NINE
May was walking north on Ogeechee Road the next morning as the sun’s first rays reached her, a warm and comforting caress that brought to mind the sense of serenity that had descended on her when her own hand brushed that of the odd veiled woman the night before. Her touch had felt like that of an old friend, someone May had never known but had missed her entire life.
No. May knew the creature who’d saved Jilo was not a woman at all. She had seen the illusion of her humanity fall away before her own eyes. If anything, she was a demon. One sent to tempt her into using magic, into breaking the vow she’d made so long ago.
Only once before had she been truly tempted by magic. On that long-ago night, she had gone crawling to her mama’s door, banging on the wood and begging her mama to come out and do something, anything to heal Reuben. The memory still tugged at her.
Her mama had met her at the door. Tried to bring her in. Knelt beside her. Pulled her close to her bosom. But she didn’t waver in her refusal.
“No, baby. You don’t know what you askin’. You don’t know,” she said as she tried to rock May in her arms.
May pushed herself up and shoved her mama away. And as her mama stood, May did something she had never thought she could do. She reached out and struck her own mama. But Mama didn’t fight back. No. She took May’s hand and pressed it to her lips.
“It’s all right,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s all right. But Mama cannot do this thing for you . . . she loves you too much. She loves your Reuben too much.”
With that, she gently pushed May back over her threshold, turning her away. “You go on. You get back to your husband.”
Her trembling hand pressed between May’s shoulders, but as May started to stumble away, her mama’s hand reached out and snatched hers, causing her to look back. “You leave what’s gonna happen up to God,” she said, pointing to the heavens. “You trust God to do what’s right for our Reuben, whether it breaks our hearts or not. Magic, it ain’t what you think, baby. Least not the kind I got. Don’t you ever let it tempt you to force your own will on things.”
May had done as her mama told her. She’d gone home to Reuben; she’d listened to the rattling coughs and gasping breaths that would eventually carry him from this world. Years later, she had buried her mama in the earth, too. Then that white boy had been found before the sun could set on her mama’s grave. May knew her mama had hastened her own death to try and put an end to whoever or whatever had been taking the children. If her mama had succeeded, it would have been almost worthwhile, but it was so hard to bear the knowledge that her mama had died in defeat.
But May didn’t have a choice. She had to bear it. Exhausted from her sleepless night, May barely had enough strength left to put one foot before the other. In the years since May had lost Reuben, she’d nearly worn a groove in this road from making the trek between her home and the Pinnacle Hotel morning and night, six days a week. Tired going, even more tired coming back.
May knew her life was a God-given gift, and she tried to be grateful for each day, but lately she’d found herself talking to her departed Reuben more often, wondering out loud how many more times she’d have to walk this path until she could join him in glory. Well, that reunion would have to wait now. She was burdened by no illusions that Betty would be coming back for those girls.
May trudged down the road toward the cemetery, her heavy steps rousing a black rooster. The bird’s invective startled her, causing her to stop short and catch her breath.
“All right, Lester, all right,” she addressed the bird. “Whole darned world done heard you now.” May shook her head. The thing had shown up around the time of her mama’s death, and it almost seemed like a friend by now. Some folk might think she was crazy, but she always greeted the rooster whenever she passed his home. Not doing so today would only add to the sense of strangeness she seemed incapable of shaking.
May might have believed the whole episode was a dream had she managed to close her eyes for even a wink, but no, she’d had no sleep. There was no choice but to accept that she had witnessed the impossible made real. “See you later, Lester,” she said, still hoping familiar habits could erase the sense of oddity the night had sown in the pit of her stomach.
Last night, she’d picked her way home from the clearing more by instinct than by landmark, Jilo asleep in her arms as they made their way through the night forest. Once home, she had slipped the baby in bed next to Opal, who—despite her worry—had drifted off to sleep with Poppy cuddled in her arms. May herself never even considered trying to sleep. Instead, she stoked the kitchen stove and boiled up some chicory that went cold without her even lifting cup to lip. Then she spent the night bent over her Bible, though the words seemed to dance on the page, imparting none of their usual wisdom or comfort.
