The dead child gained no entry, the only tattoo for which I’d paid finally proving its worth. Frustrated, he reached for Nate. I reached for salt, and the boy dissolved with petulant cries. Other spirits approached. I could not dispatch them all.
child thrashed in a vulgar parody of dance, beat set by throbbing bead.
Madame Laveau had been crowned Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, and the
queen judged her son unworthy.
I wondered if my mother, spirit
loosed from glass, would find me wanting. Compelled, I lunged for the
wretched jar, seeking salvation or damnation. Either would do.