And yet, at the beginning, she recalled, it hadn’t been so bad. He could make her laugh, one of the few people with that ability, and she had figured the babies would come fast. When they did not, and he began to drift from one job to another like a leaf on the tide, she realized he would never change and made her peace with that. She didn’t complain. She didn’t run away. (Where to?) She just put one foot in front of the other and kept moving forward.
The sun had reached the low point of the day when it shone straight into her kitchen window, marked with spatters of grease and dead flies. She scrubbed at the glass. The sounds of bickering chickens drifted in on the breeze that lifted the palm fronds. She and Jerome had built the house together, expanded it out from Grace’s little shack over the years into a modest home. The sitting porch was the best in the neighborhood, her chickens the tastiest around. The secret was plenty of oyster shells for their gizzards to work on and lots of wild herbs in their feed. The hens in the yard were, as always, competing for rooster Elmer’s attention. He preened his russet feathers in the slanting sun, oblivious. Baskets of tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers waited in the shade of a palmetto. The walls of the shed were lined with gleaming rows of jars, relishes, jams, and preserves, all neatly labeled.
Missy often teased her, as Selma’s idea of a shortage was having only one strawberry shortcake in the house instead of two. But after a childhood so poor that she was sometimes forced to exist on fish bones and grass, Selma treated hunger like an enemy, always waiting to strike. She remained vigilant at all times. Her weapons were grits and corn pone, her defenses made of swamp cabbage and fried fish. Their little house was a fortress of food.
She stepped over the bucket where her apron soaked to reach the shelf in the corner. In a neat row were laid a rattlesnake’s skull, two dried raccoon paws, a crunchy brown bunch of shallots, and a crab’s shell. A muslin bag held a lock of Missy’s hair and a shred of Henry’s shirt.
It had not taken long for the magic to work, just a few weeks. The hardest part was bringing Henry back to Heron Key in the first place. Now that had been hard. She had tried every spell handed down to her by Grace, who had brought the knowledge with her from Haiti. Selma had written it all out in her unschooled hand before Grace died, in the bulging, tattered book beneath the shelf.
Selma stroked the book’s rough cover, made from an old burlap feed bag. Those last weeks with her mother had been a whirl of activity. Grace had chosen her own time, sure as if she had walked into the sea to drown. It had happened when Henry had been gone for fifteen years. Selma had felt Grace’s haste, her need to finish things off; her mother was preparing for her most important trip, but she would not need the battered old wicker suitcase for it.
“Selma,” Grace would say, “I got somethin’ to learn you.”
And Selma would scoop up the ragged collection of pages in their shabby binding and begin to write. They would sit for hours together in the dappled shade of the pines around Grace’s tiny shack. The fallen needles made a soft and fragrant blanket on the sand. Dragonflies settled on them, so still were they. Eyes closed, her back propped against the tree trunk, Grace would recite the spells without stumbling or hesitation. The words poured from her mouth faster than Selma’s pencil could write. It was, Selma realized as her hand traced the book’s contours, her fondest memory of Grace. There were far more of the other kind of memories.
That Grace had the power was beyond question. People in the neighborhood came to her for help with all manner of woes in their lives: to bring or banish love, to heal a sick child, to make a good harvest, to bring misfortune on their enemies. The definitive demonstration of Grace’s power had come one Thanksgiving when Selma was thirteen. Dinner was just a scrawny chicken and some stunted sweet potatoes. The air was thick with the smell of other people’s turkey and gravy and stuffing. Selma went for a walk in the Key lime grove to distract her hungry stomach and came across Shonuff Thompson, named on account of his stock answer for pretty much everything. He was smoking by himself, on the ground under the thorny branches, skinny ankles crossed. With a nearly toothless smile and the promise of a piece of chocolate, he had beckoned her down beside him. Her mind had shut the memory away but her body remembered—the rough stubble on his chin, the way he had forced her legs apart with a thrust of his knee, his sour, smoky breath hot on her neck, the coral hard under her back.
