by J. D. Horn
Porter, who had been making a beeline toward the occupied table, slowed and looked over his shoulder, his hand fluttering to signal she should come forward. May did as he bade her. “This is her,” Porter said.
“Why, yes, indeed it is,” the elder Maguire said with a broad smile. “I knew your mama, Tuesday, well, my dear.” May forced herself not to react. The day of her mama’s funeral, Miriam had suggested the younger Maguire might have come to engage her mama’s assistance, but this was the first she’d heard for sure there was a connection between her mama and this man. Maguire reached up and adjusted his wire-frame spectacles. “And you are a picture-perfect copy of her.” He let out a laugh, but it came from his chest, not his belly where any good laugh should come from. “Yes, I knew Mother Tuesday well.” He paused. “Or as well as I reckon anyone could. As a matter of fact, our two families go way back,” he said, shaking his head and casting a satisfied glance at his son before returning his focus to May. “You do know, don’t you? My people used to own yours.” The words hung there between them.
May’s mouth went dry as her lips trembled but failed to find the words. Her entire body shook with the effort. “Pardon me, sir—” her voice came out sounding odd to her own ears, like a voice from a scratchy recording, “—but that was a long time ago.”
“Oh, not so long ago, really, May. Not in the grand scheme.” His expression softened and his focus fell to an invisible point between them, almost like he was remembering the slave times with a fond heart.
In her own mind’s eye, she saw herself grasping a knife and running it across this man’s throat in one quick deep slash, sending a shower of his life’s blood all over the white tablecloth and Venetian-red carpeting. The image had come unbidden, and she wished she could say it horrified her. But it lingered, and she didn’t feel horrified. She turned it around in her mind like she might turn a smooth pebble in her hand before sending it skimming across a pond’s surface. No, she felt no horror. What she felt was soiled, corrupted. This man, his words, his actions, his very thoughts, they were an infectious disease, and he was a malevolent carrier who sought to poison all those around him.
May managed to push the image of Maguire’s pale corpse from her mind, praying to be cleansed of the taint this man had put on her soul. She forced herself to stifle her rage. Not for the first time, and she knew not for the last one either, but she felt this might possibly be the most trying attempt she’d ever need face. May nodded and lowered her eyes, not daring to let her gaze meet his.
He motioned toward a chair across the table from him. “Sit,” he said. “Join me. Would you like some coffee? Shall I have Porter here fetch you a cup?” May’s eyes flashed at her boss, who looked as shocked as she felt—and full of quiet rage, besides. Maguire seemed to take note of his resentment. “You know that is the origin of your name, don’t you, son? Porter? One might even say you were born to fetch for your betters.”
“Oh, no, sir!” May said, astonished. “I could never . . .” She paused, hoping to find a tone that would avoid offending Mr. Maguire, but still placate her boss. “This beautiful room is for gracious white folk such as yourself.” She forced the biggest possible smile. “And Mr. Porter,” she tossed a quick glance in his direction, “he’s my boss, sir. I couldn’t let him go fetching anything for me. It wouldn’t be fitting. I know my place . . .” Her words died in the air, cut off by a twinge of the same anger she’d felt the night before. Why shouldn’t she sit here? Why shouldn’t she let that white boy who wasn’t half her age and who never did a lick of real work bring her coffee?
She caught herself, but it was too late; Maguire had picked up on her thoughts, had read them in her eyes maybe. A tight smile curled on his lips. “I insist.” He motioned again with his hand toward the empty chair. “Sit.”
May felt her knees weaken. She certainly could bear sitting down, but somehow she knew this was a trap.
“But Mr. Maguire,” Porter began, protesting for her. “We can’t have a colored sitting in here. It just isn’t done. This is a whites-only establishment.” May wondered at the pride she heard in his voice as he made this pronouncement. “Always has been, always will be. I’m afraid I cannot allow it.”
