Bayou Magic

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

“Grandmère!” I shout back.

  Arms lifting her dress, feet in the water, Grandmère watches me.

  We swim to her. “Grandmère.” My feet touch soil. I stand, dripping water.

  “Is she here?” Grandmère whispers.

  Gracefully, Wata treads water.

  “You don’t see her?”

  “You mean she’s here?” Grandmère asks wonderingly.

  “Right there.” I point.

  Grandmère shakes her head. She can’t see Wata swimming right in front of her.

  “What does she look like?”

  “Young, like me.”

  “Non, c’est vrai? True?”

  Mami Wata talks inside my head. “Wata says I see her as Membe saw her. This is how she wanted to appear to me. As a girl.”

  “You hear her? Understand her? Even my mother couldn’t do that,” Grandmère marvels. “I’ve been dreaming of this day. Dreaming you’d see Mami Wata.”

  “It’s sad Membe didn’t know about her.”

  “I think she didn’t want to know. She blamed Mami Wata for her enslavement. Sometimes people do that—place blame when they don’t know what to do with their grief.”

  Grandmère walks a couple steps deeper into the water. “Ask her, ask her, Maddy, if she knows me?”

  Mami Wata replies; her sounds are beautiful, clear.

  “She says, ‘I know you. Your mother, your mother before. All of Membe’s line.’”

  Grandmère weeps happy tears. She drops her hem; it quickly soaks.

  Mami Wata leaves, slipping beneath water, leaving no trace.

  “Thank you, Mami Wata,” Grandmère says. “Thank you for looking after my family.”

  “Come, Grandmère. Let’s go home.”

  Warm water licks at our feet and ankles. Mud sucks at our toes. Holding her hand, I guide Grandmère home.

  Practicing

  Clearing my throat, I stand on the porch step like it’s a pedestal. I’m practicing telling our story in my own words.

  “Capturing slaves was horrible. All of Nature cried. Mami Wata, who so loved Membe, left her African rivers and traveled beside the slave ship through ocean waters to America.

  “Even when Membe lost faith, stopped believing in water spirits, Mami Wata stayed loyal, near. Like family. A best friend. Mami Wata made Louisiana her home.”

  I stop. “How’s that, Grandmère? Do you like how I’m saying it? Telling the tale?”

  “Very much, Maddy-girl. Water cares for us and we should care for water. Respect nature.”

  I turn and stare at the beautiful bayou. “Mami Wata is nature’s water goddess. But nature is both land and water.”

  “And air,” says Grandmère.

  “We’ve got to be good to both. I mean, all of it—land, water, and air. The whole world.”

  My teachers would be so proud of me.

  “Enslaved, Membe felt lost and abandoned. Stopped believing in magic. Stopped having space inside her mind.”

  “No imagination.”

  “She didn’t know Mami Wata sent a firefly, a little light inside the dark ship. Like Pandora.”

  “Who’s Pandora?” Grandmère asks.

  “I read her story in school. It’s a Greek folktale. Pandora was given a box she wasn’t supposed to open. But she opened it and all kinds of hateful sprites flew out. Despair. Disease. Maybe even slavery. She cried at how she’d ruined the world. Last, in the bottom of the box, there was a fairy shining bright. Hope. The bright light like Wata’s firefly gave hope.”

  “Sounds like a good tale.”

  On the porch step, Sweet Pea brushes against me. I stroke her feathers. “Grandmère, do you think Membe would’ve become sour—”

  “Bitter?”

  “Yes, bitter. Without the firefly, would Membe have become bitter?”

  Thinking, Grandmère rocks.

  “You said Membe helped people, her community. If she couldn’t have called fireflies would she have been—”

  “Different?”

  “Oui, Grandmère.”

  “Come, Maddy-girl.” I stand before the rocker. With Grandmère sitting and me standing, we’re face-to-face, eye-to-eye.

  “Most folks don’t know how they’re going to react before hard times come. Hard times do come. It’s a part of life. But slavery was the worst hard time.

  “Miss Firefly made it easier for Membe to remember herself. To remember self-respect. Giving respect. Helping, healing.

  “Though Membe never made peace with Mami Wata, Membe’s African values have been passed down to us. Membe’s descendants always try to do right.”

  “The firefly is a symbol of Mami Wata’s love.”

  “Yes. Oui.”

