Jilo

by J. D. Horn

  Without realizing she had even moved, she found herself across from him. He turned to face the Beekeeper. “She is not as dried out as you led me to believe. There is still much life in her.”

  “I never said otherwise,” the Beekeeper shot back. She snatched up the knife from the table and wagged it at her fellow, then picked up the bottle and used the knife to cut back the wax that had been used to seal its cork. “I have only said that she denies that life.” She worked the cork from the bottle and sent it sailing across the room. “Hold this,” she commanded May, passing her the burning cigar. After taking a swig from the bottle, the Beekeeper snatched the cigar back and pressed the bottle into May’s open hand. “There. Taste.”

  May turned the bottle around in her hand, examining it. Curious yet cautious.

  “See, my friend,” the Beekeeper called to the man, “she crosses the chasm to join us, but she is still terrified of letting herself go. This one is not afraid of dying; she is afraid of life.”

  These words snapped something inside of May. She had spent her entire damned life being so careful—head down, voice modulated to sound respectful. She gripped the bottle and pressed it to her lips, tipping her head back and drinking till she choked. The white man patted May on the back as she held the bottle out to the applauding Beekeeper.

  “So, what do you have to say for yourself, little sister,” he asked, as she felt her insides catch fire.

  She said the first thing that came to her mind. “Hallelujah.”

  The Beekeeper and her associate burst out laughing in unison, and despite herself, May joined them. “Hallelujah, indeed,” the man said and swiped away the bottle, tipping it to his lips and downing half its contents in a single draft.

  “Hey, hey, hey.” The Beekeeper swatted him on the back and wrestled the bottle from him. “Not all at once.” She brushed aside her veil for another quick taste, then took a seat at the table and set the bottle down in front of her. Humming to herself, she rocked back and forth until her chair was balanced on its two back legs. She turned toward the man. “I’m proud of her, you know. I wanted her as a child, but her mother denied her to me. And she”—the Beekeeper pointed at May without looking at her—“denied herself to me as well. Until that fool servant of the Red King forced her to turn to me. She came to me not out of love for me, but out of fear of the Red King.”

  “Well,” Lester began, his tone conciliatory, “the Red King is a fearsome creature. And little sister, she was just following her mother’s wishes.” He nodded in May’s direction. “She’s a good daughter, and you, Great Mother, should appreciate that.”

  “Yes,” the Beekeeper said, though there was still a shred of resentment in her voice. “It has made our work harder, though, and I must prepare her for what is to come.” Her veiled face turned toward May. “After all, there are worse things out there than the Red King.”

  May startled at her words. “What could be worse than the Red King?”

  “The outsiders,” the Beekeeper said, then turned to Lester as if looking to him for corroboration. “Tell her about the outsiders.”

  He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. “Ah, yes, the outsiders, little sister. You wake quivering from your dreams of the kings, but there are many more fearsome beings in creation.” His bright and feverish eyes caught hers and held them. “The outsiders, they’re the ones who came here and changed the native animal,” he said, the bright light of the chandelier overhead creating a play of shadows that made his handsome face appear masklike. “They made man less like himself, and more like them.”

  “Let us make man in our image,” the Beekeeper pronounced. Tilting the bottle to her lips, she began to sway and dance.

  “And they made you wrong,” the man said, taking no heed of the veiled one’s gyrations. “Too much of this, not enough of that. No, you may fear the Red King, but the Red King, he fears those from beyond.

  “Those they invested with magic, the ones you call witches, were the trickiest of all. They rebelled against the outsiders and sent them back beyond the sky, locking them”—he raised an arm and swept it around in a wide circle—“out there.” He reached out and snatched the bottle from the Beekeeper’s grasp, draining its contents and sending the bottle sailing to the floor. May watched as it slipped beneath the surface, falling into the endless forever. When she looked up, another bottle had appeared in his hand.

  “The cleverest of the witches drew a line,” the Beekeeper sang out, “locking some things out, but locking some things in.”

  “Things,” May began, “such as yourselves?”

