Tipitina
The doctor and the magician stood at the end of his mother’s bed. Occasionally, they would lean over, grab a clammy wrist or run a hand over her sweat-drenched body. Mostly, they stared at the woman wasting away on the bed in front of them. Jackson hovered in the corner, ruddy-faced, his hands behind his back. Whenever someone mistook his age, which people often did, he would say as indignant as a politician that he was twelve now. He wasn’t a child anymore. He was a growing boy and he was old enough to know that his mother needed help. Running through the streets of New Orleans, Jackson called first on the local doctor and then the magician for his help. Neither of them came straight away; they were very busy. Nevertheless, they arrived on his doorstep several hours later, suitcases in hand.
“If you want my medical opinion,” the doctor said, an aging man with more hair on his face than his scalp. He was looking at the magician, who was far younger and dressed like a slick salesman. “Untreated cancer. Of what sort, I can’t quite say. But in terms of survival she is beyond my care.”
The magician merely nodded, keeping his eyes on Jackson’s mother. The doctor shrugged and plucked his suitcase from the floor. “Do you have any relatives, uh, Jackson, was it?” he said, turning to look at the boy. Jackson knew where that question led. He told the doctor about his Aunt who lived a couple of streets over, failing to meet the doctor’s stare. His nearest relatives lived in Georgia. “Good. Maybe see if they’ll take you in for now. If the magician can’t offer any help, come and fetch me. I can make your mother’s final days… a little more tolerable.”
Without another word, the doctor stepped out of the room and disappeared. Jackson didn’t hear him go. The word ‘cancer’ echoed through his ears. Everything else stopped. There was no house, no doctor, no magician. It was just him, a dark room, his mother and the spectre of cancer. It camped in every recess of his mind. He knew what that word meant. Every time it was uttered in the schoolyard, whispered in passing gossip that some boy’s relative has the disease, it was swiftly followed with that student taking several days off school. A pilgrimage was made to one of the graveyards dotted around the city. Still, it hardly made sense to Jackson. Cancer was something that happened to other people’s family; it couldn’t be what had buried itself deep inside his mother’s body.
Jackson came back to the room just as the magician was leaving. “Sir? Sir?” Jackson said, rushing forward and catching sight of the cringe that crossed the young man’s face. “Are you helping her?”
“Look,” the magician said. “Your mother’s dying. I’m sorry for your loss. I suggest you take up the doctor on his kind offer of easing her suffering. Now, I really need to get back to my work.”
Following the magician out of the bedroom, Jackson kept a respectful distance while refusing to let him disappear out of sight. “But, sir, can’t you do something? Can’t you magic the cancer out? I heard that the Society did that for Billy Rowden’s dad, and he was back at work at the bank the next week.”
There was another cringe, another sigh. “It’s possible, of course, to remove the sickness. But it takes a lot of time and money. And quite frankly, I have little of the former to spare and judging from this home, you have nothing of the latter. So, take the doctor’s offer and don’t disturb the Society again.”
Jackson stalled on the stairs, his foot frozen in the air. Something was squeezing all the oxygen from his body; he couldn’t swallow. Even when his mother fell from bed, even when she began to sweat from every pore and struggled to eat, he was sure that someone had the power to help. The realisation that no one was going to save her came as a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for breath. There had to be something. Jackson thought of every schoolyard story, every tall tale, and then to his summer adventures with Freddie. With the scent of a campfire in his memory, he remembered Freddie telling him how he had helped saved a young woman’s life the night before with the rest of the neighbourhood. Jackson knew that Freddie didn’t live in a rich street, none of those people did. He took off after the magician.
“Sir, sir!” Jackson called, the man nearly out of their garden. “Couldn’t we use black magic?”
The magician turned to look at him for the first time. His fists clenched and his voice whipped harshly at Jackson’s neck. “Black magic? Black magic! I knew your mother was a woman of questionable morals, boy, but this is something else. If she wasn’t already dying, I’d report you both to the Society. Black magic? That savage, primal bag of cheap tricks? And who would we employ to use such magic? No civilised practitioner would do the work, and that’s only proper. The last thing we need is for cross-contamination. We start using black magic and they might start thinking they’re entitled to practice ours. Now, get back inside your house, boy, before I do decide to report you.”
