Song of the Shaman (4 page)

The ritual went on a long time. To Charles’s relief, a local boy was sent to the river to tell the carriage to come back in the morning. Soon Louise’s head grew heavy and the ceremony began to fade. She was resting against a wooden pillar when she heard Benjamin start to sing. The clarity of his voice rose in the fragrant evening air. Through glazed eyes she saw Benjamin give Don Pedro the log he had stripped earlier, the one she heard him call an “ulu.” The awa scrawled drawings on the log with a piece of charcoal. From a distance it looked like all sorts of crude stick figures and abstract symbols.
You’re an artist.
Benjamin’s words echoed in her ears. There was something fascinating about him, in the way he moved and spoke to her. Somehow Benjamin and his grandfather were able to speak the language of nature, of healing; a language Louise did not understand but could sense its truth and goodness.

The little woman came back again, this time offering blankets and hammocks for Louise and Charles to sleep in. It had grown quite cold and late. His first inclination was to refuse, but Maud had already been instructed to lie down in the hammock nearest Don Pedro, who, after covering her with a blanket, returned to his chanting. Maud, at last, slept soundly. Charles had no choice but to accept the offer. Benjamin sat cross-legged and still on a mat, assisting his grandfather in meditation. Louise got up from her stool, her limbs stiff from sitting so long, and swung her worn body into the first hammock near the fire. She fell asleep almost immediately, the netted bed more comfortable than she had expected. A multitude of stars, cushioned by the dark heavens, lulled all but the shaman and his grandson to sleep.

MORNING CAME, BRINGING WITH IT a cacophony of rural life: the rooster’s crow, the bellow of mules, the grunts of pigs. Don Pedro was just concluding the ritual, his voice hoarse from singing through the night. Benjamin held a large gourd filled with coffee for his grandfather. Charles too was awake, standing over Maud, watching her sleep. Louise could smell breakfast cooking somewhere. When Maud finally awoke her face glowed, her eyes were brighter than they had been in weeks. Charles helped her out of the hammock. The woman appeared and handed Maud another bowl of boiled green plantains. Don Pedro, solemn and pensive, drank his coffee before giving his final analysis.

“The ceremony has driven out the external forces that have attacked your daughter’s
wikol,
her soul. That’s good, but it is not over.”

All eyes were on the awa.

“Two more nights are necessary to complete the long-term protection…maybe more.”

Charles blanched at the prospect. “Don Pedro, I’m grateful for your hospitality and Maud’s results are impressive so far, but I must start back today! I have business to attend to. We can’t possibly stay another two nights.”

To this the awa shook his head and replied, “Failure to continue the ritual will destroy all hope of getting better.”

Charles spread his arms wide. “But we’ve come so far! Surely there must be a way to solve this dilemma!”

Don Pedro closed his bleary eyes. The lines in his face seemed to have multiplied since last night. He paced the floor. He took his grandson aside. The awa spoke in hushed tones; Benjamin listened intently, but his demeanor changed at his grandfather’s words. He glanced at Maud. Was he uncertain about something? Benjamin started to counter, but Don Pedro placed his bony hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. Benjamin stared at his feet, nodding. Finally the two looked up at the Lindo family, who awaited their verdict.

“There is a way to complete the healing,” Don Pedro announced in a gravelly voice. “Benjamin will carry out the rituals at your home.” The tired awa patted Benjamin on his back. “He knows what has to be done.” Don Pedro turned to Charles. “I will decide on the payment for these special services.”

“Excellent solution! I knew we would come to an agreement.” Charles shook Don Pedro’s hand and embraced Maud. Louise was happy too, but inside, the plan came as a shock. It never occurred to her that Benjamin might finish the awa’s work—and in their home! She blushed at the thought of him in the carriage.
Where would he sit? What would they say to each other? How long would he stay? Where would he sleep?
She imagined him in their great arched doorway, passing the potted geraniums on the tiled floor. Was there bread and tea in the cupboard? Would Rosa be there when they arrived? Benjamin packed his belongings in a cloth bag. He bundled the leaves, roots, flowers, and the log the awa had drawn on last night and put them in a large sisal sack. A bucket of water was brought for them to wash their face and hands. Louise helped Maud put on her shoes. She shook the burs and dried grass from her sister’s skirt. Maud was talkative now, but Louise paid her no mind. She strained to hear Charles and Don Pedro’s conversation outside the hut. The awa called for Benjamin to join them. Soon they were all shaking hands. Father, quite pleased with himself, strutted over to where she and Maud were tidying themselves for the trip home.

