Magic City: Recent Spells

by Simon R. Green

  All you had to do was call her name.

  One week stretched, unbelievably, to two. The watermelons were as large as cereal bowls. As party balloons. But they seemed pitiful compared to the giant blimps in the bins in front of Farmer Jack’s.

  Obviously, their original estimate was off. Alphonse begged and whined so much, though, that Mercy finally let him pick and open his own melon. It was hard and pale inside, no pinker than a pack of Wrigley’s gum. It tasted like scouring powder.

  Oneida knew she’d wind up sharing part of her personal, private watermelon with Alphonse, if only to keep him from crying, or telling another kid, or a grown-up even. It was the kind of sacrifice a mature ten-year-old expected to make. It would be worth it, though. Half a watermelon was still a feast.

  They tended the Blue Lady’s vine with varying degrees of impatience and diligence. Three weeks, now. How much longer would it take till the remaining watermelons reached what Oneida called “The absolute peak of perfection?”

  They never found out.

  The Monday after the Fourth of July, Oneida awoke to the low grumble of heavy machinery. The noise was from far enough away that she could have ignored it if she wanted to stay asleep. Instead, she leaned out till her fingers fit under the edge of her bunk’s frame, curled down, and flipped herself so she sat on the empty bottom bunk.

  She peeked into her parents’ bedroom. Her father was still asleep; his holstered gun gleamed darkly in the light that crept in around the lowered shade. She closed the door quietly. Her dad worked hard. He was the first Negro on the police force.

  Oneida ate a bowl of cereal, re-reading the book on the back of the box about the adventures of Twinkle-toes the Elephant. Baby stuff, but she was too lazy to get up and locate a real book.

  When she was done, she checked the square dial of the alarm clock on the kitchen counter. Quarter to nine. In forty-five minutes her mother would be home from the phone company. She’d make a big breakfast. Even if Oneida wasn’t hungry, it felt good to talk with Mom while she cooked it. Especially if Dad woke up; with Royal and Limoges off at Big Mama’s, the three of them discussed important things like voting rights and integration.

  But there was time for a quick visit to the vacant lot before then.

  The sidewalk was still cool beneath the black locust trees. The noise that had wakened her sounded a lot louder out here. It grew and grew, the closer she got to the Curtis’s. And then she saw the source: an ugly yellow monster machine roaring through the lot, riding up and down over the humps of rubble like a cowboy on a bucking bronco. And Kevin was just standing there on the sidewalk, watching.

  There were stones all around. She picked up a whole fistful and threw them, but it was too far. She grabbed some more and Kevin did too. They started yelling and ran toward the monster, throwing stones. It had a big blade. It was a bulldozer, it was pushing the earth out of its way wherever it wanted to go. She couldn’t even hear her own shouting over the awful sound it made. Rocks flew out of her hands. They hit it. They hit it again. The man on top, too.

  Then someone was holding her arms down. She kept yelling and Kevin ran away. Suddenly she heard herself. The machine was off. The white man from on top of it was standing in front of her telling her to shut up, shut up or he’d have her arrested.

  Where was the Blue Lady?

  There was only Mizz Curtis, in her flowered housedress, with her hair up in pink curlers. No one was holding Oneida’s arms anymore, but she was too busy crying to get away. Another white man asked what her name was.

  “Oneida Brandy,” Mizz Curtis said. “Lives down the street. Oneida, what on Earth did you think you were doing, child?”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  Dad. She looked up to be sure. He had his police hat on and his gun belt, but regular pants and a T-shirt instead of the rest of his uniform. He gazed at her without smiling while he talked to the two white men.

  So she was in trouble.

  After a while, though, the men stopped paying attention to Oneida. They were talking about the rich white people they worked for, and all the things they could do to anyone who got in their way. Kevin’s mom gave her a crumpled up Kleenex to blow her nose on, and she realized all the kids in the neighborhood were there.

  Including Mercy Sanchez. She looked like a statue of herself. Like she was made of wood. Of splinters.

  Then the white men’s voices got loud, and they were laughing. They got in a green pick-up parked on the easement and drove off, leaving their monster in the middle of the torn-up lot.

