Bayou My Love: A Novel Page 13

  “Miss Dauphine?” I asked, extending my hand.

  The woman stood with her hands on her hips, her bracelets jangling when she moved. “Mmm-hmm.” She stared down her nose at me. “Everybody calls me Duchess. How you know Jacinda?”

  “I just met her today,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets.

  “Why is that girl sending you down here? Some fella gone and broke your heart? Cause I ain’t in the business of love potions. Ain’t in the business of revenge neither. She knows that.”

  “I need someone who will tell me the truth.”

  She laughed. “The truth, she says. Child, you gonna look a long time for that.”

  I pulled the velvet pouch and the doll from my shoulder bag, and Duchess peered into my hand.

  “What you got there?” she asked, her tone lightening.

  “I was hoping you could tell me what these mean. I found them in my yard.”

  “Somebody been leaving you offerings?” Duchess pulled a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from a fold in her dress and placed them low on her nose. She wiggled her fingers, motioning for me to give her the items. Pushing her bracelets up on her arm, she emptied some of the contents of the bag into her palm. It looked like a fistful of potpourri, but I knew by the arch in the woman’s painted eyebrows that it wasn’t so benign.

  “Why you want to know about this? What you plan on doing?”

  “I just want to know what it’s for.” I watched her eyes, trying not to say the wrong thing. “I want to know if this is cause for worry.”

  Duchess stared at me, her gaze shifting above my head. I got the feeling I couldn’t have hidden anything from this woman even if I wanted to.

  She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “You got a good aura,” she said. “Pale, but good color.” Her plum-colored lips tightened, and then she turned, gliding toward a room in the back. “Well, come on,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s see what mojo somebody’s putting on you.”

  She nudged her elbows through a beaded curtain, dodging the strings of tiny beads that clinked and rattled like bells. A massive wooden desk sat in the center of the room, covered with books and a collection of objects that looked much more ominous than anything for sale in the voodoo shops on Bourbon Street. There was a small skull that might have been a cat or a raccoon, and a painted one that was definitely an alligator. The teeth were bright yellow, glimmering in their sockets. Covered in vibrant red and green designs, it looked like it belonged in a museum.

  Duchess sat behind the desk, emptying her hands over a square of glass the size of a cutting board. She brushed the flecks of herbs from her palms, then motioned for me to sit across from her.

  “This could take a while,” she said. Her eyes were wide and brown.

  “I’ve got nowhere else to be,” I said, offering a smile.

  Her lips were a taut line. She reached for a magnifying glass and tweezers, and sorted through the heap of herbs and leaves, picking out pieces and making tiny piles. Occasionally she sniffed them. I picked up a doll with hair made of Spanish moss, wrapped in a red scrap of cloth. Tiny stitches covered the doll, nearly impossible to see without holding it close. It felt surprisingly soft.

  “Careful,” Duchess warned. “That one ain’t been baptized yet.”

  “Baptized?”

  “In the loosest sense of the word,” she said, a glint of laughter in her eye. “You got to wait for them to tell you their names. That one’s said nothing yet. Likes being all mysterious.”

  “What’s she for?” The doll had a pale brown face, with no indication of eyes or a mouth, and yet she still seemed to be smiling somehow. She was similar to mine, but more refined, crafted more deliberately.

  “Hasn’t told me that either. But whatever it is you want, it’s liable to rub off on her. Then you’ll be the only one that can use her. And she ain’t cheap.”

  I placed the doll back on the desk, but still felt its blank face staring into me. I tried not to think too hard about anything in particular.

  “Somebody’s got a broken heart,” Duchess said at last. “You got blue violet, chickweed, red clover. All of these are meant to attract faithfulness, commitment. Things of that nature.” She clicked her tongue, as if she’d seen this far too many times before, then plucked a dried petal from the glass and held it in her fingers. “Some folks carry these around with them, hoping to attract a lover, but then you got lovesick fools who are all the time leaving these things near their beloved,” she said. “This one’s in love bad.”

  I gestured to the pile. “Is that a bone?”

  “Snake rib. Meant to bind you to your intended.”

  “How do I know who left it?” I asked.

  “Child, I can’t tell you that. Don’t you know who’s all broke up over you?”

  “It’s not for me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  She stared at me as if scanning my face for lies.

  “Somebody left it at my—” I hesitated, not wanting to explain my living situation to her. “At my friend’s house.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She plucked a tiny twig from the glass. “Devil’s shoestring.” It looked like dried honeysuckle vine. “One of the strongest herbs for attraction and desire—the sweaty, nasty kind. Somebody’s got it bad for your friend.” She dragged out the last word as if she knew it didn’t accurately describe what had passed between Jack and me. “And see this?” she said, “This is yohimbe bark. It attracts dark passion. Lust. It’s meant to make a body ache for you.” She pushed the flecks of dried herbs around the glass. “Whoever left this is serious about making their unrequited love requited.”

  She reached for the doll I’d brought and turned it over in her hands.

  “Is that what I think it’s for?” I asked.