“It’s all settled,” he gloated, “for a payment of ten pounds of flour, three boxes of nails, and a pair of scissors.”

THE FOUR MADE IT DOWN the mountain terrain before the heat of the day set in. Guaria morada orchids and countless guanacaste trees stretched their shade along the path. Maud, lively in spirit but still weak in the body, draped herself over Louise and Charles’s shoulders. When they finally came upon the canoe, tied to a post by the river, Benjamin swept Maud up and carried her across the slippery landing to the boat. Mud from her shoes flew and caught Charles on his sleeve. Louise brushed the soil off her father, who was flustered at the sight of the young man’s forearm around Maud’s waist. Benjamin stepped into the canoe and lowered Maud onto the wooden seat; her arm lingered a fraction too long around his neck. He then reached out to Louise to help her aboard; his firm hand made her think of last night’s drumming. Charles stepped in last, relieved to be on his way back to civilized society in Panama City. Benjamin untied the rope from the post and pushed off from the riverbank, freeing them from their mystical harbor.

Halfway across the river, Louise saw a flicker in the sky. A scene from the ceremony came back to her.

“Father, look! I saw those birds last night!” She pointed to a pair of colorful birds flying overhead. Everyone looked up. The small birds with their iridescent red, green, and yellow feathers were stark against the morning sky. “They circled around and around while Don Pedro sang, like they were dancing!” Louise waved her hand in the air, as if she could flag down the birds.

“Birds?” Father yawned. “That’s absurd, Louise.”

“I saw many of them! The patterns they formed were quite beautiful,” Louise insisted.

“It was the quetzal.” Benjamin had been silent for most of the trip. “They can appear in numbers during a ritual of significance,” he said, dipping the wooden oars in the water. “Not everyone can see them.”

Maud and Charles looked at Louise. So she wasn’t dreaming. Benjamin took out the bone whistle he had shown to her by the ravine. He blew into the delicate instrument, and again the notes bobbed lightly like her reflection on the river. A delicious thrill rushed through her. She glanced at Benjamin. The sun caught threads of bronze in his hair.

As they approached land the sight of their coach in waiting reminded her of home. She pictured the narrow labyrinthine streets of San Felipe, lined with humble Spanish terra-cotta-roofed homes that butted up against grand French architecture; the iron balconies that overflowed with bougainvillea vines. She blotted out the inquisitive neighbors who would openly stare at Benjamin and his sack of herbs; her thoughts were wrapped up in the details of his stay. She slid closer to Charles and carefully chose her words.

“Father, we should have Rosa prepare the upstairs guest bedroom for Benjamin. It’s closer to Maud’s room than the one downstairs, so he can better care for her. That way I can also assist him and observe her progress.”

Charles mulled over his daughter’s suggestion.

“I suppose upstairs would be best. It’s only for a few days…Rosa will be there.” He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, pressing his fingers into the sockets. “While I’m at the office you’ll be in charge, Louise. Start a medical journal immediately. Take meticulous notes and keep me informed on all that transpires.”

“Yes, of course! I’ll create a log of Maud’s treatments,” she replied, remembering her drawing pad wedged between the carriage door and seat. They soon left the canoe, boarded the carriage, and began their journey back to the old mansion in Panama City.

2001

Brooklyn, New York

FIVE YEARS OF MOTHERHOOD flew by, bringing to light a new set of skills for Sheri to master alone. Diaper rash and cradle cap, potty training and sippy cups gave way to kindergarten, reciprocal play dates, and hovering peewee soccer moms. Since her promotion to creative director she rarely got home before dark. It was a demanding position; she was part of a consummate boys’ club with long hours wasted in pointless meetings and schmoozing clients that left her little time for herself. In a black town car Sheri took long blinks between traffic lights. She needed a wife. At least she had Leatrice, her trusty babysitter. Where would she be without her? A paper bag with warm french fries balanced on a pile of work she brought from the office. She touched it and thought of Zig.

