by Susan Vaught
“Maybe so, maybe not,” Grandmother Jones says. “Clay Potts doesn’t have the last say in things like that. But if you’re going to live here and do a little pushing, you can’t be scared of jail. Jail comes with the territory. If you get arrested, Hattie and I, we’ll call the N-double-A-CP and get your bail, quick as we can.” The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. NAACP.
My breakfast looks less and less appealing. Jail worries me. Needing a group as powerful-sounding as the NAACP to get me out of jail scares me. Being in jail when Zashar’s storm comes, that terrifies me.
“Ruba, I love you,” Grandmother Jones says. “And I’ll stand by you. This is little stuff, girl. I’ve seen a lot worse.”
The emotional tone of her voice gets my attention almost as fast as her words. “I … love you, too,” I say before hanging up.
My dress feels soggy and cold when I stretch it over a chair. I put on Grandmother Jones’s dry robe. It smells of her, sweet and gentle, like rain on flowers. Not at all like Ba’s strong scent of spice and smoke, but pleasant. Comforting. And I make myself eat, because it would please Grandmother Jones, and because I’ll need my strength soon, for the storm chant.
Even with the scent of Grandmother Jones around me, I feel alone. And scared. The biscuits weigh heavy in my belly, and my feet feel like lead as I walk to my room.
It’s a small space, but larger than what I had in Haiti. I kneel in the center and slide aside a small rug. There’s a loose board, my one hiding place Grandmother Jones never finds. Other than my journal, my most important possessions lie underneath—my bow and quiver and the cowry shell necklace handed down through generations, that King Agaja’s loyal son gave Tata in case we ever needed what strength of spirit the king had to offer. She wore it to remember King Agaja’s son, her king, then gave it to her daughter. It came to me through Ba on the beach. I take it out with great care, and then retrieve the bow I so carefully repaired after Ba’s death, the quiver, my sacred oils, and the Amazon war tunic Ba made me.
All seems in order.
Soon, I’ll need these things with me. I’ll need them close, for comfort and maybe even for safety. The most important thing before battle is to check your weapons, so I climb on the bed and do just that. First, I slide my machete out of my pillowcase, where it has lived since I came to Mississippi. I also fish out its leather strap, so I can polish the blade.
As I settle into my task, I hear an insane laugh far in the distance.
The unbalanced sound startles me into pausing, and I gaze out my window. The laugh comes again in its own time, unhurried.
It sounds mocking.
“Zashar has tortured another poor spirit and sent her out of the land of the dead,” I whisper as I return to sharpening my machete. Only I know that laugh doesn’t sound like any of the spirits I’ve heard before when Ba and I fought storms.
It sounds different, and completely without love or hope, and it makes me cold inside.
When I finish sharpening and polishing my machete, I check my arrows. They feel straight as I run my fingers from tip to end, and my bow—still true. When the time comes, I will retie its string and sling my quiver over my shoulder, and do what I must do.
Whatever that is.
If I’m not in jail for not stealing some white woman’s radio.
I pack my secret things one at a time in a special bag, including the bow and quiver. I wrap a blanket around the bag and tuck it between my bed and the wall for hiding. Then I crawl under my covers to rest, just for minute.
The covers feel warm. My pillow, soft.
Grandmother Jones’s robe hugs me as I sink into sleep.
… into wind, swirling …
… into skies, dark as a moonless night …
… into screams, raking the sea …
I jerk awake, heart pounding. It’s still light outside. Did I sleep at all? And yet, the spirit in the storm on the ocean … she sounds so much louder.
And the smell of breakfast—a fresh breakfast, cooking—meets my nose.
No!
I leap from the bed and rush into the kitchen.
Grandmother Jones greets me with a smile.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” she says as I stand embarrassed and rumpled, still wearing her robe.
She doesn’t mention it.
“Glad you slept the clock around,” she says instead. “Needed your rest. Don’t figure you’ve had such good sleep since you came to Pass Christian.”
Good sleep. Full of nightmares and storms. I can’t believe I dared close my eyes with a hurricane so near!
