We will expect her on the first of June. And we trust you will choose wisely.
Sincerely,
Albert Monroe
Then there were faded family photographs amid things they left behind: patches of the original Sorrow Hall wallpaper, pressed flowers (the twins had a collection), notes between SuzyNell and her boyfriend. His newest prized acquisition was the newspaper clipping from Paris when SuzyNell and her own family finally decided to come back to Serafina’s Bayou in 1910. That whole generation fascinated Jack for many reasons.
Mostly because he knew them.
Since as early as he could remember, he’d spent his days at Sorrow Hall running in and out of forgotten corridors and musty rooms playing hide-and-seek with the Sorrow sisters. Baby Egg, too (who was pale, even for a ghost).
“You count, then we’ll look together. I don’t like it when they pop out at me,” baby Egg would whisper. Who knew ghosts could be scared? They always played on the east side of the house that his family didn’t use. When he told Dida about it, she was delighted.
“Oh, cha! You see those pretty babies!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You ask what happened to them. And you tell them I miss them so much. You know, I can see them, too, and Millie, and even your mama when she cares to admit she has magic. But we mostly see shadows, echoes of them. But they talk to you? You scared when they do?”
“No, Dida, I ain’t scared.”
He was the opposite of scared. Sometimes during the long stretches of time during the school year he spent with his daddy, he missed the ghosts most of all. When he got older, he wrote down their names and tried talking to them. Edwina was so grown up and bossy. Mae, she was the prettiest. (Jack had a crush on her.) The twins liked to hide in closets. When he found them, they’d always lean out from the darkness, put their fingers to their lips, “Shhhhh!” before giggling and disappearing again. The only ones he never saw were SuzyNell (he figured she just passed on happily and never got stuck inside the “curse”), and Belinda B’Lovely. And he wouldn’t have been able to see her, because his Dida was Belinda. Lost little Belinda B’Lovely Sorrow. It didn’t seem possible, because that would make his great-grandma over one hundred years old. Some believed her, some didn’t. Others just let it go. But Jack wanted to believe. Mr. Craven tried to tell him otherwise, but Jack wouldn’t listen. He liked the idea of being tied so closely to his Sorrow ghosts.
He leaned over his bed, making sure he’d packed The Legend of the Sorrow Women, the book he’d borrowed to read during his “kidnapping.” It was there. He went back to his notebook to go over his checklist one more time.
Book: CHECK
Clothes: CHECK
First-Aid Kit: CHECK
Supplies: CHECK
The day before, he’d gone over to Uncle Pete’s gas station, Pete’s Gas and Imports, which sat right on the border between Tivoli Proper and Serafina’s Bayou. Jack liked to think of it as a portal that ushered you from one world into another.
“Where you goin’, son?” Uncle Pete asked, bagging up a few bags of jerky and bottles of Mountain Dew.
“Fishin’,” Jack said, shoving the bag into his knapsack.
“When you plannin’ on coming back? I know your dad let you stay alone this time, but I’m supposed to be checking in on you.”
“Aw, Uncle Pete. You worried? I cleared it with Dad before he left. But if you want to act like a hen, I can try to send you smoke signals all day from the bayou. Besides, I’ll be back tonight. I’ll stop in, okay?”
Uncle Pete was one of those men who had a lot of thoughts about what it meant to be a man. And Jack knew Pete would get all flustered when he called him a “hen” (manly man that he was).
“I ain’t worried, you got a good head on yer shoulders,” Pete said. “Have fun.”
“I will!” said Jack.
He’d stopped in that night as promised, but Jack hadn’t gone fishing. He grabbed some bottles of water while he was there. And some fudge rounds, for luck.
“Catch anything?”
“Nah, Daddy and Old Jim must’ve cleared out everything before they set off. You hear anything from ’em? They still on schedule?”
“Heard from them just today. They’ve had a good haul and are coming back on time. Next week, right when you’re supposed to leave for your mama’s. Danny told me to tell you he wants to see you before you leave, okay?”
“Sure thing, Uncle Pete.”
