CHAPTER 9: IN WHICH MIND GAMES ARE PLAYD
Leo could almost take pity on her, she looked so confused sitting there with her hands clasped tightly in her lap and an anxious expression in her admittedly beautiful face. Well, she wasn’t ugly...but no need for anyone to get excited. Big ever-changing-in-hue brown eyes, those prominent cheekbones tapering down to a mouth that wanted to be sensual but was hindered by her tendency to bite her lower lip into submission; it was a symmetrical face with classic features. Of course they added up to a beautiful face – it did not mean anything that he had noticed. He turned to her, and opened his mouth, not knowing what would emerge.“Where’s your grandmother?” he asked, in a tone that strove for light curiosity but ended up sounding merely exasperated. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously; he noticed that they became almost black, “Why?” she asked.“Well, I’ve been here three times and haven’t really seen her. I just wondered...” he replied, managing this time to sound casual about it. She seemed to think about his answer like she was searching for loopholes or hidden implications.
“She went to New Orleans” she replied finally“, for the festival.”
“Festival?” he asked, intrigued. He put down his brush and sat on the floor facing her.
“The Feast of the Dead” she replied
“The feast...of the dead?” he asked tentatively
“Yes” she replied without embellishment.
“You mean like Toussaint?” he asked, accenting it correctly in French.
“Yes” she said in surprise that he knew that name.
“But…isn’t that like, on Halloween?” he asked, trying to get her to speak in more than one syllable.
“It is.” She replied. He raised his eyebrows at her, and kept silence so she would be forced to fill it. After a minute of staring, she sighed and said, “My grandpa George is buried in the family crypt in New Orleans. Every year, my grandmother and…other friends gather to celebrate the day of his death which was 17th of August, 1980. They prepare immortelles for his grave, burn candles and tell stories to remember him. It is a ceremony that starts on the day of his death and concludes on Toussaint or the All Saints Day as the Christians call it. This year is special because it’s the ten year anniversary of his death.”
This little speech brought up so many questions for him; he didn’t know where to start…“By friends, you mean other witches?” he asked her, wondering if she would answer. She did not generally talk about her witchyness. If it hadn’t been for The Charlotte Incident, he probably wouldn’t have believed the stories.
“Witches, warlocks, other family members…” she replied with a shrug.
“So why didn’t you go?” he countered
“I do go. I attend the Feast of the Dead. But we can’t both go and reside in New Orleans for two months; someone has to tend the garden…” she replied. Encouraged by her relative garrulousness, he said, “I thought your family was buried in the graveyard beyond the trees over yonder”“My grandmother’s line is buried there. My grandfather’s family has a crypt in New Orleans” she replied.
“And why-“he began
“Why couldn’t we just bury him here?” she interrupted him impatiently,” A witch or warlock’s bloodline holds power and this power is consolidated in the place where that line is buried. A living member of that line can access that power if they are in need of it. That is why. “He opened his mouth, wondering which question of the dozens clogging his brain he should ask next, and wondering why she was being so forthcoming about it anyway.“So where will you be buried?” he asked.
“A witch follows the maternal line; therefore I will be buried here.” She replied.
“Christians! You said ‘the Christians call it’; aren’t you a Christian?” he asked, trying to keep accusation out of his voice. While he was quite willing to acknowledge that this was witch country, and a lot of ‘alternative’ beliefs were held by the populace, they did also tend to fill the pews on any given Sunday…himself included – black though his soul might be.
“I believe in God” was her short reply. He reckoned it was time to change the subject anyway, this line of inquiry not really being commensurate with his objectives. Though he was finding that there was a lot about her that was extremely interesting. The woolen sweater though…still had to go.“Would you come take a look?” he asked gesturing at the sofa, “have I done it right?”She stood up with no hesitation and came toward him. The conversation seemed to have relaxed her a little. All to the good… he wanted her relaxed. She reached his side and looked down at the sofa.“Well?” he asked
“I…its fine” she replied.
“You don’t seem sure”, he said persistent. He stood up and moved nearer to her. She did not seem to notice.
