by C. R. Daems
"I'm happy to say your life looks good for the next several weeks. You probably won't win the lottery, but there won't be any major problems."
"I don't play the lottery— you know that, don't you." She laughed and produced a big smile. "I'll send Elva around to see you. Thank you, Renee."
* * *
True to her word, two days later Elva stopped in just after noon. She was a petite young woman, with Oatha's round face and warm smile.
"Mambo Renee?" she said, as she approached the counter. I nodded. "I'm Oatha's baby sister. She said you agreed to conduct a wedding ceremony for me and Gualter. He's heard a lot about you."
"I'd be happy to do a wedding ceremony for you and your fiancée. Do you understand that I will require you and Gualter to meet with me a couple of times before the ceremony?" Granny had emphasized that it was a religious ceremony; therefore, a mambo had a responsibility to ensure the participants understood the commitment they were making.
"Yes, Mambo. Can we meet with you later this week?" She sounded like a little girl in a candy store asking for her favorite sweets. I got out my appointment book and arranged for a seven p.m. appointment on Friday. She bounced out the door, smiling.
Later that day, I sold several gris-gris bags. I kept several cloth bags of various colors and a chart showing the ingredients for each effect the buyer wanted. For example:
For luck—four leaf clovers and herbs such as daffodil, Devil's shoestring, galangal, grains of Paradise, holly, huckleberry, Irish moss, and ivy.
For spirituality—crosses, saints' medals, and herbs such as cinnamon, iris, yerba santa, and wood aloes.
And, for prophetic dreams (used in your sleep pillow), herbs such as chamomile, jasmine, lavender, marigold, nutmeg, peppermint, St. John's wort, and clary sage.
By keeping herbs and items such as crosses, the customer could use the chart to fill his or her bag with the appropriate items. Most customers didn't take it seriously but thought of it as an interesting souvenir from New Orleans. It frequently resulted in selling herbs to help with some condition or other.
* * *
Elva and Gualter arrived a few minutes early.
"Mambo Renee, this is my fiancée Gualter. Gualter, this is Mambo Renee," Elva said as I opened the door.
"It's nice to meet you, Gualter. Y’all come on in and have a seat at the table." Before I could advise the couple, I had to find out a little about them. "How long have y’all known each other?"
With my encouragement, they spent the next hour talking about themselves. They had met three years ago at Elva's high school graduation. Gualter had come with a friend who had a sister who was graduating from the same class. Over the next two years they only saw each other a few times a week, mostly on Saturday and Sunday. They had only started going steady the past year and had been having frequent sex for the past six months. Gualter had a job at a packing plant and was a regular member of Houngan Olabisi's congregation. Elva hadn't been a regular attendee of any services, but had gotten interested since she met Gualter.
"Alright, I think that is enough for tonight. I'd like you to attend my biweekly ceremonies, so I can get to know you better and for you to know if Vodou is for you and whether you want to belong to my congregation. We'll meet next Friday at the same time."
"What do you charge, Mambo?" Gualter asked.
"I don't charge for counseling you or the wedding ceremony. If you want, you can give me a donation either at the biweekly meetings or before or after the wedding ceremony." It wasn't the Vodou way to charge for our services. A true mambo existed to help people, not to make money. Of course, we needed money to help pay for the expense connected with conducting some of the services. I felt good about our first meeting. I had learned a lot about them, which would help me guide them to understand marriage was more than sex.
* * *
I met with the couple several times over the next six weeks. They planned to have a baby soon after they married, so I asked them to prepare a budget. They were to calculate their current salaries separately, then estimate the amount for rent, food, transportation, clothes, etc. The first time I reviewed it, I had them add items they had overlooked and revise some of the estimates that were obviously way too low. The last time we met the budget looked reasonable if they could stick to it and no emergencies occurred. So we added a small amount as saving for emergencies.
