I’ve enjoyed writing about Laveau’s descendant in the twenty-first century—Dr. Marie Laveau. The first novel in this contemporary trilogy is Season. Moon is the second. Hurricane will be the third, and, in this novel, I hope to explore the devastation of Hurricane Katrina and the subsequent abandonment of New Orleans.
African-based spirituality never died in the Americas—whether in secular or religious manifestations, the Africans carted to the New World were not blank slates but people who influenced and imprinted American culture.
Marie Laveau—the great nineteenth-century Voodoo Queen of New Orleans who was a great gift to America—is the woman who healed, nurtured a community, owned her sexuality, communed with spirits, and, some say, walked on water.
In an era when racial and sexual biases demeaned black life, black women in particular, she was a woman who rose up and said, “I am. I am Marie Laveau.”
May we all celebrate our beings and our names.
Sincerely,
Jewell
Washington Square Press
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Jewell Parker Rhodes
Previously published as Yellow Moon.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Washington Square Press Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
This Washington Square Press trade paperback edition April 2011
WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.SimonandSchuster.com.
“Yellow Moon” by Aaron Neville and Joel Neville ©1988 Neville Music Publ. Co./Apache Red Music.
All rights administered by Irving Music, Inc. (BMI).
Used by permission. All Rights Reserved.
Designed by Jaime Putorti
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Rhodes, Jewell Parker.
Yellow moon : a novel / by Jewell Parker Rhodes.—1st Atria Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. African American women—Fiction. 2. Women physicians—Fiction. 3. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 4. Voodooism—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.H63Y45 2008
813’.54—dc22
2008015221
ISBN 978-1-4165-3710-6
ISBN 978-1-4516-1710-8 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-4165-7980-9 (ebook)
CONTENTS
The Middle: Two Thousand and Five
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
The Beginning: Two Thousand and Five
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Another Beginning: Two Thousand and Five
Chapter 8
The End: Two Thousand and Five
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Never Ending: Two Thousand and Five
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Author’s Note
Special thanks to Deborah Losse, Suzanne Pezulli,
and my editor, Malaika Adero. All wondrous women.
THE MIDDLE
Two Thousand and Five
You can’t escape history or spirits singing in your blood.
When the mind refuses, the body knows.
—The Origins and History of the Voodoo Faith
he was cloaked in mist—soft as silk, cold as ice, darker than the bayou on a moonless night. “Marie.” She was blind in a world without parameters, borders. Only sound. Raw feelings.
“Marie.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“Marie”—a dry, reedy call; then, mournful, like a keening from a wounded animal or a lost child. “Marie.”
The mist grew heavy, the weight of the world was pulling her down, sucking out air, life—pulling her down into a swamp of memories:
She, just ten, watching a man writhing on the floor, a snake circling his neck; she, a woman grown, strapped to a tree, scars crisscrossing her back; she, an old woman singing, “Oh, Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you moan”; she, trembling, diving into thick, heady water, catfish brushing her thighs; then, a mother, screaming, giving birth, as she, the babe, slipped out, swimming downstream in a rush of water, a bloodied, blue-red membrane covering her face.
Except she was none of these. She was in her apartment, in her own bed. With a man she’d picked up at Cajun House. And she wasn’t cold; she sweated from the heat of his body, from his hands stroking her breasts, his pelvis rubbing against hers.
Was she dreaming? Hallucinating?
“A haunting,” her friend, Ellie, would say. “Spirits out of place. Talking.” Marie didn’t believe in ghosts. She was a doctor, objective. Good in a crisis.
“Marie.” A soft chant.
“Marie.” The mist cleared. Drums resounded and she swayed in a dress shimmering with rainbows. “Marie.” Arms outstretched, flames spiraled from her fingertips. She felt herself rise. Snakes slithered across the floor. A sweet voice counterpointed the drums: “Home. Let’s go home.” A burst of light, a swirling of fireflies.
