I walked home and went right to my room to do what I had said, begin my homework. But less than an hour later, I heard some shouting coming from downstairs. Curious, I walked out of my room and went to the head of the stairs. Below, in the entryway stood two city policemen, both with their hats off. A few moments later, Daphne came rushing forward, Wendy Williams hurrying with her coat. I took a few steps down.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Daphne paused in front of the policemen.
"Your sister," she screamed. "She's been in a bad car accident with Martin. Your father's meeting me at the hospital."
"I'll come with you," I cried, and ran down the steps to join her.
"What happened?" I asked, getting into the car with her.
"The police said Martin was smoking that dirty . . . filthy . . . drug stuff. He crashed right into the back of a city bus."
"Oh no." My heart was pounding. I had seen only one car accident before in my life. A man in a pickup truck had gotten drunk and drove off an embankment. When I saw the accident, his bloodied body was still hanging out of the smashed front window, his head dangling.
"What's wrong with you young people today?" Daphne cried. "You have so much, and yet you do these stupid things. Why?" she shrilled. "Why?"
I wanted to say it was because some of us have too much, but I bit down on those thoughts, knowing she would take it as a criticism of her role as mother.
"Did the policemen say how bad they were hurt?" I asked instead.
"Bad," she replied. "Very bad . . ."
Daddy was already waiting for us in the hospital emergency room. He looked terribly distraught, aged and weakened by the events.
"What have you learned?" Daphne asked quickly. He shook his head.
"She's still unconscious. Apparently, she hit the wind-shield. There are broken bones. They're doing the X rays now."
"Oh, God," Daphne said. "This, on top of everything else."
"What about Martin?" I asked. Daddy lifted his shadowy, sad eyes to me and shook his head. "He's not . . . dead?"
Daddy nodded. My blood ran cold and drained down to my ankles, leaving a hollow ache in my stomach.
"Just a little while ago," he told Daphne. She turned white and clutched his arm.
"Oh, Pierre, how gruesome."
I backed up to a chair by the wall and let myself drop into it. Stunned, I could only sit and stare at the people who rushed to and fro. I waited and watched as Daddy and Daphne spoke with doctors.
When I was about nine, there was a four-year-old boy in the bayou, Dylan Fortier, who had fallen out of a pirogue and drowned. I remember Grandmère Catherine had been called to try to save him and I had gone along with her. The moment she looked at his little withered form on the bank of the canal, she knew it was too late and crossed herself.
At the age of nine, I thought death was something that happened only to old people. We young people were invulnerable, protected by the years we were promised at birth. We wore our youth like a shield. We could get sick, very sick; we could have accidents, even serious ones, or we could be bitten by poisonous things, but somehow, someway there was always something that would save us.
The sight of that little boy, pale and gray, his hair stuck on his forehead, his little fingers clenched into tiny fists, his eyes sewn shut, and his lips blue was a sight that haunted me for years afterward.
All I could think of now was Martin's impish smile when he had pulled away from the curb. What if I had gotten into the car with them, I wondered? Would I be in some hospital emergency room or would I have prevailed and gotten Martin to slow down and drive more carefully?
Fate . . . as I had told Paul in my letter . . . could not be defeated or denied.
Daphne returned first, her face full of agony and emotional fatigue.
"How is she?" I asked, my heart thumping.
"She's regained consciousness, but something is wrong with her spine," she said in a dead, dry tone. She was even paler and held her right palm over her heart.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"She can't move her legs," Daphne said. "We're going to have an invalid in the family. Wheelchairs and nurses," she said, grimacing. "Oh, I feel sick," she added quickly. "I'm going to the bathroom. See to your father," she commanded with a wave of her hand.
I looked across the hallway and saw him looking like someone who had been hit by a train. He was standing with the doctor. His back was against the wall and his head was down. The doctor patted him on the shoulder and then walked off, but Daddy didn't move. I rose slowly and started toward him. He raised his head as I approached, the tears streaming from his eyes, his lips quivering.
"My little girl," he said, "my princess . . . is probably going to be crippled for life."
"Oh, Daddy," I shook my head, my own tears rivaling his in quantity now. I rushed to him and embraced him and he buried his face in my hair and sobbed.
"It's my fault," he sobbed. "I'm still being punished for the things I've done."
"Oh, no, Daddy. It's not your fault."
"It is. It is," he insisted. "I'll never be forgiven, never. Everyone I love will suffer."
As we clung to each other tightly, all I could think was . . . this is definitely not his fault. It was my fault . . . my fault. I've got to get Nina to take me back to Mama Dede. I've got to undo the spell.
Daphne and I returned home first. By now, it seemed like half the city had heard of the accident. The phones were ringing off the hook. Daphne went directly up to her suite, telling Edgar to take down the names of those who called, explaining that she wasn't able to speak to anyone just yet. Daddy was even worse, immediately retreating to Uncle Jean's room the moment he stepped through the door. I had a message that Beau had called and I called him back before I went to see Nina.
"I can't believe it," he said, trying to hold back his tears. "I can't believe Martin's dead."
I told him what had happened earlier, how they had approached me on the way home.
"He knew better; he knew you couldn't drive and smoke that stuff or drink."
"Knowing is one thing. Listening to wisdom and obeying it is another," I said dryly.
"Things must be terrible at your house, huh?"
"Yes, Beau."
"My parents will be over to see Daphne and Pierre tonight, I'm sure. I might come along, if they let me," he said.
"I might not be here."
"Where are you going tonight?" he asked, astonished. "There's someone I have to see."
"Oh."
"It's not another boy, Beau," I said quickly, hearing the disappointment in his voice.
"Well, they probably won't let me come anyway," he said. "I'm feeling sick to my stomach, myself. If I hadn't had baseball practice . . . I would probably have been in that car."
"Fate just didn't point its long, dark finger at you," I told him.
After we spoke I went to find Nina. She, Edgar, and Wendy were consoling each other in the kitchen. As soon as she lifted her eyes and met mine, she knew why I had come.
"This is not your fault, child," she said. "Those who welcome the devil man into their hearts invite the bad gris-gris themselves."
"I want to see Mama Dede, Nina. Right away," I added. She looked at Wendy and Edgar.
"She won't tell you any different," she said.
"I want to see her, Nina," I insisted. "Take me to her," I ordered. She sighed and nodded slowly.
"If the madame or monsieur want something, get it to them," Wendy promised. Nina rose and got her pocketbook. Then we hurried out of the house and met the first streetcar. When we arrived at Mama Dede's, her mother seemed to know why. She and Nina exchanged knowing looks. Once in, we waited in the living room for the voodoo queen to enter. I couldn't take my eyes off the box I knew contained the snake and Gisselle's ribbon.
Mama Dede made her entrance as the drums began. As before, she went to the settee and turned her gray eyes toward me.