“I’m sure” she said, turning toward him, and starting slightly when she realized how close he was. She took two quick steps back and her feet hit the sofa, causing her to sit abruptly.
“Are you alright?” he asked, taking a step closer to her.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, standing up quickly and moving away from him. Hmm…she was scared. Of him. Interesting. What did she think he would do? Or was it her own reaction she was afraid of? He took a step toward her, just to see what she would do. She turned quickly, moving toward the kitchen area and put the counter between them.“Do you want something to drink?” she asked a bit breathlessly, he thought.
“Oh, some of that green slime you gave me last time would be great”, he told her. She turned sharply, ready with some retort but saw that he was joking and smiled reluctantly instead.“It’s an acquired taste I guess” she murmured. She had a very nice smile; he mentally slapped himself for noticing it.
“As am I, ” he countered, “So I’m not really in a position to judge “This statement got him an extremely intense stare and he could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, trying to figure out his game. ‘Knock yourself out sweetheart’ he thought with a smile.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked in open suspicion – her eyes really did turn black…
“No reason”, he placidly replied, “just waiting to hear what my next job is.”
Considering that she hadn’t expected him to finish this one, finding a ‘next job’ for him had not occurred to her. She fumbled for a minute then inspiration hit.“Well, you said it yourself...the window needs mending” she triumphantly exclaimed.
“I don’t suppose you have any window glass laying about do you?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the counter and placing his face in his hands.
“Err, no we don’t” she replied.
“Putty knife? Putty? Gloves?” he asked, pausing for her headshake after each question, “Okay, well; this calls for a visit to my uncle’s.”
“Your uncle?” she asked, brow raised in inquiry, “what’s he have to do with my window?”
“He has everything you need to fix it. Shall we?” he asked gesturing toward the door.
“Shall we, what?” she asked in puzzlement.
“Go. Shall we go?” he replied patiently.
“Go where?” she asked, completely lost. He sighed in exasperation, “Aren’t you like, a straight ‘A’ student?”“Yes, but that doesn’t make me clairvoyant. Where do you want us to go?” she replied speaking slowly so he could keep up.
“To my uncle’s house, to get supplies, to repair the window”, he replied just as slowly so she could keep up. She gave him a look before saying, “I don’t have money for supplies. Why don’t we just forget the window and-“ she began, meaning to dismiss him from her life.“No one asked you for money; you asked me to repair the window and I’m gonna do it. But I need equipment and tools, and my uncle has them. So are you coming?” he interrupted firmly.
“Do I have to?” she asked, shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Yes.” He replied shortly
“Why?” she countered
“Because. I want you to.” He replied.
“Why” she answered
“How old are you? Five?” he asked exasperated, “get your ass in the car; we’re going”. She was tempted to ask ‘why’ again but saw it was an exercise in futility. So she got in the car with bad grace and waited for him to start the engine. He got in, throwing a random smile her way that made her frown with suspicion. But all he did was start the engine and reverse down the driveway.
It felt strangely intimate being alone in a car with him, sitting in the front seat next to him like they were...friends or something. She felt curiously shy, which was ridiculous considering the things they had done together. The thought of that made her blush, and he looked at her a bit strangely. She wondered why because he surely couldn’t see how flushed her face was, seeing as how she was dark-skinned. But maybe she was looking embarrassed! She thought frantically, trying to make her face as blank as possible.“Everything alright?” he asked, looking closely at her.
“Of course” she replied briskly in order to distract him from her discomfiture, “shouldn’t you be watching the road?”He snorted briefly, “what, against the bumper to bumper traffic you mean?” they were barreling along a dusty road that barely qualified as such – it was more like a nature trail flanked on both sides by the forest that bordered the land on which she lived with her grandmother. She looked outside the window and didn’t reply. Leo’s uncle lived near the swamp, where the alligators gathered. This dusty road was the back route to his alligator farm and not many knew about it, nor bothered to use it especially since it was not kind to shock absorbers. She wondered why Leo would risk his car on this road – everyone knew how much he loved it. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to see them together.
