Page 112 of Savior
Gina’s boyfriend, or husband, or whatever he is, gives me another dirty look as he lifts his arm to point at me, backing up towards the front door. “I hear about you and her meetin’ behind my back again, I’ll get you alone next time.” He sneers, then leaves, slamming the door behind him. Laura hurries over to the front door to lock it, as I rush to the break room to lock the back door. We meet again in the middle of the show room.
“Are you alright?” she asks with worry.
“I’m fine.”
We both watch his rust colored mustang pull out of the lot and drive off from the old bay windows of the shop.
“He just wanted to scare me.”
“I guess the cat’s out of the bag in your little town.” Laura says.
I force an uneasy laugh. “Seems that way.”
Marie Delai…
I spot the Voodoo woman’s name written in red paint on a small wooden sign nailed to the front door. The windows on either side are barred with wrought iron. The black shudders that frame them against the bricks, are adorned with small bones and symbols painted in white.
Pulling a quick U-turn at the next corner, I turn back towards the little shop and pull Serene over across the street.
There’s no sign outside, indicating whether or not she’s open for business, but I’ll take my chances.
The street is fairly dark and desolate. Made even more evident by the liveliness of the city just around the corner. People frequenting the bars and restaurants only a block away. The other shops on this street, including a local artist’s gallery, are all closed. There’s an absence of street lights on this block as well, illuminated only by the glowing traffic lights hanging above, at the intersection a few yards away. The dim lighting from within the Voodoo shop, escaping through the heavy curtained windows, doesn’t even cast a glow on the sidewalk.
There are five cement steps leading down to the front door from the sidewalk, and I wonder what cellar shops like this do when this part of town floods during hurricanes. As I come to stand before the front door, the ground shifts slightly beneath my motorcycle boots atop her mat, and the sound of a metal grate scraping against cement, answers that question. I take a step back, just in case. Who knows how deep this two century old drainage system is. There’s a thick line of brick-red powder across the bottom of the door. It’s lined beneath the two windows on either side, as well. Vanna did this at our home, only she used salt. Based on her witchy practices, I deduce that this red powder is some form of protection.
Since there is no sign letting me know whether or not this is the type of establishment one simply enters, or not, I go with not. The Ametrine Cauldron has a very different feel from this place, already. For one thing, they’re clear about their hours of operation.
I raise my fist to knock, just as the door swings open, and an older, black man startles at my presence. Obviously in a rush to leave this establishment, I open my fist and step aside in the tight quarters to allow him by me, gesturing with my hand for him to proceed.
He ducks his head, carrying something wrapped in a handkerchief tucked under his arm, and scurries up the steps and down the block into the dark streets.
I turn back towards the door. The musky scent of incense and oils permeates the air from within the shop.
A smooth female voice gently calls, “You may enter.”
I step inside the small shop, closing the door behind me. Glancing around at the massive collection of witchy oddities she’s managed to fit in every corner of this shop, the space feels even smaller. Every inch of shelf space is filled with jars of herbs and oils, candles, dolls and statues. Even religious ones. Masks that look hand carved adorn the walls where there aren’t packed shelves. There are even things hanging from the ceiling, glass orbs and dangling Spanish moss among them. The old hardwood floors have white symbols painted all over them as well.
When I lift my eyes, a brown skinned woman is standing a few feet away from me, further inside the shop. She’s wearing a long, white, loose-fitting top and a matching white skirt. Her long braids are piled high up on her head, tied with a black scarf. Looking at her, I can’t tell if she’s twenty-eight or forty-eight.
“May I help you?” she asks with a friendly smile across her brick red painted lips.
“Marie Delai, I presume?”
“You presume correctly.”
“My name is Dean Keegan. I was hoping you could shed a little light on a few things for me.”
Her smile broadens, though her eyes slightly squint at me. “Shedding light is what I do, Dean Keegan.” She replies. “Come, this way.”
I follow her behind a black curtain, with more of the white symbols drawn on it. It’s a little room with a round table draped in a black cloth. She gestures to one of the two chairs, and I take a seat as she takes the one nearest her.
“Tell me what it is you need this light shed upon.” She rests her arms, crossed casually in her lap.
I stare across the little table at her, feeling more awkward by the minute. “I thought about all the questions I’d ask you the whole ride here, if you agreed to see me… yet here we are, and I don’t even know how or where to begin. I apologize.”
Her dark eyes seem to study me, as she picks up a black velvet bag from the table and removes a stack of cards. I know enough, to know that they’re tarot cards. She shuffles them slowly as I attempt to form another sentence.
“I’d like to preface what I want to ask you about, by saying that I’m not even sure if it’s Witchcraft or Voodoo or… something else of that nature. My intentions are not to insult or offend you.” I sigh, dragging my hand through my hair now before I place it against her table. Her eyes dart to my wrist for a moment. She’s spotted the black protection bracelet Vanna made for me, peeking out from the cuff of my shirt.
