Paul and Brady Get Hoodoo with the Voodoo
How do I look?” Paul’s hands shot out straight from his sides, and he began to take tiny, little circle steps so Brady could get the full effect before commenting. Since becoming his roommate, Paul had learned that Brady could be depended on for a lot, but fashion tips were always right at the top of the list.
Brady said, “You look nervous, okay? I haven’t even parked my bike yet! Hang on. This darned kickstand will never just—oh, there. Wait, spin the other way. Yes, just as I thought.” He picked a piece of road dust from Paul’s lily-white shirt, tightened the knot on his tie, and said, “Fix your hair. Oh, and I don’t think she’ll be very impressed by that, either.” He pointed to the clip that kept the right leg of Paul’s trousers from flapping into his bicycle chain.
“Oh! Right.” Paul pulled off the clip and shoved it in his pocket before smoothing down his unruly, brown hair. Brady’s hair, blond and limp as that cheerleader they’d found in the lobby after the first home game, didn’t need flattening. He just shook his head the way he did now when he wanted to “fluff the do” and waited until Paul said, “Now?”
“You’re fine.” Brady’s expression said he wasn’t so sure about the neighborhood. “This is the right address?”
Paul checked his map. “One-twelve East Locust, yes, that’s what she told me.”
Brady looked up and down the street. “Somehow I thought a voodoo queen would live in something a little more…palatial.”
They stood next to a long metal fence through which they could see tall weeds waving cheerfully, like kids playing hooky from school. Beyond the neglected lawn squatted a building that reminded Paul more of a frog than a house. All that green, he guessed. Siding, shutters, trim, even the shingles on the roof were the color of pond scum.
“Maybe she’s not actually a queen,” Paul ventured. “I mean, this is Wisconsin. Maybe she’s more of a…CEO.”
“We could ask,” Brady suggested.
“Only if she has time. She’s probably pretty busy.” They nodded at each other wisely, and then Brady went to the rusty old gate.
“Wait!” Paul patted himself down. “Okay, I remembered to bring the money.” Thank goodness Mom and Daddy still gave him a weekly allowance, or he’d never be able to afford to pay Voodoo Queen (or maybe CEO) Vicky to do the job.
Brady, his hand already on the latch, a handkerchief guarding against the germs his Sweet Mama Jo had warned him were like ninjas that would kill him in his sleep, said, “Calm down! You look fine. You’re here ten minutes early. You’ve got the money. What could go wrong?”
Paul sighed. Nothing, of course, especially not when he was in the company of the best-dressed freshman from Wisconsin University State School ever. It was a real pleasure to share a dorm at WUSS with a trendsetter like Brady. Today, despite the heat of the mid-September afternoon, he’d chosen to wear a black suit coat over his baby-blue dress shirt. The red tie, he said, was for energy, as were the red pants. The best part was his signature tube socks, pulled up high to his knee and then carefully rolled down to the tops of his steel-toed boots, which he kept in pristine condition. Paul looked down at his old jeans and Reeboks and wished he had Brady’s sense of style.
“Are you ready to pay the voodoo queen to break up with your girlfriend for you?” asked Brady patiently.
Paul marched himself over to stand beside his new—and only—friend. “Open the gate.”
* * *
Brady pushed the latch up and kicked the arched bars out of Paul’s way. Paul stepped through the gap, jumping forward as he felt Brady’s shoulder bump into his at the same time that the gate screeched shut.
“Heh-heh. That’s loud,” Brady said.
“Yes. I should fix that. I’ll get my tools.” Paul spun around, heading back toward his bicycle, a red Roadmaster that his grandfather had once ridden clear to Baraboo to see Perry Como in concert.
Brady grabbed his shirtsleeve, pulling him back with short tugs that almost worked like Morse code to communicate his get-back-to-business message. “I appreciate the fact that you want to be helpful. Even more so, that you’re always prepared to be.”
“It’s the Eagle Scout in me.”
“Obviously. But Sweet Mama Jo says it’s the height of rudidity to be late for an appointment you have made. And”—he checked his Timex—“yes, we only have one minute to get to the door. I’m afraid you’ll have to fix the gate after the voodoo queen CEO agrees to help you.”
