by T. R. Simon
The old witch cocked her head. “I’ll make you a deal, Zora.” Her tone was softer than before. “You keep a lid on your pot till I tell you to lift it off. In return for your discretion, I will tell you a story worth hearing.”
Zora’s eyes widened at the prospect. “Will it have hoodoo and magic?”
“You just worry about keeping up your end of the bargain. I’ll give you all the story you could ask for.”
Her glance took us both in, and that rattled me. I most certainly did not want to hear her story or know any more about her hoodoo ways than I already knew! Zora, however, was over the moon. If there was one thing she couldn’t resist, it was a deal traded in the currency of story. Her eyes lit up like shooting stars. She spit in her hand and held it out to Old Lady Bronson.
If that took the conjure woman by surprise, she didn’t show it as she gave Zora her hand in return.
On the way home, Zora bounced like she had springs in her feet. “I wonder how long we got to keep quiet about this. You think a week? A month? And, mind you, just ’cause Old Lady Bronson told us not to tell anyone else, that don’t mean we can’t speculate between us. What do you think happened in there? I know you’re thinking something.”
I wanted to share in her excitement, but I just couldn’t. The secret Mr. Polk shared with Old Lady Bronson didn’t excite me; it frightened me. “Honestly, Zora, maybe it ain’t for us to know. Maybe there’s some secrets folks just ought to keep.”
She looked at me incredulously. “Carrie Brown, you can’t be serious. How on earth are we gonna suck the marrow out of life if we just sit by and let questions stroll down our street without inviting them in for a glass of lemonade? Mama always says, ‘Ain’t no one ever got dumber trying to answer a question.’ And I intend to answer all life’s questions. Anyways, Old Lady Bronson made me a deal. If we don’t tell, she tells us a story.”
I reached out and grabbed her hand. “You made a deal with the town witch. She’s as likely to cast a spell on us as tell us a story. Ain’t nothing free when you dealing with folks who talk to the living and the dead!”
Zora laughed at me. “You’re just letting lowly Sir Coward get the best of brave Dame Courage. Old Lady Bronson won’t hurt us. Besides, we’re the ones who found her when she fell fishing by the Blue Sink. She’s got no reason to cast hoodoo on us.”
“Maybe . . .” I said slowly. “But I don’t want to know things folks don’t want me to know. Just like I don’t want them to know things I don’t want them to know!”
Zora kicked a stone down the road and started walking again. She was quiet, but I knew it wasn’t because she agreed with me. Mr. Polk was our friend, and Zora understood friendship as a pledge made up of equal parts loyalty and honesty. She wasn’t going to put the matter out of her mind until she had answers.
She put her arm in mine. “Maybe it’s because I don’t really have secrets. You know how my mind works — once a question starts a fire inside me, I have to answer it, no matter how bad I get burned. There ain’t no pain more painful than the pleasure I get from the light of truth.”
If I carried a secret right then, it was fear that my friend’s curiosity would show her that some pain couldn’t be lessened, no matter how bright the truth shined.
Come on, Carrie. Daylight’s tired of waiting for you.”
I woke up to Zora shaking my shoulder. For a second I thought she had two heads, until I realized the other one belonged to Everett, who was riding on her back, grinning. I sat up, even though everything in me wanted to go back to sleep. “Don’t look like daylight even knows its way here.” Outside, dark clouds were still threatening thunderclaps and heavy-driving rain, although not a drop was falling.
“Seriously, though. We got to go check on Mr. Polk as soon as we can get out of Mama’s way. If we don’t, we’re not worth a lick of salt.”
“I want a lick of salt!” Everett crowed. He was four now, but I had been holding him since he was born and I couldn’t help but still see him as Baby Everett.
“You want what, now?” Mrs. Hurston came in from the landing, a big ball of bedsheets on her hip. “Carrie, what you still doing in bed?” She gave me a once-over. “You feeling poorly? You sleep OK?”
Zora, back of her mother’s shoulder, widened her eyes at me.
“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. I slept fine.”
“Oh, no you didn’t,” said Zora. “You were just complaining I keep pushing you off the bed all night! Mama, we’re getting big and this little bed ain’t growing with us.”