When she had stumbled home, Grace demanded an explanation for her torn and dirty dress. Selma had whispered the tale through bruised lips, shamed by the blood on her legs. Grace had said nothing for a long time, so long that Selma had thought she had been forgotten. And then Grace had looked at her, a dark flame in her eyes, and said, “Wait, child, and see the Lord at work.” A few weeks later, Shonuff was killed by a lightning strike while asleep in the grove under a tree that took a direct hit. To Grace, it was all the same Lord, much to the despair of the local pastor. She prayed equally hard to the old spirits and to Jesus, confident that one or the other would come through.
But they did not. Years passed. The war ended. Still Henry did not come back. At first, there were a few postcards, from California, from New Mexico, from Oregon. Then they stopped. Neither prayers nor spells could bring him back. And when Selma had transcribed the last one in the book, Grace had taken to her bed and turned her face to the wall. Nothing could coax her to eat or drink. She just stopped, like a car out of gas. Doc Williams could find nothing wrong with her. He offered to take her to Miami to see a specialist, but Selma had declined. She knew why Grace had sickened, and no specialist would be of any help: she had lost her faith, in the old ways and in Jesus. Selma knew Henry was still alive, could feel it, and knew Grace felt it too. On the day when Grace closed her eyes for the last time, a hard, bitter seed took root in Selma’s heart. If he would not come back of his own will, she decided, then she would damn well bring him back, using the only method available. Grace had willed her the means; it was time to find out if she had the power. And so she began to work her way through the spells, more in desperation than in hope.
Opening the book, she could still remember the feeling of excitement tinged with dread the first time she had summoned a spirit to bring Henry home—and the crushing disappointment that followed. But she had persevered, through almost the whole book, each time with the same conviction. And each time with the same result. She had saved the most powerful spell for last, the one that summoned the fearsome Agaou. After nearly eighteen years, her hope of seeing Henry again had dimmed to a tiny glow in the farthest, darkest corner of her mind. In desperation, she had gone to the beach at midnight and drawn the veve in the sand with cornmeal and ash. She had shaken her snake-bone rattle, scattered a little grilled meat, and spilled her blood on the sand, to send the call of blood to Henry, wherever he was.
And now he was back but, as was often the case with spells, not completely back. It had shocked her at first—he looked so different from the bright, smooth-cheeked young man who had set off all those years ago. Now he looked like an old man, a desperate old man. But she reckoned there wasn’t anything wrong with him that couldn’t be fixed with enough good food and rest. Of course, it should be her food, and a bed in her house. The camp rations were not fit for a dog, especially when the men worked hard all day under the punishing sun. Yet he would not leave the veterans’ camp, behaved like it was his home, rather than staying with his people, where he belonged. And when he confessed that he had spent months in the camp before she knew he was there at all… Well, the pain of it, and the shame, burned her up inside, but she figured he had his reasons, reasons she could not begin to understand. Someday she would hear them. Or not. It was Agaou’s price. The spirits never granted anything without a price.
She wrung out the brine from her apron and went to get some fresh water from the cistern to rinse it. But first she climbed the steps to look inside. Two bright eyes blinked up at her through the gloom. A soggy raccoon stood on the little plat
form she had built for this purpose, after one fell in and drowned, ruining gallons of precious water. She lowered a stick and the animal scampered nimbly up it and dropped to the ground with a wet shake.
She rinsed the apron and hung it on the line to dry. Henry and Missy belonged together, anyone could see that…except possibly the two of them. No matter, soon fix that.
The raccoon eyed her from the shade of a scrub pine, wiped his face with his clever paws. He would certainly be back in the cistern in a few days. Just like with men, she thought: once an animal found something it liked, it kept coming back, even at the risk of death. With a tired sigh, she went inside to change for the barbecue.
• • •
Hilda Kincaid strained to fasten the buttons of her thin cotton dress, elbows out in a futile attempt to reduce the sweat marks. She was certain that Missy had shrunk the garment, just as she had the other pretty dresses that no longer fit. The shameful trip to Nettie’s shop that afternoon had almost undone her. Surely, she thought, there must be some mistake. Those measurements must belong to someone else. She pushed a damp curl from her forehead and yanked on the material where it spanned her hips, creating unflattering horizontal folds. It was the only thing she owned suitable for the Fourth of July barbecue.
