Little Gale Gumbo (4 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The black BMW was parked against the curb when Matthew came out of his apartment with a duffel bag and his nine-year-old golden retriever, Hooper. Holly stepped out of the car wearing a white tank and linen pants, her straight blond hair pulled back into a smooth knot. Even from far away, Matthew could tell she'd been crying.

Seeing Holly, the dog lunged, pulling free of Matthew's grip on his leash and galloping down the sidewalk. Holly knelt down to accept the dog's lapping kisses, then stood to greet Matthew. When he reached her, she slipped her arms around him before he could say a word and pressed her cheek against his chest. Matthew couldn't remember the last time she'd let him this close to her, and he ached with the brevity of it. Grazing her breast when they pulled apart felt almost improper, the idea of lowering his lips to her temple unthinkable. The strange new rules of separation. He hated them.

Almost as much as he hated getting a ride to the airport in Holly's architect boyfriend's precious car.

“Oh, great.” Matthew groaned when she opened the back door for Hooper. “The fucking sheet.”

“Oh, forget about it,” Holly said, reaching back to tear off the crisp white cover and stuffing it under the seat. Hooper leaped gleefully into the back, brushing his rear against the smooth ivory leather. Matthew swore the dog grinned.

“He'll know you took it off,” Matthew said, closing the door and moving around to the passenger side.

“He won't. I'll vacuum out the back.”

Climbing in, Matthew tugged his seat belt across his chest, shifting his bag between his feet. “I suppose I should just be happy King Peter let you out of the castle for a few hours. I'll be sure and send him a bouquet of lobsters when I get to the island.”

“Please don't do this,” Holly pleaded, her eyes filling as she steered them onto the highway. “Not on top of everything. Not today.”

“It's a day like any day,” Matthew said, frowning into the distance. “You used to think my jokes were funny.”

“I don't feel like laughing right now. I can't imagine you do either.”

Matthew studied the horizon, mute. The truth was he didn't know what he felt like, and in his confusion, laughter seemed as reasonable as tears. His father was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, barely alive after suffering a stroke at the hands of a madman. The harrowing potential of Charles Bergeron's violence had followed them all for so many years, like the moon through the trees; sometimes you could see it, sometimes you couldn't, but you always knew it was there.

The windshield began to fog with Hooper's panting. Holly pushed at a strip of lit buttons on the dashboard. “God, I hate this car,” she confessed, sniffling. “All these stupid buttons.”

Matthew reached out and calmly twisted a knob, sending up a rush of warm air. The windshield began to clear.

“Thanks.” She swallowed. “Any news from the doctor?”

Matthew shrugged, watching the traffic. “Nothing. His condition hasn't changed. And I wasn't able to reach Dahlia or Josie.”

“They left a message at the house,” Holly said tightly. “You obviously haven't told them you moved out.”

“I guess I didn't see the point, in case . . .” Matthew stopped, meeting Holly's eyes briefly, hoping she'd finish the sentence for him. When she didn't, he said, “You could come with me, you know. We could drop Hooper off at Maggie's.”

Matthew watched Holly consider his offer, his weak brain flooding quickly with the possibility of her acceptance. Together, so emotionally raw, they'd turn to each other again. Away from that architect, that builder of bullshit, Matthew could remind Holly of their love, of what had brought them together, instead of always talking about what had driven them apart.

But the island wasn't theirs; it never had been. Little Gale belonged only to him and the sisters, and that plain and cold fact had been made clear to Holly within minutes of her first and only visit.

As the silence lingered, Matthew knew she would decline. Finally, Holly sighed. “You know I would if I could,” she said. “But work is crazy right now. Especially with Connie out on maternity leave.”

Matthew frowned reflexively. Even in the blur of his grief, he felt the same sting he always did in the wake of a harmless mention of someone's pregnancy or birth announcement, each one a reminder of what he and Holly had tried for and never succeeded with. And then the jarring surge of his own resentment, the habitual belief that every innocent mention was Holly's way of blaming him, of reminding him of what he couldn't give her. When he knew it wasn't, knew it was only him blaming himself.

They both glanced at Hooper, who had perched himself between their seats, as if the dog might say something to join them again, but he could only nuzzle their cheeks.

“Yeah,” said Matthew, defeated. “It's probably not a good idea.”

Stopped in traffic, he watched Holly's hands in her lap, waiting for the inevitable measuring of her wrists, her ritual in the grip of anxiety, one of so many tiny and inconsequential details that he'd only recently begun to catalog in her absence.

“I put the number of the hotel in with Hoop's stuff,” he said. “In case you can't reach me on my cell.”

“You're not staying at the house?” she asked.

“I can't. It's a crime scene.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Of course it is. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

“It's all right.”

When they reached the departure lane and pulled to the curb, Holly reached for Matthew's hand, gently lacing her fingers through his. “Call me when you can.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, lingering against his jaw just long enough that he turned toward her, as if he expected to find her lips waiting, but she had already moved back.

Matthew took up his bag and climbed out, turning to find Hooper had already filled his vacant seat, the dog panting excitedly.

Matthew rubbed Hooper's coppery head through the open window.