Even now, as she passed beneath the steeple of Tremont Nondenominational House of Prayer, the prayer she yearned to offer up—one that combined a supplication for forgiveness for having used magic and a request for guidance—remained inchoate in her breast. She hated it, but anger against God Almighty simmered in her soul. Magic had saved Jilo, not prayer. It terrified her that one of those evil men had managed to slip silently into her home, as if by witchcraft, and steal her grandbaby right out of her bed. A man who could keep his cool as those around him gave in to panic. A man who would arrange the abduction of a tiny child just to lure May out into the night.
May stopped dead in her tracks as another thought struck her. What if those men hadn’t taken Jilo? What if it had instead been the creature who’d presented itself as a friend? The creature could have set up the whole adventure to fool May into believing it was acting as her protector.
The questions made her heart heavy, but pondering them made the remainder of her trek to work short. Before she knew it, she had arrived at the rear of Pinnacle. A concrete sidewalk ran behind the hotel, and May stepped onto it carefully so as not to trip where the roots of an ancient oak had pushed up from beneath the pavement and forced it up. Without giving it a thought, she passed by the entrance used by the white staff, heading to the far side of the building to the door labeled “Colored.” Humidity and warping caused the door to stick; each day it took a bit more out of May to tug it open and step through it. The door’s handle vibrated in her hand as the resistant wood finally yielded to her. She stepped into the side of the kitchen where the sinks would soon be full of dishes from the guests’ breakfasts.
But the dishes weren’t May’s concern, and she had enough work of her own to handle without taking on more. The hotel had sixty-eight rooms and only three maids. May and the two much younger women did the laundry and cleaned the guest rooms, halls, and great rooms. The younger women worked quicker, but May always did the best job—she didn’t miss spots or take shortcuts like her companions often did. The longtime guests, the folk who’d been coming here for years, knew to ask for her to service their rooms, and May felt justified in taking a touch of pride in that. Of course, it did nothing to prevent Mr. Porter, her buckra manager, from telling her she’d be out of a job if she didn’t step it up.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wills,” said Henry Cook, looking up from the wingtips he had been polishing. The small boy shined guests’ shoes and ran odd errands for management.
“Good morning, Henry,” May said, letting her hand brush the boy’s cheek. “How’s yo’ mama doing? Getting over her ailment, I hope.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry replied, turning back to his work. May could tell from his expression that he wasn’t telling the truth. His mama was still poorly. Sighing to herself, May opened the closet where the cleaning implements were stored. She reached up to take her apron from its hook, saying a silent prayer that the youngster’s lie might soon be made true.
The thought hit her that perhaps her magic could be the answer to that same prayer.
No.
She shook her head, forcing the temptation from her mind, and slipped on the apron. Once her uniform was neatly in place, she grasped the handles of the zinc mop bucket in her right hand and the mop in her left. The hotel had an elevator for guests, but not for staff. She planned to tote the cleaning supplies up the back stairs to the top floor and work her way down, meeting the other maids on their way up.
But May’s hand cramped, forcing her to set the bucket and mop back down. Following its usual course, the aching in her joints came as a sharp jab, then settled into a repeating throb. She closed her eyes and rubbed her swelling knuckles. It’ll pass. It’ll pass. May took a few breaths, willing the pain to subside.
One eye popped open in surprise. It’d never happened before, but this time the ache had eased. Instantly, at the very moment she’d formed the thought. With both eyes open, she stepped away from the closet, and held her hand up beneath the overhead light. There was no swelling. There was no pain.
Physical relief gave way to concern. Maybe she no longer had a choice about using magic. Maybe once the door had been opened, even a crack, it was open for good.
A door on the far side of the kitchen swung open. “May,” Mr. Porter snapped without even stepping into the room. “Follow me.”
“Something need cleaning, sir?” May asked, starting to bend over to pick up the bucket and mop. Her eyes fixed on the spots of dried calamine lotion that dotted Porter’s thin, gray face and bald pate.
“Leave those and come with me,” Porter said. May hurried across the kitchen to join him. Rather than hold the weighted door for her, Porter let it swing shut behind him, closing it right in May’s face.