Mrs. Hurston sucked her teeth. “You ain’t any bigger than you was two nights ago, and Carrie didn’t look all worn-out like this yesterday morning. I think she’s coming down with something. . . .”
That was my signal to wake up on the double. “No, ma’am!” I popped my eyes open and plastered on a big old smile. “Zora just woke me out of a dream, but I feel real good!” I sprang out of the bed like popping corn just to prove my words, still smiling like a fool.
That got me a sideways look. Mrs. Hurston set the ball of sheets on the bed, sat down, and motioned Zora over to the floor in front of her for the morning hair ritual. “You two about the worst fibbers I ever met. If you’re gonna stay up half the night jibber-jabbing about Lord knows what, you can leastways have the decency to be honest about it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” We both lowered our heads with the shame we really did feel about lying, even though — or especially because — it wasn’t the lie she thought it was. But neither of us set her straight. I reckon we figured lying to Zora’s mama was safer than breaking our word to a witch.
“I want a lick of salt! I want a lick of salt!” Everett had turned his silly demand into a song and was bouncing around the room with it, occupying himself without our help.
Mrs. Hurston quickly rebraided Zora’s hair for the day.
Lucy Hurston had a big litter of children, from little Everett up to Bob, who no longer lived in hailing distance, but I doubt any of them ever felt the sting of having to share their mother. Whenever one of them caught her attention, her focus was undivided. I was happy to catch some of that love shine when my own mama was away. It eased the homesickness I felt every time she had to leave me for more than a day.
Finished with Zora’s hair, she gave me an appraising look. “Your hair need fixing, too, Carrie?”
“No, ma’am!” I answered with a sprightliness I definitely did not feel. I smoothed my ruffled head before her nimble fingers found their way into it.
“All right, then. You girls feed the hens and then help Sarah knead dough for the biscuits.” She picked the sheets up under one arm, grabbed Everett under the other, and escorted Zora’s youngest sibling back down to the main room.
“No,” Everett was shouting. “Zora promised me a lick of salt! Zoraaaaaa!”
Zora pulled a clean dress over her head. “Wanna split my chores? We’ll get done faster that way.” I nodded, running my hands over the wrinkled front of my dress. I ran some grease from the jar on the dresser over my knees and gave my dress one last halfhearted tug.
“And keep those eyes looking bright,” she said. “At least until we get out of Mama’s sight!”
“I’m trying,” I said.
“Try harder,” she said, then she pinched my arm hard and ran down the stairs, me close behind to pinch her back.
Sarah was at the foot of the stairs, lying in wait for Zora. “Mama says you’re supposed to help me with the biscuits! What took you so long?” Zora pulled a face behind Sarah’s back and I headed out to feed the hens.
Sarah was a backward mirror of Zora. Where Zora was bold and honest like a bumblebee asking to nectar on springtime flowers, and loud and fearless like a bobcat, Sarah was quiet and calculating, demure and ingratiating, already versed in pleasing for the sake of winning other people’s favor. The apple of her father’s eye, she was everything Zora’s father thought a girl should be. Zora was everything but.
With the chickens clucking ar
ound me, pecking frantically at the seed, I wondered how it would be to have a sister so different from me. I could see why my friendship meant so much to Zora. Unlike with Sarah, our differences complemented each other. Zora was always searching for new worlds, and when she couldn’t find them, she made them up, while I was content to stay in one world and share it with Zora. I was enlivened by the new worlds Zora made, and she was comforted by the familiarity of mine.
The chickens were done feeding, their feverish pecking followed by an aimless and sated meandering. I scattered my last handful of seed in a circle around me and walked back to the kitchen.
I heard Zora before I saw her. “Tattletale should be your middle name!”
“Don’t act holier than thou with me, Zora Neale.” Sarah always added the Neale when she was lording something over Zora. “I know you’re up to something, and you best cut it out before I tell Daddy.”
I walked in to see Zora sticking her tongue out at Sarah ferociously.
“Zora Neale Hurston! I will not tolerate ill-bred children in my house.” It was Mr. Hurston, walking out of his bedroom and adjusting his workday suspenders. “Instead of telling Sarah about her business, you best be keeping your own business on the straight and narrow. As it is, you more trouble than a runaway mule!”
