LITMIR.BIZ

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on me earlier, but it wasn’t that genuine, in my opinion, and was probably prompted by Nigel, I’m sure. I didn’t make a big deal out of it, but as far as I’m concerned, she still owes me a real one.

      When I made it home this evening, the house was quiet. I didn’t check the spirit room to see if Mama was here, because, honestly, I just wanted a moment to myself before everyone else got home. With my four uncles, grandparents, and cousin Jay all living under one roof, it gets pretty crowded around here. It’s days like this that I miss the weekends I spend at my mom’s apartment.

      “How was your weekend, baby?” Mama asks, coming through the kitchen door from the backhouse in which the spirit room is housed. I jump up from my seat at the kitchen table to help her with her bags of dried herbs and other spirit tools. It looks like she’s about to make a spiritual bath. I hope it’s for her own use because she looks more tired than usual. Her green eyes look weary, and her shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back in a bun—the usual style when she doesn’t feel like bothering with her hair.

      “It was okay,” I say, retrieving the bags and closing the back door behind her. “How was yours?”

      “Busy, girl,” she says, making her way back to her bedroom, and I dutifully follow. “We have an initiation to assist in, starting at the end of the month, Jayd.” Spring and summer are the seasons Mama’s called on by other spiritual houses to help with their new initiates, as well as any other rituals that may come up. Mama gets hella cash for participating in ceremonies, even though she never asks for a dime. Sometimes she works for free, saying that her payment will come from Legba, which it always does in one way or another.

      “You know, my birthday’s also at the end of this month,” I say, reminding her even though I know it’s not necessary. I place the items on Mama’s bed and follow her back into the kitchen. I guess there’s more where that came from.

      “So is your mother’s, but neither one of the days are holidays, and we still have work to do,” Mama says, stepping out the back door. That’s the same thing I told Mickey’s unborn child when I walked through Mickey’s dream last month. Nickey Shantae is more like me—her spiritual godmother—than I thought. No wonder she chose me to protect her little spirit self.

      “Okay, okay,” I say, packing up my schoolwork spread across the kitchen table and putting it in my backpack on the floor. I can see Mama will need this space. Mama steps back inside with a covered serving plate and sets it on the kitchen counter. She opens the top, and I can smell the raw chicken from here.

      “Did I miss something?” I ask, watching Mama wash her hands and then the carcass in the sink. During certain ceremonies, preparing chicken is a mandatory sacrifice.

      “Yes. Netta’s son received Shango this weekend,” Mama says. “We finished his ritual earlier this afternoon, leaving us with dinner.” People often forget where fried chicken comes from, with a Popeyes on every corner, but Mama prefers it the old-fashioned way. “And do you know somebody around here had the nerve to call Animal Patrol on us because we had live chickens in the backyard?” Mama places the whole bird on the cutting board next to the sink and chops it into separate parts before placing it back on the plate to marinate.

      “What did you tell them?” Voodoo practitioners have always come under attack by animal-rights folks or unsympathetic neighbors. I take out the sea salt, pepper, and other seasonings and place them on the counter.

      “I told them the truth. We don’t have to hide anymore,” Mama says, seasoning the poultry. She’ll fry part of it and bake the rest. “But you still didn’t tell me how your weekend really was. Did you get any work done?” She expertly flips the meat, evenly coating every piece. Damn, that’s going to be good.

      “Yes, but not too much. There was drama with Rah to distract me, as usual,” I say, walking to the dated stove and turning the dial to heat the oven. Mama washes her hands and moves on to the herbs on the kitchen table as I remove the two large cast-iron skillets and place them on the stovetop. This stove is on its last leg, which is why I’m saving up for a new one on Mother’s Day.

      “How’s that beautiful little girl of his?” Mama asks while separating the various plants—some for dinner, some for the bath. How she remembers what goes where is amazing to me.

      “She’s okay, except she still has a crazy mother. I had to pick up Rahima from Sandy’s job one night because of Sandy and her games,” I say, washing my hands in the sink before moving on to my next task. I love being in the kitchen with Mama.

      “Sandy’s job?” Mama asks, almost dropping some of the rosemary stems on the kitchen floor, which needs mopping badly. That’s my uncles’ job, but they rarely do their fair share of chores around here. “Doesn’t she work at a strip club?”

      “Yes, she does,” I say, recalling the less than favorable memory in my head while taking the large bottle of olive oil from the kitchen cabinet and pouring it into the skillets for the fried chicken. “How she could take her baby there is beyond me, but who am I to judge?”

      “You are a child of Oshune. That’s who you are to judge,” Mama says, looking at me and scrutinizing my thoughts with her eyes.

      We finish up the preliminary cooking duties now, ready to get down, which means I need to change clothes. Battering chicken is a messy job, and my Apple Bottoms top is too cute for that.

      “We don’t do that, Jayd.” Mama takes the herbs in our bedroom to dry, and I follow with my backpack and purse in hand.

      “Do what?” I ask. I close the door, take a seat at the foot of my bed, and kick off my sandals before changing clothes.

      “Participate in deviant behavior. And taking a child to a seedy place like that is definitely abnormal.” Mama places the herbs with the other things on her bed and lays them all out to get a better look at her collection. After I finish dressing, she takes out a few of them and hands them to me to inhale.

      “I know it was a bad judgment call, but I couldn’t leave Rahima there. And I told Rah and Sandy that it wasn’t a good idea, but they just thought I was making a big deal out of nothing.”

      “There is so much power in being a woman. If that girl only knew,” Mama says. “Put those in your bath tonight and sleep in clean whites to remove some of that negative residue you’ve got lingering on you from your friends. Some people will never learn that all money ain’t good money.”

      I hear that loud and clear. Unfortunately, much like Mickey, all Sandy cares about is getting a man to pay her bills, and Rah’s the lucky guy. She’ll have as many babies as it takes to secure her future. Whatever happened to working for yours? It’s just like choosing to cook dinner or buy it—either way, there’s work involved, but in the end, what you put in is definitely what you get out. And both Mickey and Sandy are in for a rude awakening with the choices they’re making. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I sell myself out like that.

      2

      Cold As Ice

      “It’s a cool world, and I’m destined for greatness.”

      —MIKE JONES, FEATURING NICOLE WRAY

      The room is dark except for a flicker of light coming from a lit candle sitting nearby on an antique writing desk. There’s also a feather pen and ink chamber on the desk and a blank writing pad. I walk toward the desk, curious about the ancient writing tools, but I hesitate before I claim them with my hand. I can feel Mama’s presence behind me, gently pushing me forward.

      “Go ahead, dear. Write it down. It’s your story to tell,” Mama says to me, guiding me to sit in the leather chair behind the desk. But how can I write in the dark?

      “Mama, I can barely see. Can I get some light in here?” I look around the dark room for a window, lamp, something that will give me a little more brightness, but no such luck. The candle is the only assistance I have, and it’s not very bright.

      “You have all the light you need, chile.

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