Honestly, she’d rather just stay home in a shapeless shift and sit on the porch until the mosquitoes became unbearable. Just rock and watch night fall on the sea and wait for Nelson to come home from the country club, as she did most evenings. He seldom chose to be seen in public with her anymore, which she could well understand, but the whole town would be out tonight. She forced her dimpled feet into a pair of delicate gold sandals. Maybe we can come home early.
When she had returned that afternoon, she had been surprised to find Selma in charge. There had been a strange, mysterious vibration in the air, but Selma had explained, with her strong, level gaze, that Missy had spilled juice on her uniform and gone home to clean up. It was entirely plausible, and yet… But Hilda knew better than to probe. Selma’s eyes invited no discussion. Hilda never felt entirely comfortable in her presence; she moved so quietly for a big girl. Missy had brought her in to help one night with a big dinner party, back when the Kincaids still entertained, and ever since, Selma would just appear at odd times.
Missy’s Mama had put Nathan down for the night. There was no reason to tarry, yet Hilda cast around for something to detain her, to put off a little longer that awful moment when she would arrive at the beach and face the stares and barely disguised snickers. She consulted the cheval mirror in the corner. The only way she could view the reflection without tears was to pretend it belonged to someone else. Some fat, frumpy old thing, with disappointed eyes.
She missed so many things. She missed her prebaby body. She missed Daddy, the comfort of his arms, the peppery smell of his pipe tobacco. He always made everything all right. Her one small consolation was that he was not around to see what his princess had become. She missed the seasons, the early years in New Hampshire, before Daddy’s emphysema forced the family south in search of a kinder climate. Those years remained in her mind, perfectly preserved, like the leaf she had once found encased in ice. There she had felt safe and oh, so treasured.
Everyone had told her she would get used to the monotonous, wet heat of Florida. She had not. Even after all these years, she longed for the crisp catch of the fall bonfire smoke in her throat, the crystal stillness of snow-covered pines, the raucous choruses of migrating geese.
She stared in despair at the figure in the mirror, the gaping buttons, the bulges at her hips. She pulled harder on the fabric. All her pretty dresses had gone. She could not bear to look at them once the baby weight had set like concrete on her stomach, her thighs. Soon, Nettie would have some new dresses for her, shapeless tents in which she could hide her ravaged figure away. They represented defeat. She only wanted to stay home, away from the scornful glances of the other women who met for coffee and tennis at the country club. Their baby weight seemed to melt away within weeks, like the snow she missed so much. At one time, not so long ago, those same women had wanted to be her friend, when she was the slim, stunning beauty queen, with a future as bright and sparkling as the sea. After all, she had been crowned Miss Palmetto, two years running. Hilda Humbert as she was then, saddled with an ugly stump of a name but blessed with a fragile beauty that could make grown men weep.
All through her early teens, Daddy had seen off any boy brave or stupid enough to attempt to get near her. She was special, a sacred treasure, a fruit of perfect ripeness to be presented to the best of society at the cotillion ball on her nineteenth birthday. It seemed as if the very stars had aligned to shine for her. Her life, Daddy always said, was charmed. Only the best for her, always the best.
And then, not long after she turned eighteen, Nelson Kincaid had arrived, at the wheel of a cream-colored Cadillac roadster with burgundy interior. She knew very well not to talk to men alone, but when he pulled alongside the curb and asked directions to Delaney Street, her good manners obliged her to respond.
As she leaned down to explain that there was no Delaney Street in town, the occupant of the passenger seat became visible. On a pink velvet cushion sat a caramel lop-eared rabbit. “Oh!” was all she could think to say.
