Dark Paradise

by Angie Sandro

  Magnolia watches me with narrowed eyes and a smirk that makes me think she listened in and believes my justifications are naive. When I meet her gaze, she says, “Good, let’s finish this up. I want to get on the road ’fore it gets too late. Rush-hour traffic’s gonna be fearsome if we hit Baton Rouge at the wrong time.” She reaches into the pocket of her lacy black jacket, pulls out a tin of chewing tobacco, and stuffs a glob into her mouth. She gums the mix, and a bit of brown drool slides down her pointed chin. She catches my stare and the shudder I can’t hold back and points toward the door. “Close your mouth ’fore you catch flies and grab my bag.”

  I follow her finger to a black leather satchel almost hidden between the umbrella stand and the front door. “Saints, it’s heavy. How do you carry this?”

  “That’s what your mama’s for.”

  I frown in surprise when I glance at Mama’s toothpick arms. Though from experience, I know she packs a wallop and is stronger than she looks. “What’s in here?” I carry it over and drop it at Magnolia’s feet, careful to miss her toes. She leans over and paws through it, too busy working her chaw to speak.

  The hand that carried the bag feels dirty, like I ran it through a layer of rotting scum. I wipe my palm on my jeans, wishing for some hand sanitizer.

  Magnolia glances at me knowingly. “Get me a spit can unless you want to be scrubbing these floors tonight, though, by the looks of them, they could stand a good cleansing.”

  I tense up at the insult. The floor sparkles, clean enough to eat off of. I know that for a fact since I mopped the night before. The old bat! I tremble with suppressed anger and stalk toward the kitchen. At the doorway, I pause to look at Mama. She normally doesn’t take criticism well, and I’m surprised she didn’t chime in. But she’s curled up in the chair and passed out, clutching her bottle of moonshine to her breast. A small smile lifts the corners of her lips—at least one of us is happy. She did her job by getting Magnolia here without getting her liver eaten. The duty of being a good hostess falls on me.

  “Would you like me to pour you a glass of tea while I’m in the kitchen?” I ask Magnolia, in a voice as sweet as the mint tea I’ll serve. “I can also microwave up a bowl of turtle soup?”

  “No, that’s fine, cher. Had Jasmine run through the drive-through at Popeyes—got some leftover red beans and rice and a bucketful of chicken sitting in the truck going bad in this heat. Best get a move on so I can be on my way.”

  “Okay.” I run into the kitchen and bring her a metal coffee can.

  “Sit it here by my feet,” Magnolia orders and, without looking up, hawks a wad of tobacco juice into the can with spooky accuracy. I jerk my hand back with a squeal of disgust, but the juice doesn’t even come close to splattering me. Practice makes perfect, I guess.

  Magnolia thrusts a piece of paper into my hand. “Here, follow these directions.”

  I hold the paper up close to my face then invert the page that I’m trying to read upside down. The tiny, spidery handwriting makes my eyes cross. “It’s written in French,” I complain.

  Magnolia spits again, and a metallic ding fills the air. “Never learned to write spells in English.” She levels an evil eye on Mama’s sleeping form. “Jasmine said you read French.”

  “Barely. I had two years in school. I might still have one of my old textbooks. Can’t you just show me what to do?”

  “It’ll take too much time. Hold out your hands.” She starts pulling leather bags tied with drawstrings out of her satchel. “This here’s salt. Sprinkle it around doors and windows. It’ll keep the spirits out of the house as long as you don’t scrub your foot through the line and break the seal.”

  I pry open the bag and give it a test sniff. ’Cause really? I’ve got Morton Salt in my cupboard. How is this stuff any different?

  Magnolia stands so swiftly that I blink in surprise; sure I’m mistaken when she leans heavily on her cane. “This here’s a juju bag. Keep it on your body at all times, and it’ll protect you from the spirits.” The spidery fingers clutching the small cloth bag slide down the front of my T-shirt and into my bra.

  I dance backward with a yelp. “Personal space, Auntie.”

  “No such thing, Apprentice. Best learn that quick.”