"I think your budget is a close approximation of your monthly expenses. With both your current salaries, you could get by. But if Elva stops work, y’all will lose her income, and there is little you can cut out of your budget to compensate," I said, running my finger down the sheet of paper containing the itemized list. "Even if Elva has the baby and is able to continue working, where are you going to get the money for a babysitter, food, and clothing for the baby?"
"I don't know?" Gualter shrugged and looked at Elva as if she might have the answer.
"Life is simpler when you're single. You have nothing to worry about except yourself, and you are both still living at home and have lots of extra money, thanks to your parents. I'm not suggesting you don't get married nor have children. I'm trying to help prepare you for your new life. Getting adjusted to living together will require compromises on both your parts and will be stressful without money problems."
Gualter looked at Elva, smiled, and shook his head negatively.
"I know the sex seems attractive, and I'm sure it will be. But there are many other things you haven't considered because you don't see each other more than a few hours a day," I said realizing I had no experience living with another person full time. "How long does it take you to get ready in the bathroom in the morning, what do you like to eat and when, which programs do you like to watch, when do you like to go to bed… The list is long and complicated, and many compromises will have to be made. Adding money worries to the list could be more than you can handle. One more session, and I'll conduct the marriage ceremony. I want you each to make a separate list of your current daily activities and sit down and discuss them. Don't forget your ideas on how to bring up your child when you have one, how many would you like, concerns about Vodou, potential conflict with your in-laws. Bring your list with you next time. I want to see them and hear any concerns you've discovered. Be honest. You can avoid a lot of future problems if you address any concerns now rather than later."
They had been smiling when they had entered but not when they left. I hated to be so pragmatic, but they would get enough glowing optimism from everyone else. Better they approach the marriage with realistic expectations. Gualter was looking at the frequent sex, and Elva the children she'd have. But too soon they would find marriage was a bit more complicated.
* * *
"Good Morning, Mambo Renee," Harry Bishop said as he entered the shop. He was a big, heavyset man with an ever-present smile on his ebony face that softened the intimidating impression from his size and shaved head. “Have you seen Ellen yet? She was looking for a good fortuneteller, and I recommended you. She seems very worried, which is unusual for her."
"Yes, I did. Thank you for recommending me." I think. Life was getting complicated since Granny's suicide. But what was I to do? I had no intention of giving up Vodou or giving up being a mambo. And a mambo has a God-given responsibility to help people whether they believe in Vodou or not.
"I also recommend you to a fellow named… Ken, I think it was. He was asking around for a good fortuneteller. He claimed someone had mentioned my name to him. Asked a lot of questions… almost like he was investigating you." He gave me a hard look, before shaking his head like he'd just woke up. "I wonder if you could do a reading for me?"
"Let me get my calendar." I had nothing scheduled for the next two days. "I'm free tonight and tomorrow if that's all right or next week if it isn't."
"Tomorrow night would be good. Seven OK?"
After I nodded, he turned and left, seemingly deep in thought. I had been right. Ken and Sheila were using my client list to check me o
ut, trying to determine whether I could really tell the future or not. I could only hope it proved inconclusive.
Later that day, two Locos entered the store. I recognized Banger. I had heard his friend, Knife, had been injured in the fight with MS666.
"No trouble, Mambo," Banger said as he entered. They wandered around the store for a few minutes, picking up things but to my surprise putting them back. I wasn't sure what to expect. I thought I was on Hector's good side, which hopefully carried over to the other members of his gang.
"Mambo Renee, would you make up a gris-gris bag for me and Madman?" Banger said when the pair made their way to the counter. Madman didn't look sinister. He had a vacant, open mouth stare you would expect from a mentally challenged or insane person. I doubted he had normal feelings about anyone including himself. Not someone you would want to antagonize. I removed a tray of colored bags from my locked case.
"Pick a bag you like, and tell me what you'd like the bag to do." I was glad the gris-gris bags didn't have my shop's name on them.
"Protection… from evil," Banger said, nodding.
"Evil spell," Madman said, smiling.