Paul looked longingly over his shoulder. Somehow he thought that if he could get back to his bike right now, his life would turn out just like he’d always hoped it would. But that was a silly notion. If he did that, he’d be in the same quandary as ever: how to break off a three-year romance that had seemed headed straight to the altar until WUSS had opened his eyes. Now he knew he could never be happy living with Mary. It wasn’t just that other girls shaved their legs, but he had to admit that weighed heavily in the balance.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Paul sighed, “Well, I was th—”
“No, I don’t really care. But that always seems to get people’s attention. So, do you hear that strange sound, or is it just me?” he asked, jerking his head hard enough toward the far end of the yard that his lank hair flipped like a flapper’s skirt.
Paul stared off in that direction. All he could see were tall, green weeds dotted with white and purple wildflowers and a couple of scraggly trees that had been nearly choked to death by deep green vines. “No, I don’t hear anything.”
Brady shrugged. “Maybe it was a cat. Mysteriously powerful women always have cats you know,” he said as he moved off toward the door, stomping down the milkweeds and Queen Anne’s lace to give Paul a path to follow as he went. “Did you have cats as a kid?”
“No. My mom said they could be tools of the devil, so…”
“Ah. I forgot how religious you said she was. So we probably shouldn’t tell her about this trip to Voodoo Vicky’s house?”
“Er, no.”
Clunk.
They stopped. Brady whispered, “You heard that?”
Paul tried to whisper back, “Yes.” But the word didn’t come out along with the air that poofed from his mouth, so he nodded fast and darted his eyes toward the metallic sound. A line of weeds bowed under the weight of something that moved toward them at an uncomfortably quick pace. The movement stopped. A rust-covered paint can popped into the air and then fell back into the pasture that passed for Voodoo Vicky’s front lawn.
Brady whispered, “We should go.” He pointed toward the green wooden doorway and the five cement steps leading up to it that sat ten yards from their present position. “In fact, we should run.”
They bolted toward the steps, yelling, “Voodoo Vicky! Open up! We’re here!”
Three more clunks. Paul glanced back just as a can of cat food came winging toward his forehead. He ducked and it hit Brady, who squealed and stumbled but continued his sprint toward the door. Right behind him, Paul grunted as something heavy struck him between the shoulder blades. He went down.
“Brady!” he yelled as he felt ropes wrap around his ankles and drag him backward. He looked down at his legs. No, not ropes. Vines. The same ones that had encased the ailing trees. Even while he watched, more of them reached out of the weeds, erupted from the ground, wrapped around his knees and his thighs. He stopped dragging and started…sinking.
“Ahhh! Brady! My pants are ripping! My skin! The vines are—biting me! Help!” He yanked them out, tearing them in two, but that just seemed to encourage them. New plants grew from the oozing parts of the old. The entire bottom third of his body already looked like a field of poison ivy. “Hurry, Brady! It’s inside my underwear!”
Paul tried to roll, hoping it would tear at the vines. The muscles of his legs shrieked as they struggled to obey.
And then Brady was there, leaning over him with a bottle of…Hai Karate! “Take that, you rotten tomato!” he
yelled as he squirted the cologne onto the plant. It worked. The leaves curled. The stems turned yellow and split like dried twigs. Paul kicked one leg free.
“Don’t stop now!” Paul yelled. “Keep spraying!”
Golden droplets swooshed from the black-labeled bottle onto the vine like breath spray on deep-throated halitosis as Brady attacked the hungry plant.
“Take that!” he shouted. “And that! And some more of that!” It struck Paul that his friend’s sweet mama probably should’ve included jaunty banter lessons among at least a couple of her homeschooling classes, but maybe she never saw Brady as the type who would win enough fights that he’d have need of them. They could work on that later. For now, he was satisfied that the spray acted like acid on the plant’s sensitive leaves. Yellow holes began to eat their way through the spots the cologne hit, and tendrils of smoke rose from the edges of the affected leaves. The vine jerked and bucked, making a sound like the whine of a failing jet engine.
Another kick and Paul was free. He shot both arms to the sky in victory. Brady took advantage of the chance to grab one arm and jerk him to his feet. Together they ran toward Voodoo Vicky’s front door.