Even then Jackson didn’t move straight away, his feet frozen on the front step of his house. If the choice was between saving his mother and being reported to the Society, Jackson knew which choice he would take in a heartbeat. The magician snatched the option from the boy’s hands. He turned and marched down the street. In a single second of hesitation, Jackson’s chance of saving his mother evaporated. The doctor was gone. The magician vanished. Upstairs, his mother laid in a bed, some monster killing her from the inside. Jackson knew he should be there with her, holding her hand, but he couldn’t move from the porch. He wasn’t even sure if his mother was aware she was dying. He didn’t know how he was meant to tell her. There was no school subject, no class, which dedicated an hour and a blackboard on explaining how to tell a parent they were dying. There was no textbook with advice for orphan-hood. Dropping to his knees, Jackson tried to hold the tears back, but it was as useless as trying to halt the tides.
Several neighbours spotted him on the porch, his grief on display, and some even loitered for a moment. No one came up the path toward the boy, though. Instead, he sat there crying, and when the tears stopped flowing, he sat in silent. The sun was high in the sky and Jackson could feel his skin begin to pinken like the inside of a cut of beef. A science teacher had once suggested the sun could give a man cancer and Jackson wondered if the same had happened to his mother. He scurried back into the shadows. He could almost feel the cancer burrowing into his tender flesh.
“Jackson, you alright?” a quiet voice said from above. Freddie stood in front of Jackson, his arms wrapped around his body.
“Yeah, ‘course. It’s nothin’.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Freddie said. He walked up onto the porch and sat down. Jackson shifted to give him space, knowing that his friend wanted to get out of view. The neighbours would glare and mutter loudly whenever the black boy came to the street. “So, what’s the matter?”
Jackson shrugged, sticking to his story of nothing. He didn’t want to talk about it; he was being weak. School had taught him real men didn’t cry, that they didn’t talk like women. They pushed the hurt deep inside and went to work. This wasn’t any different. He couldn’t do anything, no one could. The magician and the doctor had told him that much. There was no point talking to Freddie about it and if he did talk, Jackson knew he would only cry again. It was bad enough being caught tear-stained, but he couldn’t face the idea of sobbing in front of his friend.
“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine,” Freddie said, he leant back against the wall of the house. They often talked here, hidden from the street by the garden bushes. “But I think you should talk. Ma said that if you’re hurting, you got to talk it out. Talk to everyone. Talk to the priest, to the doctor, to the strange old man down the road. Each of them takes a little bit of the pain from you, too little for them to notice, but soon you ain’t got much pain left.”
“Cancer.” The word hung in the air.
“Who?”
“Mama,” Jackson said. He thought about adding more, tried to give more of his pain away, but his throat was so tight it felt like no other sounds could ever escape.
Silence filled every inch of the porch. It was only broken by the melodies of the neighbourhood, people coming and going, starting cars and slamming doors. Jackson could feel his own chest rising and falling. He tried to keep it steady, to not let it become a tornado that overcame him. It got harder and harder. With each inhale, his mother was a second closer to death. Someone should be watching over her; he should be watching over her, but every time he thought about that darkened bedroom, his breathing only grew shallower. Jackson wished Freddie would say something, or leave, or do something but sit next to him and stare. He snapped.
“You gonna say somethin’?”
“Don’t know what to say,” Freddie said, offering his own shrug. “Are they doing something? The doctors or the Society or whoever?”
“Nah. They say it’s too late, or it’s too expensive.”
“Expensive? Since when is magic expensive?”
“I’m just sayin’ what they said,” Jackson said. They never talked magic much. White and black magic were so different, it was like trying to talk in a foreign language. Whenever they did, though, Jackson always got the impression that Freddie really saw magic, proper magic, being done. He never did. White magic was done in boardrooms and properly secured libraries. “Freddie,” Jackson heard himself saying, “do you think black magic can save my mama?”
“But your ma is white.”
“Does that matter?”
Freddie paused, his eyebrows furrowed. Jackson’s heart skipped a beat. A pause was not a no. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen us doing magic on a white person before. I don’t even know if black magic works on whites, but,” Freddie said, the hint of a grin buried under his respectful concern, “if it didn’t work on whites then I guess they wouldn’t be so afraid of it, right?”
