Your little jailbird.
I throw on some clothes, grab a coat, and rush outside. I slow down as I get closer. There’s something different about him. His left leg is still limp in front of him, the cane is leaning against the lamppost, and, again, he has a cigar in his hand. I watch for the dancing smoke, but the cigar isn’t lit like it was the night of my date with Kasim on Saturday. Nor is the streetlight. It’s daytime. This is the first time I’ve seen Papa Legba when the sun is high in the sky.
“You are early,” I say.
Just an early bird
Bringing the word.
“What’s the word, Papa Legba?”
Word on the streets,
Or word on the beat?
“Street? Beat? What? You always have tricks, eh, Legba?”
Word on the street is word on the block
Word on the block is word in that house
Word in that house is word on that door
Word on that door is word on his soul
Word on his soul is word on my tomb
Word on my tomb does not spell doom.
With that last verse, Papa Legba’s cigar lights up, the streetlight buzzes, and as if God suddenly threw a blanket over this part of Detroit, a heavy cloud blocks the sun and it becomes dark. Thunder rolls across the sky and I look down, not up, because I’ve heard this sound before.
I was only a little girl when my home was almost split in half. And while everyone around me thought the sky was coming apart right above our heads, it was the ground that was surrendering under the weight of our heavy burdens. And maybe this corner of American and Joy is collapsing under the weight of all that troubles me, too—we left everything we loved behind in Haiti and my mother was put into something like jail. And now, a detective has asked me to sacrifice a bad guy so my mother can be free. Sacrifice. We cannot get something for nothing, Manman always says. Prayers, songs, and offerings are not enough. We have to meet God halfway. So I know what I must do.
Heavy raindrops begin to pound on my head like drums, and when I look up, Bad Leg is gone. Papa Legba’s words were street, block, house, door, soul, tomb, and doom. I pause on the word block. I’ve heard Kasim say it before—block. I didn’t know if he meant a block of ice, or a cinder block, but he said block and that an Uncle Q owns it. Along with that club.
I step away from the house. I have to go find this block, this street, this house, this door to the club, to this underworld where Dray resides. I pull the hood of my coat up over my head, and it’s thick enough to keep the rainwater away from my hair. My Jordans are getting muddy, and if Pri sees them like this, she will fight me. She cleans hers with a toothbrush every night, even though she wears a different pair the next day.
I keep walking, and when I look to the left, Papa Legba is standing there on the corner of Dover and American, leaning on his cane with rain dripping from the brim of his hat. Behind him is a white house with Christmas decorations, even though it’s only November. He looks strange, as if he’s just a visitor in this world. I wait for a car to pass before crossing the street, and by the time I reach the other corner, Papa Legba is gone.
The rain is lighter now, so I quickly walk past the houses to reach the other corner. But this part of American Street stretches long. I pass house after house, empty lot after empty lot. Most homes look as if they have families who love them; others look like abandoned orphans with their burned-out roofs and missing windows. A few dogs bark and I jump. An old man calls out, so I walk faster. A car slows down next to me, so I pretend to wave to someone in the distance. The car drives away. And that’s when he appears again. I can see him all the way at the end of the sidewalk.
He stands in front of a house. My heart jumps because maybe this is it. This is the house with the door with the soul with the tomb that doesn’t spell doom. But as I examine the front gate leading to the house, Papa Legba disappears again. This lwa is full of tricks. There is nothing about the house that gives me a sign or clue, so I keep walking. Maybe Papa Legba will appear at the same corner again, telling me to come back and make another turn, or enter that house. I keep looking back, but he’s not there. It’s his way of saying that I am close, that I don’t need his help anymore. So I keep going. Now I have to find this place that will lead me to Dray without Papa Legba’s help.
I step over old railroad tracks and continue to walk down one more stretch of American Street. There aren’t as many houses as before, and finally, I see West Chicago. I turn left toward the church called House of Canaan, and the club on the other corner is now as clear as the sun behind the parting clouds.