Patricia Geary - Strange Toys

Not very pleasant. It reminded me of… Deane’s room. Gone now, dust to dust.

I glanced at the sign above the door.

My whole body wrenched, like I was about to throw up. Then I looked both ways on the street, quickly: no truck hurtling toward us .

My heart slowed to normal. No truck, and no family either. They’d already turned the corner to Antoine’s. Plus, we weren’t in the T-bird.

“Goddammit, Pet!” Stan’s voice carried well. “You’ve got exactly thirty seconds to—”

But I was already running. Next morning, I’d be back, alone.

As soon as the first pale gray rays of light filtered through the white curtains, I was up. I emptied out the poodle bags and counted $112.39. That meant I could spend a hundred dollars in the voodoo shop. Twelve dollars plus the fifty for Christmas presents left sixty-two dollars, which was enough for three of the good kind of plastic horses for June, a real silk tie for Stan, and something wonderful for Linwood, if I found it and it was under forty.

I put the hundred dollars in a Hilton wet-laundry bag. But what about the toys? My gut feeling was: carry them with you. Afterward, they’d go back in their individual bags. And Deane’s book.

I dressed quickly, hoping to beat the storm. The gusty wind might wake up June, but actually people always seem to sleep later when the weather’s bad, as if it prolongs their dreams.

I grabbed the sack and my coat and an extra room key and stealthily slid out the door. Outside, the cold breeze was flattening down the green bushes, fluttering their tendrils.

But this would be okay. I felt powerful and rich and strong. Whatever the disaster was, I thought I could avert it.

Down on the street, the world was stormy and wild, and you couldn’t smell that usual day-before-Christmas odor. Bourbon Street, from my position at the far end, appeared deserted. Discarded cups, rolling about, cocktail napkins, bits of foil blew everywhere, an urban snowfall. Yet, as I passed one grimy bar after another, I saw they were still open—there was always one old guy talking to the bartender—but not alive, and the sour whiff of last night’s drinks and cigarettes kept hitting me smack in the face.

A group of photos with a woman and some snakes caught my eye, so I stopped to look. No one else was nearby, and the icy wind blew up the bottom and sleeves of my coat.

“Suzanne” sported a dimpled waist, hammy thighs, and two of the largest, firmest breasts I’d seen this side of a Barbie doll. Poor old Sally. This snake didn’t have a chance, even though he was as big around as her arms, which were decorated with slave bracelets, like the one I wore now over my biceps. Once you got your eyes off the breasts, you realized that her arms were amazingly strong. No Hannah this, but nevertheless there was real strength there, especially in the photo with the hapless serpent stretched over her head.

“Really something, hmmm?” One of the overcoat types was standing next to me on the sidewalk.

You could smell the liquor and the cigarettes, and there was another smell too, the one Tommy had that night. It was the way men smelled when they didn’t mean you any good.

Acting out of some new instinct, I reached down into my pockets where I could feel the poodle toys lumped together in their underwear bags. I thought about my cigar box, and I thought about Hannah.

“That’s a man, you know,” the old guy leered. “Would you like to meet him in person?”

I thought: strong .

I thought: power .

I said it over and over in my head: strong-power, strong-power , until I forgot where I was standing and everything. It was like that weird light on the second floor of Madame Miraculo’s. My hands began to tingle, and then my forearms tingled, and then my elbows, and then my shoulders, and then my whole body felt warm and pure and chock-full.

When I opened my eyes, nobody was standing on the street next to me, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a light-suited man with pecan-colored skin.

Quick as lightning, I was after him. He turned, I turned. He was fast, nothing but a shadow. He disappeared inside a shop and I whipped in after him.

It was the voodoo store, of course.

“Where’s Sammy?” I panted out to the very fat man behind the counter.

“No Sammy here.”

I caught my breath. “Yes, there is,” I insisted. “I was right behind him.”

“There was nobody in front of you and there’s nobody here.” His voice was as cold as Sammy’s but he was so different. First, he was fat. Second, his skin was pale yellow, like the inside of a banana. Third, he was all decked out in scarves and green velvet pants, like a gypsy. I’d only met Sammy twice, but I knew that wasn’t his style.

I scanned the store. Herbs and dolls and trinkets and candles. No Sammy, no visible truck. No nothing. What was I doing here, anyway?

“Besides, little girl, we aren’t open yet.”

“Oh.” But the door had been open, hadn’t it?

“In fact,” he continued, “I’m just cleaning up, then I’m on my way to bed. We open after twelve.” He began to shoo me in the direction of the door, as if I were a stray cat.

Strong-power, strong-power . “Wait!” I cried, on the threshold.

“Yes?” His hand was on the knob.

“I have to buy something.”

“Well…”

“I have to,” I said. “I have to get it now, before it’s too late.”

“Do you have any money?”

I held up the Hilton wet-laundry bag.

“Okay,” the fat man said. “Ten minutes. What do you want to buy?”

I started to say I wasn’t sure, but then I figured that would be a strategic error. “I need to keep something bad from happening.”

The fat man resumed his stool behind the counter, a professional look on his face. “What sort of bad thing?”

“A wreck. And I also need to disappear my, uh, sister. And I need to get this man to come see me again.” Go for broke.

A wrinkle of intensity appeared between his eyes. He rubbed his earlobe, where a large gold ring appeared painfully heavy. “You want Uncrossing. You want Disappearance. You want Attraction. Am I right?”

“Yes.” I swallowed hard.

“Okay.” His voice was reasonable. “What makes you think there’ll be a wreck?”

“My sister predicted it.”

“The sister you want to disappear, I presume?”

A hint of temptation, but no. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“And how does this man figure in all this?”

The whole thing sounded pretty stupid, but I plugged on. “He has something he wants to trade me.” Something to make Deane go away, which would make the wreck go away.

It all came clear.

“Look,” I said. “I’ll make it easier. I want the best, most powerful thing you have that will make somebody appear, no matter what.”

The fat man narrowed his eyes. “How much have you got in that bag? All pennies, I bet.”

“No, sir. It’s a hundred dollars.”

He smiled, and I saw the sharp tooth, like the alligator’s. “I believe we can help you,” he said.

Stupid me . First I’m only a child, now I’m a chump. Yet, what else was the money for, except the off chance that magic might work?

After rifling around under the counter a moment, the fat man produced a large key. “Follow me,” he instructed.

We went through a curtained niche with the sign: voodoo museum $2.00, over the archway. Inside was dark and glitter and candles, and the smell, thick as destiny, was exactly like Deane’s room. For a moment I felt scared, and I had to pee, but it was all reflexive and my eyes adjusted to the dim.