husband, found him drunk in a motel room with a street girl. Only Francis’ cool head kept Big Mama from killing Henry right then. She’d pulled a derringer from her bra and pointed it at the naked couple. The girl screamed and held the crusty motel sheet to her nude body and ran for the door.
Big Mama grabbed her arm and whispered something in her ear before letting her go. Then she waited while Francis cleaned Henry up and they headed for the church. Frieda and Henry were married an hour later.
“I can’t change him, but you can,” Frieda said.
Big Mama extinguished the cigar and drained her glass of wine, but said nothing.
Frieda rushed on, “You can fix it so he never strays from me again. You can put him in a jar or something. I’ve seen you work root. That’s why people are scared of you.”
Big Mama laughed. “They scared ‘cause they think root worse than voodoo. Ain’t true. They both dangerous, in the right hand.” The chair groaned as Big Mama leaned back and looked at the ceiling of what had once been slave quarters. “Puttin’ his spirit in a jar don’t stop no man from cattin’ no ways. Only one thing can do that.”
“The Hag.”
“Right. And the Hag ain’t nothin’ to play with. Not even for me.”
“But you can do it.”
“Oh, sure I can do it. But I ain’t.”
Frieda got up from her chair and knelt beside the woman who’d taken her in after her mother’s death. “Big Mama, please. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Leave well enough alone.”
“I love him. I need him.”
“You ain’t gonna let this go, huh?” She shook her head and a sigh fell from her lips. “Lawd, that man’s thing must jump up and do a dance inside you.” She fingered the damp, pulpy end of the cigar. “I can tell you this: if I send the Hag after him, ain’t no telling what gone happen.”
“She’ll take all that extra energy of his. He’ll have just enough left for me.”
“That what supposed to happen. But I jus’ call her. Ain’t no way to control her. She do as she please.” Her pause lasted several loping heartbeats. “And no man ever the same after she done with him.”
“I understand.”
“When is your woman time?”
“It’s here now.”
The two women sat on the hardwood floor of the cabin with moonlight illuminating Big Mama’s
“This your last chance, Frieda. Think this through.”
The younger woman’s face remained resolute. “I’m done thinking.”
Big Mama nodded and lit the first candle. Murky shadows danced to its flickering. When the final candle began to glow, she spoke. “Get me a hidin’ man.”
Frieda smoothed her shirtdress and tiptoed out to the marsh, her Keds squishing in the soft, dank mud. The moon was a smile in the darkness as she looked for a stalk of seagrass leaning heavily to the ground. Finding one, she crouched to complete her task, her feet sinking deeper into the cool, black muck. She plucked a conical shell from the crisp grass and hurried back inside.
Big Mama placed the open end of the shell against her neck and hummed low in her throat. The hum filled the small room, vibrated across the floor to imbed itself in Frieda’s chest and infuse her limbs with its eerie, toneless rumble.
She pulled the shell away from her throat and Frieda saw a small, pale crab, stirred by the vibration, peek out of the shell. Big Mama yanked it from its home and pulled a switchblade, slick with sweat from the depths of her bosom. In one motion, she opened the knife and skewered the frightened crustacean to the floor before it could scuttle away. Henry’s clump of hair covered the crab’s death throes. She took a gulp of the caustic wine, spat it on the gruesome pile and touched a candle to it. It burned, not destroying the wooden floor, while both women took up the humming again.
Wind came, strong through the curtains and the hovering shadows coalesced into a swirling ash grey mass.
“She here. Be ready with the salt.”
The grey cloud moved around the calling space, stopping at each candle, before it slunk between the two women to examine its sacrifice. Satisfied, it slid over to Frieda and swayed like a cobra. She could feel a presence inside her mind, inside her chest and she gasped as it probed at her most tender heartaches. Crushing memories rushed to the surface of her psyche: Henry’s countless betrayals, looks of pity from the local women, laughter from the men. Frieda’s chest seized. She gasped for breath as scabs, new and old, tore from each emotional wound. It delved deeper in its search and tears grew behind Frieda’s fluttering eyelids. Her chest heaved and shook with impending sobs.
“The salt. Throw the salt!”
Frieda’s arm shook with the effort of tossing the small handful of salt over her left shoulder. While most of it found its way down the front of her dress, enough landed behind her to end the Hag’s internal quest. The smoky funnel whirled and danced with its newfound knowledge.
Brought to the surface again, her pain crystallized into diamond hard resolve.
The ache eased enough for her to gasp, “Make him stay with me.”
The whirlwind roiled with fervor, covering the wine-soaked crab carcass in its dervish. When it finally moved, only the switchblade remained. The coil of ash rose in the thick, muggy air and hovered above the women. One word came from the twisting center’s eye.
“Agreed.”
It extinguished each candle, then dissipated to leave the women surrounded by darkness and the scent of charred sulfur.
“Hey, Henry.”
“What’s happenin’, my man?” Henry’s palm met his friend’s in an intricate succession of slaps before he sat on the next barstool in the smoky lounge.
George “Butch” Dempsey took a sip of scotch and turned a shrewd eye on Henry. “Same old, same old. Working till I die.”
“I hear that.”
“What you doing here, anyway? Ain’t this your anniversary night?”
“Shee-it. I was wondering why Frieda was so hell bent on having dinner with me. Shoulda known.” He ordered a boilermaker from the bartender and rubbed a broad hand over his face. “How you remember my anniversary and I don’t?”
“’Cause y’all got married six years ago on Janey’s birthday and I never forget Janey’s birthday.”
“Right, right. How she doing?”
“Janey? Oh, she has good days and bad days. Starting to be more bad days. But her mama’s with her. Give me a few hours rest.”
“I couldn’t be sick like that. You know, live my life sick. I wanna go quick. Don’t want nobody giving up they life for me.” He glanced at Butch. “I don’t mean nothin’ by that, what you do for Janey is good, it’s—”
“Yeah, I know.” He drained his glass and stood. “I better get on home.” But he no longer had Henry’s attention.
“Uh-huh.” Henry’s gaze was fixed on a woman at the end of the bar. He rose from the barstool as though she’d bid him, picked up the shot glass and the bottle of beer.
“Where’d she come from?” Butch frowned at the sly smile on the strange woman’s lips. A chill crept through his bulky frame and gooseflesh grew on his meaty arms.
“Don’t know. But I’m gonna find out. “
“No, I mean, she wasn’t there a minute ago,” Butch said.
“Then she come through the back door.” He shook off the hand Butch placed on his shoulder. “You disturbing my groove.”
“You need to stay away from that one. She seem… freaky.”