May leaned back to escape being struck, then eased the door open enough to slip through. Porter had carried on without her, leaving her to scurry to catch up to him as he crossed the lobby and entered the dining room.
May only rarely ventured into the ornate room, except to sweep its deep red—Venetian red, she had once overheard a guest say—carpet, or to clean up a spill. The entrance was adorned by pillars, similar to those at the Greek church south of the Forsyth, but not quite so busy-looking at the top. She moved between those columns with trepidation.
The hotel was nearly full, and it had gotten late enough in the morning that May had expected to see guests at most of the tables, but other than the two men sitting at the table near the back wall, the room was deserted. May stopped dead in her tracks, a feeling of dread falling on her. Even from across the room, May had no difficulty recognizing Fletcher Maguire, the elder of the two visitors; she’d seen his picture in the Gazette more than once. But she recognized him not from his thick head of gray hair, piercing blue eyes, or prominent chin, but from the wooden wheelchair in which he was sitting. May remembered hearing he’d suffered a stroke around the time of her mama’s death. Word was, he’d been in that wheelchair ever since.
Despite his advancing age and declining health, Maguire was still one of the most powerful men in Georgia. He could’ve been governor or senator if he’d wanted, but he wasn’t the kind of man who ran for public office; he was the kind of man who chose those who did. May had read enough of the official news and heard enough whispers to know that what Maguire didn’t outright own, he damned sure felt no qualms about stealing.
The younger man could only be his son, Sterling. Sterling was a tall fellow, pink and lean, with hair as light as corn silk. She’d only laid eyes on him once before, and then it had been from a distance. Up close, she could see he was a good-looking boy for his type, but something about him was off. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, the words came to May’s mind. Sterling had inherited his father’s sharp cold eyes. Something about the way those eyes took her in reminded her of last night, when those bright beams had illuminated her at the edge of the woods. May began to tremble.
Porter, who had been making a beeline toward the occupied table, slowed and looked over his shoulder, his hand fluttering to signal she should come forward. May did as he bade her. “This is her,” Porter said.
“Why, yes, indeed it is,” the elder Maguire said with a broad smile. “I knew your mama, Tuesday, well, my dear.” May forced herself not to react. The day of her mama’s funeral, Miriam had suggested the younger Maguire might have come to engage her mama’s assistance, but this was the first she’d heard for sure there was a connection between her mama and this man. Maguire reached up and adjusted his wire-frame spectacles. “And you are a picture-perfect copy of her.” He let out a laugh, but it came from his chest, not his belly where any good laugh should come from. “Yes, I knew Mother Tuesday well.” He paused. “Or as well as I reckon anyone could. As a matter of fact, our two families go way back,” he said, shaking his head and casting a satisfied glance at his son before returning his focus to May. “You do know, don’t you? My people used to own yours.” The words hung there between them.
May’s mouth went dry as her lips trembled but failed to find the words. Her entire body shook with the effort. “Pardon me, sir—” her voice came out sounding odd to her own ears, like a voice from a scratchy recording, “—but that was a long time ago.”
“Oh, not so long ago, really, May. Not in the grand scheme.” His expression softened and his focus fell to an invisible point between them, almost like he was remembering the slave times with a fond heart.
In her own mind’s eye, she saw herself grasping a knife and running it across this man’s throat in one quick deep slash, sending a shower of his life’s blood all over the white tablecloth and Venetian-red carpeting. The image had come unbidden, and she wished she could say it horrified her. But it lingered, and she didn’t feel horrified. She turned it around in her mind like she might turn a smooth pebble in her hand before sending it skimming across a pond’s surface. No, she felt no horror. What she felt was soiled, corrupted. This man, his words, his actions, his very thoughts, they were an infectious disease, and he was a malevolent carrier who sought to poison all those around him.
May managed to push the image of Maguire’s pale corpse from her mind, praying to be cleansed of the taint this man had put on her soul. She forced herself to stifle her rage. Not for the first time, and she knew not for the last one either, but she felt this might possibly be the most trying attempt she’d ever need face. May nodded and lowered her eyes, not daring to let her gaze meet his.
