by J. D. Horn
“Nothin’, Mama,” he said, feeling more than a little guilty. “Just something that reminds me of Nana,” he added, hoping it was a large enough nugget of truth to negate the lie.
“She always did like her cigars,” his mama said, her expression softening at some happy memory.
He took advantage of the moment. “I gotta get the girls home, Mama,” he said again.
“This should be their home . . .”
“I know, Mama,” he said, hoping to keep her calm. “Soon. I promise. I’ll get all this worked out.” Relaxing back onto the swing, his mama began stroking Poppy’s hair.
He felt a chill run down between his shoulders. What if he was taking the one thing that had been keeping his mama safe here alone all these years?
If she knew, she would understand. If she knew, she would want the girls to be protected. If she knew, she would want this last bit of the magic her own mama raised her to fear right out of her house.
“You’re gonna be okay?” he asked.
“ ’Course I’m going to be.” She turned to Poppy and smiled. “Your nana is going to be just fine.”
Jilo had fallen momentarily silent, but she began wailing in earnest to make up for the respite she’d allowed their eardrums.
“Come on,” Jesse said, waving Poppy off the swing. He hated that the girls were going to have to walk so far with dusk giving way to full dark. He’d planned on getting a ride from Cousin Harry and his new wife, Ruby, but they’d taken off in a hurry in the confusion following the discovery of the boy.
“All right, I’m going to get this one to her mama. I love you,” he said to his mama, then carried Jilo, still pitching a fit, down the steps, his older girls following on his heels like goslings along the dusty road.
Jesse led the girls up Ogeechee, which bordered the clearing where the boy’s body lay exposed to the elements and any animal that chose to get at the meat. The thought made him shudder and break out in gooseflesh. He held Jilo a bit more tightly and sent up a prayer that the child’s soul was at peace. He felt a twinge of shame as his eyes touched the cigar box in Opal’s arms. A prayer would suffice for the dead, but for the living he was glad to have something that packed a bit more of a punch.
FIVE
A soft kerosene glow filled May’s kitchen; other than the occasional flash of heat lightning, the oil lamp on her table served as her sole source of light. The city hadn’t yet seen fit to run the power lines to the small community west of Ogeechee, even though May could see the electric glow of Frogtown only spitting distance north. The city kept promising, but their promises weren’t worth the breath they used to make them. She wasn’t bothered by any of that right now, though. There were other problems weighing on her mind.
“What were you trying to tell me about the little one, Mama?” May sat at her empty table, in her empty house, posing her question to the empty air. Another wave of heat lightning lit up the room with three quick, bright flashes. “She ain’t got no magic. She ain’t even your blood. Not really. You know that.”
May wrapped her hand around a steaming cup of chicory, shuddering at the thought that what was left of Rosie’s boy lay not much more than a stone’s throw from her property line. It shamed May to think she didn’t even know the child’s name. It shamed her worse to think Rosie might be wondering where he’d got to. She shook that thought off. From what she knew of Rosie, the woman probably had not even noticed the boy was missing. Still, the mother in May ached for her.
Rosie’s boy had been killed for the kind of dark magic some folk thought could be bought from the Red King with blood. Could another magic, her mama’s kind of magic, have protected him? Would the boy be home in his own bed right now, rather than rotting out in a field behind her house?
May set aside her cup.
God must have heard the boy’s cries. Why hadn’t He protected the boy? Seemed like He made a habit of letting good, innocent folk die. May knew the thought was blasphemous, but she couldn’t shake it; it was like a small stain on her soul. She prayed for forgiveness and to gain understanding. A roar of distant thunder sounded like an angry response from God Himself, and a sudden gust of wind blew the back door clear open.
May pushed back from the table and rose, but as she reached out to shut the door, a movement near the tree line caught her eye. She stepped over the threshold, onto the upper step, and craned her neck to get a better look. The quickly advancing storm sent out a bright flash of lightning that for one moment brought full light, then in the next plunged the world into darkness, dazzling May’s eyes. That split second had given her the impression of an approaching white dog, but there were no dogs like that in the area. She descended the stairs and took a few steps toward the trees, then stopped as hard and as sure as if she had walked into a wall. Her heart began to pound, her pulse throbbing in her neck even though she felt like every drop of her blood had pooled in her legs. The creature she’d thought to be a dog rose up on its hind feet.