"I don't do black magic… Madman. How about strength?" I asked in desperation. He smiled and nodded. At least I thought that twist of his lips substituted for a smile, that or maybe he had a toothache. "If you will return tomorrow, I'll have your gris-gris bags ready. Fifty dollars each."
They nodded and left. I normally charged twenty-five for most gris-gris bags, but I thought I deserved more having to deal with the Locos, especially Banger for trying to rape me.
That night I selected beans, cinnamon, dogwood, ebony, wolf's bane, and wormwood and placed them in Banger's bag and painted Odenkyem—the rune for defense and protection—a turtle looking symbol on the outside of the bag. In Madman's bag I put nettle, St. John's wort, tea, and a bat wing. I thought he'd like that. I painted on the outside the symbol Wawa aba—the rune for overcoming barriers—an oblong circle with a line through it which split into three parts at the ends.
* * *
They both appeared right after I had opened for business, approached the counter, and each laid down fifty dollars.
"Banger, this is your bag." I handed him a red colored bag. "And Madman, this is yours." I handed him his black bag. "This is important. There is an even number of articles in each of your bags. There must be an odd number. I want you to take some part of your essence, hair, a small piece of cloth soaked in your sweat, finger nail clippings, skin… and add it to your bag. I have carefully prepared each bag for you, but remember unless you believe in the power of your gris-gris it won't help." While I was talking, Madman opened his bag, poked a finger in it, smiled, closed it, and hung it around his neck with the string I had attached. They left with their heads close together, whispering.
The rest of the day dragged on with few customers. I sold a few candles, good luck souvenirs, and a book on Vodou. About enough money to pay for my home-cooked meal. I closed a few minutes early to eat and prepare for Harry Bishop. I defrosted the other half of my Cajun meatloaf I had prepared last week. I didn't mind spending the time making homemade dishes, and usually made enough for two or three days. That way I had a tasty, quick meal when I needed it. My meatloaf had a combination of onions, celery, bell pepper, green onions, garlic, Tabasco, Worcestershire, an egg, and seasoning mix in addition to beef and pork. As I sat savoring the meal, I couldn't help wondering what Harry wanted to know. He had looked a bit worried when he asked for an appointment. As far as I knew, his business was doing all right. Well, I'd find out soon enough. That prompted me to think about establishing a set of rules for what I would and wouldn't tell people when I told their fortune. I pulled out a sheet of paper and grabbed a pencil, which hovered over the paper ready to write. Nothing. I drew a blank. Obviously, I couldn't tell everything I saw or my secret would be out within the week. But which part must I withhold? I wanted to help people with my gift, but I didn't want to be a pawn for someone who would keep me locked up and be looking after his own interest exclusively. Or maybe worse, kidnapped by the government. Ken and Sheila could be working for either, which made a solution to the problem urgent. But all I had managed to do was give myself a headache without getting any closer to a solution. I put the pencil down in defeat.
* * *
Harry showed up a few minutes late and smelled like he'd been drinking, although he showed no outward signs.
"Evening, Mambo Renee," he said as he walked toward my table and took a seat.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I've had a few drinks, and I'm sorry. I'll leave if you want." He looked down at his large hands resting on the table. Harry was a giant of a man with a large personality which could be overwhelming.
"No. You have something that is bothering you. Let’s see if I can help. Running away or drinking won't," I said. As I sat, he stretched his hands out, palms down ready for me to start. I placed mine over his and closed my eyes. Although I couldn't hear what was going on, it appeared he was getting more and more animated—angry?—both at work and at home. The following week an older woman came to stay, and Harry seemed to get worse and spent less time at home. Then he began sleeping in their daughter's bedroom. She was attending college and lived out of state. Several weeks later the woman died. For the remainder of the time I could see, Harry continued to sleep in the spare bedroom. He didn't realize how much of a problem he had. I suspected his mother-in-law was sick and coming to live with them, and he didn't get along with her. His wife was also stressed with worry over her mother. It made for an explosive situation.