I can feel its breath on my flesh. Last night … last night. Light of the Creator … what I dreamed! That Zashar herself was in that storm.
That instead of fighting some tired spirit, some confused ghost needing to go back to the land of the dead—that I must fight Zashar herself. Here, now. When I don’t even feel ready.
I dreamed that the stormwitch finally freed herself, that her spirit plows toward me, bent on death and complete destruction.
Settle, I instruct myself. It was just a dream. Eat and speak to your grandmother and make her happy.
Television news from a black-and-white set on the counter tells of nothing and more nothing. Grandmother Jones stands and parts the kitchen curtains with two fingers. Light spills across the table, across my dark, dark hands shaking as I hold a golden biscuit.
“You hear the television?” she asks.
I put down the biscuit and shade my eyes against the morning sun. “Mais, non. Um, no, ma’am.”
“A big storm hit Cuba Friday night. Killed three people.”
My hands shake so hard I have to put the biscuit down. My nightmares, barely held back, break on my mind like a storm surge. I try to manage my face, keep myself from leaping to my feet, grabbing my bag, and fleeing to the beach, where I feel I have some small power against the storm.
All that holds me in my chair is the belief that I will lose my grandmother’s trust and respect if I go. And I can’t leave her to face the police alone, or risk her being trapped in Pass Christian when the hurricane—and the spirit inside it—comes.
“They’re calling it a hurricane now,” Grandmother Jones says. “Hurricane Camille. And they say it might come this way. It’ll probably dip under us and hit Texas like Betsy five years back.”
My heart floods at the thought of Betsy, the name the whites gave the biggest storm I ever fought with Ba. It was my first real storm chant. In my mind’s eye, Ba dances with her arms raised while I scatter spices on the beach.
Ba was still strong then. Her tall, lean frame moved like water itself.
It seemed so easy then. Scary and exciting, but somehow simple and … safe. Because Ba was there. Because Ba would make everything okay again.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, as I’ve heard Grandmother Jones do when she worries. “This Hurricane Camille,” I tell her, “I think she will come here.”
Grandmother Jones smiles. “You forecasting weather now?”
I study my toenails and nearby floorboards. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, well—Ba did. She taught me signs. Portents. Are those devil’s work, too?”
“No, Ruba. Old folks have been reading the weather since before all memory. I don’t put much stock in it, though. Now, go on and get dressed. We need to get to town.”
“To the police. About that radio.”
“Yes.”
“What about Clay?”
“Clay is Hattie’s problem for today, not mine. Though I expect they won’t be far behind us. Probably just making some phone calls first. Hattie likes to have her support all lined up.”
I wish I had my support all lined up.
As Grandmother Jones clears the table in her efficient, methodical way, I gaze at her small hands. They seem stiff and tense. She looks as stern as ever, but I don’t feel so cold and alone. It’s her warrior face, I remind myself. And women put on warrior faces when they want to p
rotect what’s theirs, when they don’t want to lose something important.
Then again, maybe I have all the support I need.
As she finishes her cleaning, I slip into my room and take my journal from beneath my pillow and my bag from between the bed and the wall. I place the journal in the bag and hide it in a shadowed corner so I can reach it quickly. On my bed I spread my newest white cotton dresses, but they’re dirty. And my African robes are still packed away. I stand in my underwear sifting through the frocks to find the one with the fewest stains, and I don’t hear my door open until too late.
“My God in heaven, Ruba.” Grandmother Jones sounds shocked beyond measure.
I whirl around.
She points. “What is that blue horror on your belly and leg?”
I fumble to cover my crocodile, then slowly let my hands fall away. It’s too large, and I know it.
Her eyes widen. She looks from the crocodile to my face.
“I—I’m an Amazon,” I whisper. “Like I’ve told you. Or tried to tell you. This is the crocodile mark. This bracelet here, on my wrist. These are things Amazons wore before the French killed them all in Dahomey. Since Ba died … I’m the last.”
Grandmother Jones has a stone face beyond all stone faces now. I see no anger in her eyes, but also no acceptance. No warmth. Something else. A flash and a flicker.
