THE VOODOO PALACE

by Johanna Nauraine

Shortly after we married, my husband, Drake and I bought a Victorian mansion on the edge of a crumbling Chicago neighborhood. The house had twelve foot ceilings, heavy pocket doors, floors that creaked like old bones and a staircase that listed to the right.

There were cobwebs in the corners and rooms we'd never use but the house was impressive. We were young and proud of being among the nouveau riche. The house was flashy, our black pearl.

I hired a decorator who filled the rooms with expensive designer furniture by Mies Van der Rohe. The S shaped chairs had tubular arms that glittered like chrome bumpers and carmel leather seats that looked almost edible.

Since my graduate thesis on Voodoo practices had taken me to Haiti many times —  Haitian artifacts and primitive wooden masks graced our walls and shelves. The furnishings were almost swallowed up by the oversized rooms.

Too late, Drake and I realized the house was less a home than a museum. As a result we spent summer months outside on our rear deck or lying in our two man hammock strung between tall elms in the backyard. There, we would read poetry out loud to each other — Rilke, Hafiz, Emily Dickenson, William Carlos Williams and on Sundays we'd listen to classical music while swapping sections of the New York Times.

In winter the house was drafty. There were boarded up fireplaces in every room and the wiring was iffy. During this frigid season we would retire to the third floor library, our bodies wrapped in Pendleton blankets, playing endless games of chess in front of a blazing fire and drinking expensive brandy.

One October evening, shortly after Drake and I returned from another of our frequent trips to Haiti (we'd fallen in love with the place, having spent so much time there) someone rang our doorbell.

It was unusual to have a visitor that time of night. Darkness had already settled in the trees. The street was quiet. I answered the door with Drake following behind.

Standing on our doorstep was a man whose dreadlocks swung long and matted to his waist, like bristled blond rope. He had a long facial scar and rotted teeth. I thought he was probably one of the homeless people or drug addicts who wandered our neighborhood looking for handouts.

  The man glanced over my shoulder at Drake and said, "Hey, man, could you help me with my car? It's not working."

Drake, ever the Boy Scout said, "Sure, let me take a look."

He exited the house and followed the man to an old beater parked at the curb. I wondered if Drake was getting himself into a predicament with someone dangerous and unreliable. My hands tingled. I felt slightly dizzy. Was this another instance where Drake's naivete' would have a bloody outcome.

Ten minutes later, Drake re-entered the house with the stranger trailing behind. I started humming — a nervous habit from childhood. But Drake seemed oblivious to my discomfort and l chose to say nothing.

As the two of them passed through the house, I noticed the man staring at our furnishings, as if taking inventory.

The two of them took the back stairs to the basement. Drake called up, "We're just getting some tools."

  The entire time they were down there I listened for loud thumps, a strangled cry, the sound of a fist smacking flesh. But I heard nothing except my own rapid breath.

I was livid at Drake for bringing this stranger into our house the night before he was leaving on a ten-day fishing trip to Canada. He hadn't even considered the fact that I would be alone in a house with no alarm system, sleeping in our second floor bedroom where I'd be unable to hear someone breaking in. What if this straggly, unkempt stranger returned after Drake was gone? What if he was intent on breaking in and stealing from us to support a drug habit?

The two men emerged from the basement carrying wrenches, screwdrivers and jumper cables. I followed them to the front of the house and watched through the picture window as they hunched over a small, dinged up car, its hood open, their heads companionably close as if they were brothers.

Their efforts must have been successful because a half hour later the stranger got into his old car and drove away. When Drake came back inside, carrying his tools, he brought a swath of cold air with him. He must have guessed I might be mad because he winked at me as if flirting might alter my mood.

I followed him to the basement and watched as he returned his tools to their rightful place. Then I turned on him.

"How could you bring that guy into our home?! I'm going to be alone for ten days and he knows where we live!"

I picked up a discarded car battery, it's weight like a small bomb and threw it at Drake. It hit him in the shin, leaving a red gouge.

Drake bent over and rubbed his shin then looked at me as if I were insane. He didn't apologize for his actions which made me even more upset. This is the man I married? He seemed immune to my feelings of vulnerability. He gave a low grunt then  turned and climbed the stairs.

That night we went to bed without speaking. I lay awake contemplating the next week and a half, wondering what I would do if the stranger returned.

Early the next morning, from our upstairs bedroom window, I watched Drake leave, clutching his navy duffle and fishing gear in his hands. I felt a mixture of sadness and residual anger at his thoughtlessness. He hadn't even bothered to kiss me good-bye.

Two hours later a high wind began whipping around outside the house, rattling windows, creeping across the floor. Everything in the living room began to freeze — the furniture, the drapes, the wall lamps — until every beautiful piece was covered in ice. A cold breath like thick fog swirled around my legs. There was a low pulse like a heartbeat drumming in my ears. I was shocked and unsettled by these strange changes.