“You”—Maguire turned the word into a barb—cannot allow it?” Maguire tilted back in his chair and laughed. This time his laugh came from his belly. “If I say the woman sits, she sits. Afterwards, you can buy a new chair. You can buy a new table. You can burn this whole goddamned hotel to the ground and build it anew. And you can send me the bill, but by God, you’d better never contradict me again. You hear?”
Sterling never said a word—May reflected that perhaps he didn’t dare lest his father’s vehemence turn on him—but his eyes gleamed with enjoyment over Porter’s plight. From Sterling’s expression—the way he tilted back his head and looked down his nose at Porter, the tight smile that threatened to morph into a snarl in a second’s notice—May could tell Sterling took far more than his fair share of pleasure in the suffering of others. May herself tried never to be cruel, never to hold hatred in her heart. She knew it’d be a moral failing to delight in this man’s suffering. Still, it was undeniable that a part of her might have enjoyed watching Porter’s already-gray skin blanch a shade or two lighter, enjoyed the sight of his sweat causing the calamine to dampen and run. The thought brought a twinge of guilt, but she knew the suffering headed her way was bound to be much worse than his could be.
“Of course not, Mr. Maguire.” Porter wiped at his forehead, smearing the pink lotion and transferring it first to his hand and then to his pant leg when he lowered his arm. “I’d never intentionally contradict you, sir.”
“Then go on and get the hell out of here.”
Porter began backing out of the room, never taking his eyes off the old man. “Yes, sir, you just let May know if you need anything.”
“Porter,” Maguire called out, bringing May’s boss to a full stop. “I don’t want May here working for you anymore. You go on and hire yourself a new girl.”
May might never have found the nerve to take a seat on the embroidered chair, had these words not caused her knees to buckle. As it was, she barely managed to land on its cushion rather than the floor.
“But Mr. Maguire, I ain’t done nothing wrong, sir. I need my job. I got . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know. You have three children to feed,” Maguire said, waving his hands not only to stop her talking, but also to dismiss her thoughts. How could he know that unless he was the one who ordered those men to take Jilo?
“Go on, Porter. You aren’t needed here,” he said, then waited for Porter to make his exit. May could feel the cloud of confused and angry energy that filled Porter leave the room, even though the thick carpet muffled his footfalls.
The moment Porter was gone, Maguire’s lips curled up into a sly smile. “It’s just us now, May. Family. So please allow me to speak plainly.” He waved his finger at her like she was a naughty child. “Old Tuesday, she done told me that you didn’t inherit any of her magic. She lied.”
TEN
“Oh, yes, your mama done told me a fib, now, didn’t she?” Maguire said, a canary-eating cat smile setting up camp on his face. May knew she was the bird, and that even though he was enjoying every second of batting her around, soon tooth and claw would come out. She hesitated, her skin tingling as she contemplated fleeing.
“Look at it, Sterling,” Maguire’s words pulled her from her calculations. “Isn’t it beautiful?” May’s eyes followed the men’s stares right down to her own hands, her own fingertips that were alive with the same blue-green sparks she’d spent a lifetime trying to extinguish. “This isn’t just some old Doc Buzzard hair, spit, and metal shavings buried under your porch. That there is real magic.”
Doctor Buzzard. A single name shared by many root doctors, men who with varying degrees of sincerity and skill worked Hoodoo, taking your hard-earned money to put a fix on your enemy or—worse yet—remove the fix your enemy put
on you. A lot of the Buzzards were charlatans, plain and simple, but there were a few, a precious few, who really did know how to work magic. These men, the ones who weren’t just playacting, mostly didn’t mess around with curses and fixes. No, the men with real power spent their time trying to help people.
’Course it wasn’t just men. Plenty of women working the Hoodoo, too. The women weren’t called “Doctor,” though. They were always referred to as “Mother.” Folk around Savannah had always assumed May’s mother was just another of these root doctors, but deep down May had always known better. Even though Mother Tuesday had refused to share the details of her magic with her daughter, May had always known her mama had tapped into a source of power that the others didn’t even know about. May had always known that if she so desired, she could draw from that same well.
“Closer,” the older man’s voice startled her. “Closer!”