The car pulled up behind a Fresh Direct truck double-parked in front of her building.

“You’re home, Sheri. Lemme know what time you want to be picked up tomorrow night.”

Jimmy drove her home so often he was practically her private chauffeur. The balding Irish man gave her a voucher to sign, along with a sympathetic look. He was forty-four—four years older than her and he already had two sons in college.

“Pick me up at six, Jimmy. Tomorrow’s Friday—if I’m not in the lobby by five after, come and get me.”

Cell phone handset hanging from her ear, she dumped a large portfolio, laptop case, and an oversized handbag onto the sidewalk. The french fries! She reached back in the car to grab the greasy bag, suddenly aware of her growling stomach, the power bars she’d eaten for lunch having long worn off. A blustery wind made her shiver, but she didn’t bother to put on her hat. Instead, she craned her head to find her apartment window among the string of identical ones. There it was—her Glo-Ball lamp. From the sidewalk the floating opal was like a lighthouse tower guiding her way. It meant Zig was still eating dinner with Leatrice. Sheri would surprise them. She hurried around the idling Fresh Direct truck and started down the long walkway to the front entrance. She barely saw her son by the light of day; only on weekends when she wasn’t traveling could she see his sweet face in natural sunlight. She checked her watch: seven twenty-seven. Inside the lobby Juan was surrounded by boxes. He jabbered on, his Dominican accent ricocheting off the art deco ceiling. A deliveryman crossed names off a sheet of paper. Some of those boxes had to be hers. Point-and-click grocery shopping was how she spent her meager downtime at the office. She pictured immigrant workers tossing bananas, boneless chicken, and canned soup into boxes without a thought to checking expiration dates or dents or the rotten carrot on the side of the three-pound bag. Juan spotted Sheri and yelled.

“
Mami
’s
just in time for her deliveryyyy!”

He came from behind the front desk— he was barely a foot taller than it.

“All of this is for you!” he said, waving his hands at a tall stack of boxes. “What are you feeding that boy? For a five-year-old he eats like a man!”

“Five years, five months, and two weeks.” she replied with a brief smile. It was best not to engage Juan in any extended conversation, especially after his evening joint. She waited for the delivery guy to load her boxes on a hand truck, resisting the urge to hurl her heavy bags on top of them. Juan assumed his pseudo doormanlike authority.

“Okay. Ride up with Miss Lambert to 7B.
Mira,
you want me to watch the truck? The cops are out.”

The delivery guy wheeled the boxes toward the elevators.

“Nah, there’s another guy out front. He’ll move it.”

Juan swore under his breath, always in pursuit of a tip. The delivery guy shoved the cart into the elevator like he was schlepping file cabinets instead of food. His skin had the dull cast of someone who ate bodega sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She caught a whiff of crushed basil and oranges and counted off five boxes—did she really order that much stuff?

When the elevator doors opened the guy rolled the cart down the hall behind Sheri. Her keys jingled as she unlocked the door, and right away, she heard the familiar sound of Zig’s chair scraping the floor as he pushed away from the table.

“Mommeee!”

The door swung open before Sheri had a chance to turn the knob. Zig wrapped his little arms around her waist, almost knocking her into the delivery guy.

“See? I told you my mom would come home early today!” He glared triumphantly at Leatrice. She was picking up bits of food off the floor under his chair.

“Right you are, Zig! He was telling me all day you would be here before eight o’clock.”

“Hi, Leatrice. Yes, I managed to escape early today.”

Sheri stepped aside with Zig dangling from her body so the young man could wheel the boxes into the kitchen. When he finished unloading them she tipped him five dollars. He thanked her, the bill disappearing into his meaty fist.