* * *
Paul kept waving his free arm in case the voodoo queen was peeking at them from behind one of her deep green shades. Brady, still holding tight to the other, had just looked over his shoulder to say, “I think we’re safe!” when they both stepped on the brown, woven WELCOME mat lying at the bottom of the front steps. Paul had a second to think, It’s like base in a lethal game of tag! We’re going to be okay now! and then the mat buckled in the middle, sending them both tumbling into the darkness below.
Brady screamed into Paul’s ear, grabbing him around the neck as if his friend had worn a parachute under his dress shirt and planned a last-minute rescue. He yelled again when they hit bottom, probably because Paul landed mostly on top of him.
“Sorry about that,” Paul said as he rolled to the side. He winced as pain shot up his left calf.
Brady touched his ribs and coughed. “Has anybody ever told you what sharp elbows you have?” He groaned.
“They’re alive, Gigi.”
The boys sat up quicker than they should’ve, but the voice that had just spoken—deeper than the grave and disappointed at their vitality—squirted adrenaline all over their bruises, just long enough to push them upright.
Paul and Brady stared at the enormous, bald black man seated on the white leather chair in front of them, and unconsciously, they scooted closer together. The man wore a purple vest that hardly covered his bare, muscular chest and purple silk pants that stopped just below his knees. His feet, crossed comfortably in front of him, were so big they probably required made-to-order shoes, which made Paul wonder how much he’d had to pay for the amethyst-encrusted flip-flops that exactly matched the polish covering his toe- and fingernails.
Beside the man sat a massive pit bull the color of crematory ash. It wore a glittering silver collar but wasn’t leashed or chained. Paul immediately began to look for the nearest exit, which was when he realized they’d fallen into Voodoo Vicky’s storm cellar. The floor, dirty concrete that someone had once painted green, had been cleared in the middle where they’d fallen and the big man sat with his scary dog. The wall to their left was lined with closets. No, they had windows. And locks. Which meant, oh God! Paul grabbed Brady’s elbow. Those are cells!
Paul looked away, his eyes searching desperately for a sign of hope. He didn’t find it in the line of human-shaped dolls that hung from small nooses all across the ceiling beams or the shelves of jars, along the wall to his right, that held everything from pickled frogs to human eyeballs. But behind the man, breaking up the shadows at the back of the room? Yes! Steps leading up to a green-painted door! If they could just—
Brady said, “Who are you?”
What kind of question was that? Anybody who lured you into their homemade prison wasn’t the type of person they needed to get to know!
The giant said, “I am Voodoo Vicky. And I suppose you’re the boys from WUSS?” He still sounded disappointed.
“Yes, we are,” Brady replied. “We had an appointment with the voodoo queen. But we thought—”
“What?” asked Vicky. “That I’d be a woman?” He snorted. “People are such slaves to stereotypes. For instance, the way you gents are dressed, I could easily assume your mother was overbearing and ignorant.” He jabbed a finger at Brady. “And you”—he pointed at Paul—“are still recovering from spending the last four years attending a parochial school.”
“My sweet mama is not ignorant!” Brady shouted. When Gigi, the pit bull, started to growl, he whispered, “Sorry, but she’s not.”
“How many women do you know?” asked Voodoo Vicky.
“Counting my professors?”
The big man rolled his eyes. They came to rest on Paul. “How about you, tough guy? Do you have anything brilliant to say before I sic my dog on you?”
“Don’t! I mean, you did say we could come.”
“That was when you had money to pay for my services.”
Paul slammed a hand against his back pocket, which wasn’t there anymore. In fact, his clothes had been completely torn away in that spot, leaving a big gap where his butt cheek shone through and he ended up slapping it painfully. Voodoo Vicky laughed and pointed.
“Ah-ha-ha-ha! The look on your face! Priceless!”
“My money’s still in your yard! Your plant stole it right before it nearly killed us!”
The huge man frowned. Just the way his eyebrows came down over his eyes, shadowing them so they became black, glittering orbs, made Paul’s heart try to find a bigger rib to hide behind. “You should’ve fought harder,” he growled.
“You did accept our appointment,” Brady reminded him.
“You’re late,” said Vicky.
