine King. Got it.
When the light changes, I shove the paper back into my pocket and jog across the street. I remove my sunglasses, check my reflection in the cafe’s window. My dark hair is piled into a messy knot on top of my head, the pieces that have fallen out stick to my neck from the light sheen of sweat on my skin. I ruffle my bangs to make them lay right and give a shrug. In this heat, this is as good as it gets. Checking my phone for the time, I search the patio and take a seat at one of the empty tables. Powdered sugar coats the ground and just about every surface. Sitting back in my chair, I wipe the sweat from my face and neck with a paper napkin.
A waiter approaches wearing the standard hat and green apron, asking for my order. I think about having a cup of the infamous coffee, but the heat demands otherwise.
“I’ll take an order of beignets and a glass of water. Extra ice. No. You know what? Forget the water. Just bring ice.”
He nods and hurries off through the maze of tables. A breeze rolls through the patio and I close my eyes, wanting to appreciate every bit of cool air against my skin.
“Delaney Mills?” a smooth, southern voice asks, forcing my eyes open.
A guy with short black hair and a sly smile that makes me blush stands before me. His skin is the color of caramel, with just a teasing amount of black and gray tattoo showing above the collar of his white t-shirt. He is dressed for the weather, comfortable in shorts and checkered Vans. His eyes are the color of sea glass. He waits patiently until I suddenly remember to speak.
“Yello,” I say.
He grins and it’s an easy smile that is slightly crooked and smoldering in the best kind of way. “Yello to you too,” he answers. “But are you Delaney Mills?”
“Sorry. I was trying to say yes and hello at the same time and it came out as yello. Yes, I am Delaney,” I finally say.
“Good. I was hoping so. I really didn’t want you to be that woman,” he says, taking a seat at my table and motioning to a brunette sitting near the sidewalk. “She has a really negative energy that would take a whole sage burning and three Hail Marys to get through.” He crosses one ankle over the opposite knee and chuckles at his own joke. “Anyway, I easily narrowed it down to you two. Glad I got it right.”
I realize that I am still staring, open-mouthed and silent.
“Oh, sorry, I’m Valentine King. My friends call me King. You okay? The heat getting to you? I can understand. You’re not used to it. And that outfit isn’t helping.” He waves his hand in my direction.
I look down at my jeans and high-collared sleeveless shirt. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
He offers a half smile. “They look heavy, suffocating.”
I give him a shrug, not wanting to admit that I do feel like I’m suffocating. In fact, since he mentioned it, I can feel my clothes clinging to me as if they are constricting tighter in the heat. I tug at my collar and take a deep breath to clear my head.
The waiter returns with my ice and beignets, snapping me out of my almost panic. “Do you want anything?”
“Café au lait,” he says to the waiter.
“I don’t understand how you southerners can drink coffee at any time of day, especially in this heat.”
“Well, we southerners consider coffee one of the main food groups,” King says. “You know, there’s seafood, pork, sugar, rum, and coffee. My mom is an expert at all the above, though I’m mostly acquainted with sugar. I love sweets.”
“I’m mostly acquainted with the rum,” I admit. “We’re like besties.”
“You’ll fit in just fine then.”
The waiter returns with King’s drink. I pay for everything and gulp down half of my already-melted ice water.
“Thanks,” he says, raising his cup to take a cautious sip. “That’s a nice shiner you have there. I gotta say, it suits you.”
“Yeah?” I smile and press my fingers to the sore and swollen flesh around my right eye. “Well, you should see the other guy.”
He matches my smile and I am staring again, memorizing the slope of his nose and the stubble-covered edge of his jaw. King raises one eyebrow to suggest this pause in conversation has become awkward.
“Valentine is an unusual name. What’s the story there?” I prop my chin in my hand, trying to seem casual, but I’m now hyper aware of my arms, my legs, my slouching. I readjust and sit up straight, smoothing down the front of my shirt. I play with my facial expression—trying to remain neutral—until I realize he probably thinks I’m insane by this point.
“No story, really,” he answers, his eyes never leaving mine. “I was named for Saint Valentine.”
“The inspiration for candy hearts and Cupid?”
He smirks, a lopsided kind of smile that feels like flirting. It sends a calm over me and makes my stomach flutter all at once.
“Something like that.”
“I guess that makes sense since Voodoo is closely connected to Catholicism and the patron saints intertwine with the loa spirits.”
He nods, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. “So, Delaney Mills, mysterious girl from Chicago, wearer of non-breathable fabrics, where do we start with your research?”
“My research. Right. So, my thesis focus is modern day Voodoo—particularly in New Orleans. I can show you the material I have so far, and we can go from there. Anything that’s ever been documented about Voodoo, I’ve seen it. I know the ins and outs, the details of this religion, probably to an annoying degree. What I need is to get some first hand knowledge. Get in with the people.”
“The people?” he asks.
“Modern day practitioners of Voodoo in the city.”
He leans back in his chair and weaves his fingers together behind his head. The muscles of his biceps flex as he stretches and looks out over the crowded patio. A slow, easy smile stretches across his lips as his eyes find mine again.
“Oh, they’re going to eat you alive.” I stu
dy King’s expression, but his cool demeanor gives nothing away.
“What does that mean?” I ask. “Who’s going to eat me?” He laughs—a slow, soft sound—and I feel the rich baritone tickle my insides. “I mean, you know…” I mutter, blushing hard now.
“No, I don’t know. Please elaborate.” He’s teasing and I’m enjoying it way too much. I shake my head and refocus our conversation.
“Anyway. I’ve already done two years of research. Then I took a break… for personal reasons. Now I’m ready to dive back in and I’d like to meet the practitioners, interview the leaders and healers instead of just memorizing the history.”
“I understand. Though, you can’t really appreciate the present without knowing the past. Why Voodoo anyway?” he asks. With the drink held to his lips, he is all green eyes and white porcelain cup.
“It started with a vacation my family took down here when I was fifteen. My mother scheduled us all to go on this Voodoo walking tour of the Quarter. From the moment our guide opened her mouth, I was hooked. The more I learned about Voodoo, I sort of became obsessed with the idea of this old world religion still being practiced today in areas with a predominantly Catholic population. I’m intrigued by the crossover of cultures and religions. It all sounded so magical, with the spells and charms and rituals.”
“So you don’t believe in it?” King asks.
“Me? No. It’s fascinating though. Frankly, I’m not sure I believe in anything.”
“Hmm.” There is no judgement in his tone, but I feel challenged.
“What about your connection to Voodoo?” I ask.
“While my pops was a nearly translucent white boy from Boston, my mom is pure Creole.” He pauses, sipping more coffee. I note that he used was when referring to his father. “My mother and her family have been long-time Voodoo practitioners. Even with the stigmas attached to it, they’ve never shied away, and I dig that.”
King Me Page 2