She dragged her cumbersome portfolio in from the hallway, leaving the door ajar. The living room smelled of wet socks and rubber boots. She threw her handbag on the leather Eames sofa and straightened one of the matching chairs in front of her glass Noguchi coffee table. Though they were scratched and showing signs of age she never tired of them. The mid-century furniture’s simple, modern lines concealed nothing yet revealed everything about the daring pop art on the walls, art she had lovingly amassed over the years.

Zig had dried ketchup on his chin and on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He was holding his favorite toy—not one of those newfangled electronic gadgets, but an old wooden canoe that she’d found at a stoop sale, its patina dull from constant coddling. He pulled Sheri to the sofa.

“You smell like french fries! Did you bring me some fries?”

“French fries? Hmmm…let’s see.” She opened her handbag and slowly lifted out the fries. “Whoa! How’d these get in here?”

Zig snatched the paper bag and ran to his room with glee. Sheri glanced at her smiling babysitter cupping crumbs in her hand.

“Did he finish eating, Leatrice?”

“He et all except de broccoli,” she replied in broken patois.

Sheri called out to Zig.

“No fries until you eat a little broccoli, k?

“K…,” he called back, mouth already stuffed.

“How was his breathing today?” Sheri passed Leatrice a small waste paper basket for the crumbs.

“Pam said he was okay in the playground. He ’ad one nebulizer treatment afta school and another one at seven o’clock.”

There was no shortage of West Indian nannies in Brooklyn. Raised in Grenada, Leatrice was sincere and steadfast, especially regarding Zig’s asthma. If she couldn’t babysit on weekends her younger sister, Desiree, who also did housecleaning, was Sheri’s backup. They both had a proper air, the formal residue of British colonialism. After grilling several babysitters from a host of nanny agencies, Sheri had hired Leatrice when Zig was just three months old. Calm and collected, her face never betrayed any uncertainty; you could hear palm trees sway in her graceful movements. Pulling her thin jacket on, Leatrice quietly reported some news as Sheri walked her to the door.

“When we were coming home from school today Zig asked me if I loved him.”

Sheri froze.

“Oh…what did you say?”

“I told him yes, I love you.”

Sheri looked everywhere but at Leatrice, afraid of what she would see. But Leatrice was still smiling, her brown lips ashen from a missed meal. She’d said the right thing, whether it was true or not. Guilt tightened its grip on Sheri’s throat.

“Thank you, Leatrice,” she replied, barely above a whisper.

“Good night, Zig! Have a good evening!” Unaffected, Leatrice made her usual cheerful exit, venturing deep into Crown Heights in hopes of seeing her own three kids before bedtime.

Sheri closed the door and tried to shut out her wounded pride. Should she ask Zig about it? He ambled into the living room, relishing the last of his french fries. She collapsed on the sofa and yanked off her suede boots. No, she let it go. Right then, all she wanted was to sprawl there and admire his beaming little face.

“Why didn’t you eat your broccoli, Z?”

“I ate
some.
Broccoli is so pointy.” He tapped her gold elephant drop earrings, an impulse buy from the Met gift shop and a favorite of his.

“Pointy! You have the weirdest way with words—the makings of a good writer. How’re tomatoes again?”

“Hot rocks on my arm.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Yuk.”

Sheri laughed. Though his face had changed much over the years, his golden eyes still flickered like tiny embers. At two his hair started to curl and now he had a head full of untamable cowlicks and waves. The color of bark, it shot out in every direction like some Japanese anime cartoon character. His nose was changing too; the cute pug shaped itself into a graceful line. And he had a knack for talking to total strangers—newspaper-stand men, little old ladies, bike messengers, disabled kids—as if he had known them forever. Pam, his kindergarten teacher, called him the Mayor. Zig unhooked Sheri’s earrings and played with them on his lap until an idea made him draw a sudden breath.

“Hey! You can give me a bath tonight!” His eyes shone at the prospect of being bathed by his own mother.

“Oh Z,” she moaned, “how about a nice hot shower instead? I’m beat.”