  Her father’s face was red; they must have said something to make him mad before they went away. But all Dad did was thank Mizz Curtis for sending Kevin over to wake him up.

  They met Mom on the way home. She was still in her work clothes and high heels, walking fast. She stopped and stared at Dad’s hat and gun. “Vinny?”

  “Little brush with the law, Joanne. Our daughter here’s gonna explain everything over breakfast.”

  Oneida tried. But Mercy had made her swear not to tell any grown-ups about the Blue Lady, which meant her story sounded not exactly stupid, but silly. “All that fuss about a watermelon!” Mom said. “As if we don’t have the money to buy one, if that’s what you want!”

  Dad said the white men were going to get quite a surprise when they filed their complaint about him impersonating an officer. He said they were breaking the law themselves by not posting their building permit. He said off-duty policemen went around armed all the time.

  Aunt Elise brought over Cousin Alphonse. They had to play in the basement even though it was such a nice day outside. And Kevin Curtis and Mercy Sanchez weren’t allowed to come over. Or anybody.

  After about eighty innings of “Ding-Dong, Delivery,” Oneida felt like she was going crazy with boredom. She was sorry she’d ever made the game up; all you did was put a blanket over yourself and say “Ding-dong, delivery,” and the other player was supposed to guess what you were. Of course Alphonse adored it.

  Mom let them come upstairs and turn on the TV in time for the afternoon movie. It was an old one, a gangster story, which was good. Oneida hated gangster movies, but that was the only kind Cousin Alphonse would watch all the way through. She could relax and read her book.

  Then Mom called her into the bedroom. Dad was there, too. He hadn’t gone to his other job. They had figured out what they were going to do with her.

  They were sending her to Detroit, to Big Mama. She should have known. The two times she spent the night there she’d had to share a bed with Limoges, and there hadn’t been one book in the entire house.

  “What about Cousin Alphonse?” she asked. “How am I supposed to take care of him if I’m in Detroit?”

  “You just concentrate on learning to take better care of yourself, young lady.”

  Which wasn’t a fair thing for Mom to say.

  After dark, Oneida snuck out. She had stayed inside all day, exactly as she’d promised. Now it was night. No one would expect her to slip the screen out of her bedroom window and squirm out onto the fresh-mowed lawn. That wasn’t the kind of thing Oneida ever did. She wouldn’t get caught.

  The big orange moon hung low over Lincoln Elementary. Away from the streetlights, in the middle of the ravaged vacant lot, it made its own shadows. They hid everything, the new hills and the old ones. It was probably going to be impossible to find the watermelon vine. If it had even survived the bulldozer’s assault.

  But Oneida walked to the lot’s middle anyway. From there, she saw Mercy. She stood stock still, over on Oneida’s left, looking down at something; it was the same way she’d stood the day they found the vine. Except then, the light had come from above, from the sun. Now something much brighter than the moon shone from below, up into her face. Something red and blue and green and white, something radiant, moving like water, like a dream.

  Oneida ran toward whatever it was. She tripped on a stone block, stumbled through the dark. “Mercy!” she shouted
as she topped a hill. Mercy nodded, but Oneida didn’t think it was because she’d heard her. She ran on recklessly, arriving just as the light began to fade, as if, one by one, a bunch of birthday candles were being blown out.

  Oneida bent forward to see better. The light came from a little cave of jewels about the size of a gym ball. A blue heart wavered at its center, surrounded by tiny wreaths of red flowers and flickering silver stars. As she watched, they dwindled and were gone. All that was left was a shattered watermelon, scooped out to the rind.

  Magic! Oneida met Mercy’s eyes. They had seen real magic! She smiled. But Mercy didn’t.

  “Blue Lady say she can’t take care of Emilio no more. He too big.” Emilio had been thirteen last New Year’s, when he left with Mercy’s mom. Mizz Sanchez hadn’t been so worried about him; bad neighborhoods weren’t so bad for bad boys. But now . . .

  Mercy looked down again at the left behind rind.