It was no dog at all.
There, at the far end of her yard, coming toward her, she saw the pale figure of that poor, butchered boy, shuffling forward with an awkward gait, stumbling, falling, rising again.
“Sweet Jesus,” her words straddled profanity and prayer. A sweat broke out all over her body, and though she was desperate to move, to flee, she found herself nailed to the spot. The child’s pale naked skin shone nearly blue in the darkness, a fish-belly white in the next flash of lightning, and as the body drew closer, she could see that the wound to the boy’s chest and stomach had been sewn together like some kind of rag doll with a thick, dark cord in a zigzag by a rough and cruel hand.
The eyes, too, had been sewn shut, large black Xs securing the lids. Still, the child’s corpse carried on, coming straight toward her as sure as if it could see May frozen where she stood. Its arms spread wide, looking like it sought to embrace her. May could see the child’s lips moving, even though no sound came out.
In the final moments before dead hands would touch her, her instinct to survive overpowered the terror holding her in place. May lifted one foot and stepped back. Then the other. She turned and began to flee, but something stopped her. Even though her eyes swore to her that it couldn’t be true, she was overcome by a feeling of horrible certainty. She stopped and turned to face the monstrous sight that was now only a bit more than an arm’s length away.
“Mama?” she asked, and the pale, destroyed body of the child fell to its knees before her. It raised its face toward heaven and lifted its arms in supplication, before lowering its hands to the sides of its head. Its lips opened wide, and May sensed that if it could make a sound, it would be howling.
She trembled as she took a cautious step toward the body. “Mama, is that you?” Without even releasing its hands from its ears, the body began to nod, over and over, swaying side to side as it did. “Who did this to you, Mama? What can I do?” Her questions tumbled out, one on the coattails of the other.
The body released its head, and began banging on its seamed chest with a fist. May froze for a moment, unsure, until her breaking heart overcame the last of her fear. Her mama was somehow trapped in this white boy’s ruined body, and she’d do anything to free her from this prison. She’d give her own life if that’s what it took.
May knelt before the body. Even though the stench of rotting flesh nearly made her vomit, she took the body into her arms and held it tight. A cry for justice issued from her heart. Who would have—could have—done this to her mama?
“I love you, Mama,” she said. “We’ll fix this. We will.” But even as she said the words, she felt the body go limp in her embrace. The seam that had been made in the boy’s chest split open, and shards of the broken pottery they’d left on her mama’s grave spilled out and fell to the ground. Her mind flashed back to that young buckra at the cemetery. But no, that made no sense. What need could a wealthy man like that have for dark magic? His kind already ruled the world. And if such a man were responsible for th
is evil, how could May even dream of justice?
May jerked back, releasing the body of the dead child. The corpse fell on its side, then rolled back. “Mama,” she cried, but a sense of calmness descended on her. A spark of golden light rose from the corpse and floated upward, winking once, twice, then disappearing into the night sky. Her mama was free.
A torrent of rain washed over her as the sky above continued to roil with fire. As the storm raged, May dragged the body away from her house, just beyond the tree line. She went back to the shed to fetch Reuben’s old shovel, then did her best to give the poor child a good Christian burial.
May never spoke of that night, not to a living soul.
SIX
June 1935
The sound of an arriving automobile prickled May’s sensitive ears and caused the little hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Not only was Sunday the Lord’s Day, it was also May’s single day off. She’d only just settled into her favorite armchair, the sole thing she’d inherited from her mama. The armrests and headrests were still covered with doilies her mama had tatted. May had spent the morning praising, and she’d hoped to spend the afternoon collecting her own thoughts, maybe even dozing a bit, while hiding from the heat. The car horn blew. She drew a fortifying breath and pushed herself up.