  “Hope, too.” I leap off the steps. “I’m going to name Miss Firefly ‘Hope.’”

  Sweet Pea ruffles her feathers, clacks.

  I raise my hands high. “Come nightfall, I’ll call all the fireflies in the world.”

  Grandmère laughs.

  “Mami Wata never abandoned Bon Temps. Mami Wata is a ‘Queenie,’ too. I’ve figured it out.”

  “That’s right, Maddy-girl. Finish the story. How does it end?” Air quickens, blowing sea-salt smells from the Gulf. Gray, jagged clouds stream across the sky.

  End? Some of my happiness drains. End? I remember all the stories I’ve read. They all have endings. I swallow. Clear my throat again.

  “I am Madison Isabelle Lavalier Johnson,” I say. “Caller of fireflies.” I pause. “Membe’s great-great—”

  “Great.”

  “—granddaughter.”

  “That’s part of who you are, Maddy. Not how your story ends.”

  I’m listening hard to what Grandmère isn’t saying. I’ve connected the dots. Membe to Grandmère to Mami Wata to me.

  Grandmère’s face is somber. Wistful sad. All Lavalier women are strong. But Grandmère and me are the only ones living who know the truth of Membe’s and Mami Wata’s tale. We’re the only two Lavaliers left to call fireflies. I’m the only one to see the mermaid.

  “Who do you want to be?” Grandmère had asked. “A hero,” I’d answered.

  To be a hero, something bad has to happen.

  “Another test,” I say. “There’s another test.”

  “Oui, Maddy-girl. Another hard time. I’ve been dreaming about it. Something bad is coming and I don’t know what it is.”

  I shudder.

  Hunting for Bear

  “I’m going to visit Bear.”

  “You should wait, Maddy.” All morning, Grandmère’s been weeding the garden, staking tomato plants, and picking peas.

  All morning, I’ve been bursting with stories, feelings to share.

  “If Bear won’t come to me, I’ll go to him,” I say, feeling bold, not as shy as I once was.

  “It’s complicated. He’s complicated. Bear’s pa…” Grandmère says. “Bear and his pa have things to work out.”

  “What things?”

  “Complicated things. They need to find their way to simple.”

  Grandmère pinches thyme, oregano, and parsley. She’s going to cook gumbo.

  I stroke Sweet Pea. Her feathers bristle like a fan. There’s something Grandmère’s not saying.

  In New Orleans, lots I didn’t know. Wasn’t much I needed to know.

  Eat. Sleep. Go to school. Pay attention to traffic lights, rules. Don’t irritate my sisters. Get hugs and kisses from Ma and Pa.

  Maybe the whole world is one big puzzle, and I just didn’t know it. I only know in the bayou, my feelings are stronger. Sensitive.

  I feel—know—something’s wrong and Grandmère’s not telling.

  “Grandmère, you said Bear’s my best friend on land. Friends see friends. I want to see him. I want to meet his pa.”

  I want Bear to swim with me and Mami Wata. But I don’t say that. I don’t need to say it. Grandmère knows.

  “Give me a hug,” Grandmère responds. I squeeze her tight, liking how we’re both small,
just the right size.

  Grandmère kisses my forehead. “Holler if you need me, Maddy.”

  “I’ll holler.” Then, determined, I walk toward the village, Bear’s home. My heart beats hard.

  Absence is a sign. Something is wrong with my friend.

  “Bear!” I shout, without opening my mouth, hoping he can hear me, feel me coming. “Bear? My good friend Bear.”

  “Look who’s here,” says Old Jake. “Miss Maddy. See my bird?”

  A brown pelican rests in his arms. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Broken wing.”

  I try to pet it. The bird snaps, looking at me eagle-eyed.

  “Has spirit still,” says Old Jake, cradling the bird. “A good sign.”

  It is a sign. Maybe it means there’s hurt before things get better?

  “Is Bear here?”

  Face grim, gold tooth sparkling, Jake points. “Down the way. Last house on the left.”

  Charlotte and Ben beg me to play. “Later,” I say. I wave to Mister Cochon. He’s on his porch rocking, a straw hat on his head. Jolene sews.

  None of the grown-ups stop me. Funny—as I get closer to Bear’s house, I wish they would.

  Boat engines, a broken mast, bicycle rims, and fishing poles clutter the yard. Chickens peck at dirt. They’re not like Sweet Pea. They’re busy, heads down, paying no attention to me.

