Bayou My Love: A Novel (14 page)

I
pulled myself up with a groan and leaned against the rail. I peeled my shirt
and jeans off on the porch and stumbled into the house in my panties and bra.
My ankle hurt more with every step. My skin was streaked with dirt and blood,
and my arms crisscrossed with cuts from the briars.

I
tossed the doll on the kitchen table and hobbled into Jack’s bathroom to fill
the tub. After fishing a bottle of red wine out of the pantry, I limped into
the study and searched the bookshelves for a book that had caught my attention
earlier. I’d forgotten about it until the mojo bag appeared, then got
sidetracked again before I could read it.

Voodoo
in New Orleans.
I
plucked the thin paperback from the shelf and took it with me, wincing each
time I put weight on my ankle.

I
stripped and eased myself into the hot bath. The cuts from the thorns throbbed
when the water touched them, and I took a long drink of wine to tamp down the
pain. My ankle was already purple and swollen, and as I lay back in the tub, I
muttered, “What else could possibly go wrong?”

I
knew as soon as the words echoed against the tile that I should have kept that
thought to myself, because as soon as you tempt fate, it will absolutely come
to bite you in the ass.

~~~~

By
the time I was halfway through the bottle, I’d skimmed the first three chapters
of
Voodoo in New Orleans
. So far I’d learned basics about how one mixes
up a gris-gris. It was a tiny object made to attract good fortune, love, money—the
usual desires people had. The author discussed anecdotal evidence of these
objects providing what the maker wanted, plus examples of how they’d been used
to attract negative energy to a person. I skipped ahead to a chapter on voodoo
dolls and cringed as I read some of the cases related to those—people had
actually been prosecuted and jailed back in the day for creating dolls that
brought havoc to their victims. There were cases of broken arms, poisoning,
heart attacks and worse. I felt myself getting sucked into the lore and for a
moment wondered just what the gris-gris and the doll in my yard could be
bringing to me. I tallied up the little problems that had arisen this week—the
roof, the mold, Miranda, Remy—but then shook the thoughts away.

That
was silly. Wasn’t it?

It
was the wine, I thought. It was late, I was exhausted, and the wine was making
my brain too susceptible to folklore. I dropped the book onto the floor and
sank deeper into the water. Jack was right. There couldn’t be anything to this
voodoo business. There might have been something real about the practice back
in its heyday, but now it was just a mystery that created allure for tourists.

I’d
just added more hot water to my bath when I heard a truck come up the drive. A
door slammed, the headlights streamed into the window, and the truck went back
down the road. For a second I froze, but then I heard a key in the lock and
Jack’s footsteps in the hall.

“Enza,”
he called, “Are you up there?”

“Down
here,” I said, taking another drink from the bottle. It was nearly
three-quarters empty now, and my ankle felt light and tingly, just like every
other part of me.

The
door to the bedroom opened. “Enza?”

“In
here,” I said, sloshing a handful of bubbles toward my feet.

“You’re
working awfully late,” he said, and the door swung open.

I
shifted slightly, instinctively covering my breasts with my arm.

“Jeez,”
he said, averting his eyes. “I thought you were painting in here or something.”

“Nope,”
I said, relaxing again. “Off the clock.”

He
glanced in my direction, still not letting his eyes rest on me. It was cute,
the way he was suddenly shy.

“Why
are you in my bathtub? Is something wrong with yours?”

I
giggled. “Why are you staring at the wall? It’s not like there’s anything in
here you haven’t seen already.”

“I’m
trying to be a gentleman.”

I
laughed. “My tub is upstairs.”

He
looked at me then, and saw the wine bottle and the paperback. “I see.”

“Your
dog crippled me and made it impossible for me to climb stairs.”

“What?”

I
motioned at my purple ankle propped on the rim of the tub, and he cringed.

“What
happened?” he asked, kneeling at my side. He slid his fingers over the bone,
and I winced.

“Your
dog happened. She stole my phone and went tearing through the swamp, so I of
course had to chase her. I tripped and then
whammo
, busted ankle.”

“Christ,”
he said, sliding his fingers along my calf. “I’m sorry. She does have a bad
habit of stealing things.”