He pleaded nonstop for a bath. She drew a weary finger across the glass coffee table.
How’d it get so dusty already?
Tired and hungry, she went into the kitchen and opened a box of groceries. A bar of fair-trade organic dark chocolate was on top of a “heat and eat” dish of Chilean sea bass with tomato-fennel broth. She grabbed the chocolate, tore into it, and gave in, her decision garbled by a waxy chunk in her mouth.

“Okay! Okay! Go turn the water on!”

Zig raced to the bathroom, peeling off his clothes on the way. While the water was running, he recounted his play date with Caleb.

“Caleb ripped leaves off a plant because he couldn’t blow bubbles in the house.”

“That was no good! He could hurt the plant.”

“The leaves will grow back.”

“Maybe so.” Sheri ran her fingers through his wild hair. Once Leatrice took him for a haircut and he came back looking like the Dalai Lama. She’d have to pencil in a trip to the barber.

“What did you do today when I was at school?”

Hmmm. What didn’t she do?

“Well, I mostly sat in meetings listening to people blab on and on. Then I looked at a lot of pictures of makeup ads.

“Like gunky lipstick and girlie stuff?”

“Yeah—stinky perfume, too.”

“Did you like any of them?”

Sheri shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the same old stuff. Nothing new.”

Zig was quiet for a long moment.

“Why don’t you paint or draw anymore, Mom?”

Sheri laughed at the suggestion, feeling the presence of her father in the room. She was uncomfortable with him even in memory.
Art is a waste of time, not a profession.
He took a deep drag on a cigarette, let the fiery smoke coat the rest of his thought.
She’ll never make any money. Picasso she’s not!
She had heard him say it over a hair-raising
Carmina Burana
aria blasting on the stereo. Sheri’s mother threw her resentment into a pot on the stove. She wouldn’t dare challenge him. He was always right.

“I haven’t done that since college, Z. That was a
looong
time ago.”

“You don’t remember how?”

“No, I remember. It’s just that I’m too busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Busy giving you a bath, that’s what! Busy tickling you, that’s what!”

Zig crouched as she tickled his sides, his giggle like the peal of wind chimes. She turned off the faucet and checked the water temperature before giving him the go-ahead. Tittering, he swung his skinny legs over the edge of the tub and sunk into the warm water with a sigh. One arm surfaced to sweep toy boats and action figures lined up against the wall into the water. Where’d the Spiderman and Pokemon come from? The glow of his olive skin contrasted with the cracked white subway tiles. She poured water on his head with a plastic beach bucket, watched it bead in his long dark eyelashes. How simple and perfect he was. Zig rambled on about everything: the new DVDs and toys he wanted, the afterschool shows he was banned from watching that all his friends watched, how he’d had fun at the birthday party with everyone except Andre.

“What happened with Andre?”

“He didn’t want to play with me.”

“Why not?”

“Andre likes to pile up blocks and then he throws them at you if you get too close. He doesn’t really play with anybody. But I knew that from before.”

“Before when?”

“Before when I was in heaven.”

He was waving a washcloth in the water, the ripples swooshing back and forth in steady movements. Sheri paused, a bottle of lavender shampoo in her hand.

“You remember when you were in heaven?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really…” She squeezed out a dollop and began to lather his hair. “What were you doing up there?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did his tone was factual, as if it happened yesterday.

“Waiting to jump. All my friends were waiting with me. Caleb and Ruby and Andre wanted to jump, too.”

“Jump…from where to where?”

“From heaven down to earth, to their moms. We had to choose our mother. I chose you, but I had to wait.”

Sheri felt a tingling in the back of her scalp. She stopped scrubbing his hair. Suds slipped down his temple into his ear. Zig squinted at her.

“What, Mom?”

His expression was blank. She studied his face.

“You had to wait?”

“Because it wasn’t my turn. Sibo said no. He whispered to me very gently. If He said it louder, the whole world would shake!” Zig thumped his arms in the bathwater to demonstrate, causing a small tidal wave.

“Who’s Sibo?”

“The One who made everything you can see.”

She dropped the shampoo on the floor. What was this? They had never talked about these things before. Maybe he picked it up from a kid at school? Heard it on TV? She pushed up her wet sleeves, sorting through the questions whirling in her mind.