Secondhand Spirits (4 page)

The little girl's smiling face came to my mind, unbidden.

“I heard
that
,” Maya said as she ran up the basement stairs. I followed on her heels down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the back door into the cool evening.

A small crowd had gathered about a block down the street in front of a run-down white stucco duplex, the front door wide-open. A distraught woman had collapsed on the concrete stoop. A young tattooed man held her and seemed to be speaking, but the woman was inconsolable. Several children of varying ages stood nearby, wide-eyed and silent, some softly crying.

“My baby!” the woman screamed.
“M'hija!”

“What happened?” Maya asked as we approached the outer ring of the crowd.

A skinny young blonde with the pallid complexion and hollow eyes of a drug user gave us the once-over, apparently decided we weren't a threat, and answered.

“Her daughter got snatched.”

“Snatched? You mean kidnapped?” Maya demanded.

“Whatever.”

“Did anyone see who did it?” I asked.

“Dunno. It was probably her dad or something.” The young woman shrugged and turned away. An intricate tattoo of a snake ran up her bare arm, and as I studied it the reptile seemed to come alive, turning to me and staring in challenge, its forked tongue lapping in my direction.

There was evil in the air. I reached for my medicine bag and mumbled a quick incantation.

Much more grounded in the real world, Maya whipped out her cell phone and dialed 911.

The people around us murmured in a mixture of English and Spanish, rumors and speculation already beginning to ripple through the crowd. As I watched them, external sounds fell away until I was able to hear only two whispered words rising above the rest: “
La Llorona
.”

My stomach fell. Those of us who grew up near the banks of the Rio Grande knew—and feared—
La Llorona.
According to legend
“
the weeping woman” was abandoned by the father of her children because she was of a lower social class, or because he fell in love with another woman—the details shifted depending on who was telling the story. This much was clear: The anguished mother took her children down to the river and drowned them, one by one, finally flinging herself in to join them in their watery grave. Now she haunts the banks of rivers and creeks, crying for her lost babies and abducting children who happen to be out at night, adding their souls to her brood.

La Llorona
scared the
mierda
out of me.

“Maya, what in the world's going on, child?”

Maya and I looked up to see Mrs. Potts clomping toward us, using a walker to arduously make her way down the uneven sidewalk. The crowd parted, letting her through.

“We're not sure yet, but it looks as though a child was taken,” Maya said.

Mrs. Potts gasped and held her hand to her mouth, then looked to the woman on the stoop.

“But that's Jessica's mother. . . . You . . . you're saying
Jessica
was taken?”

Maya and I exchanged looks.

“Maybe it's a misunderstanding,” Maya said. “Sometimes kids hide, don't they? I'll go see if I can find out anything concrete.”

Maya started moving through the crowd, talking to the bystanders. I stayed with Mrs. Potts, trying to lend moral support with my presence. Maya was right; there could be some sort of misunderstanding.

I would be more hopeful myself if only Frances and I hadn't heard
La Llorona
's horrifying scream a few moments before in the basement.

As I watched the young tattooed man holding the sobbing mother on the stoop, his dark eyes focused on something across the street. Following his gaze, I noticed a small cluster of young men, all slouching in huge red oversize T-shirts and baggy jeans that sagged to their crotches. Strong, muscled arms crossed over their broad chests or stuck deep in pants pockets. Each one of them glowered at the young man on the stoop. When the wail of a police siren finally cut through the noise of the crowd, the men roused themselves and loped off down the street, unhurried.

Looking back toward the stoop, I watched the young Latino glare at the retreating men as though he were shooting daggers at their shoulder blades. Even from my position twenty feet away, I could feel his anger, almost smell its acrid scent.

