I turn and look him right in the eye.
“Or not. I’d just be willing to do whatever it takes to bring you back to yourself again,” he says.
I want to say something to him, thank him maybe. But I can’t. I don’t know why. Instead, a dam breaks inside, and I weep. I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me back.
“It’s okay. You cry,” he says. “Go on and cry.”
I cry oceans, drenching his nice school shirt. When I can’t cry anymore, he brings me home. Mama made chicken and dumplin’s and offers some to R. J., who accepts. And believe it or not, I’m actually kinda hungry.
29
Gifts
I GO EARLY. FIGURE THAT’S the best time to catch her before she gets too busy. When I get there, I hear voices inside, so I just sit and wait.
Them chickens. Always makin’ noise. Always lookin’ at me when I’m here. They have to know more than they let on. They see everything. I don’t envy them.
I can smell some kinda burnin’ herb and wonder if they’re just gettin’ started or finishin’ up. I’m sittin’ on the bottom wooden step, close to the ground. From under the steps, a little furry thing wriggles out and nudges my foot. A rabbit. She looks exactly like the rabbit that crawled on me the early morning of the meteor showers. It can’t be the same one. That would be absurd, wouldn’t it? At the same time, I know this one is a girl too, and her size and markings are identical.
The li’l thing hops up to the step so she’s beside me. She crawls into my lap and starts tappin’ on my abdomen just like before.
“That is such an odd thing to do,” I tell her. And she does it again. I can’t help but giggle. She’s so cute and it tickles. How can this not be the same rabbit? How many of ’em tap-dance on people? Are they a special breed? Never heard of it in my life.
The screen door opens, and the rabbit vanishes back under the steps. A woman in her thirties or forties comes out. She’s surprised to see me sittin’ there, but then she nods a hello, and I nod back and she goes on her way. I do our old special knock: three times, pause, two times, and without waiting, I enter.
She’s not in the kitchen, which is unusual, but I can smell her pipe smoke, so she ain’t far.
“Come in here,” she calls from the sittin’ room. I go through her beaded curtain into the dark room that is nicer than the kitchen, but colder. Energy-wise, not temperature-wise.
“Hey,” I say.
She nods and welcomes me to sit on the wicker sofa with the comfy cushions.
“Didn’t expect to see you here again,” Grammie Atti says.
“Is it all right that I’m here?”
“You can come here anytime you want,” she scoffs. “I mean, I didn’t imagine you needed me much anymore. I been tryna call you, ya know?”
“I know.”
“Why you ain’t answer me?”
“I don’t know. Couldn’t talk to nobody. Don’t wanna use magic.”
She doesn’t nod or anything, but I can see her thinkin’ about how to respond. She slides a dish with cinnamon candies toward me. I take one.
“I actually do need your help with somethin’, Grammie Atti,” I say, slightly ashamed.
“Ah. Here it comes. What?”
From my bag, I pull out the music box with the colored ballerina. The beautiful box I love so dearly.
“I need this destroyed,” I tell her. “I can’t have it near me, and I don’t know how to do it.”
She picks it up and inspects it. She opens the lid, and she’s also in awe. It is really a stunning piece of craftsmanship. So unique and detailed. I’ll probably never see anything like it again in my life. But I can’t keep it. Every time I look at it, I feel like I’m dying, and I don’t want anything that’s had Virgil’s hands all over it anywhere in my life.
“It’s a gift from that white man, yeah?” she asks.
I nod.
“You could keep it. If you wanted to. We could put an enchantin’ spell on it to cleanse it of his evil.”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t have it around me.”
“All right.”
I suck on the spicy candy; she puffs on her pipe.
“What are you gonna do with it?” I ask.
“What does it matter?”
“Just curious.”
She takes another inhale.
“Ain’t decided yet,” she begins. “Usually I put a bindin’ spell on an evil object, and then I burn it.” She exhales. “Thing is, this ain’t an evil object. It passed through the hands of an evil person. There’s a difference. Outta context, the object itself has absolutely no power. It’s just a pretty jewelry box. Its power lies in the memories you associate with it. And I can’t burn your memories,” she says. Her voice softens. “Don’t worry. If you never want to see it again, you shall never see it again,” she promises.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for—for all the help you’ve given me.”
She waves my words away. “What’d I tell ya about gettin’ all sentimental? My part was easy. You had to do the hard work, and you did. All there is to it.”
“Uh…” I have more than one reason for being here. This next one is family-related, so who knows how she’s gonna react? “I don’t know if you remember or not, but Thursday’s my birthday. Mama and I are makin’ dinner and havin’ a couple friends over. You could come if you want to,” I offer. I’d like her to come, but I don’t want her to feel pressure.
Her eyes widen. I think she’s surprised to be invited. But then she just gives me a smile that seems half-wry, half-wistful. “That’s kind, but I’m not a birthday party person. If you’re glad to be alive,
