Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(47)
The colored soldiers here in Savannah weren’t allowed to share the whites’ facilities. Folk were taking up money to buy a space the black servicemen could use for their own recreation. Those collecting funds for the cause had even stooped to taking money from May. Polite society had no room for “witches.” People who used to tolerate her as the daughter of Mother Tuesday had drawn the line once she started working magic herself. Even the folk who’d come to her, pleading for her help, treated her like she was tainted when they caught sight of her outside the house. Magic had cost her Poppy and her reputation. May wondered what she might lose next.
Of course it seemed the man who’d forced her into this life couldn’t lose. A new thought struck her. Maybe that’s what she should do with this article about Betty. Just slip it into the same scrapbook where she kept the clippings about Maguire. Forget she’d ever received it.
She laid the article down on the table and walked away to boil up a bit of chicory. It was an absentminded move, which had become more common for her over the last few years. She turned her back to fill a saucepan with water, not even noticing Jilo had come into the room until she heard her say, “They’d let her borrow books from the main library.”
May looked back over her shoulder to find Jilo hunched over, her elbows on the table, examining the story without laying a hand on it. “What’s that, sweetheart?” May looked deep into the girl’s intelligent black eyes, grateful that Jilo’s own logical nature had, with some careful and repeated prodding, reenvisioned the demon’s attack as a bad dream. Even more grateful for the role Jilo’s nature had played in May’s efforts to convince the girl there really was no such thing as magic. May would gladly have her granddaughter believe her to be a shyster if it meant she’d never believe in, or be tempted by, magic. The cycle would be broken.
“Mama. She looks enough like a white woman, I bet they’d let her take books out of the main library.” May’s heart broke from the knowledge that Jilo dreamed of the day she could borrow books from the big library over on Bull Street.
“They got all the books there. Not like at Carnegie.” The Carnegie branch over on East Henry Street was the closest library where coloreds were allowed. Those weeks when Jilo was good, when she did her chores without fussing, May would see to it that the girl got to go, whether she walked Jilo there herself or paid one of the black taxi companies to drive her there and bring her home an hour later.
Well, okay. At least that resolved the problem of whether May should share the news article with Jilo. “Yeah,” May said, forcing a smile on her face. “They just might, at that.” She paused, searching Jilo’s face. “You remember your mama?”
“I remember when she came. When she brought Binah to us. But I’d forgotten what she looked like till I saw this.” Jilo’s eyes rose to meet May’s. “I thought she looked more like the doll she brought me. The one I lost.”
May felt her lips purse. That doll hadn’t been lost. May had found a way to bind Jilo’s ability to access magic to this doll, then buried it out in a part of town Jilo would never have need to visit, miles east in a grove cut through by Normandy Street. May set the sauce pot down and crossed the room to her granddaughter. “She’s a very pretty lady, your mama. Real good singer, too. See?” She placed a hand between Jilo’s shoulders and traced along the photo with the fingers of her other hand. “She’s going overseas to entertain the troops. Doing her part in the war effort. You should be real proud of her.”
“Binah wouldn’t know her,” came Jilo’s reply.
May circled around and sat in her chair. “Well, no, I reckon she wouldn’t . . .”
“But Binah looks a lot more like her than I do.”
May felt a bitterness rise up in her. “She’s done tried real hard to look more like Binah.”
“Binah gets her hair from Mama, doesn’t she?”
May failed to repress a chuckle. “No. Binah gets that from her daddy’s side. Your mama gets it from Mr. Nestle’s side.”
“Mr. Nestle? Who’s he?” Jilo’s innocent eyes made May regret the joke.
“Ah, Nana’s just joshing,” she said. “Nestle’s the fellow who sells the auburn henna your mama uses to change her hair’s color. Your mama’s real hair looks just like yours.” She patted Jilo’s hand. “Though you get the rest of your good looks from me.” She reached up and pinched Jilo’s cheek, provoking a laugh from the girl.
“She must be sad,” Jilo said after a moment, the smile falling from her face.
“Why do you say that?” May said, glancing down at the photo. To her eyes, Betty looked happier than she had any right to be.
“ ’Cause she’s pretending to be someone she’s not, and she’s got no one to love her. Not for who she really is, at least. She’s got no one else to be proud of her. That’s why she sent this to us. I don’t ever want to be like her. Making believe like I’m something I’m not.”
May felt her shoulders relax. “Ain’t no need you ever should.” She put her hand over the article and slid it toward her. “How about we put this away somewhere safe, till your sister is old enough to read it?”
Jilo nodded.
“That’s good. Real good.” May leaned back in her seat. “You go on and get your schoolwork done now. Nana’s gonna get supper started.”