  Oneida decided to tell Mercy her own news about going to Detroit Saturday and being on punishment till then. It was difficult to see her face; her beautiful hair kept hanging in the way. Was she even listening?

  “You better not go an forget me, ’Neida.”

  What was she talking about? “I’ll only be there until school starts! September!” As if she wouldn’t remember Mercy forever and ever, anyway.

  Mercy turned and walked a few steps away. Oneida was going to follow her, but Mercy stopped on her own. Faced her friend again. Held out her hand. There was something dark in her pale palm. “I’ma give you these now, in case—”

  Oneida took what Mercy offered her, an almost weightless mass, cool and damp. “I can sneak out again,” she said. Why not?

  “Sure. The Blue Lady, though, she want you to have these, an this way I won’t be worryin.”

  Watermelon seeds. That’s what they were. Oneida put them in her pajama pocket. What she had been looking for when she came here.

  She took a deep breath. It went into her all shaky and came out in one long whoosh. Till September wasn’t her whole life. “Maybe Mom and Dad will change their mind and let you come over.”

  “Maybe.” Mercy sounded as if she should clear her throat. As if she were crying, which was something she never did, no matter how sad she looked. She started walking away again.

  “Hey, I’ll send a card on your birthday,” Oneida yelled after her, because she couldn’t think of what else to say.

  Wednesday the Chief of Police put Dad on suspension.

  That meant they could drive to Detroit early, as soon as Dad woke up on Thursday. Oneida helped her mom with the last-minute packing. There was no time to do laundry.

  Dad didn’t care. “They got water and electricity in Detroit last time I checked, Joanne, and Big Mama must have at least one washing machine.”

  They drove and drove. It took two whole hours. Oneida knew they were getting close when they went by the giant tire, ten stories tall. There were more and more buildings, bigger and bigger ones. Then came the billboard with a huge stove sticking out of it, and they were there.

  Detroit was the fifth largest city in the United States. Big Mama lived on a street called Davenport, like a couch, off Woodward. Her house was dark and cool inside, without much furniture. Royal answered the door and led them back to the kitchen, the only room that ever got any sunshine.

  “Yall made good time,” said Big Mama. “Dinner’s just gettin started.” She squeezed Oneida’s shoulders and gave her a cup of lime Kool-Aid.

  “Can I go finish watching cartoons?” asked Royal.

  “Your mama an daddy an sister jus drove all this way; you aint got nothin to say to em?

  “Limoges over at the park with Luemma and Ivy Joe,” she told Mom and Dad. They sent Royal to bring her home and sat down at the table, lighting cigarettes.

  Oneida drank her Kool-aid quickly and rinsed out her empty cup. She wandered back through the house to the front door. From a tv in another room, boingy sounds like bouncing springs announced the antics of some orange cat or indigo dog.

  Mercy watched soap operas. Maybe Oneida would be able to convince the other children those were more fun. Secret, forbidden shows grown-ups didn’t want you to see, about stuff they said you’d understand when you got older.

  Limoges ran over the lawn shouting “ ’Neida! ’Neida!” At least somebody was glad to see her. Oneida opened the screen door. “I thought you wasn’t comin till Saturday!”

  “Weren’t,” she corrected her little sister. “I thought you weren’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “Dad got extra days off. They’re in the kitchen.” Royal and the other kids were nowhere in sight. Oneida followed Limoges back to find their parents.

  It was hot; the oven was on. Big Mama was rolling out dough for biscuits and heating oil. She had Oneida and Limoges take turns shaking chicken legs in a bag of flour. Then they set the dining room table and scrounged chairs from the back porch and, when that wasn’t enough, from Big Mama’s bedroom upstairs. Only Oneida was allowed to go in.

  It smelled different in there than the whole rest of the house. Better. Oneida closed the door behind her.

  There were more things, too. Bunches of flowers with ribbons wrapped around them hung from the high ceiling. Two tables overflowed with indistinct objects, which pooled at their feet. The tables flanked a tall, black rectangle—something shiny, with a thin cloth flung over it, she saw, coming closer. A mirror? She reached to move aside the cloth, but a picture on the table to her right caught her eye.