The rabbit rejoiced in the name of Earl, she learned. Men she had been trained to resist, even men as shiny and handsome as Nelson Kincaid, with his wavy black hair and slow, sassy smile. But Earl had captivated her with one look of his deep brown eyes. He began to groom his ears with flicks of a tiny pink tongue. She said, “Oh,” again, but this time quietly. And when Nelson asked if he could drive her home, with Earl and his cushion on her lap, she had simply nodded and gotten into the car. All training forgotten. Much, much later, she realized that all was lost in that moment.
Hilda sat on the edge of the four-poster bed and allowed her mind to drift back to those first few weeks after she got into the car. She had known instinctively to keep their meetings secret. He would park in the cool shade of the sea grapes at the end of a quiet track that led to the beach. They would sit in the Cadillac, Earl asleep on his cushion, and listen to the waves and talk. She had never talked to a man like a real person. Whenever Daddy’s friends came to call, she was presented as a doll to be admired. And Nelson had done such interesting things, traveled to places in Europe and Asia as a merchant sailor—places that only existed for her in the geography books she rarely opened at school. He promised to take her to those places. They would leave the stagnant, suffocating heat of small-town Heron Key and see the world together.
They had met three times before he even took her hand. She just let hers rest on the seat between them, until slowly he picked it up and held it. His felt smooth and dry. She had been kissed once before, by Tommy Higgins, on a dare at a school dance. His lizard tongue had pushed against her teeth. He smelled of sweat and teenage boy. The whole disappointing episode had left her wondering what exactly all the fuss was about. But by the time Nelson finally kissed her, she wanted him to do it so badly that the first touch of his lips was like ice cream on a hot day—cool, sweet, and delicious. His hands had cupped her face, and he had smelled of hair oil and cedar. She wanted more; her body clamored for it.
She didn’t care about anything else, not her friends, not school, not the cotillion ball coming up in a few months. She didn’t even care about Daddy. She would walk home after their meetings, every nerve aflame, sure that the signs must be visible to all, and try to compose herself. Rejoining normal life was like surfacing from deep under the ocean. She had seen fish pulled up too quickly from the depths, their eyes popped right out of their heads. So she walked home slowly, to give herself time to weave the lies about reading at the library or a homework session with her girlfriends. The lies came easily, so easily, and this made her feel it must be all right. She lied right to Daddy’s face and felt nothing, nothing at all. Her dreams were filled with images of falling
, endlessly falling.
Hilda touched her lips, leaned against the bedpost, and remembered the feel of his kisses. It had been a long time since he had kissed her like that, since before Nathan was born. Sometimes she thought of Nelson like a sickness, a disease that had turned her mind against itself. Back then she needed to be with him, to feel his hands on her, like she needed to breathe.
The ceiling fan traced slow circles above her. She recalled the time when the kissing and touching were no longer enough. Nearly wild with frustration, she couldn’t concentrate on anything and acted so irritable at home that she risked discovery. In rare quiet moments when the fever lifted from her brain, she observed herself as from a distance and wondered how she had become this animal in just a few short weeks.
When it finally happened—in the back of the Cadillac, of course—he had had to cover her mouth to stifle her howls of pleasure.
They were careful, or rather he was careful, with his supply of rubbers, which nearly reduced both of them to hysterical laughter. As time passed, her body became attuned to his. They fitted together perfectly, moved together just right. Every day, she woke aching for his touch.
But then came the day when she was alone in the house. Momma and Daddy had gone to the hospital in Miami to see the specialist. Daddy toted an oxygen cylinder on wheels with him everywhere, but even that seemed to be failing. The house was quiet, with only the tick tick of the ceiling fan. It was one of those rare Florida spring days, when the sun was just nicely warm, before the arrival of the sweltering summer humidity.
Hilda decided it was the perfect opportunity and called Nelson at his rooming house, holding the phone close to her mouth. He sounded a little strange, taken aback by her urgency, but he arrived within a few minutes.
“Hilda,” he said, as soon as she kissed him, “I got something to tell you.”
“Later,” she said, not really listening as she led him up the stairs. A bed! They were going to do it in a real bed, for the first time! Just like it would be when they were married. “Tell me later.”
Under a Dark Summer Sky Page 4