Jackson nodded. Everyone at school talked about voodoo spell and black curses in hushed whispers, gossiping at how certain politicians or policemen would be cursed by black matriarchs. Teachers explained how black magic was seductive and destructive in equal measures, how blacks couldn’t be trusted to use white magic in case they corrupted it. No one had ever suggested that white people were immune to the effects of the voodoo practitioners scattered throughout New Orleans. He felt a surge of hope.
“How long your ma got?” Freddie asked, jumping to his feet. He straightened his clothes as if he was readying himself to meet a priest.
“I don’t know. Not long.”
“I’m going to talk to Ma and ask her what she thinks, okay?” Freddie said, running a hand through his hair. Jackson got the feeling he was trying to make it more presentable. “There’s a juke joint tonight so maybe…”
Freddie left the hope hanging in the air as he headed down the path. Jackson wished he would break into a run, but they had learnt last summer that it was best if Freddie never did anything but walk slow and respectful-like through the neighbourhood. It was much the same when he returned an hour later, except a woman was now in tow, her hand wrapped tightly around Freddie’s. Jackson still sat on the porch. Mrs Lee, Freddie’s mother, always looked incredibly tall from a distance but as she walked up the garden path, Jackson could tell that in a few months he would begin to tower over her. The illusion of height came from her posture, as if she walked with a steel spine. Mrs Lee’s skin was a shade lighter than Freddie’s, but Jackson knew better than to ever say anything about it. Freddie had once told him how his father had teased her about it, about how some planter blood must have got into her family’s genes. Mr Lee was nursing a black eye for the next two weeks.
“Hello Jackson,” she said. Her voice was far softer than usual. She looked around the neighbourhood, her hand scratching behind her ear, and Jackson saw curtains flutter from an invisible breeze. “Can we come inside?”
Jackson nodded. He lifted himself from the porch, his legs dead and struggling to carry him into the house. It already looked emptier now, the dark corners of the front room more prominent than yesterday. Hovering awkwardly by the door, he grasped at some reflex of social decorum. “Would you like a drink, Mrs Lee? I think we’ve got some soda, or tea, or somethin’.”
“Why don’t I get you something, Jackson? I think a soda might do the trick, right?” Mrs Lee said, smiling. He had never seen her smile like that before. It looked so sad. “Frederick, why don’t you go upstairs and check on Mrs Thornton. Don’t wake her if she’s asleep.”
A few minutes later, they were all sitting around the tiny dining room table, tucked away in the corner of the front room. Mrs Lee had poured them all a glass of soda and Freddie had checked on Jackson’s mother, who was still asleep. He had looked down at his feet when he explained that he could still see her body moving. Jackson nodded, understanding what his friend was saying: she was still breathing. He swallowed at the lump in his throat and reached for his glass, trying to wash it away. It didn’t move.
“Now, Jackson, I need you to be strong here, okay?” Mrs Lee was saying and Jackson looked away from his glass. “We’re going to see about helping your mother, if we can. Frederick says it’s cancer.” Jackson nodded. “And the doctors can’t do anything?” Jackson nodded again. “And the Society won’t help?”
“They said it’d be too expensive.” The fire in Jackson’s veins was quenched for just a second at Mrs Lee’s disapproving snort.
“Alright then, and the doctor doesn’t think she has long? Okay. Well, okay then. Frederick, you stay with Jackson. I need to talk to some people. Because if we’re going to do something, we need to do it tonight. Before someone can kick up a fuss.” Before Jackson could even think to ask what type of fuss could be kicked up, Mrs Lee was on her feet and halfway to the door. “What’s your mother’s Christian name, Jackson?” she said, pausing for a second.
“Roberta.”
***
Mrs Lee knocked on the door as the sun slipped behind the neighbour’s houses, throwing a golden hue across the entire street. She was smiling, her proper smile. Jackson felt just an ounce lighter, trying hard not to be washed away by a flood of unconfirmed relief. Freddie relieved him of asking the question consuming Jackson, the boy asking his mother if they were going to help. Mrs Lee nodded, told both boys to put on some warm clothing, and went upstairs to talk to Jackson’s mother. She came back downstairs with a lock of blonde hair in her fist and ordered them out of the house.
