“Mind your own fucking business, old man!” the punching man shouts. He kicks him one last time before returning to the car with his fists still clenched. I can’t see his face in the dim streetlight.
I shrink away from the window. I want to unsee and unhear everything. My heart is racing and there’s not enough air where I’m standing. Bad Leg is still on the ground, rolling from side to side. I’ve seen this before—old people in Delmas who see and say too much are often beaten up or killed by young vagabon who have no respect for elders, for life, or for themselves.
A second man comes out from the backseat of the car—younger, slim, and wearing a blue cap. “Yo, Dray, chill!” He runs to Bad Leg to help him up.
The punching man, Dray, calls out to his friend, “Yo, get the fuck away from him!”
But the blue-cap man ignores Dray and tries to help Bad Leg to his feet. He reaches down to pick up the cane, hands it to him, and makes sure the old man is stable before walking back to the car.
At the same moment, the passenger-side door opens, and I recognize those boots and that long coat. Donna stumbles out. Her long hair hangs over her face and she can barely stand up straight. She takes several clumsy steps toward the house and I quickly close the curtains. I let the dark living room be my hiding place as the front door unlocks and Donna steps in, removes her boots, and slowly makes her way up the stairs, leaving the strong scent of alcohol behind her. Her bedroom door lightly clicks shut.
I wait a few minutes before I come out of my hiding place. I replay everything until it all blurs into a dream. I want to tell Manman what I just saw and tell her that we have to go back. This corner where Matant Jo lives is no different from some of the streets in Delmas. I need to light her candles and hope that I can reach her.
Upstairs, I find a near-empty shelf in Chantal’s room, move the books aside, and start taking my mother’s things out of her carry-on bag: a small statue of La Sainte Vierge, two tea candles, the beaded asson gourd, a small brass bell, a white enamel mug, a cross, and a piece of white fabric. I bring the cloth up to my face and inhale the fragrance. I washed it by hand and soaked it in Florida water before we left. It smells of Manman’s magic—our lwas, our songs, our prayers.
I move the magic things aside to dust off the shelf with my hand. I place the cloth down first, the cross in the center, then the other items around it. I add water from the bathroom sink into the mug. I’m now only missing a potted plant for the libation. I light a candle. It hisses in the dark. Chantal turns over, but a pillow covers her face.
I call my spirit guides to bend the time and space between where I’m standing and wherever my mother is. Maybe everything is happening for a reason. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do. Maybe we should go back. What would Manman say? I need to know.
Cher Manman,
For all my life, you’ve taught me so much about how there is power and magic in our lwas, in our songs, and in our prayers. Now, for the first time in my life, I get to test the truth of your words. This is the first night I’ve spent away from you and I can’t even conjure an image in my mind of where you must be.
Remember that trip to Jacmel last year when we stayed at a friend’s house and you insisted that we share a mattress made for a crib? You pulled me in close and reminded me that even with my almost-woman body, I am still your one and only baby. Both our feet hung off the edge of the mattress and touched the cool concrete floor, and we prayed that a little mouse or a big spider would not eat our toes. I’m sleeping on an air mattress now and there’s plush beige carpeting underneath.
When I stared into the tiny flickering flame of the tea candle tonight, an image of you and where you are finally surfaced in my mind. You told me to trust every vision, every tingling of my skin, every ringing in my ear, every itch in my palms. They’re all signs. They’re all the language of the lwas.
But I’ve heard no whispers since the moment you were pulled away from me. How could the lwas not have given us a sign that this would happen, Manman? Were we too blinded and distracted by the excitement? This vision of you now is the only thing I have to hold.
I can see you. You’re on a bed on top of another bed. And a thin layer of itchy fabric is barely enough to cover your body. It’s your first night, but you’ve made some friends—two men and one woman. And they are black, black like you—black as if they’ve sat in the hot midday sun for most of their lives selling any-and everything they could find just to make enough money to buy a plane ticket out of that hot sun. They’re from Senegal, Guinea, and Cote d’Ivoire, because they speak a broken French just like you.
Matant Jo doesn’t let me speak French or Creole. When you come to this side, Manman, we will speak nothing but Creole. It will help me hold on to a piece of home.
Kenbe fem, Manman. Hold tight.
Fabiola
FOUR