  It was of what she had seen that night in the vacant lot. A blue heart floated in a starry sky, with flowers around it. Only these flowers were pink and gold. And in the middle of the heart, a door had been cut.

  The door’s crystal knob seemed real. She touched it. It was. It turned between her thumb and forefinger. The door opened.

  The Blue Lady. Oneida had never seen her before, but who else could this be a painting of? Her skin was pale blue, like the sky; her hair rippled down dark and smooth all the way to her ankles. Her long dress was blue and white, with pearls and diamonds sewn on it in swirling lines. She wore a cape with a hood, and her hands were holding themselves out as if she had just let go of something, a bird or a kiss.

  The Blue Lady.

  So some grown-ups did know.

  Downstairs, the screen door banged. Oneida shut the heart. She shouldn’t be snooping in Big Mama’s bedroom. What if she were caught?

  The chair she was supposed to be bringing was back by where she’d come in. She’d walked right past it.

  The kitchen was crowded with noisy kids. Ivy Joe had hit a home run playing baseball with the boys. Luemma had learned a new dance called the Monkey. Oneida helped Limoges roll her pants legs down and made Royal wash his hands. No one asked what had taken her so long upstairs.

  Mom and Dad left right after dinner. Oneida promised to behave herself. She did, too. She only went in Big Mama’s bedroom with permission.

  Five times that first Friday, Big Mama sent Oneida up to get something for her.

  Oneida managed not to touch anything. She stood again and again, though, in front of the two tables, cataloguing their contents. On the right, alongside the portrait of the Blue Lady were several tall glass flasks filled with colored fluids; looping strands of pearls wound around their slender necks. A gold-rimmed saucer held a dark, mysterious liquid, with a pile of what seemed to be pollen at the center of its glossy surface.

  A red-handled axe rested on the other table. It had two sharp, shiny edges. No wonder none of the other kids could come in here.

  On every trip, Oneida spotted something else. She wondered how long it would take to see everything.

  On the fifth trip, Oneida turned away from the huge white wing leaning against the table’s front legs (how had she missed that the first four times?) to find Big Mama watching her from the doorway.

  “I—I didn’t—”

  “You aint messed with none a my stuff, or I’d a
known it. S’all right; I spected you’d be checkin out my altars, chile. Why I sent you up here.”

  Altars? Like in a Catholic church like Aunt Elise went to? The two tables had no crucifixes, no tall lecterns for a priest to pray from, but evidently they were altars, because there was nothing else in the room that Big Mama could be talking about. It was all normal stuff, except for the flower bunches dangling down from the ceiling.

  “Then I foun these.” Big Mama held out one hand as she moved into the bedroom and shut the door behind herself. “Why you treat em so careless-like? Leavin em in your dirty pajamas pocket! What if I’d a had Luemma or Ivy Joe washin clothes?”

  The seeds. Oneida accepted them again. They were dry, now, and slightly sticky.

  “Them girls don’t know no more about mojo than Albert Einstein. Less, maybe.”

  Was mojo magic? The seeds might be magic, but Oneida had no idea what they were for or how to use them. Maybe Big Mama did. Oneida peeped up at her face as if the answer would appear there.

  “I see. You neither. That niece a mine taught you nothin. Aint that a surprise.” Her tone of voice indicated just the opposite.

  Big Mama’s niece was Oneida’s mother.

  “Go down on the back porch and make sure the rinse cycle startin all right. Get us somethin to drink. Then come up here again and we do us a bit a discussin.”

  When Oneida returned she carried a pitcher of iced tea with lemon, a bowl of sugar, and two glasses on a tray. She balanced the tray on her hip so she could knock and almost dropped it. Almost.

  It took Big Mama a moment to let her in. “Leave that on the chair seat,” she said when she saw the tray. “Come over nex the bed.”

  A little round basket with a lid and no handles sat on the white chenille spread. A fresh scent rose from its tight coils. “Sea grass,” said Big Mama in answer to Oneida’s question. “Wove by my gramma. That aint what I want you to pay attention to, though. What’s inside—”