by Mina Carter
Well, not all of them were living and breathing. There were others out there, too. Ones only I seemed to be able to see. Ones I refused to dwell on. They were nowhere in sight at the moment, but I knew from experience that they wouldn’t remain hidden for long, not if I blew into my harmonica. So I just wouldn’t play it.
“Howdy, San Francisco!” I threw my right arm up into the darkening sky, thumb and pinky out, three middle fingers curled into my palm. “We got any southern rockers out there ready to shake it?” I queried.
While they screamed their affirmative replies, I put my pick between my right index finger and thumb and strummed the first chord of “Hell”. The stage lights pulsed in time to the rhythm. The crowd roared their approval and the Billy Blade Band crashed in following my lead, tight as usual.
We took it through three straight songs from the set list without pausing before someone shouted the inevitable request I dreaded. ‘Midnight Serenade’.
Shit. Every muscle in my body went tense.
Someone always asked. No matter what city we toured or what venue we played, it was nearly impossible to get off stage without pulling out my harmonica and performing that godforsaken tune. I wished I’d never penned the damn thing. Wished I’d never laughed at Arla when he warned me not to be mocking death. Especially now that I was confronted with it every time I played the song. But there was just no stopping me from being a damn fool.
I had been headstrong all my life, taking up the bull riding, or eight seconds of sanctioned suicide as my ma liked to call it. Leaving school prior to graduation. Digging my boots into the fertile soil of the Rio Grande Valley whenever she or my pa used the words ‘can’t or ‘don’t’ with me.
Sweat dripping into my eyes from the intense heat of the lights, I lifted my hat from my head and mopped up the wet with the absorbent material of my sleeve. Hoping, hoping, hoping that the request wouldn’t catch on.
But as I reached down behind the center speaker, grabbing the bottled water a roadie always placed there for me, I heard the crowd chanting in unison for ‘Midnight’. Ignoring them I unscrewed the lid and chugged half the cool liquid before pouring the rest over my steaming hot head.
“Midnight. Midnight. Midnight.”
Damn. Looking out over the audience I pulled in a deep breath. It didn’t do anything to calm my nerves, and it sure as hell didn’t stop the chanting. Giving in was easier than expending the effort to try to steer fifty thousand people in a different direction.
I half turned and gave my drummer Daryl the nod. He twirled his sticks in the air to acknowledge my cue, and I swiveled back to face the audience, sliding my harmonica from my jeans pocket.
I didn’t really want to do it but I it was almost as if I were playing a game of chicken with myself and the universe, knowing what was going to happen, but daring it not to.
The delusion of choice was all I had left in my descent into madness.
They began to materialize with the first notes that I played, emerging from whatever depths that held them. Shadowy outlines rising like smoky wisps of steam, they filled in all of the available spaces in the audience, in some cases overlaying their living counterparts, their number equally vast.
Their ethereal forms flickered like holographic projections. Each individually distinguishable. Every age, gender and race represented. Some appearing the same as they had in life but more often than not they wore the evidence of their mortal wounds. The more gruesome those wounds, the harder it was to keep my expression neutral while looking at them.
Seeing just one ghost would have been bad enough, but no, for me there were thousands. Their phantom heads all turned towards me as I played, cocking to the side as if they were listening to the music and finding the tune too intriguing to resist, their mouths opening and closing. They were trying to communicate, that much was clear, but the eerie howling that accompanied their arrival sounded like screeching feedback inside my brain. It was extremely difficult for me to play through.
They started to line up tonight and that was when I really started to get weirded out. My heart raced as I watching them form vaporous rows, like a ghost army ready to do my bidding or maybe to spirit me away with them.
I searched among the sea of expectant transparent faces for the ones I would give anything to see once more, the ones I had tried to summon repeatedly after discovering my disturbing talent. But they weren’t there. They never were. Had they come it would have meant that my talent was a gift instead of the curse I suspected it to be.
