Deona Skidmore

Creative Writing 3165

The Grand Master (2,318 Words)

The Grand Master arrived in her van, black with grime a barely legible red scrawl, Grand

Master Ruby Marquez and below, Voodoo Queen. It was the first time many of us had

even thought about Voodoo on any serious level, we were for the most part a strictly

conservative town. No one liked visitors but after the first rather speculative “New

Comers” article in the local paper, they treated the Grand Master with distant respect.

None the less she had some visitors to her Voodoo-Kitsch/Bookshop, largely out of

curiosity, except my boss, Mr. Dumas who seemed to be rather sure-footed around

anything the rest of us found a little bewildering. Even before the first visit ended it was

with a nearly audible hum that the rumor mill began its work. My own parents who

abhorred all forms of gossip and considered rumors downright trashy spoke of her in

quiet, clipped tones.

“Why the hell is she here?!” my father to my mother, or “How the hell should I

know?” My mother would retort before remembering that I’m standing in the room.

On remembering me she shoots me a quick strained smile, as if I were ten rather than

going-on thirty. I was my parent’s obsession and had been since I was born, my father

didn’t have any family left alive and we never talked about Mom’s family. All I knew was

that my mother was mulatto, and her family came from New Orleans. The only thing my

mother kept from her life before my father was a locket inscribed with the words “Piti,

piti, wazo fe nich li1” a notorious gift from her Haitian father.

***
1
Little by little the bird builds its nest. http://www.hartford-hwp.com/archives/43a/008.html

D. Skidmore 1
Besides journalists, few people cared about the quiet old woman who opened a Voodoo-

Kitsch/Bookstore. My boss, the once lauded Mr. L.P. Dumas was a self-proclaimed

theology-buff was eager to get another interview with her, and had every journalist in his

employ badgering the old Voodoo Queen for it. The journalist who snagged the interview

was to be given a raise and a beneficial promotion, Editor of the Journal’s sister project,

an up starting production called “Mad Cap” meant to air during the nightly news and fill

people in on things that people don’t have time to read about in recent tabloids .

***

Even after Monday when I assured my mother that I would not take the assignment if it

was given to me by some off chance. She called me on Friday morning before I had to

head into the office, and didn’t take long to cut to the chase.

“Hi Sweetie, this is Mom.”

“Hey Ma…” I’ll admit that I was a little taken aback that she would call at 5 am.

She didn’t get this determined about much.

“I really think that it would be best if you stayed out of the way of this Voodoo-

Woman article. I don’t think that it would be very beneficial if you were to support her.

You know how cruel politicians can be. It would have negative effects on your father’s

campaign. You know he is running in the fall elections.”

“I didn’t want to be involved anyways Ma, She deserves her privacy.”

My mother’s line went dead. Typical, morning wasn’t her thing.

I had in fact made it a point to stay out of the way as far as the interview went, so it came

as a complete surprise when Mr. Dumas showed up at my cuticle.

“Ready for a corner office, eh Porter?”

D. Skidmore 2
I looked up at him sharply, but he continued, “I find it impressive that she requested you

by name…” he clapped me on the shoulder and dropped a folded piece of plain notebook

paper on my desk. I unfolded it to reveal the Voodoo Queen’s note addressed to Mr. L.P.

Dumas in looping cursive.

Dear Mr. Dumas,

I do apologize for my previous refusal with your proposition of an

interview, however I would like to reconsider and meet with Mr.

James Porter. You will have him meet me at 12:00 pm February 17.

Thank You,

Grand Master Voodoo Queen Ruby

Marquez

The note was short and to the point, but I could not do this interview. I had too much to

worry about, life is hard, there’s too much to do, to keep track of instead. Go fly a kite

and all that jazz. No one should spend their life bothering people who preferred solitude.

It sounds funny, a journalist who hates interviews. But I took the job for my mom, when

we moved here my father wanted a campaign-wife. My mother surrendered her career

without a sound. But the Voodoo Queen asked for me, which could only mean that it was

fate, right? But I had never called her, wrote her, or anything, there was no reason that she

should know my name. It didn’t matter, I wasn’t doing the interview, but my intentions

were short lived.

***

“What do you mean you CAN’T DO THE INTERVIEW?!” His face was white.

What the hell did I get myself into? “We’ve been hounding this woman’s every step for 6

D. Skidmore 3
Goddamned months begging to get ONE interview. You are the ONE journalist she WILL

talk to.” The dignified Mr. Dumas shook with rage, his face reddened and he spat with

every word he spoke.

“I…I don’t believe in Voodoo, and I don’t believe that I will be able to treat the

article with the respect it deserves.” Give him something, I urged myself. Just give him

some reasonable excuse…

Mr. Dumas seemed to cheer up slightly. What seemed like a smile snaked its way

onto his face. “You will do this interview. If you find that for some truly philosophical or

moral reason that you cannot do this interview,” the way he stressed the words,

thisinterview, the words slurred together was almost comical. I didn’t get much time to

bask in my comic relief “….then you can gather your things and vacate the premises

within the hour. Goodbye Mr. Porter.”

I stalked out of his office with about half a mind to gather my things and leave, but if

Dumas found you unsuitable, no other company would have you.

***

Later that night I called my mother and told her what had happened, formerly a journalist

herself she would understand my conflicting interests. As a journalist, I wanted to explore

the entity that was Voodoo and the old Woman who’d decided to bring it to our town. But

as a son I felt the need to protect my parents from the repercussions of what could be the

foundation of a defamation of character during my father’s campaign.

Keeping my inhibitions in check I called to confirm the meeting date, time and location.

“Hello, Mrs. Marques, this is James Porter, the journalist that you requested to

meet on Monday, I just wanted to confirm a location.”