“Marie.” Hands tugged at her skirt, pulling her down. “Heal me”; “No, heal me.” Faces: black, brown, white—some staring reverently, some desperately, some enviously. Features fading: no eyes, only mouths. Wailing, screaming: “No, me. Heal me”; “Maman Marie, please. Heal me.”
Fingers plucked at her skin, ripping her skirt, tugging, threatening to trample her down to the ground.
She screamed.
“Sssh,” a voice murmured, a tongue licking her ear.
“Sssh,” she echoed, chest heaving.
Mist pressed against her eyes, breasts, abdomen. Her back arched. Mouth open, a mist flew inside her—surrounding, squeezing her heart.
Something—someone—rocked inside her, consuming her from the inside out. Eating her whole. “Get out. Damn you, get out.” Arms flailing, she bucked against the weight inside her. “Get out.” Shadows flew out of her mouth.
Marie screamed.
“Heh, you’re not going crazy on me, are you? Not getting wild, are you?”
He had a lovely smile. Skin, smooth as espresso; eyes, obsidian black.
“You wish,” she exhaled, trembling. “Get me a drink. Please.”
He reached for her warm, waterlogged scotch.
“No, cold. There’s beer in the fridge.” She didn’t watch him go. Didn’t watch his panther strut. She’d hoped he’d be a good-enough lover so she wouldn’t dream, hallucinate, or whatever the hell her mind was doing.
She reached for her robe, catalogued her vitals—pulse elevated, breath ragged; her hands, the top of her lip, moist with sweat. Always the same. Same dream. Same moment of awakening.
Marie shuddered. The dream always seemed real.
Crotch moist, she’d wanted to swallow him whole. Wanted to be loved so well, she didn’t have any weird dreams. She’d thought about saying “no” to a condom, hoping flesh upon flesh would banish dreams. Hauntings.
But she knew better. Knew how sperm impregnated egg, seen cells dividing in a petri dish. Seen, too, a virus leeching on cells, devouring them, destroying in its wake. Seen plenty of young men, as beautiful as him, turn skeletal. Eyes sunken into bone. Seen young women, jaws slack, transfixed by nothingness.
�
��Brought you a Coors. Bien?”
“Sure.”
“Brought you a wet towel, too. Heated it up in the microwave.”
“This a sushi bar?”
“Non. Just a little courtesy. Thought you’d like to clean yourself off.”
Lord, he was good-looking. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Just a boy. You’ve got to go.”
In the dim, smoke-filled bar, she’d missed his youth. She’d been focused on the sway of his hips, the tilt of his head. Been focused on her need to be held.
“All evening, I was man enough. Plenty, I’d say.”
Untying her robe, he kissed her neck. With her best tea towel, he gently wiped her breasts, abdomen, between her thighs. “Très belle,” he murmured. “Très belle.”
She stood awkwardly, her arms dangling. He sat on the bed, his towel raised like an offering.
“You should go,” she said. “I’ve got to get to work.”
“See you?”
“Maybe.” She stared at the tangled sheets. Egyptian cotton scented with semen and the boy’s smell. Musty with a hint of jasmine. Not a harsh thing about him. Just good-looking and sweet.
His pants on, she blushed, remembering how she’d kissed his lean torso, let her hands roam inside cool linen, untied his drawstring belt.
“Got any money? Un peu? A little?”
“Out.” She held up his shoes, socks.
He winked, tucked his footwear beneath his arm and swept up his shirt from the floor. “Au’voir.”
She listened for the click of the door’s latch.
On the nightstand was a pack of Gauloises. She didn’t smoke, but the blue package seemed as exotic as a black man speaking French.
She stepped onto her narrow balcony—wrought iron twisted into vines, leaves, a riotous garden with snakes that, depending upon the light, seemed to slither and weave from one end to the other.