A week earlier I’d gotten shit faced enough to risk asking if anyone else in the crew saw dead people when I played that damn mouth harp. Bandmates, roadies, everyone within earshot that night had looked at me as if I’d gotten thrown off a bull and cracked my head open.
Arla had a bit stronger of a reaction. After not so subtly suggesting that I avoid playing the harmonica for a while, he had stormed to the bus and poured all my Jack Daniels down the drain. When I explained later in detail what had been happening, an unidentifiable emotion had flashed across his face. Not surprise. The opposite maybe. It almost seemed as if that had been what he had been expecting me to say. But like a lot of things lately I didn’t trust my own take on the situation.
Unmindful of my introspection the apparitions continued to march forward. Adrenaline streamlined into my bloodstream as they drifted closer to the stage, passing through every obstacle in their path. People. Trashcans. Light poles. Nothing slowed or deterred them.
Morbid fascination kept me frozen in place. I broke into a cold sweat despite the hot as a Texas summer sun spotlight on me. What did they want from me? What would happen if they actually touched me? And why did I find their dark energy so strangely appealing?
Maybe because I was nuts. Certifiable. Hello, Mr. Blade, right this way to the padded cell we have prepared for you.
Fear dogged my heels as the mob of specters surged forward. I began to rush through the notes, praying that I could get to the end of the song and pocket the harmonica before they got any closer.
But what if they didn’t go away when I stopped this time?
And what if I started seeing them when I wasn’t playing?
Chapter 1
You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
August 2005
Thyme
Fogerty’s “Graveyard Train” bluesy rhythm rolling through my body, work clogs tapping on the linoleum floor to the beat, I swayed back and forth in front of the steaming work kettle that reminded me of a witch’s cauldron, pretending the oar sized wooden paddle was my dance partner.
When the thick custard began to bubble around the edges, I stuck my nose into the light steam, inhaling deeply, savoring the rich aroma of the ice cream base. Lately I swore I could distinguish each individual ingredient: the heavy cream, half-and-half, egg yolks, sugar and a dash of salt, by the way it smelled.
I laid my stirring stick on the butcher block prep station careful not to drip on my worn copy of Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. I’d cracked it open earlier while waiting for the machine to churn out a batch of mint chocolate chip.
I crossed the kitchen quickly going up on my toes to snag a heat resistant plastic tub from the steel drying rack above the sink. The tub was nearly as big as I was, but I wasn’t afraid of transferring it by myself anymore, even though it weighed over eighty pounds when full.
I pulled the lever to tilt the kettle pouring the steaming base into the tub I’d set on the floor. Once full, I toted it by the built in handles over to the commercial fridge where it would need to cool overnight.
I loved the order and discipline it took to precisely follow the steps in the ice cream recipes that I used each day. But I also enjoyed being creative and dreaming up new flavors. I could barely wait to try out a new one that I hoped would mimic the flavor of a blueberry Old Fashioned cocktail.
I lifted the base above
my shoulders to place it on an empty shelf and closed the freezer door.
“Oh!” I jumped back, heart rate spiking, hand to my throat, startled by my mamere’s unexpected appearance in the kitchen. She wasn’t usually up this early and I hadn’t heard her enter over the sound of Creedence.
She shook her head, intelligent caramel eyes twinkling with amusement, but her expression was stern. I was going to get an earful from her about something. Grasping one of the iPod strings she plucked a bud from my ear. “You need to wait until Tony comes in to move the tubs,” she fussed, tapping a disapproving finger to a rounded cheek a shade lighter than my own. “They’re way too heavy and it’s dangerous for you to carry all that hot liquid by yourself. You could trip and burn yourself, badly, non?”
“I’m ok, Mamere.” And I was, truly. In the past, I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that chore alone but lately the batches just seemed lighter and lighter.
I put stubborn hands on my aproned hips. Mine were more in proportion to my petite frame. Mamere’s were much wider, a testament to her love of food in general. She’d been sampling the ice cream we made at Chantelle Glace in the historic Vieux Carre’ section of New Orleans for a number of years before I came along. I myself had never been as tempted by sweets as she was. Fried seafood, shrimp and okra were my weakness. Though my morning runs and robust metabolism seemed to burn off most of those guilty calories.