Walking through the city, Jackson began to sweat. It had nothing to do with the temperate autumn night. No matter where he looked, faces were staring at them. Furrowed eyebrows, narrowed eyes and thin lips followed them through the city. “Just keep walking, Jackson,” Mrs Lee muttered out of the corner of her mouth. “We’re not doing anything wrong. Just keep walking.” Jackson couldn’t help but notice that her stride grew longer. Freddie and he were soon panting to keep up. Her pace only slowed when the Mississippi came into view. Jackson had been to Freddie’s home once or twice, and usually he would walk quickly through the narrow streets. With Mrs Lee, though, he felt much happier than he did in own neighbourhood. While people still stared at them, the faces were now ones of polite confusion rather than hostility.
Others began to walk in the same direction of them, young families and old couples stepping out of their homes and being caught in the current of the stream of pedestrians. The congregation turned and headed toward the rundown building in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable street. The paint on the building was peeling and an upstairs window was boarded up. People kept flooding in, though. Laughter and music bubbled out onto the street and the cocktail did it best to ease some of the heaviness out of Jackson’s soul. Mrs Lee put a hand on his back and guided him toward the building, nodding at the man at the door. The tall, bald man chuckled as he saw Jackson walk past.
Inside the building, there was a single room, packed with chairs and tables. Light bulbs were fixed haphazardly across the walls, a golden glow filling the area. One end of the room had a makeshift bar where drinks were already being poured. On the other side, the floor was raised to become a stage, a band already plucking, blowing and tapping away at their instruments. Craning his neck and standing on tiptoes, Jackson could spy a piano, a double bass, a set of drums and an array of horns. He wanted to move closer, to watch the musicians in action, but as more people swarmed into the building, he found himself being dragged further and further away from the stage.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Mrs Lee said, and there was a melody to her voice, “that you’ve never been to a juke joint before, Jackson?” He shook his head. “Freddie will stay close with you, but we’re going to need to find someone to keep an eye on both of you. I know what trouble you two can get up to.”
Ten minutes later, Jackson found himself being presented to the oldest looking man he had ever seen. Wrinkles were layered on wrinkles, and the few wispy locks of hair were as white as untouched paper. There was a twinkle in the man’s deep set blue eyes, though, and he grinned a full set of teeth as Ms Lee pushed Jackson and Freddie in front of him. He sat at a small table at the back of the room, flanked to one side by the bar. He had a bourbon in front of him. A cane was resting across the table, the wood as rough and as gnarled as the man himself. While Jackson loitered awkwardly up to one side, Freddie immediately took a seat and went to grab the glass of bourbon from the table. The cane was rapped across his wrist in the blink of an eye, followed by a coarse, throaty laugh.
“Not quick enough yet, Mr Lee,” the old man said, shaking his head, the grin still plastered on his face. “One day you’ll get there.”
“Allen,” Mrs Lee said. “Do you think you can look after the boys for me tonight?”
Allen nodded. “So, this is the boy who’s going to cause the ruckus tonight? Pull up a pew, son, and watch the fireworks.”
“Ruckus?” Jackson said, looking up at Mrs Lee. He didn’t like the sound of that; he didn’t want her or Freddie to get into any trouble because of him.
“Don’t you listen to him, Jackson. He’s a dreadful trickster,” Mrs Lee said. She didn’t sound like she believed herself. Before Jackson could decide whether he wanted to challenge her, though, she was gone, disappearing into the sea of people that filled the room. Dragging his heels, Jackson sat down at the table with Allen and Freddie.
“I’m sorry about your mother, but hopefully we’ll do right by her tonight, right Freddie?” Allen said, and Freddie nodded vigorously. Jackson offered a weak smile and then gratefully took the opportunity for some soda. Allen never looked away from him for long. “Your friend ever seen black magic before, Mr Lee?”
“No,” Freddie said. Jackson felt a strange urge to contradict him, to insist he possessed a worldliness that he didn’t otherwise have.
Allen laughed and took another sip of his bourbon. “I’m looking forward to tonight. Always enjoy a Tipitina. It gets the blood pumping.”