“Now, what do you have planned for the rest of your week of freedom, son?”
“Not much. I’m fixin’ on beating some levels on that game you got me for Christmas last year.”
“Okay. Just call or stop by if you need anything.”
“Should I start calling you Aunt Pete?”
“Oh, go on, git outta here, you smart-ass.”
Between both well-planned stops at his uncle’s, Jack was able to collect the provisions he needed without arousing suspicion. I should join the FBI, he thought, and decided it was time to get out of bed.
Jack washed his face and looked in the bathroom mirror, wondering if turning thirteen would make him feel more like a man. I need a haircut, he thought, pushing his hair up from his forehead until it stuck up like his dad’s did during his college football days. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out the pomade his dad used when he was goin’ “out on the town” at the Voodoo and smoothed some in his hair, smiling at his reflection.
“Damn!” he suddenly exclaimed, remembering he’d forgotten to pack something important. He went to his room quickly. “Where is it, where is it … Come on!” He shoved aside the contents on the top of his dresser and found the conjure bag dangling from a Little League trophy that had fallen over. Dida made it for him when he was a baby. A tiny canvas bag, dyed red and dipped in wax so it was waterproof. Inside were things supposed to keep him safe. Salt. Rue, a silver dime, a lock of his mother’s hair. And other items he didn’t yet understand. He fixed it around his neck, tucking the bag under his T-shirt. “That was close,” he said, relieved, then finally grabbed his knapsack and headed out.
Out in the hot morning sun, Jack picked up a basketball off the cracked driveway and threw it behind him. It swooshed into the hoop nailed to the garage. “Yessss!” A good omen. He jumped on his bike, rode fast and free down his block, avoiding the school yard where the mean boys, AKA “Tivoli Trash” hung out (they were always bothering him to get his mama to read their futures), then up main street, whirring by Pete’s Gas and Imports with extra speed as he rode out of town.
He headed for Trinity Bridge. Look, Mama, no hands! When the bridge was in sight, Jack felt happier than he had in a very long time. He was almost home with the Sorrows. A week from now, he thought, everything will be different. Everything will finally be right.
But what Jack didn’t know was that there was a storm coming, one he hadn’t planned on or prepared for, one that would test everyone he loved in ways he couldn’t have imagined and never would have wanted.
5
As the Crow Flies
Sippie Wallace
While Jack was reading through his list one last time in his ordinary room, about to embark on an extraordinary adventure, sixteen-year-old, wiser-than-her-years Sippie Wallace woke up in a dingy rented room in New Orleans with Crow standing on her head, hopping from one foot to another.
“Go away, Crow,” Sippie grumbled, trying to swat him off with her hand. “I’m tired. Let me sleep a little more.” He cawed, pecking her hand hard. “Ow!” she cried out, sitting up quickly as Crow flew around the room, leaving feathers in his wake.
“You like my new place?” she asked, knowing he’d hide his head under a wing. Sippie had to agree.
The little bedroom she’d leased was nothing spectacular, unless you wanted to put it into the spectacularly bad category. But Sippie liked real things. And this place wasn’t pretending to be anything other than what it was. You had to respect that.
Crow perched on the wide windowsill, pree
ning. She knew that old crow. Her whole life, every time something was about to shift, that crow showed up and put in his two cents.
“Well now, lookit you, Crow. I hope your visit means I’m about done with this dreary portion of my life. You got news?” she asked, stretching. She smiled. It was good to see him. He always made her curious, which was her favorite way to feel.
He sat there, too calm for a bird, serious in a way Sippie hadn’t seen before.
“You gotta wake up before you say somethin’? Want a cuppa coffee? You never this quiet, old man. It’s makin’ me nervous.”
She sat up against her pillow, staring the bird down as some bees buzzed around her. There wasn’t a screen in the window, and Sippie was just fine with that.
She kept the window open all the time. She didn’t like the smell of burnt sugar and decayed dreams that emanated from the rest of the apartment. And she felt better knowing there was a quick escape route. She’d had to escape from more dark places than she cared to count.