  She snipped the belly of the doll with manicure scissors and a similar heap of herbs spilled out. “Lots of different uses for dolls. This one’s meant for pain, though. Got pins stuck in the heart, in the belly, in the brain.”

  I cringed. “So this really works?”

  She laughed, a low smoky laugh that sounded like it came from deep within a cave. “It depends on faith, child. It works if the person doing it believes in it. So I guess the question is, does this poor lovesick fool believe. And that’s an easy answer, based on all the trouble they went to. When did you find this?”

  “The doll was yesterday. The pouch a couple of days before.”

  “Full moon two nights ago. Best time for love spells.”

  It had to be Miranda. The only question was: How far would she go?

  “So what should I do?” I asked.

  She nodded toward the corner of the desk where I’d left the blank-faced doll. “You might think about holding on to that doll until she tells you her name. Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to be in the path of the person leaving these.”

  “How about my friend? What’s he supposed to do?”

  She leaned back in the chair, scratching her chin. “I can mix up a little gris-gris for your fella, try and keep this poor soul away. But like I said, you got to believe. He got to believe. Otherwise, it’s like a handful of salt and pepper.”

  I stared at the doll for a moment.

  “What makes you so sure it’s for your friend and not for you?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

  “I’ve only been back a little while,” I said. “I hardly know a soul here any more.”

  “It only takes one,” Duchess said.