“You
owe me a new phone.”

He
gently moved my ankle to the left, then to the right.

“Ow!
Easy!”

“Sorry.”
He rubbed his fingers over the bruise. “Looks like a sprain. Nothing too
serious, but you should stay off it a couple of days.” His eyes darkened as
they came to rest on mine. “You know, stay in bed.”

I
felt a ripple of heat wash over me. “Thanks, Dr. Mayronne.”

He
leaned over the edge of the tub and kissed me on the lips, his tongue finding
mine. “I’d climb in there with you if you weren’t wounded,” he said. Part of me
wished he would, ankle be damned. This man could clearly heal me in a thousand
different ways.

“It’s
a bit chilly in here,” I said. The water was barely warm now, and I felt goose
bumps all over.

“Then
let me get you out and warm you up.” He pulled me to my feet and handed me a
towel, turning his back as I dried off.

“Hey,”
I said, “who was that bringing you home?”

“One
of the guys from the station.”

“Why?”

He
wrapped his big plaid bathrobe around me. “Someone slashed the tires on my
truck today.”

“Tires?
Plural?”

“Yep.
All four.”

“Oh
my God. Maybe the doll was you!” My head spun a little as I stepped out of the
tub into his arms. I should have had dinner before wine.

“What?”

“There
was a voodoo doll in the yard today. I thought someone was trying to freak me
out, but maybe it was meant for you.”

He
rolled his eyes, fighting back a grin. “Was there a pin stuck in its ankle?”

“Very
funny,” I said, looping my arm in his. “But you have to admit, things are a
little weird around here.”

He
scoffed, leading me into his bedroom.

“I’m
serious! Think about it.”

“I
don’t have to. I’m sure Miranda was the one who slashed my tires, getting back
at me after her little scene the other day.”

“Maybe
Miranda’s into voodoo. Maybe she’s trying to put a hex on you and me both. The
tires, the house, the dog that is clearly possessed by a demon—it’s a lot of
coincidental disaster.”

“That’s
crazy,” he said. “Your problem is a house that hasn’t had any major repairs in
forty years. My problem is an obsessive ex. This is not voodoo, cher. This is
the universe telling us to make better decisions.”

“Doesn’t
explain the dog,” I said.

“You’ve
been mixing wine and heavy reading. The only one putting a spell on me is you.”

He
tugged at my hair, wet from the bath, and kissed the spot just below my ear. I
thought of the day before, the way he’d spread me out on the kitchen table,
kissing me and stroking me until I’d come for him. I’d spent the day trying to
push those thoughts aside, but all I wanted was for him to lay his chiseled
body on mine and make me his again and again.

So
much for one time. So much for getting him out of my system.

“Let’s
get you to bed,” he said. “You can sleep in my room tonight. You know, because
of the stairs.”

I
almost protested, mainly out of reflex. But then I thought of sleeping next to Jack,
his arm draped over my hips, and quickly reconsidered.

He
helped me over to the bed, and I sat. “Can I get you pajamas or anything from
upstairs? Frilly girl things?”

“No,”
I said. “Don’t need them.”

He
kissed me on the forehead and turned to leave.

“Hey,
where are you going?”

“I’ll
take the couch,” he said.

“You’re
leaving me in my hour of need?”

He
walked back over to the bed and stood in front of me. “If you want me to stay,
cher, just ask.”

I
slid my hand under his shirt, tracing the taut muscles there. “Stay.”

When
he slipped off his T-shirt, I saw the cut on his upper arm, the sutures. There
were bruises on his shoulder, a bandage below his collarbone. “Oh my God.”

“It’s
not as bad as it looks.” He eased into the bed next to me.

“What
happened to you?” I felt like an idiot for complaining about a lost phone and a
sprained ankle.

He
shrugged. “A big warehouse. Abandoned, thankfully. Lost cause, though. Burned
up before we could save it.”

“That’s
terrible.”

“They
think it was the arsonist again.”

I
slid my fingers along his arm, careful to dodge the wounds. It sickened me to
think of Jack in these buildings with rotting floorboards and century-old
beams. Ceilings and walls collapsed so easily, and things that were there one
instant were gone in the next.

“Do
they have any leads?” I asked.

“Not
yet,” he said, irritated. “This is the sixth one. They should have caught this
guy by now.”

I
curled myself against him as he told me the rest, falling asleep as he stroked
my hair. I felt safe there, wrapped in his arms, but how long could it last?