“I know you can do it, Ty Boo, but it’s not wise. Don’t be tete dure.”
“Sorry, Mamere. You’re right. I’m being hard headed. I just don’t like waiting around till Tony comes in, especially when I don’t really need his help with them anymore. And today, I need to get everything already done early so I can…”
“Have time to get ready for your big date with your beau,” she interjected. “Oui?”
I nodded, blushing. She knew me very well. There wasn’t much I didn’t share with her. She was loving and encouraging, the type of grandmother I’m sure every girl wished she could have.
“Did you do any more thinking about Mr. Johnson’s offer?” She must’ve seen my spine stiffen after she posed that question because she rushed on before I could get a word in edgewise. “It’s a lot of money. Enough to reopen the shop somewhere else.”
“No. The location is too good here. That’s why he wants it so badly. Prime spots in the French Quarter are hard to come by. We discussed this last night. I thought we were both in agreement.”
“We are. I’m sorry I brought it up again. I just worry what you will do someday after I’m gone. Here, let me help you.” She grabbed the other scrubber, and we worked quietly and efficiently together as we’d been doing for years bringing loads of soapy water from the professional sink over to the kettle to wash it out.
Though my gran was sixty-two now, except for the grey accents in her tight chignon, a style I mimicked with my own long brown locks while working, you wouldn’t be able to guess her age by her appearance. Her complexion was smooth and youthful reflecting her Creole heritage. The faint laugh lines around her mouth and eyes only added depth and interest to her lovely face. Most days it seemed as if she had nearly as much energy as I did.
The ten by ten foot kitchen space sparkled when we were through cleaning. I could even see my reflection in the silver finish of the kettle. I didn’t linger on the flash of my violet eyes or the complexion that had darkened considerably this summer as I set aside my towel and untied my apron strings. “Are you sure you and Tony can handle the Sunday rush alone?”
“You know we can. I want you to take the day off. Help Mr. Hill like you’ve been wanting to for an age. And buy yourself a new dress. You deserve it. Don’t rush getting ready for tonight.” She ran a gentle hand over the hair I’d let down, tucking a wayward strand behind my ear. “Tu es jolie. Your Shane is a lucky man.”
“Merci, beaucoup, Mamere.” I caught her hand and placed a soft kiss in her work roughened palm, my cheeks warming from the compliment. “I’m pleased you think so.”
She made a tsking sound. “You don’t realize your beauty, Ty Boo. I don’t understand it. What do you see when you look in the mirror?”
I ducked my head avoiding answering, staring down at my practical but unattractive work shoes. I’d been saving up and planning to buy a new pair of heels in addition to the dress I’d had my eye on for tonight. Shane liked me in heels. Said they made my legs look incredibly sexy. That was fine by me, since I was nearly as obsessed with pretty shoes as I was with my handsome beau.
As to what others saw when they looked at me, I couldn’t say for sure. I just saw a young woman on the verge of her twenty-first birthday. Average looking. Mixed heritage like my mamere’s forced me to walk a tightrope between two worlds and two identities, not black or white enough to easily blend into either. Certainly not pretty enough to turn heads in my opinion. Brownish hair, glossy and long. My violet eyes were probably my best feature, but I didn’t believe Shane would’ve given me more than a passing glance if we hadn’t known each other for so long.
He had taken pity on me when he’d been a fifth grader. I’d just entered kindergarten, a silent, shrinking little oyster after my mother abandoned me on the doorstep of Chantelle Glace. I remembered that my maman had always seemed a bit flighty, moving us around from place to place as if she were afraid to stay in one place too long. She was uncomfortable indoors, always wanting to be outside with her bare toes touching the grass, especially along the banks of the river after it rained when the current was strong. But despite those idiosyncrasies, I’d loved my mother dearly.
It’d taken me years to come to terms with her abandonment. I so wished that she’d have come back at least once, if only to explain why she did it. At that tender of an age, I had blamed myself, wondering if she had not wanted me because of the obvious differences in our skin tones.