Sterling scrambled to navigate his father’s chair nearer to May. In his haste, the younger man bumped into the table, causing his half-full coffee cup to jitter around in its saucer. Maguire’s body lurched forward, unprepared for even the slightest jarring. It chilled May’s soul to watch as the elder Maguire looked up at his own flesh and blood with complete disdain. “You clumsy oaf. You tip me out, and I will see you horsewhipped. You hear me, boy?” Sterling blanched, his reaction telling May that this was no idle threat. Maguire pushed on the arm of his chair so that he could turn a tad more toward his son. “I asked if you heard me.”
“Yes, sir. I heard you,” Sterling replied. May nearly felt a twinge of sympathy for this young man. What kind of upbringing must he have had? What daily tortures had he faced at the hands of his own father? Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts, for Sterling seemed to take note of May’s softening toward him. His face hardened, forming creases and lines that shouldn’t find a home on a face so young. His eyes narrowed with a hatred so complete May shuddered under its weight. She looked away before it could bore any more deeply into her soul.
May felt Maguire’s focus return to her. She reached down and wrapped her hands up in the length of her apron, but Maguire snatched up her right hand. She struggled to free herself from his grasp, but even though his lower extremities had failed him, his hands revealed a steely strength. He watched the sparkles with an enraptured glee in his eyes.
“Yes, I knew old Tuesday was lying,” he said, turning May’s hand over so that he could see the palm. He traced the crease of her hand with his index finger, then leaned forward and attempted to kiss her palm. May’s revulsion was so complete that it gave her the added strength she needed to break free. In the same movement, she scooted her chair back a good two feet.
The old man tilted back, his eyes widening for a moment in anger, but then a hearty laugh broke free from him.
“I don’t use it.” May tried to make the statement sound matter-of-fact. Final. “I promised Mama.”
“Well, your mama is longer here. I’ve been bound to this damn chair since the day Tuesday left this world. She tried to take me with her, but all she managed to do was this.” He pulled the blanket covering his legs to one side and slapped his hand angrily against his unusable limbs. “She took my legs.” He hesitated. “And she took my power. Now you,” his right eye twitched as he spoke, “you’re gonna help fix what your mama done broke.”
He’s the one, May thought. This is the man my mother died trying to stop. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. A vow is a vow, whether she is with us or not. She made me promise not to make the same deal she had made.” Even though May knew the other staff must have been ordered to stay away from the dining room, she still cast a nervous glance around before continuing. “My mama said she made a deal with the devil to use her magic. She made me promise I wouldn’t do as she done.”
Maguire pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward, his body convulsing, and at first May thought he had developed a coughing jag. When he sat back up, tears of laughter were rolling down his flushed cheeks. “Oh, my dear girl,” he said after he managed to catch his breath. “A deal with the devil?” He paused. “If only it were anywhere near that easy.”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “No, sir. I want nothing of it. I’ve never used it. I never will.” She focused on the floor, not daring to look him in the eye.
“You used magic last night, May.” His words came out in a slow grumble. “I can smell it on you.”
May realized her head continued to shake as she spoke. “No, sir. It wasn’t me. Whatever you think I did, it wasn’t me.” May did her best to recompose herself. She forced a smile and smoothed her skirt, preparing to stand and make her exit.
“That’s the way with your kind, always lying when the truth would serve you better.” He paused, as if giving her a chance to confess, and then boomed out, “I saw you there with my own two eyes,” any pretense of civility cast aside. May startled in spite of herself. His face was nearly purple with rage.
May was an honest woman. It pained her to tell a lie, let alone be caught in one, even by a man such as this one. “Only a little. Last night was different. It was the first time. The only time. I was so afraid . . .” May’s word died in the air as she wondered again at the Maguires’ role in the events of the previous night. The father could never have managed it. The son was graceless. He could never had entered and exited with such stealth. Still, if they hadn’t done it themselves, they’d arranged for it to happen. They couldn’t have relied on magic, for the haint blue her mama had made her use at every entrance and window would’ve kept hostile magic from creeping in. No, it could only have been a flesh-and-blood intruder. May wished she knew how they’d worked it, if only to prevent it from happening again. But she dared not even confront them with their crime.