"Harry, you’re under immense stress, and if you aren't careful, you are going to lose everything you love," I said, for the thousandth time, trying to decide how much of the truth I dared tell. He nodded in resignation, his dark eyes shiny with tears.
"What can I do? My wife…" he started, and his hand contracted into fists. His head jerked up. "Sorry, Mambo."
"I see your wife losing everything she loves," I paused waiting to see his reaction to that. It could mean her mother or him or both. After a few minutes of silence, he seemed to understand, and he looked up. "If you love her, you can help her. If you do, I see you gaining much. Otherwise…"
Now came the interesting part, as I watched Harry work through what I had said. As he did, I could watch the future change. But, I had to make sure he maintained his resolve.
'Harry, your future depends on helping your wife through this stressful period."
"What's going to happen?"
"I don't know, Harry. I only know she is under enormous stress, and only you can help her get through it. Without your help…"
"Thank you, Mambo Renee. Thank you," he said and dropped a wad of bills on the table. "Thank you." And he wandered out the door like a man in a trance. I hoped he could keep his resolve to help. It would certainly be stressful for him given his personality and dislike of his mother-in-law. When I picked up the bills, there were five twenties. I planned to give him half of that back when I saw him next. I did what I could. No matter what happened, it would be impossible to determine if what I suggested meant I saw the future. I could know from another source that his wife's mother was sick and coming to visit or stay.
* * *
The next day—no, it must have been night since I was having a nightmare—I had six Locos enter my shop and order gris-gris bags. If this got out, I'd soon be accused of protecting the Locos. Their money wouldn't make up for the loss of business or worse being treated as a piranha. If this kept up, I planned to buy stock in whoever made Tylenol. I wish I had a fortuneteller I could go to. Maybe she could find a future that had less stress. Oh, shit. I didn't want to change my life. I loved Vodou and helping people—so I guess I didn't need a fortuneteller, I just needed another couple of Tylenol.
It was a good thing I looked at my appointment calendar because I was in the mood to go to bed and pull the covers over my head. Ms. Jeffery was due at eight p.m. I think I ne
eded a gris-gris bag. Maybe I need three: one for Wisdom, one for Luck, and one for Courage. I had a feeling Ms. Jeffery was going to again test what I should and shouldn't tell my customers.
* * *
Naturally, she was early, and I hadn't changed into my "fortuneteller" garb. I could've asked her to wait while I changed, but that seemed ridiculous.
"I know I'm early…"
"It's not a problem, Ms. Jeffery… Ellen. Would you like something to drink? Maybe sweet tea or coffee." I guess I was tired, because creating a semi-false illusion suddenly seemed foolish.
"Yes, I'd like that Renee… Mambo?"
"Mambo is like saying, 'father' to a Catholic priest. I'm an ordained priestess in the Vodou religion—Voodoo to most. And it's a religion just like any of the major religions—different but the same in many ways. And millions of people around the world practice it, and we believe in one God like all Christians. Our ceremonies are like many other religious ceremonies which include singing and dancing. Unfortunately, the movies and the uninformed have portrayed Voodoo as some kind of ridiculous cult. Sorry. I'm tired." I retreated to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and put together a small tray of crackers.
"Yes, it must be frustrating having to dress up to be taken seriously. I don't know if you can really tell the future—" she held up her hand before I could respond, which, of course, I hadn't planned to. "But I believe you do your best to help people. I didn't come to you without doing some research first, so I know that to be fact." While she sipped her coffee and nibbled on a cracker, she told me a little about herself. She had graduated from Yale with a MBA. Since then, she had managed to claw her way into a senior management position with Hibernia Corporation and felt she was in line for a Vice President position. She carefully refrained from mentioning her current problem. I couldn't blame her—no sense giving a fortuneteller too much information. Actually, she shrewdly gave me enough to concentrate my fortunetelling on her career rather than her real problem, which had little if anything to do with her career. I cleared the table and sat down.