~~~~

In
my dream, I was surrounded by red-orange flames in a house that was
Vergie’s—but then was not. The rooms were the same, but their placement was all
wrong. Frantic, I ran from room to room, trying to find the stairs, to find the
way out. The dog was barking outside, but I couldn’t see a door or a window.
Smoke filled my lungs and burned my chest. Flames lapped at my skin. I felt
like I was catching fire myself, and Jack was nowhere to be found. I called and
called for him, but there was only the dog, barking behind me, the sound
growing softer in the distance. I crawled along the floor, holding my shirt
over my nose. Beams creaked overhead, and the walls crackled and popped. Then
the fire was everywhere. I was trapped in a room with no windows, and around me
was nothing but orange light and dense smoke. When I looked down at my hands, I
saw they were square and callused. The reason I couldn’t find Jack was because
I
was
Jack.

I
sat up in the bed, gasping for air. The covers were crumpled at my feet, and my
hair was wet and plastered to my face. Next to me, Jack was sleeping soundly,
his breaths deep and even. I lay back down, trying not to wake him, trying to
slow my own breaths. But my heart felt like it was being squeezed like a fist.
This was no ordinary nightmare. Vergie would say this was the kind meant to
send you a message.

Chapter
10

I
was killing time until the roofers started. Because they were friends of
Jack’s, they would be coming over tomorrow, on a Saturday—unheard of in these
parts. I’d planned to work on the porch floor today, but since there would be
carpenters both above and below in less than twenty-four hours, it was smarter
to push that to later in the week. With my luck, they’d have to bust through
the floorboards after I painted them, so I might as well put off doing anything
until the dirtiest work was complete.

My
ankle was still sore, but I was able to walk without the shooting pains I’d
felt earlier. Jack was on duty, so I was on my own. I had my morning coffee
(not as good as what he made) and sat down to make a new timeline. The roof and
mold problems would set me back a few days, but with some extra effort I could
still meet my deadline.

The
end of week one, and things were moving fast with Jack and slow with the house.
Frankly I’d have been happier if the reverse were true. Whatever was happening
with Jack was fun—there was no denying that—but I couldn’t dwell on it too
much. I liked him—more every day, it seemed—but I couldn’t see what would
happen with him when the house was finished. I liked having plans, goals,
prescribed outcomes. This thing with Jack had none of those, and it made me
nervous. Would I just pack my things and leave him? Shake his hand, and thank
him for his expertise?

Once
satisfied with my new calendar for repairs, I opened my laptop and did a little
research while I ate my toast and eggs. A quick Internet search led me to
several tourist-trap voodoo shops, but there was also a museum that had useful
information online. I’d spooked myself last night, probably due to the wine and
Voodoo in New Orleans
. But part of me wondered: Was it so far-fetched
that someone could want to do me harm? Or Jack? Remy hated him and probably had
it in for me now too. Miranda was nutty enough to combine her stalking with
something more serious. It was unlikely that either of them could actually
channel the dark arts and torment us with magic, but they could certainly pose
other threats. These are the things you heard about in the news—warning signs
that escalated into physical violence. Was there reason to think these were
more than pranks?