  Bear’s house is on stilts, run-down gray, looking like it might fall over. Mold and marsh grass line and hang from the shack’s bottom.

  Except for the chicks, it doesn’t look like anybody lives here. No Bear calling “Come on.” No pa doing chores. Just a deserted old shack with a gash in its tin roof.

  I climb the steps. Peek through the window. Dust is everywhere. The stove’s dirty. Dried food sits on plates. In the middle of the floor, there’s a duffel bag with men’s clothes spilling out. A man—on a cot, chest bare, jeans on, an arm dangling, scraping the floor—snores.

  Where’s Bear?

  I search the small square. No Bear. I push my head farther, and look down. Beneath the window, legs to his chest, hands beneath his head, Bear sleeps.

  “Bear?”

  He starts. Sits up, scared.

  “You okay?”

  He quickly glances at the cot. “Shhh.” He presses his fingers to his lips.

  I step back. Bear comes out, waving me to follow.

  Round back, there’s a hen pen, a shed, and a canoe, turned upside down on dry land.

  Bear’s a mess, his face and clothes dirty, his hair matted. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t seem happy to see me. He sweats in a denim long-sleeved shirt. This isn’t the Bear I know.

  “I miss you.”

  “Pa’ll be gone soon.”

  “I want to meet him.”

  “Pa doesn’t like company.” Bear picks up a rock, hurling it. “Doesn’t like anything.”

  “You said, ‘He’s the best pa. Strongest, smartest.’”

  “He is, he is.” Bear’s not crying but his gaze darts wild—house, forest, sky. Back to the house. He throws another rock.

  “He was the best pa. Took me fishing. Hiking. Hunting.”

  “Bear.” I clutch his arm.

  He winces. I let go. He won’t look at me.

  “Bear?” I reach for his arm again. He backs away. It doesn’t make sense in this heat to wear a long-sleeved shirt. I step closer. “Show me your arm, Bear.”

  “Go, Maddy.”

  “Won’t.”

  “You’re not wanted here, Maddy. Go on home.”

  Shoulders slouched, Bear seems small. Not brave. Not my adventurous friend.

  “Bear!” It’s an awful roar. “Bear, where the hell are you? Bear!”

  Bear starts trembling. “Go, Maddy. Just go.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Bear.” Bear’s pa staggers round. He’s muscular, thick, and furious. “What did I tell you about sneaking out?”

  “I didn’t, Pa.”

  “Sneaking away. What? Trying to find your ma? She’s gone. Gone.” He keeps lumbering, hands swiping at Bear.

  Bear ducks.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Spittle specks his mouth and beard. He lurches. “You won’t go.”

  Bear doesn’t move quickly enough. His pa grips his arm. Bear howls. His pa frowns but he doesn’t let go.

  “Leave Bear alone. Let him go.” I pull Bear’s pa’s arm.

  “Who’re you?” he roars.

  Bear keeps screaming. I dig in with my feet, tugging his arm like a tug-of-war rope. The arm won’t budge.

  Bear’s twisting, trying to cut loose. His face is puckered with pain.

  I kick. Kick again. Bear’s pa staggers, lets go of Bear.

  Bear falls in the dirt.

  His pa rubs his shin.

  “Leave my friend alone. You’re hurting him.” I’m breathing hard, fighting back tears. “Bully,” I shout.

  Another roar, then a ferocious wail. Bear’s pa lunges, stumbles toward me.

  “Pa,” Bear shouts. “Pa!” Bear leaps onto his father’s back, his arms wrapped about his neck.

  I should run. I know I should, but I keep still. Bear and his pa twist, turn. Bear keeps hold while his pa tries to pull him off.

  “You’re being mean. Bear loves you. And you’ve hurt him. That’s just mean. Mean, mean, mean.”

  With each “mean,” Bear’s pa staggers like I’ve hit him with a frying pan. He falls to his knees. Bear slides off his back.

  Bear’s pa shakes his head, his whole body like he’s having a nightmare, like he’s trying to wake up.

  He’s confused, I think. Another kind of sleepwalking.

  “I’m not going nowhere, Pa. Promise,” Bear says, hurried, intent. “Not going nowhere. Nowhere. Maddy’s my friend. I’m not going nowhere. Promise. Pa,” he says, shrill, shouting. “I promise. Promise.”