She cast a glance in the mirror and patted back her hair, then used her palms to straighten out the creases in her skirt. Who the hell would be coming by now? she wondered, opening the front door and leaning toward the screen. The searing light of the early-afternoon sun bore down hard, squashing the shadows of everything beneath it flat to the earth, then flared up as it reflected off the hood of a shiny new black car. The flash dazzled her eyes. The driver slowed, doing his best to avoid the ruts in the yard.
May felt her jaw tighten. She didn’t recognize the car—most folk around here couldn’t afford a rusting Tin Lizzie, let alone one of the new chrome barges with round fenders. She crossed her arms tight over her chest and took a wider stance. She bit her lower lip. She didn’t recognize the face of the porkpie-hatted dandy driving the car, but she sure as shooting recognized the face of the fool woman sitting beside him, in spite of her dyed-red Myrna Loy hairdo. The car came to a stop, and the driver killed the engine. May pushed through the screeching screen door and went to stand on her front porch, knowing damned well that while the fading haint blue her mama had made her paint the overhang might keep away the boo hags, it wouldn’t do diddly to keep out this Jezebel, this murderer.
Her eyes locked with Betty’s, but Betty looked away and turned to face the car’s backseat. The door behind Mr. Porkpie opened. May’s grandbaby Poppy slid out and ran to her, arms outstretched. “Nana Wills,” the girl cried, and the love May felt caused her heart to leap in her breast. The car’s other back door opened, and Opal climbed out with Jilo in her arms.
Coward, May thought, returning her focus to the woman who used to be her daughter-in-law. Sending the children first. Jilo squirmed in her sister’s arms, and Opal sat her on her feet, taking the tiny girl’s arm as she tottered along. Poppy bounded up the steps, and May knelt and took her in her arms, placing a thousand kisses over the girl’s sweet face.
May heard the car’s front doors open, and she looked up to see that Porkpie had moved around to the car’s rear. He popped the trunk while Betty swung her nylon-covered legs out and found footing. She took a few sauntering steps toward the house, barely covered by a new and way-too-tight crimson dress. “It’s good to see you, May,” she said, her tone guarded. She held her head back and a bit to the right, looking down her nose at May. Her eyes were challenging, but a smile parted her haughty face.
May had to fight the urge to fly from her porch, across the patchy dry grass, and slap Betty’s smile right off her. Seeming to read May’s struggle, Betty stopped a good distance back. This woman. This harlot. She had begged, coaxed, and harangued Jesse, threatening to leave him unless he moved his family to Charleston. Roosevelt’s New Deal money had begun floating into the state through the South Carolina Emergency Relief Administration, and rumor had it there were going to be riches for everyone, white and colored alike. The fool girl had thought Charleston would be an electric-lit land of milk and honey.
Six months after the move, May received the telegraph saying Jesse got himself killed when scaffolding collapsed, sending a rain of bricks down on him. Your son I stole from you is dead. Stop. Send money to bury him among strangers. Stop. Of course, those weren’t the cable’s actual words, but that was how May’s heart remembered them. May hadn’t been able to stop Jesse from leaving, let alone from getting himself killed, but she had managed to get him brought home. Jesse now rested between his own father and May’s mother. The spot she had always believed would be her own resting place.
“May, I want you to meet Walter Williams,” Betty said, placing one hand on her hip. Betty seemed proud, like she was showing off a prize pig at the state fair.
May examined the dark, round-faced fellow. A good three inches shorter than Betty, and a good three inches wider, too. Walter Williams, my eye. Porkpie, a cardboard suitcase in each hand, sidled up beside Betty. The Depression seemed to have spared Porkpie, seeing as he had both a new car and a spare tire around his waist. He didn’t fit May’s image of what a gangster should look like, but she couldn’t imagine how else a man could come by the cash for a chariot like this these days. He set the cases down and doffed his hat.
“Ma’am,” he said, looking at her with a wide smile. His gaze turned instantly back to Betty, and May realized the poor fool was in love.