A police cruiser pulled up, prompting the majority of the bystanders to disperse.A uniformed officer approached the mother, while another began working the crowd, taking statements. When he reached us I told him that Jessica had been at Frances's house earlier, and gave him my contact information. Frances did the same. Afterward, since we had nothing more helpful to add to the investigation, Maya and I walked Mrs. Potts back home and sat her down at the kitchen table. I filled the kettle for tea, but Maya unearthed a bottle of whiskey from a crowded sideboard and poured a shot into three small juice glasses, saying it was “for medicinal reasons.”

Frances suddenly looked every one of her advanced years, and then some. She sat in a straight chair at the old pine table, clearly distraught but trying to fight tears. My heart went out to her as she smoothed her helmet of thick white hair and toyed with the buttons on her beige cardigan.

“Could I call someone for you?” Maya asked, placing her hand on Frances's stooped shoulder. “Your daughter, perhaps?”

Mrs. Potts looked up. “
No
. No, don't call her.”

“But you shouldn't be alone—”

“Don't call Katherine.” She grabbed Maya's hand. “Please, promise me.”

“Of course. Whatever you like,” Maya assured her, taken aback by her vehemence.

“I just . . . don't want to disturb her,” Mrs. Potts said. “She's got her own family to worry about. There's no need for her to come sit with a silly old woman. I . . . I'm expecting my lawyer to come for dinner, anyway. She'll be here any minute.”

“A lawyer who makes house calls?” Maya asked with a ghost of a smile.

Frances nodded, and returned a shaky smile. “I bribed her with a home-cooked meal. Herbed pot roast tonight. I have my own little kitchen garden, you know; never did know a frozen vegetable to come close to the taste of fresh.”

“You remind me of my Grammy,” said Maya. “I'll never forget her rhubarb pie, straight from the garden.”

As I watched them both trying to rally their spirits, I had a profound realization: When I made the decision to settle down in San Francisco, I promised I would stop keeping myself at such a distance from people. Somehow I had failed to intuit that Jessica was in danger, but at least it was in my power to protect dear old Frances.

I asked to use the bathroom. Frances directed me to turn right down the hallway, then right again.

The corridor was so dark I had to feel my way to the doorway, my hand finally landing upon the light switch. The powder room retained none of the historic charm of the rest of the house; it had been remodeled some time ago—probably in the seventies—in ugly harvest gold linoleum tiles matched with avocado green fixtures.

I closed the door and started rifling through drawers. Collecting clothes wasn't Frances's only pack-rat tendency; I doubted she had cleaned out this vanity since the Nixon administration. In one drawer were boxes of generic tissues and Q-tips, in another an old tin coffee can full of spare buttons, air freshener, another heart-shaped sachet, and shoe polish. Pushing aside an ice-blue quilted satin glove box full of seriously old tubes of mascara and pale cakes of powder, I finally found something I could use: a hairbrush.

Carefully extracting several strands of white hair, I wrapped them in a tissue, and tucked the little package into the back pocket of my jeans.

I flushed the toilet to complete the ruse. When I opened the door to the hallway the light from the bathroom streamed out, illuminating a series of framed family pictures on the opposite wall. There was a photo of a much younger Frances, beaming beside a man with a crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses; a girl in cat's-eye glasses and bangs cut straight across her forehead; and a slightly younger girl in a matching dress. The sisters were towheads, with that pale, wispy hair unique to young children and forever mimicked by hairstylists. On either side of the family portrait were more pictures of the children. There was a series of school photos of the older girl as she grew, but only one more picture of the younger child, this time with her mother. They were seated on a bench near the water. Frances looked very stylish in a hat and gloves, and was wearing the deep red outfit that I had dropped in the basement. Beside her sat a cherubic-looking girl about Jessica's age.

I took the photograph from the wall and cradled it to my chest, concentrating. Pain coursed through me. This photo had been held often, kissed, and cried upon. This must be the daughter who had died.

I rehung the picture, feeling a new level of resolve.

Frances had suffered enough. I had no idea why she had heard
La Llorona
's cry, but that demon would not nab two souls in one night. Not if I could help it.