Sippie had memories of Crow here and there while she grew up deep in the ninth ward with her parents, Simone and Freddie St. James. Only they weren’t her real parents. They’d adopted her or somethin’, her father hadn’t been real clear on the details when she’d asked. Simone and Freddie (whom everyone called Eight Track) didn’t have much, and when Sippie was six, Simone died, thinkin’ she’d be the next Billie Holiday. That’s when Eight Track started drinking for real. She didn’t like to think about those early days; thinking about Simone was like sinking into quicksand made of darkness. After Simone died, Sippie took care of Eight Track. But when she was thirteen, the state found out she was pretty much taking care of herself. That’s when her life began to get interesting. Crow started making more frequent visits. But before it got interesting, it had to get sad again, equal parts light and dark. See, Eight Track loved his girl, and Sippie loved her Eight Track, and neither of them wanted to say good-bye. Sippie entered the foster care system, going through five good-for-nothing foster homes, and when she was fifteen, she made a life for herself. No one ever even noticed she was missing.
Sippie wasn’t like any of the other girls she’d ever met. It wasn’t that she defied categorization—not black, not white, light eyes, freckles, not white-girl hair, not black-girl hair—though it didn’t help. It was more how those girls let all the badness in the world eat them up from the inside. Becoming these mean girls with no respect for anything, especially themselves. Though she didn’t finish high school, she’d done enough to grab the attention of one of the counselors. “Why these girls got to act like that? Don’t even know that the more they yell, the weaker they are. I can’t take it,” she’d said. The used-up man with dandruff on his shoulders just removed his glasses, looked at her like she was his last hope at saving the world and he was too damn tired, and said, “That is precisely right, Sippie. The problem is, they just don’t know any better. But you do.”
So she dropped out, becoming invisible, and found herself, at the beginning of her sixteenth year, all alone in the world. Only the world was scarier, dirtier, harsher, than any foster home could ever be. Which was why she could always breathe easier knowing exactly where the closest exit was. But at least she was free. And she had the good sense to hide her shine away for when she really needed it, rather than giving it up to the dark like those other girls. She’d never just hand herself over to this world.
Meanwhile, Eight Track spent his nights in homeless shelters but could be found wandering the French Quarter daily to listen to the blues drifting out through open windows. Sippie visited him almost every day.
They’d talk for hours in Jackson Square while he panhandled and she read tarot cards for tourists. She made sure to make them feel hopeful so that she could direct their smiles straight into Eight Track’s pockets.
“You be feelin’ the air change right before someone’s even gonna decide to mess wit you, Sippie. Don’t ignore that. You always had a shine to you. I guarantee if you listen close, and look for them exits, you gonna keep youself safe, cha.”
“I love you, Eight Track,” she’d say.
“I love you too, Sippie Girl. And I love you ’cause you beautiful, and you smart, and ’cause you always been different. You kin see what other folks can’t. Hear what dey can’t hear. And in a right-side-up world, those abilities a yours should keep you safe, only people … they don’t seem to appreciate it much when someone shines a little too bright. It makes them feel worse than they already be feelin’. So they try and steal that light, or put it out. And if that happens, you come see old Eight Track. Or listen to that old Crow. Fly with him, see through his eyes. That bird be a fine teacher. And he know all the secrets. Shoot, Sippie, he know your secrets.”
“What secrets, Eight Track? I need to know,” she’d say, the lost little girl inside gazing out from her eyes. She’d carried the ache of not knowing her own truth for too long.
“You follow that old Crow. He’ll tell you in his own way. You stay safe, Sippie girl.”
Each time she walked away from him, she wanted to run back and beg him to take her to a time when they were happy. To get well, sober, clean. To make her feel safe. But Sippie couldn’t bear to burden him with her fear. It would just make him drink a little more, die a little more. So she’d smile her good-byes, letting the hot tears fall only after she had turned her head to leave.
