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Authors: Jessica Spotswood
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tall dark woman in a simple pale-blue frock opens the door. “How can I help you?” she asks.
“We’re looking for the Widow Paris? Marie Laveau?” I ask.
The woman nods, her lips twitching in what might be a faint smile. “I am she.” She glances from me to Eugenie. “Are you here for a love charm?”
I shake my head. Eugenie has gone uncharacteristically silent, staring at the pomegranate and banana trees in the front yard. It’s up to me to speak. “No. But I — I do hope you might be able to help me,” I say. “I’m at a — crossroads of sorts, and I don’t know which way to turn. My family says one thing, my friend advises another.”
The young widow’s eyes fasten on mine. I assumed she was older, but she can’t be more than twenty-five. Her brown face is smooth, save for a few lines at the corners of her mouth.
“Her parents are trying to force her into marriage with a man she doesn’t love,” Eugenie spits. “Out of some misguided notion of
propriety.
”
“They wouldn’t force me,” I correct her. “They want what’s best for me.”
Eugenie rolls her eyes. “And I don’t?”
Marie looks sharply at Eugenie. The moment stretches out like a frayed hair ribbon. “I see,” she says finally. “Come inside.”
Marie leads us into the front room. Dozens of candles are lit and incense burns; the room is small and close with the sweet, heady scent of it. There is an altar with fresh flowers and statues of three saints: Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things; Saint Peter, who is said to open the door to the spirit world and remove barriers to success; and Saint Marron, the patron saint of runaway slaves. Marie turns the big statue of Saint Anthony on its head, and I stifle a gasp at the irreverence.
“I need something of yours for the
gris-gris,
chère,” she says. “Hair, or a fingernail, or . . .”
The girls at school talked about this part, but a tremor of fear still runs up my spine. What if she uses this talisman to curse me or for some other dark purpose?
Eugenie doesn’t give me time to think. She leans close, plucks a hair right out of my head, and hands it to Marie. I glare at her and adjust my tignon.
“This will do,” Marie says. She opens a small wooden cabinet next to her altar. It’s lined with jars full of all manner of strange things: bundles of roots, herbs, hot peppers, sugar or salt, dirt, pins and needles, nails, and Lord knows what else. Some of them look to be animal parts. She mixes items from different jars into a little cloth bag, then chants some unfamiliar words, her hands reaching out toward her altar, supplicating the saints. The candles flicker. Eugenie is watching with wide-eyed fascination, but I bow my head because whether I believe in this or not — and truth be told, I’m not certain — it is clearly sacred to Marie.
When she finishes chanting, I raise my eyes. Marie sprinkles holy water over the little bag and then hands it to me. “Keep the
gris-gris
on your person,” she instructs. “It will ward off those who do not have your best interests at heart. Without their false counsel, you will find your own way.”
“Thank you.” I fumble in my reticule for coins. “I — I don’t know how much —”
“Fifteen cents,” Marie says, and I hand her the appropriate amount. Between this and bribing Nanette, today has made quite a dent in my egg money. Marie studies my face. “Good luck to you, Madeleine.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and gooseflesh rises across my skin. I nod, unsettled, and flee with Eugenie back out into the hot May sun.
A week passes, but I am no closer to understanding my own heart. I spend my days helping Maman and Nanette with a spring cleaning, beating the quilts and rugs, hanging linens on the drying line in the courtyard. I am quiet, withdrawn. Maman eyes me and scoops extra helpings of gumbo into my bowl. I feign a headache to avoid attending a ball with my family; I cannot bear to
“We’re looking for the Widow Paris? Marie Laveau?” I ask.
The woman nods, her lips twitching in what might be a faint smile. “I am she.” She glances from me to Eugenie. “Are you here for a love charm?”
I shake my head. Eugenie has gone uncharacteristically silent, staring at the pomegranate and banana trees in the front yard. It’s up to me to speak. “No. But I — I do hope you might be able to help me,” I say. “I’m at a — crossroads of sorts, and I don’t know which way to turn. My family says one thing, my friend advises another.”
The young widow’s eyes fasten on mine. I assumed she was older, but she can’t be more than twenty-five. Her brown face is smooth, save for a few lines at the corners of her mouth.
“Her parents are trying to force her into marriage with a man she doesn’t love,” Eugenie spits. “Out of some misguided notion of
propriety.
”
“They wouldn’t force me,” I correct her. “They want what’s best for me.”
Eugenie rolls her eyes. “And I don’t?”
Marie looks sharply at Eugenie. The moment stretches out like a frayed hair ribbon. “I see,” she says finally. “Come inside.”
Marie leads us into the front room. Dozens of candles are lit and incense burns; the room is small and close with the sweet, heady scent of it. There is an altar with fresh flowers and statues of three saints: Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things; Saint Peter, who is said to open the door to the spirit world and remove barriers to success; and Saint Marron, the patron saint of runaway slaves. Marie turns the big statue of Saint Anthony on its head, and I stifle a gasp at the irreverence.
“I need something of yours for the
gris-gris,
chère,” she says. “Hair, or a fingernail, or . . .”
The girls at school talked about this part, but a tremor of fear still runs up my spine. What if she uses this talisman to curse me or for some other dark purpose?
Eugenie doesn’t give me time to think. She leans close, plucks a hair right out of my head, and hands it to Marie. I glare at her and adjust my tignon.
“This will do,” Marie says. She opens a small wooden cabinet next to her altar. It’s lined with jars full of all manner of strange things: bundles of roots, herbs, hot peppers, sugar or salt, dirt, pins and needles, nails, and Lord knows what else. Some of them look to be animal parts. She mixes items from different jars into a little cloth bag, then chants some unfamiliar words, her hands reaching out toward her altar, supplicating the saints. The candles flicker. Eugenie is watching with wide-eyed fascination, but I bow my head because whether I believe in this or not — and truth be told, I’m not certain — it is clearly sacred to Marie.
When she finishes chanting, I raise my eyes. Marie sprinkles holy water over the little bag and then hands it to me. “Keep the
gris-gris
on your person,” she instructs. “It will ward off those who do not have your best interests at heart. Without their false counsel, you will find your own way.”
“Thank you.” I fumble in my reticule for coins. “I — I don’t know how much —”
“Fifteen cents,” Marie says, and I hand her the appropriate amount. Between this and bribing Nanette, today has made quite a dent in my egg money. Marie studies my face. “Good luck to you, Madeleine.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and gooseflesh rises across my skin. I nod, unsettled, and flee with Eugenie back out into the hot May sun.
A week passes, but I am no closer to understanding my own heart. I spend my days helping Maman and Nanette with a spring cleaning, beating the quilts and rugs, hanging linens on the drying line in the courtyard. I am quiet, withdrawn. Maman eyes me and scoops extra helpings of gumbo into my bowl. I feign a headache to avoid attending a ball with my family; I cannot bear to
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