Not wanting to highlight his naivety any more, Jackson didn’t ask what a Tipitina was, instead choosing to look around the room. The other two seemed content to let him sit in silence, chattering away about things that Jackson only tangentially knew existed: Freddie’s school, the water problem over in Dixon, the ever-trundling renovations in the black library. Jackson knew these things must have existed, had maybe even heard Mrs Lee or Freddie say something about him before, but the knowledge was as distant and impractical to him as knowledge of the solar system. Glad that they seemed content enough with not highlighting his ignorance, Jackson watched people greet old friends and chew the fat. There wasn’t a single other white face. The room was filled with words he hardly knew. Once, Jackson had been the only child in a roomful of adult and he had never felt smaller, hiding in the corner. He felt much the same now. No one glared at him, though. No one peered through curtains and narrowed their eyes. No one raced over to him and asked what he was up to. He wished his neighbours were as nice to Freddie.
“Thank y’all for coming out here tonight,” a man called from the stage. Jackson craned his neck, but he could barely see the figure through the sea of heads. “We’ve got a heck of a night in front of us, and hopefully everyone has a great one. Now, Eva is going to run through our ritual list for tonight.”
Mrs Lee appeared on stage, still wearing the simple Sunday morning dress that she had worn when visiting Jackson’s home. Her skin was smoother under the lights, though, more radiant than before. “I hope you’ve all brought a lot of soul tonight, because we’ve got a packed schedule. Daniel and I are going to perform a spell for Mrs Thomas and her husband, who are going through a difficult period. Then young Nathan is going to put a blessing on his new marriage. We’ve got a few charms to put on the levees. Reverend Frankton has requested we show our love to our God. And finally, we’re going to end with a Tipitina.”
“A Tipitina?” someone from the crowd yelled out. “Who’s dying?”
Mrs Lee paused and Jackson found himself sliding deeper into his chair. “My boy has a friend and his mother is dying. She lives, uh, on the other side of the city.” Pandemonium broke out.
“You mean the white boy?” A man yelled. The entire room swivelled to look at Jackson now. He could see a vast watercolour of emotions painted in front of him: anger, confusion, and even a smile or two.
“His name is Jackson Thornton and his ma is dying,” Freddie said, standing up and puffing out his chest. It did nothing to dispel the debate.
“Why are we doing our magic for a white woman when they don’t let us use their magic?”
“Their magic? It isn’t even their magic, son. No such thing as White Magic, it’s just a fancy way of saying normal magic.”
“And we’re not allowed to use it! Now you want us to use black magic to save this woman’s life? I bet she doesn’t even think we’re humans.”
“I don’t care what she thinks, she’s a mother and this boy is hurting.”
“Can I say a few words?” a low, smooth voice broke through the arguments. A man was walking up onto the stage and Mrs Lee stepped back to give him the limelight. He wore some checked shirt and plain brown trousers, but he carried himself with all the dignity of a saint. He had a bible clutched in his hand and everyone fell silence.
“I must admit I’m still an outsider to this institution, to this city even. I came to lead your congregation at the request of your old reverend. And I know us North Carolinians do things a little differently than down here. But this was the type of magic I grew up. Fusion magic. The poor of all races are just as discouraged from white magic as we are. So, we worked together for a time, and our spells were only stronger, until the rich man taught the poor to hate.”
“Exactly, they hate us!”
“Because they were taught to,” Reverend Frankton nodded. “What are we teaching this boy, right now?” In the silence, Jackson wished he could slip away beneath the floorboards. “We’re all ignoring the more important point here, anyway. Mrs Lee says we’re going to sing a Tipitina, so we all know, no matter how much we debate this, we’re going to end up singing a Tipitina.”
There was a single hacking laugh and everyone turned to look at Allen in the back of the room, slapping his knee. Then others joined in, and soon the tension of the room was drifting away. Reverend Frankton gave Mrs Lee a little smile and headed back to his seat, leaving her alone with the band. Drinks began to pour again and people took their seats around small tables. The man who had originally spoken from the stage was now behind the piano, his fingers sliding up and down the keys, a tune slowly building up and filling every inch of the room. Mrs Lee walked to the back of the stage and out of a bruised and battered cardboard box she pulled out a woman’s dress and a man’s jacket.