And now, that “fine teacher,” Crow, was perched on her windowsill, his gaze steady in a way she hadn’t seen from him before. This time she would discover the secret she’d been waiting for. She could feel it, and it made her scared, excited, and, beyond all reason, tremendously sad.
“I had the dream again last night. About that strange little house surrounded by water and wildness. The one with those beautiful colored glass bottles hangin’ from the trees outside. And candles and flowers all mixed up between odds and ends of pretty dyed fabrics. Like someone’s makin’ all sorts of things. Quilts, jewelry, paintings. But, this time there was something different.”
Crow moved closer. He was happy.
“This time, the barefoot woman turned and looked right at me. And she looked so sad, Crow. She looked like the blues. She was wearing a plain ol’ white men’s tank, the kind you buy nine to a package. Her long, gypsy skirt was tied up on one side, and her ankles and wrists chimed with bangles. Black curls fell down her back with bits of leaves and moss braided right in. And she looked up at me from under those curls and said, ‘Come home, cha, come home.’”
Crow stood, unblinking, on Sippie’s chest.
“That’s her, ain’t it, Crow. Is it time?”
The bird nodded.
“Let’s fly, then … old bird. Let’s fly.” She closed her eyes, smiling.
Sippie was never quite sure if she was really flying with Crow or dreaming or both, but she knew everything he’d ever shown her had been true. And they were things she couldn’t have known any other way. Sippie learned long ago not to question the unexplainable. Sometimes there were questions that simply had no answers.
* * *
Crow swooped low and high, soaring over the rooftops of New Orleans until the canvas of the earth below changed from clustered homes to a thick, dense green sliced with narrow blue waterways and tan dirt roads. Then Crow coasted down as they almost clipped a sign that read: ENTERING TIVOLI PARISH.
Look close, Sippie.… The ruins of the Sorrow golden age stretch wide across this bayou and back again all the way to Bourbon Street.
He darted and ducked under low-lying branches and lazy clusters of hanging silver Spanish moss. Then they met the sky again, circling above a long strip of land.
See that there? That’s Saint Sabine Isle. Used to be the finest resort in all the world. Gone now. All of it gone.
The Gulf of Mexico lay endlessly before them, breaking free from the land, its small waves lapping at the shores. He circled back around and soon they were homing in on a small group of buildings along the bayou, where he landed
softly atop a tin roof next to the narrow metal chimney of a two-story house on stilts with peeling paint and a sign that read: THE VOODOO.
Three women sat on the lower, creaky open porch while a man banged a hammer on the upper porch, trying to win a losing battle against some patch or another.
That’s JuneBug Lafourch. His family runs the fish house. They moved out of the bayou a long time ago, but Junie, he stays and struggles with the drink, Crow said, moving down to the railing so Sippie could better see the women. And these, minus one, are my witches.
His witches sat there in mismatched chairs positioned not too close, but not too far apart. Next to them, a vintage fortune-telling machine leaned against a cracked front window. It was the kind where you put in a coin and a plastic gypsy inside lit up, vibrated, then spoke to you before spitting out a ticketed fortune.
Of course, it doesn’t work anymore. Everything and everyone living in Serafina’s Bayou is broken or used up in some way or another, Sippie. I think you can help fix some of that, Crow said, fussing. These witches, the Serafinas, they call themselves, they gettin’ lazier each year. That pretty one with the dark curls and perfect features, she’s Millie Bliss, but don’t be fooled. She’s both charming and charmed, but unhappy down to her core. When that hurt she has inside comes out, the whole earth shakes. And the old hunched one? That’s Dida. Most people, including Dida, believe she’s the lost Sorrow child, and if that’s true, she doesn’t look too bad for her age. She always wears that red bandanna in her hair. And her eyes, they still shine so blue and pretty. Claudette, her daughter, the one next to her … she had the same kind of eyes, before she got into the laundry soap when she was four. Got blinded by lye. There she is, one hand on the whiskey, the other on her tarot cards. Most think she’s hiding from her blindness, but in fact she’s letting her blindness hide her.
The Witch of Bourbon Street Page 4