Not quite dawn. Stars twinkled bravely. The skyline fanned out like a lady ready for slumber on a chaise longue. Fog rolled in from the Gulf. Later, the city would be hot, steaming. Bodies would begin swaying, stripping away clothes, ordering bourbon, another hearing of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” ’til it was dusk, mosquitoes rising, and time for another nightly round of dancing, loving, dying in the city. It both fascinated and repelled her.
She felt she was back in time. No modern buildings, no high-rises. Only church spirals. Roofs with lattice trims. Gargoyles facing south. She liked the intricate warren of Europeanlike streets. She’d been drawn to the top-floor apartment, just off the historic Quarter. Her rent was outrageous, but she liked the view, the scent of fish, beignets from the Café du Monde, the odor of alcohol, and too many bodies pressed into a too-tight space. She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and felt like the mist was inside her again. She pressed the cigarette against the rail. Sparks flew.
“Chérie?”
The boy was on the street, still barefoot, bare-chested. His shirt and shoes were tied together like a hobo sack, swinging from his hand. His feet moved—two steps forward, hips dipping, sliding side to side, and she knew he was hearing the zydeco beat. The driving staccato, the unrestrained energy. He was hearing an intense two-step as old as the cobblestone. A rhythm built on the backs of slaves.
When she’d met him, he’d said, “Dance,” his hand outstretched. No, “Let’s?” just a command: “Dance.” She’d clutched his hand and swayed to the zydeco for hours, drank juleps, and, for a while, forgot she was a northerner down South. Forgot she was lonely. Out of her league. A battered young catfish, belly-up, flailing for air.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” he called up.
“Bien. Très bien,” she said, and he smiled at her like a child given candy. She should’ve shouted: “No, a bad dream.” But she didn’t want to be heartless. Too many men had accused her of that.
“Comment t’appelles-tu?”
She shook her head. “What’s yours?”
“Jacques,” he called up. Then, he spun around, dancing, fingers snapping, butt shaking down Rue de Christi. Without looking back, he waved. Gave an extra jerk to his behind.
Marie laughed.
Somewhere a voice caroled: “Catfish. Buy. Price fine. Come and buy.”
A child, no more than ten, wandered home from tap-dancing for tourists. Pop bottle caps were a poor boy’s cleats. His shoes scraped and clicked. He yawned, rubbed his eyes.
Three transvestites, legs wobbly on stiltlike heels, arms linked, wigs slightly askew, giggled. A tired sailor stepped out of a bar, his blond curls matted beneath his sailor cap. A man gripped his buttocks and they stumbled into an embrace. Then, hand outstretched, the thick-necked man guided the sailor around a corner, into an alley. Up against the wall.
“Dance,” Marie whispered, rueful. “Dance.”
Somewhere a sax began a lament. Church bells rang, a wild cacophony from parish churches: 6:00 A.M. Sunday. Time for all good Catholics to repent.
Marie reached for another cigarette. What the hell. She was in a foreign land. New Orleans. Just words on a map. “Gateway to the Mississippi!”—she’d been drawn like a moth to a flame. She should’ve gone to San Francisco. Kansas. Texas, even. Six months here and she couldn’t have a climax without some will-o’wisp, some haint interfering, spoiling her body’s pleasure.
Inexplicably, she started to cry. She hadn’t cried since she was ten and discovered her mother dead in their attic apartment.
Furious, Marie wiped away tears.
Jacques zigzagged down the street’s heart. His shirt, now loose, flapped like a sail.
She almost called out to him. What would she say? “Stop.” “Don’t leave.” “I’m a stranger here.”
Why hadn’t she told him her name? Marie Levant. Yet, for most of her life, she’d been called Mary. Only one day in New Orleans, and the r became guttural. Plain Mary became Marie, spoken with the flair and accent reminiscent of her mother. “Ma–r–ie.” Her mother had called her that: “Ma–r–ie. My little girl.”
“Aw, Ma. Dearest Ma.” She exhaled bitter smoke.
The sun crowned like a baby, spreading blood across the horizon. Blackbirds dove, screeching like their feathers were on fire.