Fear?
Someone knocks on the front door, and we both startle.
I pull on a dirty dress and grab my bag as Grandmother Jones hurries out of my room, across the kitchen, and opens the door … to Officer Bolin.
“How do,” she says, and drops her eyes to the floor.
“Maizie.” He tips his hat to show the bristles of his close-cut hair.
I stand behind my bedroom door and seethe. Mrs. Jones, I think. Until you know her. Until you respect her and ask permission, her name is Mrs. Jones.
“I found my granddaughter,” she says. “I was just helping her get dressed before bringing her to you.”
I clutch my bag and inch around the door, staring at the officer. The Man, Gisele calls him.
“Appreciate that, Maizie, but that’s not why I’m here. They been flying recon out of Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, and those boys are worried about that storm. Hurricane Camille. I’m going door-to-door in the colored sections to let people know, seeing as lots of y’all don’t have phones.”
“Kind of you,” Grandmother Jones says, and I hear the edge in her voice. “I do have a phone, in case you need to know.”
The officer doesn’t hear the slight edge of irritation in my grandmother’s voice, but I do. He rubs the brim of his hat and keeps talking. “For now, I think y’all ought to leave. Go on inland.”
Grandmother Jones raises her head. “I can’t leave, Mr. Bolin. Over at the Richelieu, there’ll be a hurricane party. I’ll have to work.”
Officer Bolin frowns. Seems ruffled. “Maizie, I got a bad feeling about this storm. Them idiots who want to watch the winds come, they’re playing with fire this time. Please, take your granddaughter and go. I’ll pay the apartments a visit and tell them I sent you away.”
Grandmother Jones hesitates, then nods. “If you think it’s best.”
“I do.” Officer Bolin turns his gaze on me. “And young lady, when this storm business is finished, you and I, we’ve got to have a talk about that radio.”
“I didn’t take any radio.” I try to keep my eyes down, but I can’t help looking him in the face.
He glares at me, and his cheeks color. “Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. We’ll be talking.”
Behind him, horns sound. Loud, like sirens, but low. Almost mournful.
“Civil Defense,” Grandmother Jones says.
I’m still eye to eye with the policeman.
He looks away first.
Triumph makes me shiver. Push, not shove. Though this push may have some cost later, I don’t care.
“Get going, Maizie,” he says.
“Mrs. Jones,” I say loudly.
“Ruba!” My grandmother’s hand flies to her throat.
The officer’s face goes slack. He looks both dumbfounded and perplexed, as if he has no idea what I mean.
“I’m from Haiti,” I murmur, shifting my gaze to my hands. “In Haiti, it’s polite to call older people by Mister or Misses. Is it so different here?”
Grandmother Jones is trying to speak, but her voice seems to have failed her.
The officer still looks confused.
“This is my grandmother, sir,” I tell him. “Even if you’re angry with me, I hope you’ll be polite to her, as I’d be polite to your grandmother. I’d call her Mrs. Bolin, not by her first name, like some little girl.”
The officer coughs. “Yeah, well. Don’t wait. Y’all get on out of here.”
And he’s gone, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Grandmother Jones wheels on me, eyes flashing. I swear her hair is sticking up. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No, ma’am,” I say, then hold my breath, searching her face. Hoping.
She rolls her eyes.
And grins.
“Child … whooo.” She fans herself with one hand. “I’m not believing—Hattie won’t ever believe what you just did.”
Her laughter fills the house, and I feel so happy I could cry. But I have no time to glory in the feeling. My grandmother is already rushing me.
“Come on, Ruba. Come on. We don’t have time for this. Gotta find Sardis and Gisele and get out of here.”
Sardis? Who is Sardis?
I would ask, but Grandmother Jones is dragging me out the door, bag and all. Down the steps, toward Crazy Sardine’s house. She leaves me on the porch and runs the poor man straight out of his bed. He has to beg her to give him time to put on clean pants and a shirt as he’s hopping down the front steps.