“Clothes from the Thomases’,” Allen whispered in Jackson’s ear. “For the magic to work you need something to stand in the person’s place, something that belonged to them: clothes, hair, even a motor of theirs if you’d like. What you folks like to call voodoo dolls, I reckon.”
The piano player’s tune twisted into something else, and he was joined by the other members of the band, a different sound coming together. It drew the attention of the room. At the same time, Mrs Lee stepped forward and began to sing. She was joined by the pianist, who must have been Daniel, their voices tumbling over each other and harmonising almost into one single sound. Without thinking, Jackson was already tapping his foot against the floor, and nearly everyone was following the beat in some form. Allen’s fingers bounced off his cane in time with the drummer.
“Baby please make a change,” Mrs Lee and Daniel sang, and the entire room sang the words back to them. Jackson jumped.
Again, Allen was at his ear as the song continued. “Feel free to join in whenever you want. The magic is all about the community buy-in. The band, well, they build up the magic. We all stomp our feet and clap our hands and it adds a little more. Then the singer, her job is to direct the magic. Give it focus. Craft the spell just right. And then, she throws out a line, dangles a hook in the water and we sing back, and we pour our energy into that spell. And now a weak little spell is as powerful as the entire community. So, sing along if you want.”
Jackson was used to hearing stories of potions and ingredients, hours of crafting, of carefully constructed spells and intricately drawn ley lands. That was the magic he was accustomed to. He couldn’t understand how singing had such power. Nevertheless, he could feel the air crackle with something strong and when the song finished and Daniel rounded off the last note, the room was filled with thunder and then the energy was gone, evaporated in the blink of an eye. No one batted an eyelid. They simply moved onto the next song, the next spell, and Jackson watched. For half an hour, he almost forgot why he was there. The heavy darkness clouding over him parted for just several songs as he watched a man sing to his new wife, a golden light surrounding them both as he sang, and then the entire room came together to sing about walking down the levees. Salt filled the room, driving deeper and deeper into his nose, until it fell away at the end of a French horn solo.
The gospel songs followed. Jackson noticed the energy fell a little bit as several of the men wandered to the bar to refill their glasses. Allen was one of them. Most stayed at their tables, though, and belted out the songs with such fervour that Jackson was sure he saw Reverend Frankton shed a tear. The man kept his bible close to his chest and when the final song was finished, he nodded and muttered thanks to Mrs Lee and the band. Everyone in the room was smiling and any discomfort loitering deep inside Jackson’s bones had left. He felt completely at ease. He couldn’t help but feel that this was what church should have been like, total peace with the world.
A lull gently ebbed out, the room coming to a restful silence, and then Daniel began to play at the piano. On his own, he slowly pieced together a tune, working his fingers along the keys. The music weaved together, and now that he knew what to look for, Jackson could feel the magic vibrating under each note. People returned to their seats as the double bass joined the piano, and then the drums, layering magic on magic, stacking them up like the heartiest of waffles. By the time the horns had joined, rollicking in without warning, sliding perfectly into the dance between instruments, a few feet were being tapped and thighs were being slapped.
“That’s right, Daniel, ease them into this,” Allen said.
Jackson almost asked why the crowd had to be eased in, they had been a willing accomplice all night, and then he saw that Mrs Lee stood centre stage, the lock of his mother’s hair in her hand. This was it. His heart thundered as loud as the drums on stage. His mother’s life was hanging by a single thread. He stood from his seat, trying to see over the crowd and then Allen was there, telling him to climb onto the table, ordering Freddie to do the same. From the table, they could both see the stage, Mrs Lee swaying in time with the beat of the band. With a nod to Daniel, she began to sing.
“Well, Roberta, well, Roberta; girl can’t you hear me calling you? Well, you’re six times seven baby, you know just what you got to do.”
“Well, Roberta,” Mrs Lee sang again and she was met with a few reply, several of the women singing the words back to her. Jackson’s heart sank. It wouldn’t be enough. “Well, Roberta; girl, you tell me where you been. When you come home next morning, you’ll have your belly full of gin.”