“I’m sorry, Daddy! I didn’t mean to make trouble.” Sarah was, as always, quick to play herself up in her father’s presence.
Not Zora. She looked her father dead in the eye. “I’ll try not to be a mule, Daddy; although, if I am, I know Mama won’t want to be the donkey half of my parents.”
I couldn’t help noticing that what put her father so often at odds with her was their sameness, not their difference. A storytelling preacher with a restless nature, who, in spite of being one of the most in-demand citizens of Eatonville, opened another congregation up in Sanford, over in Seminole County. One church wasn’t enough for Mr. Hurston any more than fitting the mold of the “good daughter” was enough for Zora.
Mr. Hurston flashed with rage just as his wife stepped into the room. “That’s right, John Hurston. If you call my child a mule, it’s ’cause I’m the one who went and married a donkey.”
Mr. Hurston muttered, “Lord have mercy,” sat down, and stuck his nose in the family Bible. Mr. Hurston might have believed himself the thunder of righteousness in the Hurston home, but we all knew that it was quiet and steady Mrs. Hurston who was the law. When her protection enveloped her favorite child, not even John Hurston could touch Zora.
Mrs. Hurston fished a nickel from her apron and handed it to Zora. “You two go get me a cone of salt from Joe Clarke’s store. And while you’re at it, you can pick up a few more nails for your brother John to fix the henhouse.”
John, who had been lost in the Sears catalog, sat upright. “But, Mama, I was fixing to go fishing with Buford at the Blue Sink!”
“John, if a weasel gets in my henhouse again, you’ll be out there guarding it yourself come nightfall. Be grateful I don’t send you to get the nails, too.”
Zora usually got on well with her older brothers, and she felt John’s pain. “We’ll help you, John. You’ll be done in no time and still have plenty time for fishing.”
“That’s right, John,” scoffed Mr. Hurston, “let your sister do your work. Just be careful you don’t find yourself working for her one day!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.
I watched the comment slowly work its way under John’s skin. “Aw, forget it, Zora,” he said. “I don’t need your help. Girls just get in the way!”
Zora’s nostrils flared. “John, you’d be lucky if I let you work for me! Everyone should have a boss who’s smarter than they are. You might even finally learn a thing or two!”
John jumped to his feet. “You can’t talk to me like that! Mama, tell her she can’t!”
“I’m just giving you right back what you gave me — only I’m so sweet I stopped to put a nice shine on it first. You can thank me later!” She grabbed my hand, grinning. “Come on, Carrie. We got chores to do!” Then we were flying out the door, Mrs. Hurston’s laughter ringing behind us.
Zora skipped out the gate, then broke into a run. “Faster we get to Mr. Clarke’s store, faster we get to Mr. Polk. And John can go suck an egg while he’s waiting on those nails!”
Coming up the dusty road to Mr. Joe Clarke’s porch, we saw a fine horse and wagon out front, the kind we usually saw only in Lake Maitland or Winter Park, or just passing through. It being fairly early yet, the porch had only three men instead of the usual full afternoon chorus. There was Mr. Chester Cools, Mr. Bertram Edges, and Mr. Luke Slayton.
“How much you want to bet that wagon cost way past a hundred dollars brand-new?”
“Come on, Luke. There ain’t no wagon worth a hundred dollars, no how. I don’t care how shiny they make it.”
“Are you kidding me? The harness alone had to cost twenty-five dollars if it cost a penny!”
“Tell you what, if I had twenty-five dollars, I would not be spending it on no harness!”
“Why, hello, girls!” Mr. Cools, who had a little farm out by the railroad tracks, always greeted us with a big old grin.