“Don't let Peter feed him that gourmet shit,” he said. “It gives him the runs. And you tell Prince Charming if I ever hear he's dragging my dog on one of his fucking bike rides again, I'm gonna kick his ass up and down Delray Beach.”

Then Matthew turned to the glass doors of the terminal and walked through them, heading back, heading home.

Five

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roberta Bayonne lifted the bottle of dove's blood over the shallow white dish and poured.

“I want him back for good this time, Roberta.”

Wanda Johnson's voice was steady, but in the flickering candlelight of the shuttered room, eighteen-year-old Camille Bayonne could see the woman's lips quiver as she watched the burgundy liquid fill the bottom of the saucer, spreading out like a stain.

Outside, Maurepas Street bustled with activity under a relentless July sun, its shotgun porches crowded with cackling old men, its sidewalks filled with racing children. Just beyond the rooftops, the fairgrounds roared with the day's races, the smell of the stables blowing over. But inside the narrow turquoise house silence prevailed, and with it the thick scents of incense and wax. All around the three women, shadows of eager candle flames rippled up the tall, scarlet walls, turning plaster into billowing curtains, and the ceiling into the surface of the sea.

Roberta gently eased the dish of dove's blood into the center of the table.

Wanda Johnson's eyes filled. “He wants to marry her, Roberta. I'll kill myself. I swear to God I will.”

“Hush,” Roberta ordered. “Focus now. Camille, bring me the powders.”

Camille rose dutifully and crossed the room to the sturdy armoire, her mother's medicine cabinet, and took out three small bottles. She had helped her mother work a commanding spell only once before, but she hadn't forgotten the ingredients. Spearmint, salt, and cloves. It was a strong spell, but Wanda Johnson needed one now. Camille had watched her mother make Wanda a gris-gris bag the month before, filling a square of red flannel with an odd number of stones and a knot of her lover's dark hair, and Wanda had worn her bag dutifully against her left breast for weeks, but still her husband had refused to give up his mistress.

Camille returned with the powders and set them before her mother. Roberta sprinkled equal amounts of each into a clean, wide-mouthed bowl, then turned again to Camille.

“The parchment,” she said.

Camille handed her mother a square of brown paper and a quill. Roberta pushed the parchment and the pen toward Wanda and pointed to the dish of dove's blood. “Write his name five times on this paper,” Roberta said. “Then you write your name on top of his. And whatever you do, make sure all the letters touch. Every last one.”

Wanda nodded numbly, but her hand shook as she took up the pen and lowered the tip into the dish, over and over, until the sound of the quill tip scratching across the rough paper grew unbearable in the hot, silent room.

Camille pressed her hands into her lap.

“There.” Finished at last, Wanda set down the quill and rolled her lips together to clear off the beads of sweat.

“Now fold it,” Roberta instructed. “Then press it to your heart and think hard on your desire. Close your eyes and see what it is that you want.”

Wanda did, clutching the folded paper so tightly that when she finally released it to Roberta, the indents of her fingers remained. But Camille knew it was the only way a spell would work. All the oils and candles and stones in her mother's medicine chest were powerless without the will of the person making the wish. It was the first lesson of Creole Voodoo her mother had taught her.

“Whatever you do, don't stop thinking,” Roberta said as she set the folded paper into the bowl and rested it gently atop the powder piles. “Don't stop thinking on your wish, you hear?”

But Wanda Johnson wasn't in any danger of that. When Roberta raised a lit match above the filled bowl and let it drop, Camille saw Wanda's dark eyes grow wide, flashing with the reflection of the flame, her lips tight, stilled with resolve and purpose.

“Think hard now, honey child,” Roberta whispered. “See your desire. See him come back to you.”

As Camille watched the paper and powders crackle and burn, she wondered what it was like to love someone so much, so much you'd want to die if they stopped loving you.

Wanda swallowed, breathless. “Now what?”

“Now you take these ashes and you sprinkle 'em right where—”

The jingling bells of the front door rang out, quieting Roberta. Wanda glanced up, panicked, but Roberta just flashed Camille an instructing look and Camille rose to see to their customer.

Splitting the velvet curtain that separated the front room from the rest of the shotgun house, Camille looked beyond the counter to find a white man standing by a display of healing herbs, whistling. He was lean, with thick red hair that curved over his ears in slick waves. He wore a blue suit jacket with sleeves that hit just above his wrists, and he carried a trumpet case.

She cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

The man turned to her and smiled. “Good mornin'.” His voice was cheerful, his pale blue eyes bright. “Man, it sure smells good in here. What is that?”

“Incense,” Camille said, gesturing to a row of shelves running along the opposite wall.

“Incense,” he said, looking around. “No kiddin'? You know, I always wondered about this place.”

“It's my momma's shop,” Camille said. “She's in the back.”

“Well.” He grinned, winked. “I'll be sure and behave myself then.”

Camille smiled nervously, feeling a warm flush crawl up her neck. “I didn't mean it that way,” she said, then wished she hadn't.

The man sauntered toward her, swinging the trumpet case at his side. Reaching the counter, he set the case on the floor and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the glass. His voice was conversational, as if they were old friends.

“Tell me somethin',” he whispered, nodding toward the crowded displays behind her. “You believe in all this stuff?”

Camille nodded, nervously fingering the rounded collar of her stiff white blouse.