  “No, little sister,” the man said. “Not like us.” His eyes grew round with terror as he leaned in toward her. “Like them.” He pointed behind her, and she gasped and spun around, only to see her own reflection. Although her spirit dropped at the sight of her own fearful expression, the pair of them burst out laughing.

  May turned back to witness the man using his sleeve to wipe away tears of mirth. “No, little sister. The Lady and I, we’ve been here as long as there has been a here to be.”

  “The globe, it formed and cooled around us,” the Beekeeper said. “Your kind and all those that came before, they crawled from our flesh, they breathed in our spirit. When the outsiders came, they corrupted you, causing you to forget us and serve them. The outsiders planned to strip us of life and steal our magic. So when the witches rebelled, we helped them. Not that they knew . . .”

  “Not that they would thank us anyway,” Lester added, his tone full of resentment.

  “They think they did it all on their own,” the Beekeeper said. “And they think they can hold that line of theirs in place on their own.”

  “But you, little sister, you are asking yourself what this has to do with you.” He raised the bottle to his lips, looking over it at her as he took a sip. “Do not deny it. Humans are all the same, only interested in what touches them directly.”

  “No,” she reached over the table and took the bottle from his grasp. “I am wondering what in the hell it has to do with me.” She turned the bottle up to her own mouth and drank. The couple with her cheered, but as she set the bottle down, the doorway to her own world swung wide open, revealing Jilo on the other side.

  FIFTEEN

  September 1940

  May’s ears detected a knock at the door. Knocks came much more often these days, and they came just about any time of day or night. She knew another desperate soul would soon be standing before her. Sometimes men came, but usually her visitors were women—some despairing over a man who’d gone, others over a man who wouldn’t be gone. May usually didn’t have much patience for the women willing to sell their souls to hold on to a man. She would just give them the taste of juju they’d come for and send them on their way. She had a lot more compassion for the women who needed to escape a man. A steady stream of them had come to see Mother May; they always did their best to hide the bruises, but most didn’t succeed.

  May hadn’t yet been moved to kill a man, but she’d come close to it once when she was visited by a woman too busy trying to hide the marks left on the babe in her arms to worry about the welts on her own skin. No, May hadn’t gotten around to killing yet, but thanks to Fletcher Maguire, she had murder in her heart. Someday, sooner or later, May knew she’d share Cain’s guilt. She’d make an offering of her own to the Red King, and when that day came, the blood on her hands would belong to the son of a bitch who’d forced her into this life. On those rare nights when sleep found her, it was imagining what it would be like to watch the light expire in Maguire’s eyes that lulled her into restfulness.

  But May didn’t sleep much anymore, thanks to Maguire and the magic he’d forced her to use. This room had once been her bedroom. Now it served as her office, and as much out of pageantry as out of magic, she had painted the entire place—walls, ceiling, and floor—haint blue. She grasped the arms of the chair that had once been her mother’s, now rendered that same calming shade of cerulean
.

  The room’s monochrome palette never failed to make an impression on those arriving—many experienced a sense of vertigo, and some even thought May was floating before them.

  May. No one called her that anymore. No one. Not even those who used to know her best. Now, everybody called her Mother Wills. “Please, Mother Wills,” or “You gotta help me, Mother Wills.” There was always somebody coming to beg her to use the power Maguire had forced her to welcome into herself. Word had spread about her, the Negress who had stood up to Fletcher Maguire himself, and about the two lawmen—one ripped clear through and the other left sightless and disfigured. Many thought his blindness was a mercy, considering what had happened to his face.

  Everyone thought she had been behind the attacks, but no one, not even the Maguires, would touch her for it. Some saw her as a hero. Others as a devil. But all were willing to place coin in her hand for a taste of her power. At first May felt bad about charging people in need. Her own mama had only accepted the occasional gift, but Maguire had ensured she lost her job, leaving her with no other means to protect or feed the children.