  My nose twitches at the smell wafting from my bosom. Snot forms in my nasal passages, and I sneeze. I raise a hand to cover my mouth, and the supplies I’m holding fall to the ground. “What’s in this? Are you trying to kill me?” I dig into my shirt to pull the bag free, but every time my fingers brush against it, it shifts from my grip like it’s skittering about on furry legs.

  I sneeze again and groan. “I think I’m allergic.” I sneeze three times in a row and stagger, which, ironically, saves me when the tip of the silver cane swipes at my head.

  I drop down into a backward roll and come up in a crouch, balanced on the balls of my feet like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of a ninja. Or a cat hopped up on catnip. Neither option reflects my normal skill level, which freaks me out even more.

  “Quick too,” Magnolia mumbles, setting the end of the cane back on the floor.

  “You tried to hit me.” I stand, struggling to control the fury building inside of me.

  Magnolia returns my glare with a menacing light that brightens her eyes to a golden glow. “But I missed. I misjudged. Next time, I won’t.”

  “There won’t be a next time, Auntie!” My voice resonates as a low growl. I don’t sound anything like myself. My body trembles, and I rush the old bat.

  I’m gonna launch her headfirst through a wall.

  Chapter 19

  Mala

  Biggest and Baddest

  Rage surrounds my body—a tainted black aura hovering above my skin that crackles with raw energy. Hate throbs. Burning and consuming like fire until only the ashes float through my mind. Of my conscious thoughts, there’s nothing but the desire to destroy.

  Magnolia doesn’t move when I reach for her. My hands land an inch above her shoulders. I try to scream at the burning agony racing up my arms, but no sound passes my tightening throat. I can’t even draw air into my lungs. I drop to my knees and cower before Magnolia with my hands cradled to my chest. Smoke mixed with the odor of burnt flesh sears my nostrils.

  “You dare attack me, cher,” she whispers.

  Her arthritic hand reaches for my face, and I rear back. The hand fists and then rotates counterclockwise. My intestines form into a knot, imitating the twisting of her hand, as if she’s reached inside my stomach and wrings out my guts like they’re wet clothes going on the line.

  Sweat runs down my face. I stare up at Magnolia, panting. “You’re not strong enough to best me,” she taunts with a toothless smile, and I know she’s right. I glance at Mama for help, but she’s passed out. Why can’t she ever be there for me when I need her? Even when she’s in the room, I’m alone. Helpless.

  Maybe Magnolia reads the defeat in my eyes because she releases her fist. The pain in my stomach eases. When she reaches for my hands, I’m too afraid to pull away. She peels open my clenched fingers, and I whimper at the sight of black, flaking skin. “Magic for us is like breathing. It comes naturally from deep inside,” she says. “It forms by our will. You only have to think of what you want and that desire becomes reality if you got the know-how.” Breath ranker than a septic tank blows across my palms. My eyes close against the pain in my tingling hands. It hurts worse than when blood returns to a limb that has fallen asleep. “This is Lesson One, Apprentice.”

  God, please save me from Lesson Two.

  The springs in the couch creak. Magnolia sits before me with her cane resting across her bony knees. “Now, where were we?”

  I struggle to stand up, finally placing a hand to the ground. There’s no pain. I lift my palms close to my eyes, studying the unmarked surface. “You healed me.”

  “Would you prefer I leave you broken?”

  I grit my teeth, rising, but I don’t get too close. Magnolia is crazy, which means un
predictable. I’d be a fool to challenge her again, but I’d be even crazier to let her stay. The rage still simmers inside me. I wasn’t in control the first time I went after her. The rage took over. I’m more scared of what I’ll do if she lays hands on me again than of what she’d do to me in retaliation. “I’d prefer if you left. Get out!”

  “What did you say?” Her eyes still have that insane glitter, but I don’t care.

  “I said get out of my house.” I kick Mama’s chair, and she wakes with a snort.

  The bottle falls to the ground, and moonshine pours onto the floor. “Oh, no,” Mama wails, sliding from the chair. She lifts the bottle then bends over to place her lips to the spreading puddle and laps the liquid off the floor like a dog.

  “Mama!”

  She looks up with disgust. “Look what you made me do, Mala. What’s the matter with you?” She glances from me to Magnolia. “What’s going on?”