  “I’ve been here less than a week and met less than half a dozen people. No way this is meant for me.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She laced her fingers over her belly and said, “I’ve heard that one before.”

  ~~~~

  Driving home, I considered what Duchess had said. Was Miranda focusing on Jack, or had she made that doll for me instead?

  That night, I let Bella inside and slept in Jack’s room again. The upstairs felt like a separate buildi
ng entirely, and if someone came into the yard tonight, I wanted to know it. I slipped the gris-gris that Duchess had made for me under the pillow (where she said it would be most effective) and laid a kitchen knife on the nightstand. I kept telling myself this was silly, but I couldn’t quite convince myself. Compiling lists sometimes put me to sleep, so I made a mental list of repairs I could do the next day: painting, washing down walls, repairing the window in the upstairs bathroom. Then I made a list of reasons Miranda might be leaving these voodoo tokens around: to lure Jack back to her, to harm him, to get me out of her way.

  That was no good. New list, Enza.

  I thought about Jack. Made a list of reasons he was a good idea. Or a bad idea. (There’s nothing like a good pro/con list to wear you out.) The dog lay snoring on my feet while I stared at the blue light that filtered through the curtains. With the windows shut tight, the house was stuffy. The more I thought about Jack, the more I wished he was there. Maybe something casual with him wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Simple was what I needed, right?

  Chapter 11

  The dog woke me in the morning as she leapt down from the bed. Trying to hide under the covers and ignore her was no use; she only circled the room, the click-clicking of her nails sounding like hail. Finally I gave up and let her outside, catching a glimpse of the sunrise, and went straight back to bed. My sleep had been fitful, interrupted by nightmares of a house falling to pieces as it burned with me inside. The roofers would be there soon, but I was certain I’d hear them when they drove up. So I buried my head under the covers, trying to doze a little longer. I didn’t hear another thing until there was a knock on the bedroom door. When I lifted the covers, the room was bright with late-morning light.

  “Hey, Enza,” Jack said. “You all right in there?” He’d cracked the bedroom door, just barely.

  “Fine. What time is it?” The birds were going full throttle outside—I’d have thought since starting at six, they’d be exhausted by now. But they never were.

  “It’s a little after ten,” he said, stepping inside. “You sure you’re OK?”

  “Couldn’t sleep last night,” I said. “Are the roofers here?”

  “I talked to them already. I didn’t want to wake you, and they’d just started unloading when I pulled up.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d slept through all of that.

  Three carpenters were stomping on the roof, ripping up shingles. The noise made me think again of the nightmare that had kept me awake for half the night. Sounds of cracking beams and collapsing walls had seemed real enough to wake me and send me vaulting out of bed twice to check for smoke and flame. I heard their muffled voices and shivered, thinking of the way the voices had drifted through the burning walls in the dream.

  Jack leaned against the doorframe, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You need me to come carry you out of there?”

  His offer was tempting, but I climbed out of bed and said, “Think I can manage.”

  He saw me wince as I put weight on my ankle. “Suit yourself. I’ve got coffee when you’re ready.”

  I tried to ignore the pain as I wrapped his robe tight around me and hobbled into the kitchen. I half expected to find Jack making breakfast, and was already thinking fondly of his omelets and beignets.

  Instead, I found him kneeling on the floor with a paint brush. The doors to the cabinets were scattered around the room, propped against the walls, the table, the refrigerator.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He froze, paint dripping from the brush onto the door below him. “Thought I’d get started early.”

  “You’re painting the cabinets.”

  “Didn’t feel like sleeping when I got in. And with the new wall color, they looked pretty bad. I was hoping to be done before you got up.”

  “Why would you do all of this without asking?”

  “Thought you could use the help,” he said.

  The walls were the same yellow as the bedroom, but it seemed much warmer in this room, with light streaming in from so many windows. The brightness was almost too much.

  He frowned. “You don’t like them.”

  “They’re white.”

  “I thought it would brighten the place up.” He put the brush down and wiped his hands across his jeans. He was down to the last cabinet.

  I sat down at the table, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of me. “I don’t dislike them. It’s just not what I’d planned.” Outside, a heap of shingles crashed to the ground. “They do look better, though.”

  Now the cabinets blended in with the white paneling below the chair rail, and it seemed cohesive. With the exception of the huge yellow splotch on the floor.

  Jack crawled across the floor to where I was sitting. He rested his forearms on my bare knees and said, “A little surprise here and there is good for you.” He kissed my knee, and for a moment I forgot about the team of roofers above us.

  He stood slowly, then brought me a cup of coffee. As I raised the cup to my lips, a crash upstairs shook the whole house. I felt the vibration in my feet as the coffee splattered in my lap.

  Jack ran upstairs as I limped after him.

  He stopped in the doorway of Vergie’s room and blocked me with his arm. I leaned around him, my hands on his shoulders.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Let me by.”

  He tried to stop me, but I ducked under his arm.

  “What the hell?” I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.

  One of the roofers was lying on the floor, surrounded by shards of plaster and wood. The space around him was covered in a layer of white dust. A gaping hole above him was bleeding sunlight. He climbed to his feet, brushing the splinters from his clothes.

  Two faces peered through the hole in the ceiling. “Hey, Wayne,” one said. “You all right down there?”

  The man waved in the direction of the hole. “It seems there was another bad place in the roof,” he said, shaking the plaster out of his hair. “Don’t know how we missed that one.” He seemed perfectly calm, as if this happened every day.

  “Are you OK?” I prayed this was not the beginning of a lawsuit.

  He laughed. “Oh, sure. The ceilings are shorter up here. I didn’t fall far.”

  I cinched the robe tighter around me. A hundred curses rippled through my head.

  Jack grabbed me by the shoulders and steered me back downstairs to the couch before I could say anything more. All the while I felt like I was choking on words I wanted to scream.

  “This is a nightmare,” I said. “How can it get any worse?”

  “Sit. Finish your coffee. I’ll go talk to them. And put that ankle up.”

  I leaned back into the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Cracks stretched from one doorframe to the other, like the roads on an atlas. If this place was a map, it was one that would only lead me in circles. That was becoming clearer by the day.

  Above, the voices volleyed back and forth. The roofer’s was calm like a breeze. Jack’s was more agitated but still too low for me to make out his words. I topped off my coffee and walked outside. It was already a hotbox, the air so thick it felt like I was trying to breathe underwater.

  Two roofers peered into the hole, scratching their heads and pointing. I pretended not to watch them as I paced around the yard, imagining the story I might cook up for my father. He’d lose it if he knew everything that was going on, and he’d be able to tell in one phone call. Parents are eerie that way, how they can tell what’s really happening with you, no matter how good a liar you are. And if you’re a terrible liar, like me, then you don’t stand a chance.

  I left the roofers to their quarreling and wandered into the front yard. The Jeep was where I’d left it, but something looked wrong. I walked closer and then saw that the tires on the driver’s side were completely flat. I walked around to the other side and saw that those were flat as well.

  “Shit!” I dropped the coffee cup in the grass and kicked the back tire with my good foot, feeling
my chest twisting into a knot. I screamed, stamping my feet in the grass, but the sudden jolt sent a shock of pain through my ankle. “Stupid Jeep, stupid ankle, goddamn stupid house!” I yelled. When I turned, Jack was standing with Wayne on the front walkway. They both stared at me slack-jawed.

  They’d just seen my tantrum. Mortified, I cinched the robe again and turned back to the Jeep, arms crossed.

  “What’s the matter?” Jack asked as he walked up behind me. Wayne ambled along behind him, momentarily distracted from the roof.

  “My tires.” I turned to face them. “All four.”

  Jack walked around the Jeep, surveying the damage. His jaw clenched.

  “Somebody must be real mad at you,” Wayne said. He scratched his head, staring at the Jeep.

  Jack shot him a look, and he cleared his throat, adjusting his cap.

  “Guess I should get back to that hole,” he said, leaving us with the Jeep.

  Jack was on his knees, examining the back tire. “Looks like a screwdriver, maybe.” He dragged his finger over the side, where there was a quarter-inch hole.

  “You care to expand on what happened to your truck at the station?” I asked.

  “Well, first I thought of Miranda. Then I figured it was likely Remy getting his rocks off.” He traced his fingers over the hole. “Did you hear a car come up here last night?”

  “Don’t you think I would have gone outside to check things out if I’d heard something?” I said.

  He frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “That son of a bitch,” I said. “I’m going to break his face.” I shuddered, thinking of Remy creeping into the yard, so close to me while I slept. And Jack so far away.

  “Not a chance.” He stood, brushing his jeans off. “I don’t want you within a hundred yards of that guy. You hear me?”

  I stood up straighter to glare, but I was still looking up at him.

  His brow arched. “Enza? Promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”