mushrooms.â
âIf youâre through with voodoo, why do you need the mushrooms?â
âYou never know,â Hussey said. âThere might be an emergency and I might need some Mambo powder.â
âA zombie emergency? Come quick! Someone needs to be made into a zombie!â he mocked.
âItâs better to have it and not need it,â said Hussy as she rose and began to walk away from the lake. âPick me up at Mama Watiâs in an hour. I still have some packing to do tonight. Why donât you go online and find us a nice hotel on the beach for the week before my classes start?â
As Hussey meandered down the dirt road toward Mama Watiâs little bungalow, she remembered the first time she met Mama and her husband Obadiah. Ten years before she and Cutter had been playing the buzzard game; then, as today, Hussey had lost the game by moving first and Cutter had been puked on. He had stormed home and she had taken the long way back along the small dirt road around the south edge of the village. It had been just about dusk and as sheâd gazed across the long cotton field on the north side of the road, sheâd espied a bonfire, blazing to the heavens.
Slipping into the line of trees bordering the field and sheâd made her way, unnoticed, toward the fire. As sheâd approached sheâd seen two figures dancing around the bonfire. A bale of what smelled like tobacco smoldered in the center of the fire, sending clouds of blue-gray smoke billowing into the air. The smoke had settled around the young cotton plants creating a thick pastel-blue ground fog that glowed in the twilight. Hussey had slid behind a huge live oak about ten feet from the fire and peered at the dancers.
A thin man and a large woman had been high stepping and gyrating around the fire. The woman had a deeply tanned face the color and texture of a Cuban cigar and had been dressed in a billowing skirt and loose blouse, a bandana tied around her iron-grey hair. Sheâd held what looked to be a dead chicken by the neck, its head flopping loosely from side to side as sheâd danced. Puffing on a large cigar sheâd sent clouds of grey-blue smoke wafting in a ring around her head. The cigar smoke mixed with the smoke from the fire and rose into the air. Behind the woman, a thin, old man had mimicked her dancing moves. Dressed in a threadbare swallowtail tuxedo and a frayed top hat, his face had been painted shoe polish black, with white circles around his eyes and thin white lines drawn above and below his mouth to indicate teeth. Little wisps of snow-white hair had stuck out from beneath his top hat and a small parchment-colored drum had dangled at his waist from a string tied around his neck. The old man had drummed in time to the dancing, or danced in time to the beating; Hussey couldnât tell which. Alternately, the couple had bowed down low and jumped high in the air as theyâd circled the smoking bonfire. From time to time each had leaped over the blazing fire, barely missing the lapping flames.
As Hussey had crept a little closer for a better look, sheâd tripped over an exposed root from the live oak and tumbled onto the packed earth beside the fire. The man had stopped beating the drum and halted, staring at her. The old woman had stood still, slapped her hands on her hips, looked down at Hussy and grimaced, as if Hussey were a turd in a punchbowl.
âWell, happy St. Johnâs Eve to you!â the woman had said, her hands on her large hips as sheâd stared down at Hussey. âKeep dancing old man,â the woman had commanded the man in the tuxedo. âDo you want to hex us?â The old man had resumed his counter-clockwise caper around the fire. As heâd boogied around the fire toward Hussey he had glanced down at her and tripped. Heâd flailed his arms, trying to regain his balance as he stumbled over her splayed legs, and heâd plummeted to the