“Morning, Zora. Morning, Carrie,” said Mr. Slayton. “What you think of my new horse and buggy? I just bought ’em for two hundred silver dollars — and that was a bargain!” Mr. Slayton could see the funny side of anything and anyone, make you laugh at yourself or him or both, and splash cold water on a hot temper about to combust. Unfortunately, he mostly needed to use that power when tempers were about to combust on him. Mr. Slayton was an incorrigible gambler. He would bet on anything just for the thrill of betting, and, like as not, he’d pick the losing gamble. He owed money to near on every man in Eatonville. When one of his creditors got to where he wouldn’t be put off another day, Mr. Slayton would borrow money from a more patient creditor to pay him off. He had four kids, all small and skinny as scarecrows because, no matter how much Mr. Slayton worked, his pay never seemed to make it all the way home. And then there was poor Mrs. Slayton. We called her that because she was married to Mr. Slayton and had to raise four scarecrows on account of his bad ways. She was as silent as he was voluble; the only words we ever heard her say were “I thank you for your kindness,” which she said every time someone couldn’t stand the thought of her and those kids wasting away and had brought her a tin of milk or a sack of cornmeal or a hunk of fatback. When Mr. Slayton’s sense of humor wasn’t enough to stay the anger of an impatient creditor, it was probably only the thought of poor Mrs. Slayton and the scarecrow kids that kept him from getting rode out of town — or worse.
Mr. Edges, the town blacksmith and mechanic, was the only man in Eatonville who was serious all the time. If you said, “Hot as the devil today, ain’t it, Mr. Edges?” he would stop what he was doing, think on your words, and say something like, “It is hot. I grant you that.” Leaving you to fill in for yourself the rest of the thought: Well, now, “as hot as the devil.” Now, that’s just an exaggeration, obviously . . . He and Mrs. Edges never had kids, but they were sweeter to us kids than any parent, and they were probably responsible for half the vittles that made their way to poor Mrs. Slayton’s table.
Mr. Slayton now regaled us with the details of his imagined wealth.
“See this horse?” Mr. Slayton said to us. “This is an Arabian horse. I had it shipped to Eatonville straight from Arabia.”
Mr. Edges shook his head at such foolishness.
But Mr. Cools was smiling, playing along. “How you do that, Luke? You ship it in your private boat?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Cools.” Zora couldn’t resist jumping into the tall-tale telling. “There’s only one way to ship as fine an animal as Mr. Slayton’s.”
Still happy to take the bait, Mr. Cools said, “Is that right, child? And what might that be?”
“Well,” said Zora, barely holding back her own laughter, “by Pony Express, of course!”
We all bust out laughing, but just then a loud voi
ce carried out to us from inside the store.
“You leave me no choice, boy!”
The screen door slammed open and a white man stormed out. His face was bright red and as wrinkled as parchment paper, except for a shining bruise on one cheek. His hair was limp and dingy white. He was so quick we didn’t have time to move. He took the four steps from the porch in two, shoving Zora out of the way as he went. She stumbled into me but didn’t fall. The man climbed into his fancy buggy and grabbed the reins so violently that the horse neighed in protest.
Joe Clarke had followed the man out onto the porch. “I believe we can talk this through —” he was saying.
“The time for talking is over,” growled the man, not even looking at Mr. Clarke. “William, come!” he barked.
Behind Mr. Clarke, another white man, some years younger, came out of the store. “Sorry, Marshal,” he said to Joe, smooth as oil, “but my client’s rights are being repudiated.” Mr. Clarke held up his hand to speak, but the man continued. “I’m here to help see that he gets his due, and no colored mayor” — he paused to laugh, softly but grimly — “will obstruct that.”
He climbed into the wagon, and the older man said, loudly enough for everyone on the porch to hear, “This was a fool’s errand!” He cracked the whip, and the horse took them off in a hurry, in the direction of Lake Maitland.
It was unusual to see white folks in Eatonville, even more unusual to see them exchanging angry words with Mr. Joe Clarke, our mayor and town marshal.
Mr. Clarke’s usual demeanor was ebullient and cheerful. He was bigger than life to us. He especially liked Zora and never missed a chance to pit her wit against the wits of the men who frequented his porch. Today was an exception to the rule; his brow was furrowed.
Mr. Cools shot a stream of tobacco juice over the side of the porch. “Smells like trouble, Joe.”
Mr. Clarke was about to reply when he noticed me and Zora. “Not now,” he said to the men. Whatever he might have shared with the men on the porch, he suddenly decided was not for our ears.
