Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

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.”

“There’s the door.” She tilts her head toward the entrance. “If you want to run.”

I drag a glance over her wild hair, and sultry eyes, the high, full breasts straining against the sunshine silk, and the lips that beg to be kissed.

“I’ll take my chances,” I finally reply.

She doesn’t answer, but the knowing look she gives me all but says that’s what I thought. The server brings our food, giving me the chance to shift the topic to less dangerous ground.

“That looks good.” I point my fork at her shrimp and grits.

“So does yours.”

I ordered a veggie plate of black-eyed peas, collard greens, and macaroni and cheese.