“The queen?”
“Yeah, that’s right, his momma the queen, she had lit a magic candle to proteck him.” Like Big Momma said to do. If only she had done it instead of worrying it was conjuring, the devil’s work. Well, that wasn’t going to stop her now. “The sun went down. Night was fallin. All of a sudden he seen a light.”
“The candle?”
“The candle! You such a smart boy!” Same as Carter. “That’s right, the prince seen the flame of his momma’s magic candle, and it led him straight home to the farm where he lived. The end.”
Kevin stayed quiet, thinking the way he usually did when she finished a story. She always knew he was thinking by the questions he would ask later, long after she’d forgotten the things she said.
The candle she lit after the funeral had been for Carter. Not to protect him. Too late for that. It was to commemorate his spirit, Big Momma had said. And to be what she called a conduit, a way they could speak with one another.
Of course, Leora had never attempted such a blasphemous thing.
Banging and a blast of cold air from the ceiling told her the thin man was back. The ladder slid down to rest its foot on the floor’s middle and the thin man descended it, aiming his thin smile and a second gun through the rungs at them.
It took her till the sweatered man came down, too, to work out what was different. No masks.
It took her till they’d exchanged some talk she didn’t follow and herded her and Kevin between them up out of the cellar and into the black-and-purple sedan to understand why this made her sick to her stomach.
No mask to prevent her from seeing the thin man’s blond mustache and the way his nose tipped up at the end and the squint lines radiating from the edges of his eyes. No mask to stop her noticing the sweatered man’s freckled forehead and the crease in his chin he didn’t look to bother shaving.
So what was to prevent her from describing them to the police when they set her and Kevin free?
But of course the kidnappers had never been going to do that, since there was nobody except Aunt Rutha and Uncle Donald at the cabin, no secret heir. No prince in disguise.
Only Leora knew that though. She had thought.
She had thought she could wait till they got there, but no telling what these white men had in mind.
As soon as Farmer stopped driving, she’d have to sing.
The black-and-purple sedan’s motor made more noise than the Cadillac. It was older too. The island looked empty for a Friday night. Then they reached the mainland, and she saw all the traffic lights flashing yellow. No reds. That late. Or early; early Saturday morning.
And when would the kidnappers stop the car? Where? Would she even have time to open her mouth before they shot her?
Kevin snuggled up against her on her right, both arms wrapped around hers at the elbow. In the regular flare of streetlamps Leora saw him staring up at her, worry and trust tugging him back and forth in nervous twitches. If she saved his life, he was truly hers. That’s what she’d heard the Hindus would say.
The thin man had stuck a gun under her left ribs. On Kevin’s far side the sweatered man crowded against the fogged-up window, flicking some switch on the gun he held. Tense or bored? Both, she decided. Wait for a change in that, then.
The lights came less often. Fewer of them; they must be near the rail yards now. Maybe here — Leora discovered she’d been holding her breath and let it go. The sweatered man stopped fiddling with his gun, but only to light himself a cigarette.
“Put that thing out,” the thin man told him. “Filthy habit.” He reached past her and snatched it away to stub it in the ashtray. A sudden sharp left. Lights ahead, low and steady. “Get the toll ready, Farmer,” the thin man ordered. He jabbed the gun harder into Leora’s side, a silent reminder to keep quiet.
They sailed through the toll booth and onto the Ambassador Bridge almost without a pause. Golden lights hanging on either side swooped their shadows across her eyes. They passed under its two signs, the red letters first facing forward, then backward.
Slaves had crossed all along here. In winter the water froze and they walked to freedom. In the darkness, on the ice, they ran over the river to the land they’d been so long dreaming of … Leora loved that freedom, the kind that came only in your sleep.
And then they were in Canada. The gun switch clicked so fast it sounded like a bent fan blade hitting its frame. A low roof lit from beneath by blue-white fluorescents chopped the horizon in half. Customs check.
Farmer pulled up to a booth. The man inside raised his eyes from his magazine, frowned, and waved them toward the parking lot.
The clicking stopped. “Shit,” swore the thin man.
“Should I go where he’s pointing at, or maybe I oughta make a run for it—”
“See those cop cars waiting up ahead? Think you can outrace them?”
The kidnappers continued to quarrel as Farmer veered off the road into a parking place. He left the engine idling, but they weren’t going anywhere for a while. Not before they got a thorough inspection.
She smiled down at the boy beside her. This would be her best bet. Big Momma had taught her, and it was not a sin — especially in self-defense. And if it worked she would light a second candle. She opened her mouth to sing the lullaby until they shut their eyes, every mother’s son.
Part II
Factory of one
Red quarters
by Craig Holden
Hamtramck
“Fuck yeah,” said Ziggy. “We’re in.” A piece of cheek beneath his left eye jumped, then jumped again. It was a place I’d never been, right on Joseph Campau, around the corner from St. Ladislaus. But then it all felt new to me. I’d only been back in Hamtramck, city of my life, for six months. I had gone off to other places, tried other things. When I got back, my friend Danny Lewicki got me on at the Main. I would’ve never got on without him. Most of the places then were laying off.
By we, I hoped Ziggy meant him and Danny. I couldn’t shoot so well. I tried to be invisible against the wall. It was 8 a.m., and we were just off shift.
“We break,” said the long-necked regular.
It was a close narrow place, just enough room in the front for the bar and stools along one wall, and only the light from a single window throwing over the thing. In the back it opened to a room just big enough to hold the pool table, but they’d had to shorten the cues so you didn’t hit the walls when you shot.
“We break,” said Ziggy. He was an old-timer, due to retire in another year or two. He didn’t take much shit off anyone.