Anthony Dalton had married a woman younger than his first granddaughter and was feeling like his mojo needed freshening up. Mother Love agreed, fixing him up with a new hand and a prescription for Uncrossing salts and High John the Conqueror oil. She guaranteed that before the week was out he'd be restored to his full manhood. He believed her; his sweet little girl had balked at marriage until he'd visited Mother Love for a magic potion. By the end of that month his sugar was Mrs. Anthony Dalton.
Isabel Salia had love trouble too; her husband had left with another woman. Mother Love told her she had to get her husband to drink a glass of sweet wine with some of her own cat juice mixed into it. That would make her man come back and stay. She recited a prayer for Isabel and dressed a black candle in Crossing Oil. Isabel had to carve her rival's name into the candle, light it, and repeat the prayer over the flame for nine nights, as well as sprinkle Hot Foot Powder across the woman's front door. That woman would leave and never come round again. Isabel had been doubtful about visiting this Mother Love, but her sister had convinced her, swearing she'd been promoted
Rita Kincaid wanted to know if the man courting her was serious or just milking the cow for free. The Mother patiently cast the cowries, making repeated notations in a thick ledger. The upshot was that this man only spelled trouble for Rita. Mother Love fixed her up with a spell kit to attract the right kind of man and Rita happily laid $100 on the table.
Meanwhile, Eddie Mae King had been waiting. When it was her turn to see Mother Love, she transferred her great bulk from the waiting room into the plant-cluttered office. Eddie Mae didn't like it in here. It was too hot, too dark, and too crowded. She always felt like she was going to suffocate and collapse and they wouldn't be able to drag her big body out of there. She perched one buttock over a rickety little chair, fanning herself with a stubby hand. She started to cry, telling Mother Love her son had been stabbed in his belly and was dying up to Drew/King.
Mother Love got into Eddie Mae's face, scolding, 'Does he have a chicken scratch or is that boy carved up like a Christmas ham?'
'He's in the ICU since last night,' Eddie Mae sobbed.
The Mother relented, claiming, 'We'll have to make
Eddie Mae nodded. Her four chins nodded too. Mother Love scratched something on a piece of paper while Eddie Mae explained the circumstances about Tyrell. Lucian appeared after Mother Love pressed a buzzer. She handed him the paper and when he left Eddie Mae sighed, 'I wish my boy had come out like your Lucian. He's such a darlin'.'
'Your boy'd a come out right if you'd a knocked some sense into his head,' Mother Love answered coldly. 'You always spoiled them children, Eddie Mae. Didn't I warn you 'bout that?'
'Yes,' Eddie Mae had to sigh. Lucian returned with a box and Eddie Mae recognized the offerings for Saint Lazarus. Babaluaye, is what Mother Love called him. That was his African name. Eddie Mae didn't much mind what name they used, as long as she got results.
Mother Love propped a crutch and straw broom into a corner next to a small table. She started singing, one of those African songs that made Eddie Mae feel proud. And a little afraid too. She knew what was coming. Mother Love smoothed a square of yellow satin over the table. On it she put a Saint Lazarus holy card, a clay pot with a perforated lid, and two plastic dogs. She surrounded them with seventeen yellow candles.
Stepping back, she surveyed the table. She must have liked what she saw, because she gave a short nod, saying, 'Now we'll feed Babaluaye.'
Eddie Mae's four chins quivered nervously. This was the part she didn't like. She offered a silent prayer to Jesus, hoping He wouldn't mind. She meant no harm, only wanted her son to be healthy. He could understand that, couldn't He?
Mother Love dipped a perfectly manicured hand into the box Lucian had brought. She unwrapped a square of cornbread and put it on the table next to an orange, a banana, and an open jar of coconut butter. A bottle of 151 rum complemented the food. Eddie Mae hoped she had enough money to pay for this.
Mother Love studied the table again.
'I'll make beans and rice tonight, but for now this'll have to do.'
Scratching sounds came from the box and Mother Love pulled out a paper bag. Eddie Mae squirmed, enduring a scornful glance as she crossed herself. Mother Love sang her African song again and drew two pigeons from the bag. She held them over the table by their legs. Eddie Mae closed her eyes, but not quickly enough. With swift ease Mother Love twisted the heads off. She shook their blood onto the table, placing the drained bodies alongside the other offerings. She sang again.
Mother Love's low voice, Eddie Mae's faith in her, the sticky heat—they all combined to make Eddie Mae drowsy. She watched sleepily as the Mother washed a rope of black and white beads in the blood, didn't protest when she folded the sticky strand into her hand.
'Take those to Tyrell,' she ordered. 'Put 'em on him. Don't let no one take 'em off. They got Babaluaye's power now. You take 'em offa him, I can't tell what'll happen.'
Eddie Mae's chins waggled their understanding. Mother Love barked, 'That'll cost you two hundred dollars, Eddie Mae. And cheap at that.'
'Lord, don't I know it.'
Eddie Mae pulled a wad of wet, crumpled bills from her cleavage. She smoothed them out against her thigh, laying them gently, one by one, into the Mother's bloodied palm.
15
Driving home one late night, Frank had heard a telepathic spy on a talk show share his vision of the world's end. He saw the jet stream swooping down close to earth and wreaking havoc with agriculture. He predicted mass starvation, particularly in Third World countries. Even more gruesome, he warned that as this time approached, it would be heralded by an unprecedented number of children killing other children.
Reading the
Sprawled half naked on a chaise lounge, Frank found the almost empty Corona in the chair's shade. The sun was hot, the beer was cold, and the news was always bad. World without end, amen, Frank thought, but if it ended today she was going out a happy woman.
Dinner was ready—pink shrimp in avocado halves, sliced ruby tomatoes from the farmer's market, fresh bread from the Old Town Bakery, all accompanied by an icy bottle of pale Fume—and Gail would be here any minute to share it with her. Frank shook the newspaper into place, amazed she'd actually admitted to, and accepted, being happy.
She came in from the patio for a fresh beer, just as Gail burst through the front door. Her entrances were fast, breathless, and usually scared the shit out of Frank.
'Hurricane Gail has made landfall,' she greeted.
'That's me,' the doc laughed. 'All awhirl to see you.'
Gail dropped her fat briefcase onto the tile floor and hurled herself at Frank, who found the doc's physical enthusiasm as unsettling as it was charming. In her office or cutting in the morgue, Gail's passion for her work was obvious, but she maintained distance from the cops and detectives she worked with. Maybe because she'd never thought to, Frank had unwittingly bridged that distance. She'd accepted Gail's friendship, and then diffidently, her courtship. Frank's hesitance wasn't related to Gail, but rather to her own doubts about being a lover again.
There'd been the fling with Kennedy but that was just what it was—a fling; something they had both needed at the time, but which was never meant to last. It felt different with Gail. Less urgent, more thoughtful. She felt like she wanted Gail rather than needed her. That was reassuring, in that it lulled Frank into a sense of control over her emotions.
They cooled off later in the shower, still unwilling to part. Wearing only loose robes, they ate the plump avocados on the patio and satisfied the last of their hungers. Settling into one of the side by side lounge chairs, Frank poured the last of the wine, luxuriating in the peace that comes with perfect satiation. Gail's hand rested on her thigh. Frank stroked it, asking, 'Think you'll get to the Colonel tomorrow?'
'The Colonel?'
'Lewis's slit throat,' Frank reminded her. 'I know you're back-logged. Just curious.'