“What’re those for?” May asked, taking a couple of steps forward to the edge of her porch. “This ain’t no hotel, and you sure ain’t moving in here with that man.”
Betty laughed, a careless sound pealing from a careless woman. “Opal,” Betty called her daughter, never taking her wary eyes off May. The spindly girl let go of Jilo, who scooted off to explore, and took hold of the cases. She set them down in front of the porch steps and looked to her grandmother, not seeming to know what to do next.
“Those are for the girls,” Betty said. “Walter and I, we going on to Atlanta. The girls wanted to stop off here a bit and visit with their nana, ain’t that right, Opal?”
May’s eyes fixed on the young girl’s face. Opal’s worried gaze drifted down, and her lips began to work, but no sound came out. May’s heart nearly broke at the sight. “You bring those cases up here then, girl,” she said to her oldest grandbaby. Opal’s eyes shot up to meet May’s, and a hopeful smile spread across her face. Poor little thing believed I might turn her away, May thought, an even deeper resentment toward Betty growing in her heart. What kind of stories has that creature been telling the babies about me?
“Yes’m,” the girl said, her face now radiant. She grabbed the first case with both hands and hauled it up to May’s side, then skittered back down and managed the second, which seemed a tad heavier. May would have helped the girl, but she didn’t trust herself to be even a single inch closer to Opal’s mother.
“What you going to Atlanta for?” May asked, pulling Opal close and laying a protective hand on her head.
“Walter has business there,” Betty responded. May scanned the new auto, its scintillating chrome causing spots to rise before her eyes.
“She a beauty, ain’t she? She’s a Chrysler Airstream.” He smiled, oblivious to May’s disdain. “Only thing prettier is my lady here.” He reached up to place his arm around Betty’s shoulder.
“It’s too hot, baby.” Betty flashed the man a smile, but stepped quickly forward, sliding out from under his embrace.
“That explains why . . . Walter”—May very nearly used her interior moniker for the man—“is going. Why are you going?”
Betty reached back and, seeming to forget her earlier avoidance of his touch, took Porkpie’s arm. She beamed and flashed May the most sincere smile May had ever seen on her ex-daughter-in-law’s face. “Walter here has arranged for me to have an audition
with Ty King and His Golden Syncopation Swing.”
“An audition?” May crossed her arms.
“Yeah, I’m gonna sing for Mr. King . . .”
“I know what an audition is,” May snapped, but her gaze caught hold of Jilo, still toddling around, chasing after a fat bumblebee. To her disbelief, the bee hovered over the child’s outstretched hand for a moment and then landed on it. Rather than startling or trying to run away, Jilo pulled her hand closer and stared intently at the insect. May got the oddest feeling that the two were somehow communicating, and the thought made her feel real uneasy. “Opal, honey,” she said, “you go fetch Jilo before she gets herself stung, and take your sisters inside.”
She scanned Opal’s thin face. “You hungry?” she asked. When her grandbaby didn’t answer, she called out to Betty, “You feed these girls their lunch yet?”
Betty began to speak, but May answered her own question. “No, ’course you haven’t.” The scrawny things probably hadn’t even had their breakfast. Forcing her anger down, she placed her hand on Opal’s back and gave her a gentle nudge. “Go on, get Jilo inside, and Nana will come in and fix you girls something real good. All right?”
Opal nodded and scrambled down the steps. “Jilo,” she called out to the littlest one. Jilo spun around, arms held high overhead. “Come on, Nana says it’s time to eat.” May was relieved to see the bee rise up and take to the air.
Opal bent to try and lift the girl, but Jilo was having none of it. She pulled back from her sister, intent on making the trip under her own steam, but then stopped and took Opal’s steadying hand after a half-dozen steps. Nearing the porch, Jilo let go of Opal and crawled up the steps. May looked down at the smiling face creeping up to greet her. May didn’t give a pea-picker’s damn that the child’s face didn’t look a thing like her boy’s. This was her grandbaby every bit as much as Jilo’s older sisters were.