I glanced down at my watch. I needed time to prepare a brew and cast my protection spell before the witching hour, when
La Llorona
would be strong enough to hunt down those she had already marked for death. Most folks think the witching hour is midnight, but in my experience it was three a.m.: the time between the night before and the morning to come, when humans were most vulnerable and the supernatural opportunities were ripest. The in-between time. When the spirit window opened widest between our worlds.

By the time I returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Potts's dinner guest had arrived.

“Lily, child, this is my lawyer, Delores Keener,” Frances introduced us.

“Nice to meet you.” She nodded with a warm smile. In her early forties, Keener was the type of woman often referred to as “handsome,” the tall, solid kind who grew better-looking with age. She wore a beautifully tailored, immaculate cream-colored pantsuit and carried a maroon leather Coach briefcase overstuffed with papers. Her otherwise businesslike mien was belied only by her styled platinum blond hair, which lent her a rather incongruous, but not unattractive, bit of Marilyn Monroe glamour.

“Lily is here for all those old clothes in the basement. She seems to think someone might want them.”

“Really? That's great,” Delores said. “Frances here is like the Imelda Marcos of dresses.”

“How you do go on,” Frances scoffed, but smiled at the good-natured teasing.

“I was telling Frances how impressed I am with a lawyer who makes house calls,” said Maya.

“Frances and my mother go way back. And I never could resist pot roast.”

“It smells great,” said Maya.

“Delores, I must tell you the most dreadful thing that just happened . . .” Frances began.

As Frances launched into the sad tale of the past hour, Maya and I excused ourselves and went back down to the basement.

“Angling for a dinner invitation?” I teased.

“I'm just worried about Frances, all alone in this huge house after . . . after what happened. But I suppose Delores will stay with her awhile.”

“Besides, that pot roast smelled amazing. Must be the herbs.”

Maya smiled. “Okay, I am getting hungry. I'll admit it.”

“Let's take care of all this, and then we can stop for a bite on the way back.” It was on the tip of my tongue to invite Maya home with me so I could cook for her, but then I remembered I had a spell to brew and a busy night of spell casting ahead of me. First things first.

We started hauling our seven Hefty bags of vintage clothing up the steep stairs of the basement, down the hall, and into the front foyer. The streetlamps shone through a stained-glass window near the parlor fireplace, casting jewel-toned light onto the worn Oriental rug. A sturdy oak grandfather clock ticked off the moments, the sound practically echoing through the empty rooms. Maya was right—how did Frances manage here all alone? This was a grand house meant to accommodate a big family, with children running about, parents busily taking care of business, and grandparents spinning tales of their youth. It was easy to imagine a day a few decades ago, when the home would have been filled with music and the voices of three generations. Then again, it was just as easy to envision the desperate, tragic day Frances's youngest daughter was lost forever.

Clothing is one of those things, like water, that you don't realize is heavy until you deal with it in bulk. Maya and I were panting by the time we lugged the last of our many bags out the front door, down the broad wooden stairs, along the cracked concrete steps to the sidewalk, and finally into the van. After our third trip I leaned back against the dusty vehicle, taking a breather.

I glanced down the street toward Jessica's house. There were now several police cars, both marked and unmarked, in front of the duplex, but the crowd had evaporated. I got the distinct impression that Bayview- Hunters Point was the sort of neighborhood where most residents did not knowingly put themselves in the path of authorities of any kind.

Maya and I returned to the kitchen to say good-bye and found Delores Keener comforting a weeping Frances.

Feeling awkward, I watched as Maya hugged the elderly woman, busying myself by writing Frances a generous check. I pay a lot more than the average secondhand shop, in part to get the best stuff, in part to help out needy seniors. Besides, the truth was that I ran Aunt Cora's Closet more for the sake of my own sanity than for the income. I had never been above using my special talents to develop a fat stock portfolio.

Maya and I climbed into the van and headed across town. We were well out of the Hunters Point neighborhood before Maya broke the silence.