“Money?”
“No, money’s fine. This is a spiritual thing.”
Eyebrows climbed on her dark face. “I’ll make coffee,” she said and left for the kitchen.
They sat there at the old, chipped enamel-topped table he recalled from their days of poverty, drinking her bitter brew, and he told her about the dreams, his and Amelia’s, of the spotted beast, and about what he thought was happening to his wife, and how he had given the child the charm, the enkangue he had received from her years ago.
“That wasn’t wise,” she said when she heard that. “Enkangueare made for one person.”
“I know that, but she was scared and anyway it seemed to have worked. She hasn’t had hardly any nightmares since I gave it to her.”
“You should have come to me.”
“I am coming to you, Mami. I need a set for the whole family. I thought, these dreams, and after that reading Amelia got…and now I’m looking at my…you know, Calderon’s death, and there’s some kind of big cat involved in that, too.”
“Your father,” she corrected.
“Honestly, I can’t think of him that way. I mean he treated us like garbage his whole life.”
“You he did. But not me, never.”
“What do you mean? I thought he, you know…when you needed money for our first catering truck, he took advantage of you.”
She fixed him with a glare. “Is that what you think, son of mine? That your mother is a whore to buy a catering truck?”
Paz felt blood rush to his cheeks, but he met her stare. “You had no choice,” he said.
“You know nothing about it.”
“Then tell me, for God’s sake!”
She took a sip of coffee. “Ah, finally he asks, after nearly thirty years. All right, since you ask. Juan Calderon loved me and I loved him. He was a bad man and he loved in the manner of bad men, not like you love, but it was love all the same. He wanted me all the time, and I wanted him. Of course, it was impossible that it should go any further, but this we had, for seven months. You understand, it was something that was common in Cuba, the rich white man takes a black mistress to learn about passion before he marries whatever cold little white girl the parents have arranged. So I became pregnant, and therefore you must never think, my son, that you were not made in love, even in the love of a bad man. When I told him, he wanted to fly me to Puerto Rico so I could kill you, but I said no, and then he said, I will put you in a little apartment, you’ll be available. This is how it’s done, or was done where we both came from, a few years of comfort, he buys you some nice things, and then he finds another girl, a younger girl, and you go to work as a maid somewhere, and take care of your little cabron. But I said no, I said I wanted a loan from him to start a business, and we fought, because always he wanted to control me. But in the end I was stronger and he gave me the money, and said he would never see me again and if I ever made a claim on him, or you did, he would make something bad happen to the both of us. So I didn’t tell you about him, I made up a story, so you wouldn’t approach him. But you did anyway. The santos made it part of your life. And that’s also the reason I didn’t raise you in Santeria, may it not be held against me. I wanted you to be an American boy. I thought I could protect you with my prayers to the santos, and you would have a different kind of life, that you would escape from all this…the dark things. But Ifa has drawn out the thread of your fate in a different direction than I planned. And you know this, too, which is why you had Ifa cast for my grandchild and why you come to me now, although for your whole life you’ve thought that all of this was nonsense.”
“I’m still not sure I buy the whole thing-” he began, but she made a dismissive gesture of her hand and interrupted, “Yes, yes, you believe in your heart, because the orishas have shown you things, things not even I have seen.”
She drained her coffee down to the dregs, and swirled these around in the cup, a habit of hers. Sometimes things were revealed there, but apparently not now. She rose from the table. “I’ll get dressed and we’ll go see Julia at the botanica.”
Paz just sat there mute, as if he had taken a blow to the head. She paused at the door and added, “I’m sorry, Iago. I was wrong. I tried to control things instead of handing everything over to the santos. But you know, this is how I am, like a mule.”
Paz tried to recall if his mother had ever apologized to him about anything and came up blank. This was nearly as disturbing as the revelation about his father.