Maguire disregarded her silence. “And still, first time out, you achieved outstanding results.”
May’s knees went weak, too weak to stand. She drew her arms around herself, folding them over her chest as if to protect her heart. “Yes. I used it last night. Somehow. But I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know anything about the magic, sir. Mama, she never explained it to me.” May thought of the creature who had come to her at the edge of the clearing. She came close to mentioning her, but something told her to hold her tongue. “It just happened, like it’s happening now.” When she held up her hand, the sparks were still shooting along her fingertips. “I don’t know anything about it at all.”
“What is the source of your magic?”
“I . . .” May’s lips moved, but it took a while for her words to catch up. “I don’t know.”
Maguire’s anger faded as quickly as it had been kindled. “No, maybe you don’t,” he said and chuckled. He looked over his shoulder at Sterling. “What do you think, boy? You think she’s telling us the truth?”
“I am, Mr. Maguire. I swear it. I am sorry for any difficulties between you and my mama, but I’ll never be any trouble to you.” She forced a smile again, grateful that the tingling in her hands was starting to fade and the tiny sparks were once again disappearing. “You got nothing to worry about from May. Nothing at all.”
May’s eyes drifted up to the younger man’s face. As their eyes met, May searched for even the tiniest spark of humanity. She found only ice. “I believe her,” he said.
“Yes, I do as well,” Maguire said, turning back to May. “It’s a pity, really, that power should be wasted on one such as you. The Beekeeper—you saw her last night, don’t pretend you didn’t—that’s where your mama’s—and your—power comes from.” The name made sense to May, from the creature’s heavy veils to the way it broke apart into a thousand stinging wasps. “I’ve only ever seen the creature twice, but I’ve felt her presence many times. You could even say I’ve courted her, but she has never warmed to my overtures. This creature’s magic feels infinite. The wonders I could perform if I had access to it . . .” Maguire’s voice took on a wistful quality. “Oh, the wonders I have performed with what little power I cou
ld attain.” Images, unclean and full of cruelty, rose up in May’s mind. Her hands rose to her eyes, as if they could shield her from those scenes.
Maguire chuckled at her distress and rubbed his hands together in pleasure. “Perhaps, once I have been set to rights, I should make a study of you, but for now I believe it is I who will give you a little lesson.” He looked over his shoulder at the ever-attentive Sterling. “Help me take off my jacket.”
Sterling stood behind his father and helped him extricate himself from his suit coat, which the son then folded and draped over his arm. Freed of the jacket, Maguire unbuttoned the sleeve of his starched white shirt and slid it toward his elbow.
A scent like a freshly struck match reached May’s nose. Her nostrils flared as she pulled away from the scent. May was shocked to see the elderly man’s arm covered by scarred and blackened flesh that ran from his wrist to beyond the point on his elbow where the fabric was bunched up.
“This here,” he said twisting his arm so that May could fully take it in, “is your mama’s handiwork. A parting gift, if you will, from old Tuesday.” May shook her head and tried to avert her eyes. “Look at it,” Maguire’s words came out in a snarl, “so that you may understand what has been taken from me. You see, some people, are born to magic. It’s born right in them. Others, such as yourself and your mother, have magic come to them. Then there are people like me, those who seek magic out. I am . . . I was what some refer to as a ‘collector.’ ” The sleeve slipped down, and his ancient, mottled hand caught it and forced it back up above his elbow. “A long time ago,” Maguire said, his voice taking on a singsong quality, as he held out his forearm for her examination, “I did someone very powerful—someone who was born to magic, call him a witch if you will—a very big favor. In return, he put his mark on me. It was nothing more than a single band back then, but over time it grew.” He rubbed his hand along the scarred tissue, stopping to tap his index finger on the ruined remains of what must have been some kind of symbol. As he did so, it took on a faint and sickly luminescence, which spread out along a spider’s web of increasingly visible traces.
