Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(40)

She watches me for a few seconds without speaking, probably suspecting that my follow-up question is even more awkward. “My great-grandmother MiMi,” she says. “Mine and Iris’s, made one for me and one for Iris. It’s a gris-gris ring, like a talisman for protection. I never take it off.”

“Okay, and that night Chase said it was somehow connected to voodoo?” I leave the question open-ended for her to explain as much as she’s willing to share.

“Chase always runs his mouth about things he needs to be quiet on,” she replies, stirring a straw in her Bloody Mary. “Gris gris is a voodoo practice. Amulets, jewelry that invoke protection for the people who wear them. MiMi made them, along with potions and herbs and other things to help people when they had problems.”

I frown, trying to assimilate the information into something that makes sense. “So she was . . .” I clear my throat, not sure if I want to hear her answer. “What did she do? What was she?”

“She was a voodoo priestess, Kenan.”

Lotus may as well have said her great-grandmother was an alien who immigrated from Neptune. I wait for her to say she’s joking. Gotcha. Psych.

“Lotus, what does that even mean?”

She looks at me unblinkingly. “Many of the women in my family practiced voodoo.”

“You mean like during slavery or—”

“MiMi was the last one who practiced, and she only passed away two years ago. That was her livelihood.”

My smile dies off. I’m not sure how to approach this. Lotus looks perfectly serious. “Do you practice voodoo?”

“Practice is a strong word.”

“Uh, no. Voodoo is a strong word. I mean, do you actually believe in it?”

She doesn’t answer for a few moments, but twirls a stalk of celery in her drink.

“I decided that wasn’t my path,” she says. “I am who I am, Kenan. I can’t change my blood. There will always be things in my life I can’t explain to other people.”

Her lashes raise to reveal the pride in her eyes. “I feel no need to explain them. I don’t hurt anyone, and I help when I can.”

The server comes to take our orders, but that interruption doesn’t dispel the tension my question introduced, and as soon as she leaves, we resume our fascinating, if slightly odd, discussion.

I search her expression for some clue to this lovely enigma. “So do you believe in spells and potions and stick-pin dolls and—”

“I believe we don’t know everything,” she cuts in. “And I believe there are forces at work bigger than me.”

“Forces at work? Lotus, I know you grew up with these . . . superstitions, but—”

“These superstitions, as you call them, have roots going back to Africa, to Haiti, to people who had nothing to depend on but their faith, whatever form that assumed. That was part of how they survived.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Religion is a cultural coping mechanism. They had nothing to depend on, so they made these constructs to give them something they believed could save them—could improve their lives or guarantee something better when they died.”

Her full lips tighten, then loosen into a tiny smile.

“You don’t believe in an afterlife?” she asks

“I believe in now. It’s the only thing I can see and prove. It’s rational.”

“One man’s rational is another man’s cowardice.”

“You think I’m a coward because I’m not religious?” I ask.

“No, but I think faith, real faith, requires bravery. With every prayer, we risk heartbreak.”

“So prayer and voodoo?” I ask. “How’s that work?”

“People would come see MiMi with their Bibles in one hand, and leave with one of her potions in the other. Voodoo and religion grew up together in Louisiana like kissing cousins, whether it was the Baptists or the Catholics.” She laughs, resting her chin in her hand. “MiMi started and ended every session with prayer.”

“Session?” I rub the back of my neck, not even sure I want to know but asking anyway. “What happened in those sessions?”

Her expression shutters.

“MiMi was the most important person in my life,” she says, her voice stiff and starched. “I won’t expose her to mockery. I want to keep liking you, and I’m not sure I could if you thought of her as foolish or said the wrong thing.”

“Hey.” I put my hand over hers. “I don’t mean to insult your great-grandmother, or your mother, or—”

“MiMi was the last. My mother didn’t practice.” She looks away and toward the door. “Neither did her sister, Iris’s mother. Neither did our grandmother.” Her lips thin and twist with cynicism. “Now they were the ones who really knew how to cast a spell on a man.”

I want to ask, to probe, but Lotus said before there were things she didn’t want to share yet.

“I just need to know you’re not making dolls of me and sticking needles in them or something,” I say to lighten the atmosphere.

A smile dispels her sober expression. “I save the dolls for the really bad guys.”

“I’m not sure if I should laugh, feel reassured, or run for the hills.”