  “Time for Auntie to get the hell out.”

  “But did you get what you needed to help with the spirits?”

  “I’ll take spirits over a crazy woman swinging a cane at my head and burning me.”

  Mama’s eyes narrow in on Magnolia. “You hurt my baby?”

  “Just a test.”

  Mama’s lips purse but she remains thoughtful. What’s with the women in this family thinking it’s all right to resort to violence? I’m no angel, but at least I don’t deliberately put out the welcome mat for the devil to take over my soul.

  “Oh, no, Mama. That excuse won’t cut it. I’ve been whaled on enough today. I’m not tolerating my own family taking shots at me.”

  The bubbling fury I’ve been struggling to control boils over, dark and pulsing. Red tinges my vision, and pressure builds inside my head. The air inside the house dips, like I turned on the swamp cooler. Goose bumps rise on my arms. The room pulses—a restless heartbeat within the walls. The floor buckles upward, tossing Mama’s collection of knickknacks and curios off the shelves, and poor Velvet Elvis falls off the wall, the frame splintering when it smashes against the floor.

  Fear tightens the corners of Magnolia’s golden eyes, and I realize the rage isn’t solely mine.

  “Uh-oh,” I whisper. “It’s Lainey.”

  Magnolia shakes her head. “This ain’t no everyday spirit.” She sticks out her snakelike tongue and tastes the air with a dry hiss. Her eyes widen. “Oh, girl, what you conjure up?”

  “I don’t know,” I cry, moving closer to her. She took me down with the twist of a hand. Surely she can banish whatever hormonal poltergeist threatens to demolish my house into splinters.

  Magnolia backs up, hands raised in warning. “Don’t come close to me. You fine. This an ancestor spirit sent to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “Oh, he’s angry. Oh my, yes.” She caresses the air with her hands. “He seeks to protect you from harm, never knowing he’s the true danger to your soul. He fights to keep the girl’s spirit from you, but it’s a battle that spills over like a cup overflowing with tea. The cup—that’s your mind, I’m speaking metaphorically.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Like I said, you a smart-ass girl.”

  The floor shakes again, and I grab onto the back of the sofa for support. Magnolia picks up her bag and gestures to Mama who’s curled up in a trembling ball underneath her chair. “Let’s go, Jasmine.”

  “No wait, Mama.” I turn to Magnolia, ignoring the fact I just tried to kick her out. I’d rather spend the night dodging her cane than trying to ride out the bucking bronco that has become my home. “Please, don’t leave me alone with him.”

  “Girl, you can’t escape an ancestor spirit. He’s always gonna be with you, protecting you in his own way. He’s angry at me. Not you. He’ll settle after I leave.” She lifts her cane to prod Mama in the back with the tip, and I flinch. The floor shakes again, and Magnolia’s arms flail as she tries to keep her balance. Her face drains of color, leaving her freckles standing out against the bland backdrop. Whatever illusion she used to hide her wrinkles vanishes.

  “Let’s go, Jasmine. You sobered up enough to drive, or do I need to go into my bag of tricks for some special medicine?” She winks at me, obviously over her previous scare, and I shiver at the callousness of the woman. “Tastes real bad,” she finishes with a laugh.

  * * *

  From the porch, I watch them drive off. New Orleans is two and a half hours, maybe three from here, depending on traffic. It’ll be dark by the time Mama reaches Magnolia’s house, and she’ll spend the night again before returning home. Even as the dust of their passing fades, I remain sitting in the rocking chair, afraid to go inside. It was bad enough knowing the spirit of Lainey haunted the house. Learning that she isn’t the biggest and baddest thing on the block terrifies me.

  So I rock, staring out across the lawn as the sun lowers and shadows obscure the distant tree line. A cool breeze picks up, blowing across my skin. Crickets wake and start their nightly chirping. So do the mosquitoes. I dig out the juju bag wedged between my breasts and lay it out on the side table next to my chair.