  May had always been an honest, hardworking woman. She had been the best maid the Pinnacle Hotel had ever seen, and now she was determined to bring that same pride to the work she did in magic. Word of her skill had spread in no time, and she’d found herself a steady stream of customers. She might never grow rich—folk around her had a lot more troubles than money—but the Beekeeper had taught her enough to ensure she and the girls would never go hungry. She, too, had come to think of this entity as the Beekeeper, though it had been Maguire who had labeled her as such, not the Beekeeper herself. It was strange how Maguire forcing May out of her job was what had helped fulfill the Beekeeper’s desire that May should follow in her mother’s footsteps.

  She heard the springs of the screen door protest as her latest client entered her home. May drew a steeling breath, which she then exhaled in a prayer for patience. The buzzing of a fat bumblebee sounded in response. May saw it appear out of nowhere, pushing through the blue wall as easily as if the wall were the sky it mimicked. This happened from time to time, the unannounced arrival of an emissary from her patron. “Oh,” May addressed the hovering insect. “She interested in this one, hey? Got some sweet nectar she wants to taste for herself?”

  The bee bobbed in the air, shooting up, then descending in a slow, lazy circle, until it landed on her shoulder. The sound of high heels clacking across her living room pulled her back to the present. A woman. May worked to put on her most imperious look, so that when the caller reached her, she’d perceive May not only as a woman of power, but as a woman whose time should not be wasted. She straightened her spine and grasped the arms of her chair. Clearly not bothered by her movements, the bee adjusted its position only slightly before commencing to preen itself. May shifted her focus to the entrance of her chamber, raising her head proudly to greet her latest visitor. Then the sound of a voice she’d never expected to hear again on this side of glory knocked the wind right out of her.

  “Jilo, girl, you get over here. Don’t you recognize your own mama?” Betty’s words chased Jilo straight into May’s chamber. May’s other grandbabies experienced vertigo upon entering the room, but it didn’t faze Jilo one bit.

  “Nana, there’s a crazy white woman out there,” Jilo said, panic nearly turning her words into a shriek as she ran into the shelter of May’s arms. The bee took off, no doubt rising to observe the scene from a better vantage point.

  In the next instant, Betty, or at least a faded version of her, appeared in the doorway, shopping bag in hand. She wore a navy-blue dress, a quiet color May would never have expected of her, and even though the day beyond the lowered shades and oscillating fan of May’s living room was stifling, there was a fur stole around her shoulders. Betty stopped at the threshold, teetering on her high heels, and grasped the door frame to steady herself.

  “What is all this, then?” Betty asked, her words coming out with a practiced accent that said she belonged in the city, not out in the sticks.

  May placed her arm around Jilo, squeezing her right shoulder and tugging her closer in the same movement. She understood the girl’s confusion. This woman standing before her looked like any of the fancy buckra ladies who paraded themselves around the Pinnacle. Her hair was as long and straight as any white woman’s. Its color wasn’t the shade with which Betty had been born, but neither was it the obviously out-of-the-bottle red it had been when May had last laid eyes on her former daughter-in-law. It was brown. Chestnut brown. White-woman brown.

  Betty’s skin no longer held any of its former warm tones. It showed tan, maybe olive, like she was one of those Italians. May felt certain Betty had been bleaching herself, and she doubted the woman had spent more than a minute in the sun in the five years she had been away. May released Jilo, but let her hand slide down the girl’s back and grasp ahold of her tiny fingers. She held the girl’s hand tight as she pushed herself up and advanced on the prodigal mother.

  “What’s all this, then?” May parroted her, waving her free hand at Betty.

  Betty released her grasp on the frame and took a backward step into the hall. May continued to will her back, away from her special place and into the sitting room. A pout formed on Betty’s lips as she took several awkward reverse steps. May’s eyes followed Betty’s, which were well fixed on Jilo. “She doesn’t even recognize her own mama. She doesn’t recognize me at all.”

  May reached behind herself to close the door to her room. “How in the hell do you expect her to? You up and disappeared on her before she could walk a straight line, and now you’ve come here with no warning, looking like you stepped right out of Imitation of Life.”