Where was she?
“Don’t you know, child? City of Sin.”
She spun around. Her apartment was empty.
Yet as surely as she was alive now, breath harsh, blood rushing beneath skin, wishing she were simple enough to keep a man—to enjoy, longer than a night, the charms of a boy named Jacques—someone—something—chanted her name:
“Marie.”
ey, Almost-Doctor? What’s cooking?”
Marie smiled. “Not a doctor yet.”
Sully, the security guard, sat on the metal folding chair, his fat legs stretched before him, turned out like a ballerina’s. He’d play the harmonica, if you asked. His blunt hands moving with grace. A moan, sweet and insistent, coming from metal, his blue-black lips pinched and breathing into tiny holes. Sensual enough to quiet any Emergency Room alarm. She’d seen Sully soothe a consumptive, a kid on crack, an old woman inhaling her last breath.
Sully was the sentinel between two worlds—outside versus inside, street people who didn’t know they were dying versus patients, nearly dead and some just plain dead.
She’d been “Not-Doctor” when she’d arrived at Charity Hospital six months ago. Sully’s friend, a pianist with a flair for ragtime, had been accused of seducing the bartender’s daughter. He’d been found behind garbage tins, stabbed seven times. Chest, throat, face. Marie ordered a transfusion even though it was a waste. A hypodermic to his hip had the pinched-faced man flying high enough to believe he was Scott Joplin playing an invisible piano. Sully pointed his finger for her to go, then pulled the ringed, green curtains closed. No one complained about the harmonica’s wail. For hours, the sound pierced metal, drowned out wounded cries, death throes, babies being born. But they complained afterward, when Sully came out, no
dded to her, whispering hoarsely, “Almost-Doctor.”
That was Sully’s phrase for second-year residents. Marie was a babe in the woods. New. First year. Wasn’t supposed to do much without a doctor’s approval. But with so few doctors, everyone so deathly sick, all the residents bent rules. Tried to ease suffering. In the early days, she’d been overwhelmed, frightened she’d make a mistake. But now she did what needed to be done. More folks were always waiting; sometimes, lined up out the door.
Severs, “the-so-light-he-passed-for-white” administrator, always complained about costs. At the end of each month, he’d pass through each floor, every department, looking for waste. Complaining about paper, “unnecessarily aggressive treatments,” the overuse of expensive drugs. “Be cheap, people,” he’d shout. “Even the price of detergent has gone up.”
Her second month, Marie confronted him. “Don’t you want quality care?”
“We can’t afford it if they’re dying anyway.”
“What about charity?”
“We give them a bed, a place to die in. That’s more than many of them have.”
Severs didn’t exaggerate. In St. Charles, home to the famous (some said “infamous”) Charity Hospital, folks were lucky to have running water, collards, and a chamber pot.
In Charity, the sick and dying flowed like tides in the bayou. The poor waited too long for treatment: A slight cough became pneumonia; a lack of insulin led to blindness, gangrene; children who stepped on a rusty nail died painfully, stricken stiff for lack of a vaccine; and wizened ladies grew frailer, malnourished on sugar and white rice.
Dope fiends, domestic abuse cases, suicides, accidents, gang wars, even the police brutality cases that never got tried, all came to Charity. The crimes of passion were the most unsettling. Otherwise gentle men—schoolteachers, accountants—or petite housewives who gave generously to the church or heavy-set waitresses who served extra portions of pie were thrown into a rage over adultery or suspected adultery. Spouses were mutilated, burned, hit with a hammer in their sleep. Even a priest shot a beloved in the confessional; then himself, through the eye. But it was the prostitutes who fared the worst; no one lamented their passing, their crippling by unnatural men. Runaways, grandmothers, perfume-scented call girls were battered, bruised, cut up, locked in a sisterhood of pain. Marie worked feverishly, trying to help as many as she could. Trying to save the lives of even those who didn’t want to be saved.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 22