Gisele, who has dressed faster in a blue smock and black shoes, holds my hand as I walk her to Grandmother Jones’s yellow Mercury.
“We’re going by the Richelieu first,” Grandmother Jones says as she gets behind the wheel. Crazy Sardine gets in the front, while Gisele slides into the big backseat with me. “Then we’re heading inland. Good Lord, the roads will be packed. I figure we should go on up to Tupelo, to my friend Netta’s.”
“Officer Bolin said he would speak to your boss for you,” I remind her. All the while, I’m figuring how to get myself out of the car and have her take Crazy Sardine and Gisele on to Tupelo. To Netta’s. Out of harm’s way. That would be perfect. I’d be free to try my best to turn the storm, and the people I most care about, the family I have left, would be safe.
“I don’t trust my job to anyone, child,” Grandmother Jones says. “I’m going by there to tell them myself and get the time off.”
“Ruba,” whispers Gisele. “That witch in the wind, she’s speaking foul. Somebody needs to wash her mouth out with soap.”
“Yes, I know,” I whisper back.
“Y’all hush,” frets Grandmother Jones. “I’m trying to drive in traffic.”
We inch onto the long coastal highway, joining what seems like every car along the Gulf. On my right, police lights swirl against a rising surf, and waves touch higher and higher on the sand. In the distance, rain falls over open water. On my left, trees and vines rustle and sway in the growing wind and gray light. Some people are boarding up their pretty mansions. Other mansions stand empty and dark with no cars in the drives. Owners at work, on vacation—or already gone, choosing safety over all else.
I look back toward the ocean, and a car on the road’s shoulder with its hood propped open catches my eye. “Clay! Wait, Grandmother. There. Clay and Miss Hattie, broken down.”
Grandmother Jones brakes.
Crazy Sardine hangs out of his window and motions for them.
Miss Hattie kicks one front tire on her blue car, and her lips move as she mutters all the way across the median.
Clay climbs into the front, and Miss Hattie squeezes in next
to Gisele after I scoot over to give her some room. “Never buy another Ford,” she swears. “Overheat if you look at ’em. Henry Ford must have made a bargain with the devil—and where you going anyhow, Maizie? It would be faster to head out the other way.”
“They’re throwing a hurricane party at the Richelieu, no doubt,” Grandmother Jones says. “I’m supposed to work, so I need to tell them I can’t come. I tried to call earlier, after I woke up, but I didn’t get an answer.”
“Hmmph,” sniffs Miss Hattie. “They can damn well clean up their own mess this time. Bunch of fools.”
“They’ve ridden out lots of hurricanes,” Grandmother Jones says. “Won’t be worried. The Richelieu’s built solid.”
“Hmmph,” Miss Hattie grumbles again.
It’s near noon by the time we make the three miles in traffic. The Richelieu Apartments stand proud against Camille’s early kiss, and Grandmother Jones hurries out of the car, across a sidewalk, and through the main entrance, holding her plastic rain bonnet in place with one hand.
As I watch her disappear into the apartments, I know it’s now or never. I have to get away to go fight the storm.
“Go on without me,” I say where Gisele and Miss Hattie can hear. My hand closes over the cloth handles of my bag, and in one quick move, I open the door and start out of the car.
“Ruba!” Miss Hattie screams. She reaches for me as I swing the door shut.
My heart pounds as I run one step—and then rough arms catch me.
Not Miss Hattie’s arms. One whiff of sweat and sour beer lets me know I’ve been caught by Leroy Frye.
Something sharp cuts into my throat.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday, 17 August 1969: Afternoon
“Thought y’all might come here,” Leroy Frye growls as he pulls me away from the car, keeping a knife tight against my throat. He heads us toward a small patch of woods that separate the apartments from other buildings. “Figured we could catch you before you left. Damn shame y’all are going to drown in the hurricane.”
My elbow moves before my mind finishes a thought.
I connect with flab and bone and hear a great, “Uuunnnhh.”
Leroy Frye’s knife leaves my throat, and he lets me go. I stagger to the side, keep my balance, and keep a tight hold on my bag.