D. Skidmore 4
 “Hello James,” She replied. There was no Cajun-Queen in her accent, but slight

French. “I would be most comfortable doing the interview in my store but before we

could perhaps go and get something to eat. I’d like to be better acquainted before I tell

you my secrets.”

This seems like a reasonable request and I don’t know if I have it in me to tell her that it’s

not my job to take her to lunch, it’s my job to get her story.

***

I was to meet the Grand Master on a Monday in the Business district -- a strange place to

meet for lunch for anyone, but it seemed particularly out of place for the mysterious old

voodoo queen. At 11:30 I am seated in a booth close to the door in La Bistro Ristorante,

checking my tape recorder for a third time. In walks what I imagine to be a middle-aged

Amazonian complete with long braided hair and feather earrings. Surprisingly she walked

directly up to my booth, “James Porter?” I nod a response and she sits. I turn on my tape

recorder. Our waiter comes over and takes our drink order. She orders green tea with

honey, I order coffee black. She smiles widely, as though we were close friends rather

than the equivalent of strangers. I note her bright green eyes and ruby mouth, her

wrinkles were graceful and gave a sense of dignity and wisdom rather than age. She

opens her mouth, “So James, tell me about yourself.”

I tear my eyes away from her face for my reply, “But, Mrs. Marques…”

“Please, “she replies, “Call me Ruby, I think we’re going to be good friends.”

This woman is a freak, I almost think aloud. Getting out of here would almost be worth

getting fired anyway. But as I go to stand and walk away she grabs my wrist with ancient

strength. Pulling it closer to her face she stares into my palm. I sit to avoid the pain. Just

D. Skidmore 5
as suddenly she lets go. Our drinks arrive. My phone begins to buzz, my mother. Terrific.

I ask to be excused before I leave the table, Ruby appreciates this.

***

As soon as I answer the phone my mother begins with questions.

“Have you met her yet? What is she like?”

“I was trying to have lunch with her when you called mother.” I reply,

knowing that she won’t shut up if I give her any sign of softness.

She ignores me. “What is she like?” Now, she is insistent.

“I…I don’t know Ma. She seems a little…out there.”

“There’s your father -- I have to go.” Click.

Absently I wonder what it is about my father that stems her curiosity.

***

As I return to the table Ruby calls “So, how is your mother these days?”

These days? “How do you know my mother, Mrs. Marq-- Ruby?” I asked her. She looks

down at the table. “She didn’t tell you…”

“Tell me WHAT…” …you crazy old bat. I don’t like this situation. Everyone

knows something I don’t.

I miss parts of Ruby’s speech, “Your mother…” How did my mother, my mother,

the most pragmatic person I’d ever met besides my father have anything to do with this

woman? “eloped with Carson…” It’s not hard to know my father’s name, I almost scoff.

He’s a politician. “they moved and took you away…I just wanted you to know…I’m old

now. I’m going to die soon and I want to leave my things…my voodoo” She chuckles

darkly, “But you don’t believe in Voodoo of course. I could tell from your palm.” Of

D. Skidmore 6
course she could…I guess she is the Voodoo Master or whatever. “I just want to leave my

legacy to someone in my bloodline. Your mother wouldn’t accept my phone calls...”

And the best way to get to me was through work. Huh…well that’s something special,

come to keep your job, and leave…and leave…and leave what, I wonder.

***

Before I have time to establish what’s happening or talk myself out of it we’re in my car

and I’m speeding toward my parent’s house. My fingers dial her number furiously,

finally the phone begins ringing. She answers on the third ring, “Hello? …James?”

“Start talking. She told me…”

“What did she tell you?” My mother asks confusedly.

I change my tone, “Stop acting, you’re a fucking adult.”

I can almost make out what she’s telling my father. Then she sighs, “Why don’t you come

over and tell me what you’re talking about.” She muffles the sound to reply to my father.

But I can just make out “…my mother.”

She wasn’t lying.

I hadn’t even put the car in park yet before I was tearing through the house in search of

my mother -- lying bitch. The Voodoo Queen would have to take care of herself. I hadn’t

yet begun to accept that this crazy vagabond wild-woman could be the mother of my

conservative, weak-willed mother. I found my parents in the living room, seated together.

My mother’s hands were clasped tightly together, my father’s were fisted.

My mother sees me first, “James…finally, now you can tell me what you were going on

about on the phone.”

“She told me, mom. She told me. I’ve had a family for 30 years…”

D. Skidmore 7
“What are you talking about? James…what about a family?” She questions. As if to say:

WE are a family. Moron. Of course you’ve had a family for thirty years

“NO!” I shout risking melodrama that my father is sure to call me on “I only

know that you’ve never talked about your family. She’s my grandmother. I’ve had a

grandmother for thirty years.” The realization washes over me, my will power lays

abandoned and tears well in my eyes.

My mother remains stoic and silent for a moment.

“Joan,” my father has decided to step in, this isn’t good. “Joan, maybe it’s time to

tell him.” My mother looks up, a fierce new sadness in her eyes.

“Before you were born, Your father and I lived in New Orleans where my family

lived.” My mother pauses, presses a handkerchief to her mouth. She stifles her own pain.

“We had a daughter, your sister. We left her with your grandmother one day, but

something went wrong. There was a gas leak…” She stifles a sob. My father speaks

again, sounding strained. “Your grandmother was making lunch, when she turned the

oven on everything caught fire. The firemen said there was nothing they could do.” I sit.

“Then…why were you so curious about the Grand Master?” I’m trying hard to reason.

My mother smiles, “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard or seen anything authentically

from Louisiana.…”

“But…the Grand Master then…”

I rush out of the house as hastily as I rushed in.

***

“Who are y…” I shout to no one.

D. Skidmore 8
My car and the streets are empty. There is no sign of the Voodoo Queen.

D. Skidmore 9