Yes. That’s must be it- he was ashamed of being seen with her...so why did he make her come? All these assumptions and suppositions were giving her a serious headache so she closed her eyes and shut down her mind. Whatever...She was sleeping...he saw as he glanced over at her, which was remarkable considering how bumpy this ride was turning out to be. It had been a while since he had used this route – he hadn’t known it had gotten so bad. He sighed; I guess that’s what he got for ignoring what they said about short cuts...
How could she sleep!?
She looked rather beautiful with her eyes closed; lashes brushing her prominent cheekbones. Her eyes looked slightly slanted when they were closed, like she had some Chinese blood or something – and her lashes were really long!
He realized he was staring and looked resolutely back at the road- not a moment too soon because a fox was just making its leisurely way across the road and he was about to run into it. He braked hard, flinging his hand out to prevent Mya’s head from hitting the dash. His hand brushed her breasts and she drew back rather quickly.“Sorry” he said apologetically“, looks like I really should have been watching the road”
“No problem” she said with a strained smile. Did she sound a little breathless? The fox had disappeared, so he re-started the engine and drove on.
His uncle’s farm was a hive of activity when they drew up into the driveway. His aunt Leyla was taking a delivery of raw meat from the slaughterhouse. They saved any meat that had gone bad or didn’t meet the standards for human consumption for the alligator farm. Decomposed flesh was an alligator staple and luckily, not too difficult to obtain. The Evans’ didn’t feed all the alligators they traded in, just the ones they had domiciled on the farm. These were usually those alligators that were injured and therefore being looked after or those born on the farm. Their eventual fate was always going to be shoes or bags; exotic jewelery fashioned from teeth, and sometimes, voodoo rituals. Uncle Greg also did a brisk trade in local tourism as well as holding alligator hunting expeditions for those who would pay for such things. The farm ran to fifteen acres that spanned the length of the local swamp. The farmhouse was an old wooden building circa 1865 and had been built as a manor house when sugar cane was still grown in the area, farmed by slave labour. The slaves were gone, but some sugar cane remained, the bargasse produced was used to power the farm’s energy needs and Aunt Leyla processed her own sugar. The Evans’ believed in self-sufficiency.“Hey Aunt Ley!” Leo shouted as he alighted from the car and swung round to open Mya’s door. He ignored the surprise on her face at his gesture and introduced her to his aunt;
“Aunt Ley, this is Mya. Mya, Aunt Ley.”
“Hello” Aunt Ley replied looking curiously at her, “You’re Matia’s granddaughter aren’t you? Matia Andrewes?”
“Yes.” Mya replied looking unsurprised that his aunt knew who she was. Well, they were the only black family in town, and witches to boot. Besides, they were kind of neighbours, Leo supposed, seeing as there were no other dwellings between the Andrewes’ and Evans’ residences.
“I know your grandmother very well”, Aunt Leyla said, “She’s helped me out now and then.”Considering the one and only spell Leo had ever seen done, his curiosity was heightened by this statement. What could she possibly have needed help with?“What kind of help did you need, aunt Ley?” he was asking before he realised he’d decided to do so.
“That’s none of your concern Curious George, now what are y’all doing here?” she asked. Aunt Ley was a child of the south and her accent tended to thicken in the presence of emotion.
‘Hmmm’ Leo thought, ‘to be continued’.
“We need some supplies from your store Auntie,” he said, “May we?”
“My store is your store Leo, you know that” she replied, turning to supervise her rotted meat storage.
“Thanks aunt”, Leo answered, kissing her cheek before heading off. Mya followed meekly behind, reverting to the shrinking violet Leo was used to. Which was the real Mya he wondered?
They collected the supplies and headed back to her place. Mya showed a basic understanding of the identity of tools and equipment and Leo wondered why she hadn’t repaired the window herself since she seemed to know her way around the procedures. He debated on whether it was worth the aggravation to ask her, but decided it wasn’t. She was still shooting suspicious glances at him, and answering in monosyllables to any conversational overtures he made; so better not. Was she uncomfortable around people or just schizophrenic? She was like two completely different people when they were alone, and when they were around other people.