Jackson could feel the electricity building around him, but it was a bubbling, weak energy. It was like water trying to boil on a too cold stove. Mrs Lee took a step back and Daniel led the band again. The drum quickened its beat; the bass went louder. The horns began to take charge, fighting the room, grappling with everyone’s reluctant. As the music grew louder, more and more people found themselves unable to hold back. They whistled along with the horns and slapped the table as if they were the drummer themselves. Allen grunted in approval behind Jackson, and Jackson could feel something begin to build. The band was working the room into a fervour. Daniel ran his fingers along the length of the piano and a cheer broke out. Everyone on stage was grinning, even Mrs Lee, and it was infectious. The crowd was looking at loved ones and friends with massive smiles, bobbing their heads in time with the music.
The music steadied for a moment, holding the spell in check, keeping it under control. Mrs Lee stepped forward and to Jackson her voice sounded like rapture. “Why don’t you hurry, little Roberta; you got company waiting at home. Won’t you hurry, little Roberta; don’t you leave that boy alone.”
“Don’t you leave that boy alone!” the entire room sang, their voices almost angry, as if leaving Jackson was unthinkable. The air crackled and he felt the hair rise on his arms in unison. Not a single person stayed quiet.
“Tipitina,” Mrs Lee sang.
“Tipitina!” the crowd chanted.
“Tin-na-na.”
“Tin-na-na!”
“Tipitina.”
“Tipitina!”
“Tra-la-la.”
“Tra-la-la!”
Jackson’s entire body shivered, goosebumps covering him as the energy in the room kept building. Even Mrs Lee looked surprised, her face breaking out into a massive smile as she tried to control the spell building beneath her. “Tipitina holla walla malla dolla, Tipitina-tin-na-na.”
She looked at Daniel and Daniel nodded wildly, his entire body moving in time with the music even as he continued to play the piano. The drummer had his eyes closed, not even looking at his instrument. The double bassist’s hips moved almost indecently. The men on the horns were glistening in sweat.
“Tip-tip-tipitina,” Mrs Lee sang again.
The crowd roared back, “Tipitina!”
“Tin-na-na.”
“Tin-na-na!”
“Tipitina.”
“Tipitina!”
“Tra-la-la.”
“Tra-la-la!”
“Tipitina holla walla malla dolla, Tipitina-tin-na-na.”
“Now tie it together,” Allen said, on his feet now, his hands shaking.
Mrs Lee stepped back, each instrument falling away one by one, until it was just Daniel on the piano, easing the spell to a close. He teased the song to an end, wrapping the ritual in a bow, holding the magic tight. The energy crackled and the thunder that burst through the room made the ceiling vibrate. Jackson could hardly see Mrs Lee through the tears in his eyes.
***
The car rolled down their street before the sun had even come into view. The lawn was still soaked with dew and Jackson didn’t quite understand why his mother was in his room, a sack in her hand. Climbing out of bed, his feet pressing into the cold wooden floorboards, Jackson looked out his window and saw his uncle from Georgia standing by the car. Jackson rubbed at his sleep-filled eyes, but nothing in his vision changed.
“Mama, why is Uncle Jack here?”
Jackson’s mother was already dressed. In the week since the juke joint, she had already started to recover some of her lost weight and her face wasn’t quite so pale. “We’re going to borrow his car and head up to see your Auntie while he packs up the house.”
“Packs up? What?”
Jackson’s mother didn’t slow as she walked around the room and shovelled clothes into the sack. “Look, honey, I appreciate what you and your Negro friends did for me. More than you can ever know, and I told Mrs Lee that to her face. You know I’ve never had a problem with you hanging out with that boy. But, the neighbours are talking. They saw Mrs Lee come to the house; they saw you leave with them. They know what you lot did, and well, I can’t have that hanging over my head. The Society will no doubt want to question me too. It’s just better this way. No one will know about whole thing in Georgia.”
Jackson didn’t think to argue or fight, to even run away and force his mother to stay home until she found him. The rug had been pulled from beneath him and he was left shell-shocked. He wandered aimlessly through the house until his uncle nodded at him and his mother took him by the hand and pushed him into the car. His eyes flicked to his watch, and tried to understand how twenty minutes ago, he was fast asleep, the happiest teenager in the world, and now he was being pulled away from his house, maybe never to see it again. It was only as they reached the outskirts of the city did he look back and realise he was meant to meet Freddie later to go fishing.