Brady frowned down at his watch. Tapped the crystal. “But we got here early! How could…” He smiled admiringly at the queen. “You can manipulate time? That’s so boss! Then you can definitely help my friend, Paul, here!”
Voodoo Vicky shook his head, which was when Paul realized his skull had been tattooed with strange symbols that started over his ears and seemed to continue on around to the back of his neck. He said, “You have the persistence of a runty little pit bull. Which I like. But you talk like a Happy Days rerun. You were homeschooled, weren’t you?”
“See!” Brady clapped his hands. “You’re exactly what we need! Maybe we can still make a deal!”
Vicky dropped his chin into his hand and sighed heavily. “This would’ve been so much more satisfying if you’d just broken your necks in the fall.”
“Why?” Brady asked.
Paul wanted to yell, Quit being nice to the attempted murderer! But he wasn’t really in a position to demand anything. His ankle had started to throb, which meant it was twisted, maybe even sprained, so he wasn’t getting to those stairs by speed alone. Maybe his roommate had an actual plan that would save them, and he should, at least for now, just shut up and play along.
Vicky said, “I lost all my zombies in Hurricane Katrina, which is why I’m stuck in Milwaukee instead of grooving to the drumbeat of New Orleans. Do you know how hard it is to compete with the female establishment when you’re a male voodoo queen whose zombies have floated away? Don’t answer that.” Brady made sympathetic noises as Vicky said sadly, “You two could’ve been my first replacements.”
Paul realized his breath had begun to come in little gasps. Was this what they called hyperventilation? The gap in his learning had never seemed so extreme until now, when he wished his mom and dad could’ve afforded something a little fancier than the Amish school down the road from their trailer. Then, maybe, he’d have a clue about how to clear his vision while he struggled to say, “You want us to be your z-z-z-zombies?”
* * *
Vicky leaned forward, speaking so earnestly that Paul felt compelled to listen despite the fact that the toes of his left foot had
begun inching toward the exit, ignoring the protests of his whining ankle, while the rest of his body decided if they made it past the pit bull, it was coming along for the ride.
Vicky said, “Zombies are to voodoo queens as dowries are to Indian maidens. The more you have, the more attractive you can make yourself to prospective beaus. In my case, that would be fat cats from the West Coast who want to lose twenty pounds in three days. Or erase their wives’ memories of walking in on them with their mistresses. You get me, man? I need obedient servants who will carry out my orders without questioning why I tell them to beat a rattlesnake against a rock until it’s dead, cut it into sixteen pieces, and then immerse the pieces for forty seconds into a certain someone’s iced tea pitcher.”
Brady cleared his throat. “That seems like a lot of directions to follow. You know, for somebody whose brain is rotting. At least, I would assume—”
“Assume nothing!” Vicky bellowed. Somewhere upstairs a bird shrieked. “Although you’re correct in thinking it’s better for me to start with fresh corpses.”
Vicky sat back in his chair, making the leather snap and crackle like bubble wrap. His hand fluttered up to smooth the lines that had appeared between his eyes, the diamond in his pinkie ring nearly blinding Paul as it flashed in quick circles, reflecting the basement’s double line of bright white bulbs. “Look, boys, I treat my people well. I won’t let your parts fall off. No maggots or even the slightest stench allowed.”
“Oh,” Paul said faintly. “Great.”
“Take Gigi, here,” the voodoo queen suggested, running his other finger down the center of the pit bull’s broad gray head.
“We really shouldn’t,” Paul said, looking at Brady for support. “Dogs are such a big responsibility.”
“They poop on the rug,” Brady agreed. When he noticed the veins in Vicky’s eyes start to go red, he said, “Well, sometimes they poop on the rug. My sweet mama says—”
“No!” Vicky shrieked. “I mean look at her! She’s in top physical shape! And see what she can do?” He spun his finger in front of the dog’s nose. She stood on her hind legs and hopped around in a circle. He pointed to the floor and Gigi lay down, waiting for him to crook his finger forward, at which point she crept toward Paul and Brady like she was sneaking through the jungle, a predator so fierce she’d jumped right to the tip-top of the food pyramid. “Isn’t that something special?” Vicky asked. “And I just dug her up a week ago!”
Quick Bites: A Short Story Collection Page 6