  Bear’s pa covers his face. His fingers are scratched, scarred, stained with oil.

  Bear pats his pa, comforting. He’s got his arm around his waist like he’s supporting him. “It’s all right, Pa. It’s all right.”

  I’m confused. Unashamed, Bear’s pa drops his hands and cries. I’ve never seen a grown man cry. His blue eyes fill and tears fall onto his cheeks, beard. He doesn’t even wipe his face.

  “You’re not going to leave me, too?”

  “No, Pa. I’m not going to leave you.” Bear is comforting, helping him to stand.

  Bear’s pa’s face is craggy, sorrowful. He coughs and I step back, smelling alcohol. Bear turns red. He’s embarrassed that I’m meeting his pa.

  Bear tugs, “Come on, Pa.”

  “I need a beer.”

  “Food,” I say.

  “Who’re you, again?” Bear’s pa asks, not sarcastic, just puzzled.

  I don’t answer, just trail behind as Bear leads his big, powerful pa by the hand.

  Bear’s pa sleeps while me and Bear make stew. Quiet, we work. Bear fills the pot with water. I add beans. Mostly that’s all there is in the cupboard, beans and a bag of rice.

  No wonder Bear likes eating at Grandmère’s.

  I cut an old, sprouting onion. Bear pinches salt, pepper, and rosemary into rolling, boiling water.

  “There’s probably vegetables on the porch.”

  “On the porch?”

  “Liza leaves pickings from her garden.”

  Outside, I find a basket with tomatoes and okra. I lift a bottle of hot sauce.

  “That’s Mister Cochon. He leaves hot sauce.”

  The basket is a kind gift, but it’s sad Bear needs to rely on it.

  There’s a soft knock on the screen door. “Mister Jake?” He pushes a brown paper bag into my hand. “A bit of chicken thigh. Don’t tell my birds,” he says. He looks at Bear. “Your pa better?”

  “’Bout the same.”

  As if he knows in his sleep we are talking about him, Bear’s pa grunts, turns on his side snoring.

  “Thank you, Mister Jake,” I say, closing
the screen door.

  At the stove, Bear puts a lid on the pot. He doesn’t look at me. “They always do that. Bring me food. Even Pa’s got to eat.”

  I gently touch Bear’s sleeve. “Do they know?”

  He winces. “Pa’s not beating me.”

  “You’re supposed to tell if a grown-up hurts you.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “You wouldn’t even have to tell Grandmère. She’d know. Oh…” I breathe. “That’s why you haven’t been coming around.”

  “That and Pa won’t let me.”

  “Oh, Bear.” Bear’s been hurting while I’ve been happy.

  Embarrassed, his face flushes.

  “I’ll wash the celery, tomato. You add the chicken?”

  Bear nods, but he doesn’t look at me.

  His pa snores. The kettle top, not a tight fit, rattles. I chop vegetables.

  “Ready?” asks Bear.

  “Ready.” With a pot holder, Bear lifts the lid. Carrots, celery, and onion slide off the cutting board. Bear drops in the crinkly pink chicken thigh.

  “Hot sauce now or later?”

  “Later,” answers Bear, settling the lid. He still won’t look at me.

  I start washing dishes.

  “Pa’s scared,” Bear whispers. “Scared I’ll go. It’s Ma’s fault.”

  I turn.

  “No, don’t,” says Bear. “Don’t look at me. I’m ashamed.”

  I want to hug Bear and tell him he’s the one wronged. I don’t think he’d listen. I keep washing dishes.

  “Me and Pa went fishing. Caught fat redfish. Came home and Ma was just gone. Not a trace. No comb, no clothes. Not even a hairpin.

  “Just her smell left. Night-blooming jasmine. She had a little bottle of perfume.”

  I sniff. The house is stale. Bare and dirty.

  “Pa went wild. Started drinking. When he comes home from the rig, he gets sick all over again. Drinks too much. Thinks I’m going to leave, too.”

  “You wouldn’t,” I say, certain, turning.

  “No, I wouldn’t. Oh, Maddy, he holds and holds me. Tight. Hard. Sometimes I can’t get away ’til he sleeps. He holds and holds. Cries and won’t let my arm go.”

  I look at his covered arms. “Oh, Bear, let me see.” Bear’s head hangs.