He motioned toward a chair across the table from him. “Sit,” he said. “Join me. Would you like some coffee? Shall I have Porter here fetch you a cup?” May’s eyes flashed at her boss, who looked as shocked as she felt—and full of quiet rage, besides. Maguire seemed to take note of his resentment. “You know that is the origin of your name, don’t you, son? Porter? One might even say you were born to fetch for your betters.”
“Oh, no, sir!” May said, astonished. “I could never . . .” She paused, hoping to find a tone that would avoid offending Mr. Maguire, but still placate her boss. “This beautiful room is for gracious white folk such as yourself.” She forced the biggest possible smile. “And Mr. Porter,” she tossed a quick glance in his direction, “he’s my boss, sir. I couldn’t let him go fetching anything for me. It wouldn’t be fitting. I know my place . . .” Her words died in the air, cut off by a twinge of the same anger she’d felt the night before. Why shouldn’t she sit here? Why shouldn’t she let that white boy who wasn’t half her age and who never did a lick of real work bring her coffee?
She caught herself, but it was too late; Maguire had picked up on her thoughts, had read them in her eyes maybe. A tight smile curled on his lips. “I insist.” He motioned again with his hand toward the empty chair. “Sit.”
May felt her knees weaken. She certainly could bear sitting down, but somehow she knew this was a trap.
“But Mr. Maguire,” Porter began, protesting for her. “We can’t have a colored sitting in here. It just isn’t done. This is a whites-only establishment.” May wondered at the pride she heard in his voice as he made this pronouncement. “Always has been, always will be. I’m afraid I cannot allow it.”
“You”—Maguire turned the word into a barb—cannot allow it?” Maguire tilted back in his chair and laughed. This time his laugh came from his belly. “If I say the woman sits, she sits. Afterwards, you can buy a new chair. You can buy a new table. You can burn this whole goddamned hotel to the ground and build it anew. And you can send me the bill, but by God, you’d better never contradict me again. You hear?”
Sterling never said a word—May reflected that perhaps he didn’t dare lest his father’s vehemence turn on him—but his eyes gleamed with enjoyment over Porter’s plight. From Sterling’s expression—the way he tilted back his head and looked down his nose at Porter, the tight smile that threatened to morph into a snarl in a second’s notice—May could tell Sterling took far more than his fair share of pleasure in the suffering of others. May herself tried never to be cruel, never to hold hatred in her heart. She knew it’d be a moral failing to delight in this man’s suffering. Still, it was undeniable that a part of her might have enjoyed watching Porter’s already-gray skin blanch a shade or two lighter, enjoyed the sight of his sweat causing the calamine to dampen and run. The thought brought a twinge of guilt, but she knew the suffering headed her way was bound to be much worse than his could be.
“Of course not, Mr. Maguire.” Porter wiped at his forehead, smearing the pink lotion and transferring it first to his hand and then to his pant leg when he lowered his arm. “I’d never intentionally contradict you, sir.”
“Then go on and get the hell out of here.”
Porter began backing out of the room, never taking his eyes off the old man. “Yes, sir, you just let May know if you need anything.”
“Porter,” Maguire called out, bringing May’s boss to a full stop. “I don’t want May here working for you anymore. You go on and hire yourself a new girl.”
May might never have found the nerve to take a seat on the embroidered chair, had these words not caused her knees to buckle. As it was, she barely managed to land on its cushion rather than the floor.
“But Mr. Maguire, I ain’t done nothing wrong, sir. I need my job. I got . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know. You have three children to feed,” Maguire said, waving his hands not only to stop her talking, but also to dismiss her thoughts. How could he know that unless he was the one who ordered those men to take Jilo?
“Go on, Porter. You aren’t needed here,” he said, then waited for Porter to make his exit. May could feel the cloud of confused and angry energy that filled Porter leave the room, even though the thick carpet muffled his footfalls.
The moment Porter was gone, Maguire’s lips curled up into a sly smile. “It’s just us now, May. Family. So please allow me to speak plainly.” He waved his finger at her like she was a naughty child. “Old Tuesday, she done told me that you didn’t inherit any of her magic. She lied.”