Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(70)
Jilo had often wondered what had happened between Nana and Poppy the last time she’d come around to visit. It had been back before the war, fourteen or so years ago now. Maybe Jilo should call and ask Poppy to come home for a visit.
Then again, what would they do if she accepted? Once Poppy arrived and saw how close to the bone they were cutting things, she would be bound to view the invitation as a petition of charity. Jilo did not want charity from anyone, especially family, but she knew she was going to have to come up with a way to earn a living quick. She and Binah had torn the house apart to look for stashes of cash Nana might have left behind. Her nana’s closet yielded no cash, just her clothes, a few hats, and—much to Jilo’s surprise—her old doll, the red-haired one that had gone missing years earlier. The doll’s pretty face had been smashed, though whether by accident or design, Jilo would never know. For years she had thought it was lost forever, but now it seemed as if Nana had kept it stashed in her closet all along. Perhaps out of guilt for having caused the damage, certainly with the intent of having it repaired. The doll was clean, but its dress carried a musty scent, almost like it had been buried in earth.
They did uncover forty-two dollars in a mason jar, in the pantry, shoved in behind a row of bread-and-butter pickles, but that was about the only windfall they’d discovered. The search also unearthed a scrapbook beneath Nana’s mattress, filled with clippings and notes made in her nana’s hand about a family by the name of Maguire. Jilo had barely even scanned its contents; she was looking for cash, and the clippings seemed worthless. Still the scrapbook held some value to her nana, so rather than toss it, she put it on the closet’s top shelf, next to her father’s old cigar treasure box containing the cock feather. Neither was going to put food on the table.
The rain made another assault on the roof, coming down so hard that it sounded like a frantic banging of a lost soul seeking refuge. An angry flash of lightning, unexpected from a storm on a day nearly cold enough to snow, lit up her window, just before the electric light of the lamp on her nightstand flickered. The wind picked up, giving the old house a couple of good shakes. The closet door creaked slowly open. A trick of the flickering light made her, for the shortest of moments, think she saw the fingers of a lace-gloved hand reach around the closet door. An involuntary yelp escaped her, causing Robinson to pull back and look up at her, his tiny eyes widening in surprise, his face quivering, trying to decide if he should cry. Jilo blinked, and the illusion was gone. She patted Robinson’s back and turned him so that he could feed from her right breast.
An easily distinguishable chain of natural events, but the illusion still sent a cold bead of sweat down between her shoulder blades. She made herself chuckle at her own nerves, but she still held Robinson in a tighter grip. A rap on her door made her jump.
The doorknob jiggled, and the door began to open before she could invite her visitor in. “Jilo,” Binah called in a hushed voice through the enlarging crack. “There’s some white woman out front, banging on the door.” For a moment Jilo had a sense of déjà vu—an old memory very nearly surfaced before slipping back beneath the waves of the past.
“Well, go see what she wants,” Jilo said, her tone meant to convey that this was the obvious action. She tugged Robinson off her tit and settled him down next to her on the bed. He began to fuss. “Shh. Shh,” she repeated, trying to comfort him as she tugged her nursing bra—a gift from Poppy—into place, and pulled the top of her dress back up.
“I don’t want to. You come with me,” Binah said, casting a nervous glance back over her shoulder as a more insistent knocking sounded on the door.
Jilo quickly hooked the buttons of her dress through their loops. “She’s probably had trouble with her car. Maybe an accident out there in the storm.” After placing a cloth over her shoulder, she hefted up her growing boy and rubbed gently between his tiny shoulders. “She may be hurt,” Jilo said in a firm tone, hoping to spur her sister into action, but Binah just stood there shaking her head.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, girl. How much trouble do you think one woman, even a white one, is gonna cause you?” The baby gave out a loud and liquid burp. Rising to her feet, Jilo wadded up the cloth with one hand and handed it to Binah. “Here, you might as well be of some use around here.”
Another series of loud bangs sounded on the front door. “Yes, ma’am,” she called out. “I hear you. I’m coming.”
Jilo padded down the hall and through the front room, then thought twice before opening the door. She turned back to find Binah creeping along at her heels. She held the baby out to her. “Take Robinson to your room. I’ll see what the lady wants.” Jilo was amazed by her sister’s trepidation at meeting the strange woman. Binah snatched the baby from her and took off like a shot. Another knock wrested Jilo’s attention back to the door.
Jilo switched on the porch light, then opened the door just enough to get a good look at the woman—and to make certain that she was alone. The woman was older than Jilo. Certainly thirty, probably forty. She was well dressed, in a gray box jacket suit with trim in a darker shade of gray. A red pillbox hat topped with a pearl stickpin and a black birdcage veil. Her lips were painted a red that mirrored the shade of her hat. She stood there drenched and trembling in the cold, mascara running down her cheeks. But still she held her chin high, looking down at Jilo over the bridge of her nose. Her eyebrows were raised as if in expectation that Jilo would pay her obeisance. As Jilo took her in, it struck her to see how such vulnerability could be paired with such a look of haughtiness.