Back then, a couple of the older neighborhood boys had found it amusing to torture me. They’d pulled on my braids, tripped me, called me names and made fun. Typical stuff. But Shane had stood up for me. He had let everyone know I was his friend and not to mess with me or they’d answer to him. I think I’d been a little in love with my knight in shining armor ever since.
“Je t’aime, Mamere.” I kissed her cheek. “Shane says he has something special planned after dinner with his parents. I might be late. Don’t wait up for me.”
Chapter 2
My soul has grown deep like the rivers. - Langston Hughes
Thyme
After pulling my long hair into a ponytail on the upstairs landing, I turned the key to lock the door to the two bedroom apartment Mamere and I shared above the shop. I didn’t need to use the iron hand rail as I tromped down the wide dramatic spiral staircase and didn’t slow my pace to linger over the view to our tropical courtyard where the fountain was bubbling softly. Hand on the smooth wooden newel at the bottom, I was just about to breeze through the tile foyer on my way to the outside door when I passed Tony coming in to work.
He flashed me a warm smile and we exchanged brief pleasantries before he turned to go into the shop. I continued outside breaking into a jog as soon as my running shoes hit the uneven slates of the banquette.
Today, we had all the turquoise shutters thrown open downstairs and up but I didn’t think either level was going to cool off. The air was too still. There was absolutely no breeze which was unusual even by late August standards. The atmosphere seemed oppressively humid, heavy and expectant, even more than the previous day when everyone had begun complaining about it.
Given the temperature and the early hour, I had the gallery lined street of the Vieux Carre’ practically to myself though I knew from experience hordes of tourists and locals would clog the streets soon enough. Mr. Hill was out in front of his three story home, one of the most colorful B&B’s on the Rue St Philip, even more eye catching than our white washed building with its red paint and whimsical bright blue gingerbread trim. He was using his garden hose to spray his sidewalk clean.
&nbs
p; I waved and he waved back.
“How’s Chantelle doing this hot and humid morning?” he asked.
“She’s doing well. Feisty as usual,” I replied as I jogged in place. “How’s your back?”
“I can’t complain, Ty Boo. Every days’ a gift, right?” He shooed away a pesky fly that’d tried to land on his wiry grey hair.
“I gotta run.” I smiled. “I’ll catch up with you later.” I started jogging backward. “After I get cleaned up.” I’d finally convinced him to let me help him clear out his basement. He had a large space under the first floor of the B&B he hoped to rent out long term for extra income.
The Vieux Carre’ was a small community. Some celebrities owned seasonal homes and kept to themselves when visiting, but among the locals everyone knew each other. We helped each other out like a great big family, sharing when we could and bartering for what we needed. It was a system that drew us closer together and served everyone well, with the notable exception of Mr. Johnson. But then there was always at least one rotten egg in any basket.
Sprinting hard, passing Spanish colonial buildings like our own on either side, I headed down St. Philip, stepping down into the middle of the narrow deserted street since the banquette was so uneven. I crossed Decatur where the road split into two, the green and white awning covering the outdoor seating of the French Market Restaurant on the neutral ground on my left. On my right, a gold likeness of Joan of Arc sat astride a horse, a gift from our sister city in Paris. Locally we’d affectionately dubbed her ‘Joanie on a pony’.
I dashed quickly between the break in the shops, across an asphalt parking lot, over the tracks of the riverfront street car line, and then up the steps to the Moonwalk, the elevated flood embankment that’d been repurposed as a scenic trail for Woldenberg Riverfront Park.
Feet pounding the red pavers, I pulled in deep breaths of heavy moisture laden air. I loved it here. It was just a short distance away but it felt as if it were miles and worlds removed from the hustle and bustle of the Quarter. There was an aquarium and an IMAX theatre at the end of my route along with a couple of statues on the way. The eighteen foot Carrera marble ‘Old Man River’ representing the power and majesty of the Mississippi was my favorite. But it was the water itself that really spoke to me.