The shop had no name. It was jammed between a pharmacy and a shoe place in a strip mall on West Flagler near the county auditorium, a twelve-foot frontage with one dusty window that announced BOTANICA in peeling gilt letters. Behind the window stood a row of dark-skinned plastersantos lined up like people waiting for a bus back to heaven: St. Lazarus, who was Babaluaye, curer of ills; the Virgen de Caridad, who was Oshun, the Venus of Cuban Africa; St. Peter, who was Ogun, lord of iron and anger; St. Anthony of Padua, who was Eleggua, the trickster, guardian of the ways; and Yemaya, walking on her plaster seas. Above these a slack piece of wire had been draped, from which hung cellophane packets of herbs and powders.
Inside it was dim and dusty, heavy with oversweet perfume. Only a narrow way led to the counter in the rear, so crowded was the place with statues and crates, and slapdash shelves holding the physical paraphernalia of the religion: strung cowries, toy weapons of cheap metal, fly whisks, framed pictures of the saints; and cans of purifying sprays, glass jars of dried leaves, crucifixes, bolts of heavy cloth for making costumes for the ceremonies, dream books; and soperas, the containers used to hold the holy items appropriate to the various spirits, and a pile of concrete cones, each embedded with three cowry shells to make a crude face, the sign of Eleggua.
The woman behind the counter was over seventy, Paz estimated, with a face as dark, slick, and worn as the seat of an old saddle; her head was wrapped in a cloth of pink African print cotton. When she saw who it was, she smiled, showing her four remaining teeth, put aside her newspaper and came from around the counter to greet them. A warm embrace for Mrs. Paz, and a more ritualized one for her son; the woman smelled of some musky spice.
Chairs were swept clean and set out, chatting commenced. Most of it was about the workings of the various Santeria congregations in Miami, and most of the people mentioned were strangers to Paz, except for the people who were denizens of the spirit world. Paz knew those, at least. He listened silently, feeling like a fool, feeling about twelve in the presence of adult conversation. He was grateful that sociability did not seem to be required of him, though, because the premises upon which he had based his whole life had just been overthrown and he was not in the mood to chatter.
After a little over half an hour this part of the visit expired. A brief silence, and Mrs. Paz poked him and said, “Give Julia the things from Lola and Amelia.” Paz had not mentioned these items to his mother, but of course, she knew that he knew that enkangue could not be made without them. He passed the envelopes to Julia, who made some gesture to his mother, and then both women vanished into the back room of the shop.
Mumbles floated out from there, not all in the Spanish language. Paz gave up eavesdropping and amused himself with dream books. These were arranged in convenient alphabetical order, by subject. If you dreamt of a judge it meant you would overcome your enemy and also that you’d hit on a 28, 50, 70 bet at bolita, the Cuban lottery. He looked up jaguar but none of the dream books covered that one. He grew bored with this and explored the shop. He knew what a lot of it meant, but there were also any number of substances and objects he couldn’t identify. There was a basket of toy tools made of pot metal, and a selection of bow-and-arrow sets, and little plaster animals with arrows stuck in them. He picked up a bow and drew it. To his surprise, it was a real bow, made of some dark, oily wood. Pathetic, came the thought, miserable poor people desperate to change their luck. Ridiculous, really. What was he doing here, messing with this crap? He tossed the bow back into its bin.
Irritable now, he checked his watch. Two thirty-five and he had to be at the school to pick up Amelia at three. He could be a little late, but then he would have to endure a lecture from Perfect Miss Milliken about being a model of reliability for the children. Sorry, Miss M., he imagined himself saying, my family is cursed and I had to drop by the botanica for some antihex medicine. She’d be on the phone to Child Protective Services within minutes. Or to the mother, thinking of whom brought the recollection that Lola got off early Mondays. He’d call her, make something up about the murder case, hot on the trail, he hated to lie, but still it was, if not really an emergency, a truly unavoidable delay. Not that he would a thousand times rather explain all this to Miss Milliken than to Lola.