  Betty’s shoulders went slack and her face turned down. “I just thought she’d know . . . somehow.” A sorrowful glint in her hazel eyes very nearly touched May’s heart.

  Jilo’s hand slipped from May’s grip, and the child took a few furtive steps forward, stopping just beyond Betty’s reach. Betty knelt and set her shopping bag down beside her. Her shoulders pulled back, as if in preparation to open her arms wide for a hug, but instead she turned a little to grasp the bag and set it between herself and her daughter.

  Jilo turned back toward May. “Is she really my mama?”

  May struggled, but couldn’t prevent a tear from falling. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, so she answered with a few quick nods, her heart breaking as wonderment filled her grandbaby’s eyes.

  “Why, yes,” Betty answered for her. “I sure am your mama.” She reached into the bag. “And I brought you a present, too. You want to see it?”

  Jilo cast another glance at May, her wide-open eyes questioning whether it was safe to approach this woman. Again, May signaled with a nod, trying to force a smile to her lips. She wanted Jilo to feel good about who she was, which would be a lot easier if she felt good about her mother. May felt in her bones this was only a visit. Nothing permanent. This could very well be the only chance Jilo ever had to lay eyes on her mama, and May would not take that away from her.

  Following her nana’s lead, Jilo responded with a nod of her head.

  A bright smile formed on Betty’s face, but May could still make out the traces of remorse in her eyes. Well, maybe all wasn’t lost for the woman after all, May reflected. At least she knew she should feel guilt. “Brought this for you all the way from New York City.”

  “That where you been all this time?” The question escaped May despite her resolve not to ruin this reunion. She forced her tone to soften. “It’s only I thought you were livin’ in Atlanta, with that man. Porkpie.”

  “Porkpie?” Betty’s forehead creased in confusion, then a laugh bubbled up from her. “Oh, you mean Walter. Good heavens, no. I ain’t . . .” She paused to correct herself. “I haven’t seen old Walter in years. I went up north with the band. I met . . . well, I decided to stay on . . .” Her words faded away, but May surmised she’d met another man. The one who’d pa
id for the fur. And for the dress that barely covered the woman’s knees. Betty pulled a rectangular box from the bag, and took off its lid before turning it around. Inside there was a doll with auburn hair and the palest of skin, delicate freckles painted over the bridge of its nose. Its cupid lips stood out, painted a bright Venetian red like that carpet at the Pinnacle.

  “See?” Betty said as she tilted the box back and forth. “Her eyes open and close. Asleep.” She tilted the box back and the doll’s green glass eyes shut. She tilted the doll back to an upright position. “Awake.”

  She held the doll out to Jilo, but when Jilo approached, she didn’t take the box. Instead, she traced her fingers along Betty’s hand, seeming to test if it were real, before laying her own small hand over her mother’s. Betty’s smile froze as she jerked back from her daughter’s touch. “Here you are, sweetie,” Betty said and pressed the box into Jilo’s hands. “The clerk said she’s called Flora, but I reckon you can name her anything you’d like.”

  Betty stood and smoothed her skirt, signaling, May felt, that she was done with Jilo. “Where’re my other girls? Where’s my Poppy? My Opal?”

  Your girls. May struggled to force her spleen down. “Yo’ Opal, she’s gone. Took off with a soldier to California, she did.” May didn’t say that she’d encouraged the girl to leave. Opal’s Nate was a fine young man, and he’d see to it that Opal finished her schooling. “Reckon she had more of her mama in her than I figured.” May regretted the words as soon as she said them, but the urge to strike out at Betty had been festering for so very long.

  May didn’t even have the chance to register if her words had struck home. “She’s gonna be a nurse,” Jilo said, both hands clutching the box that held her gift, her eyes fixed on the doll therein.

  A small smile formed on Betty’s lips, and her eyes moistened. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

  “I’m gonna be a doctor,” Jilo said as she carefully removed the doll from its wrapping. “That’s better than a nurse.”