Voodoo Heart

Gay sat propped in the passenger seat with a stack of my resumes on his lap. Whenever I slowed down too quickly, Gay’s head lolled forward, and Edward leaned up from the backseat and righted it for him. “Thank you, sir,” Gay said each time. “Thank you kindly.” Whenever I got out to inquire somewhere, he said, “L.J., this is the one. I feel it. You’re just what they’ve been waiting for.”

This was a better day than I’d had in a long time and I was cheerful at first, but after we’d tried some places with no real luck, I began to grow nervous. I started glancing around at other drivers, worrying about my family again. Edward was watching a football game on a cheap, handheld black-and-white TV, and through the static I kept hearing the words catch and caught. At one point we sped past a dead deer that had been knocked against a tree; it was sitting with its back to the trunk like a person might, staring out at the highway with its front hooves in its lap. The way the deer seemed to watch us as we passed felt accusatory, damning.

“Are you okay, L.J.?” Gay said, staring at me. “Do you want to talk about Nancy some more?”

I turned to Gay, but suddenly he looked so small and helpless sitting there with Edward’s hands propping up his ruined head. How could he help defend me from my family?

“Nancy’s nasty to me. She…” I tried to go on. My heart beat wildly; I was sweating. I was sure that any moment now a carload of my brothers would roar up alongside us.

“I have an idea,” said Gay, smiling warmly at me. “Let’s talk about green. The color.”

“Green?” I managed.

“I try to wear as much green as possible. It’s the color of longevity. As in the crocodile, or the turtle, which outlive animals twice, even three times their size.”

I noticed that Gay’s shirt was green, with dark green diamonds up the front.

“Hey, look. I didn’t notice that. Your eyes are green,” he said. “You like green, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, just think of green. Think of yourself in cool, dark green.”

“Green,” I said, closing my eyes. I pictured myself in a deep green jungle, hidden beneath huge, green, umbrella-like leaves. A cool breeze washed over me. My breathing started to calm. I began to feel in control of myself again. I was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for having stumbled upon Gay. I felt like he was something conjured up by my imagination, a friend that didn’t really exist outside my own mind. I was afraid that if I looked over at the passenger seat, he’d already be gone.

“Gay, what is it that you do? For work, I mean.”

“This is what I do, L.J. I talk to people. I teach them how to turn bad luck into good. You should come see me live in concert sometime. I speak at churches, meetings, that kind of thing.”

“Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m from a long ways away, L.J. Let’s just leave it at that,” said Gay. “Because right now I think you should pull over and try asking for work in this place here. I have a good feeling about this one.”

I parked and went inside a blinking complex of rides and arcades, where I was hired to work at an attraction called the Home Wrecker, the world’s largest inflated house. Imagine a multiroom home that was essentially an enormous balloon for kids to bounce around inside of; picture one of those puffy castles they have at every fairground in America, but four or five times larger and shaped like a house. My job would be to accept tickets from the kids and then point them toward the Home Wrecker’s entrance, a dark, rectangular hole in the front of the house, quivering with the efforts of children already inside.

The house itself had five rooms, all equipped with the appropriate inflated furniture—the bedroom had an inflated bed; the dining room, an inflated table and an overhead balloon chandelier; the living room had an inflated TV set with a clown painted on the screen. The points at which these things were attached to the walls, the floor, or the ceiling were actually openings into the larger balloon that was the house itself. The same gas pumped through the whole thing; it was all one bulging organism. Seeing the way the kids tumbled around inside, you’d think that it would topple, maybe even pop. But the house was tough. It was held in place by steel cables, and made of the same rubbery material firemen use to catch falling people.

Gay and I became fast friends. The Shores had a pedestrian overpass, a little walking bridge that cars drove under upon entering the parking lot, and we began meeting up there in the evenings. I always brought a beach chair and an ice bucket filled with the beer we liked to drink, which was rare but popular just then in Florida. It came from the Caribbean in wooden boxes. The bottles were made of thick black glass and had no labels.

It was on that overpass that Gay first told me about his ordeals, which is what he called his brushes with death. This was about a week into our friendship. Night had already fallen. Truck-shaped strings of lights moved back and forth along the distant interstate.

“The first ordeal involved fire,” he said. Empty beer bottles lined the tray on his chair. “Our house burned down when I was a baby. That’s how my skin got this way. How I became paralyzed was a plane crash, the second ordeal, but that was much later, when I was a teenager. There were other people in the plane with me, but I was the only one who lived. It was the same in the fire. Everyone in the house died but me.”

He paused here and took a sip of beer through his straw. A cat came sniffing out of the scrub by the edge of the parking lot. Somewhere a car alarm went off, then stopped.

“It’s funny, L.J. You’re not supposed to remember things from when you were a baby, but I remember the fire better than the plane crash. I remember being naked in the sink with my mother standing over me, cleaning my heinie with a wet rag. She had a clothespin between her teeth. The phone rang and my mother let it ring. Once, twice, three times. Then on the fourth ring a tiny blade of flame shot out of the phone jack at the base of the wall and sawed its way right up the wallpaper to the phone, which suddenly became this hissing white fireball. The last thing I recall is the fireball hitting my mother in the side of the head. Not like a flame, but hard, like a punch. I could hear it hit her. Thwap! Like that. And then she flew out of my line of vision. The wet towel she was using to wash me landed on my feet when she fell. They’re the only part of me that didn’t get burned. Go on, take a look.”

I bent down, my head spinning from the beer, and removed his sneakers. He had two perfect feet at the end of those ruined legs, creamy and white like a girl’s, but with patches of golden hair on the toes.

Gay and I took to spending our breakfasts together, too, at the Happy Fish, Plus Coin. Gay loved the name. He supposed it meant “good fortune” in some other language, but figured the expression didn’t translate well. “That’s what I like about it, though,” he said. “I like that the restaurant’s owner just kept the phrase exactly how it went in his language, no matter how it might sound to people here. It’s like he trusted other people to understand, even if it sounded strange at first. I think I’m going to start ending my letters like that. Instead of ‘take care,’ or ‘best of luck,’ I’m going to write ‘happy fish, plus coin.’”

Often I tried to pay for our meals, but whenever I laid the money on the table he got a waitress to come over and give half the money back to me. Sometimes, if she was taking a while, I’d push the bills at Gay, slowly, though—I’d creep them toward him like a spider crawling across the table. “Waitress! Waitress!” he’d yell, both of us laughing now, and when the bills were close enough he’d try to blow them back at me, huffing frantically. Gay kept a billfold in his breast pocket and he always paid for exactly half the meal, even if mine was more expensive, which was usually the case.

“I enjoy your company, L.J.,” he’d say. “I’m paying for half of the good time being had at this table.” He was always saying things like that, things that swelled the tubes of your heart.

Occasionally we took trips together. We drove down to the Everglades, saw the alligators and weird swamp birds. We went to Miami and sat on the beach, which was white and soft as flour. I dug a chair in the sand for Gay while Edward walked back and forth along the lip of the surf in his sneakers. We visited the many amusement parks—one of which my family had helped finance—getting to skip the lines for rides and food because of Gay’s condition. One morning we went to Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, and Gay became taken with an exhibit on a man from Iowa who’d been struck by lightning seven times over the course of his life. Gay kept coming back to it, asking me again and again to push the button that caused the tiny thunder sounds and sparked off the lightning.

What we did most of the time, though, was talk about Nancy, the girlfriend I was supposed to be escaping from at the Shores. Nancy, who yelled and screamed and mistreated me in more ways than I even knew existed. She was beautiful, but in the worst way—a clean, sharp-edged kind of way; beautiful like frost in the corner of a