Finding
out if one could really unleash voodoo on a gal to make her life fall apart or
make a lover come back to her, well, that would be useful to know too. I went
up to Vergie’s room and opened the nightstand. Inside were the gris-gris and
the fabric doll with the pins, right where I’d stashed them. I shoved both into
my pockets.

~~~~

The
French Quarter was just like I remembered it. Tourists scurried on every
sidewalk, fanning themselves against the heat. The street musicians sang and
strummed on the corners, chatting up people who gathered to listen to them as
they wandered from one bar to the next. Every restaurant had its doors open,
music pouring out with the air conditioning, luring people from the midday sun.

To
gather proper intel, I first went to the historical society, claiming I was
doing research for a book. People are always intrigued by the prospect of
contributing to historical research, and perhaps being thanked on the
acknowledgements page, so they tend to be forthcoming with information. A woman
who led the tour out at the old Number Seven cemetery had directed me toward a
side street not far from the French Quarter.

She
got a serious look on her face and said, “Now, if you want to learn about the
real thing, you need to go see Duchess.” She drew me a map and told me to
mention her name so that the woman wouldn’t turn me away. “She’s got no
patience for people seeking out love spells and souvenirs,” the woman said, her
eyes narrowed. “She only talks about it with people who respect it as she
does.”

I’d
spent a few hours in New Orleans when I’d returned for Vergie’s funeral, but it
had been years since I’d truly walked down those streets. I found that most
things hadn’t changed. The same apartment buildings were there, old Mardi Gras
beads draped on the iron railings. The doors were painted different colors, and
the names of some of the shops had changed, but the cornerstones remained. I
turned onto Bourbon Street and into a crowd. All around me, people walked with
hurricanes in plastic flutes almost as tall as they were, gawking into
dimly-lit doorways. I glanced in one window and saw a flurry of pale skin and garters,
the slim legs and high heels of a woman dancing on a tabletop.

When
I turned off Bourbon, the crowd thinned. Three more blocks and I was away from
the tourist traps, by the Faubourg Marigny. I stopped to re-read the address
I’d scribbled on a scrap of paper. The shop should be another block away, on a
back street. You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a voodoo shop in this
part of town, but most were for the tourists. They were filled with alligator
feet, gris-gris packed with rose petals and thyme, and voodoo dolls that
couldn’t conjure any more than a salt shaker could. The shops drew in curious
travelers who wanted an “authentic” souvenir from a culture that seemed exotic
and mysterious—and they’d made enough money to stay in business for decades.
People never got tired of mystery.

Vergie
hadn’t been a stranger to voodoo either. She had taken me to see Marie Laveau’s
tomb when I was a child. Back then I’d tried to make my own voodoo doll to get
back at a neighborhood bully, but Vergie had stopped me quick as a hawk,
telling me I was messing with something I didn’t understand. We’d wandered
around the old cemetery where the Voodoo Queen was buried, and I’d been
surprised by the makeshift shrine believers had erected in her honor—a
collection of flowers, beads and bottles of colored liquids. There were small
piles that looked like junk at first, but once I got up close, I saw they were
little works of art—layers of flowers, cards and candles, dolls made like
effigies of real people who wanted help from the priestess. People left strange
pieces of themselves, like garters and ties, watches and high-heeled shoes. And
then there was the food. As a little girl, I couldn’t understand why people
left glasses of wine and honey with wafers, but Vergie had explained that
spirits get hungry too. The whole idea, she said, was to keep the spirit as
content in death as she had been in life.

As
we stood in the cemetery that day, the sky a crisp blue overhead, Vergie told
me that voodoo really had nothing to do with revenge and evil spirits. The
tourists were getting a twisted story that sold a lot of souvenirs and tickets
to the cemetery tour, but it wasn’t what the real religion was all about.

“It’s
important that you realize when you’re being had,” Vergie had said. “You have
to be able to separate the truth from the lies.” After that, I quit making
voodoo dolls to get back at girls who’d picked on me at school. It still seemed
like there was some truth in the talk of vengeful spirits, though. Even at that
age, I understood that for every ounce of good in the world, there was an ounce
of bad.

I
stopped in front of a pale yellow building with green awnings. There was no
sign out front, but it was the right number: 88 ½. A bell clanged above my head
as I opened the door, and a gigantic orange cat stepped right in front of me,
swishing his tail along the floor like a dust mop.

The
room was dark, filled with the smell of dried herbs and flowers. Shelves lined
the walls from the floor to the ceiling, packed with relics that I paused to
look at only briefly before a voice bellowed from the back of the shop.

“We’re
closed,” the deep female voice said. “Try the one on Bourbon. They got anything
you want.”

“Jacinda
said you were the only one who could help me,” I said, trying to locate the
voice.

“Jacinda
sent you?” A woman stepped out from behind a bookcase, wrapped in a bright blue
and purple muumuu that seemed to glow in the dim light. Her skin was light
brown, and she wobbled slightly when she walked. She was a stout woman; not
fat, but simply well-built, like she could withstand any kind of storm.

“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.