  Carefully, I dissect the ingredients, laying them in coordinating piles: animal bones, a large root that smells like cherry and cinnamon and a mix of other unidentifiable spices that makes it unique, a stone with a natural hole in the middle, other stuff I can only shrug over, and dried sage. The sage turns out to be the principal source of my misery. I toss the dried leaves over the porch railing and watch them scatter in the wind.

  “I don’t want any part of this hoodoo shit,” I say aloud, sweeping the remaining ingredients back into the bag. I close my eyes and quickly throw the bag into the yard. When I open them to stare into the tall grass, there is nothing to show where it landed. “I should throw out the rest of that mumbo jumbo stuff too.”

  The rocking chair beside mine tilts forward, but unlike when the wind blows, it doesn’t rock back, just remains tilted like whoever sits next to me leaned forward to better hear me.

  I swallow hard. “Lainey?”

  The chair doesn’t move.

  “Who are you?” I whisper.

  The chair snaps back violently, tilting over backward to fall to the ground with a loud crash. My heart almost leaps out of my throat. I jump to my feet. “Keep away!” I scramble for the door, open it a crack wide enough to slide through, and slam it behind me. “Stupid! So stupid, Mala. It’s a ghost. It can cross through walls.”

  Why did I throw away the juju bag? Why? Sure, I hate Magnolia with the passion of the damned. If I use her magic, I’m beholden to her. I’ll end up as her slave, digging up corpses in a cemetery for all eternity. Unless the stupid ghost puts me in a grave first. I’m thinking this is a survive-to-fight-another-day scenario.

  I run to the bedroom. My skin prickles. Someone or something watches as I grab my French textbook off the bookshelf. My brain races unable to focus as the words jumble. Letters like daddy longlegs skitter across the page. I chase their meaning, but I’m so freaked out it takes ten minutes to translate the directions Magnolia left for me. Part of me scoffs at my actions. A little niggle of doubt that this stuff really works keeps popping into my mind. Then I glance out the window to the newly upright chair rocking on the porch. Maybe the wind blows it—maybe not. If sprinkling salt in the corners of each room, across the windows and outer thresholds, and circling the house with brick dust keeps unwanted spirits out, then isn’t it worth it?

  By the time the sun sets, I’m ready to cast the final protection spell. “This better work—it’ll suck if I burn the house down by accident,” I mutter, before lighting the candles while reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Whether it’s hoodoo or the grace of God, I don’t know, but peace fills the house now. I didn’t even notice how uncomfortable being inside made me feel until the sensation faded with each waft of smoke from the herbal candles.

  I fall into bed around midnight, glad I don’t have to fight Mama for the blankets because I’m exhausted. The next
morning, I roll out of bed with a peaceful smile on my lips because, for the first time in four days, I don’t wake screaming.

  Landry’s truck sits in the driveway when I stroll out of the house at a quarter to eight. I’m in such a glorious mood that I don’t bother trying to sneak off without him catching sight of me. It would’ve been easy, I learn upon climbing on the bumper and sticking my head through the truck’s open window. He has the seat pushed back and his legs stretched out kitty-corner across the passenger seat. Snores, loud enough to scare a bear, echo through the cab.

  I reach in and poke his shoulder a few times. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

  Landry’s thick lashes flutter then open to meet mine. “I’m supposed to be woken with a kiss, not a jab.”

  I snort. “I don’t kiss slimy critters. You’re playing double duty as a frog, and I throw them in a frying pan with a little butter and garlic.”

  “Oh, so now you’re trying to butter me up?”

  The heat of a blush rises. “Saints, boy. You’re fraying my last nerve.” I plant my hands on my hips, toe tapping. “What are you doing here? In case you forgot, I’m mad at you.”

  “No you’re not.” He grins and runs his fingers through his thick hair. My breath catches as my brain stutters. I shake my head to dispel the wave of pheromone-induced stupidity that washes over me. My nose twitches. Why does he have to smell so good? Like cinnamon and brown sugar. “Did you forget yester—”

  An oily paper bag flies in my direction. I grab it out of the air before it drops to the ground. It’s warm in my hands, and the smell makes my mouth water. “Ooh, cinnamon rolls,” I mumble around the melting mouthful of cinnamony goodness. “I love these.”

  “I know,” Landry says, throwing open the truck door.