I wondered if the Voodoo gods were retaliating for my anger at Drake. Emotional turmoil between family members often creates openings for spirits to enter and express their displeasure.

Because of our many trips to Haiti Drake was familiar with Voodoo practices too. Maybe he was angrier at me than I'd realized. Could he have placed a hex on me and the house?

The first night Drake was gone I slept in the living room where I could watch the front door. I woke every few hours, shivering in my sleeping bag, getting up and walking barefoot across the frigid floor to check that the front door was locked.

Each time I lay back down I imagined the stranger opening the front door, knife in hand, walking towards me with a malevolent glint in his eyes. Then I pictured Drake  standing on a river bank thousands of miles away, grinning like a fool, a huge fish dangling from one hand, its mouth in a rictus of pain.

In the morning I rose, muscles aching from the night's tension. I built a fire in the fireplace but the ice that encased our belongings didn't melt. The living room shimmered like a glass palace. I was freaked-out by this otherworldly encroachment of our home.

I went to the kitchen and poured all our liquor down the drain so I couldn't resort to drowning my fear. Then I hacked a chicken to pieces and smeared its blood across the threshold of the front and back doors. This would keep evil spirits from entering the house.

That evening Drake called just as I was getting ready to climb into the sleeping bag on the sofa for a second restless night. He sounded dopey which is how he got after he'd been drinking. He said, "Hey Sugar, how ya' doin'?" like we were old pals.

I said, "Fuck you and your mother."

There was silence on his end of the line, then he said, "Am I speaking to Evelyn?"

I thought about what was happening inside the house and was almost certain  Drake had something to do with it. I didn't know any rituals to expunge a curse so my anger towards him grew in intensity. My mouth grew fangs and I hung up the phone.

On the third night of Drake's absence I heard a pounding on the front door. I looked out the picture window and saw the homeless man standing on our front stoop.

I got ready to call 911 but something stopped me — an invisible hand on my shoulder pulling me back. As soon as I lay the phone down the pounding ceased. Maybe he'd gotten discouraged and walked away.

After that the days began to run together, the hours passing in perpetual twilight. I wrapped myself in my down sleeping bag and sat by the fire stoking it regularly.

I called in at work and told my secretary I would be out of the office for two weeks. Given that I was the advisor for several graduate students I phoned them and left messages that I was currently unavailable but would be in touch soon.

Over the course of the next several days my fingernails grew longer and longer until they resembled claws. This gave me a giddy sort of pleasure.

I'd been avoiding mirrors because I could tell my appearance was changing and I wasn't ready to face it. I could feel that my once luxurious hair had become impossibly matted. When I looked in my closet for something to wear, I was drawn to a long black caftan, its sleeves billowing when I moved, the long train dragging on the floor like a limp body.

After Drake's first attempt at reconnection he stopped calling me. Maybe he didn't want to encounter my anger again or he guessed his curse was working and didn't want to know its effects.

Being out of touch with him was just as well. I didn't want to admit what was happening to me or our house. It would just give him an opportunity to gloat.

Over the ensuing days, dark green vines began crawling up the walls until the entire living room looked like a medieval forest. I heard a lute playing in the distance. The sound seemed to come from our third floor library, its melodies so tangled and hypnotic that I fell asleep, waking only to eat.

I had been a vegetarian for the past several years but now I was ravenous for meat. I wanted something dense and bloody to chew on.

Then the black Haitian masks began speaking to me. At first I was startled by their animation. Then it seemed perfectly natural. After all, they once belonged to someone living.

The most fearsome mask was of Bondye, the creator in Voodoo. He was resting on our fireplace mantle, his smile, more of a grimace.

Bondye said, "Priestess, how can we serve you?"

This is awesome! I have followers who are eager to do my bidding.

I said, "I want nothing except the continued comfort of my home."

Bondye said, "Then you have to do away with the man."

"What man? You mean that homeless guy?"

"No, the man who lives with you."

"But why?" I asked.

"He will always disappoint you."

My knees felt weak and I collapsed onto a nearby chair. Can I give up Drake? Do I want solitude and a calm existence enough to banish him from my life? It was a frightening prospect.

My eyes flicked around the room like a nervous horse. I saw Drake's favorite cap atop a bookshelf. He wore it to cover his premature bald spot. There was something endearing about his effort to hide what he considered a flaw.

I thought about our summer Sundays, lying together in our double hammock and our wintery evenings bundled up by the third floor fireplace, reading contentedly, each of us silent company for the other. Yes, he did stupid things from time to time but he wasn't a complete asshole.

I looked at Bondye. "No, I miss him. I want him back."

I saw a tear trickle down Bondye's face. There was murmuring among the other masks, as if they were having a colluqouy.

Then there was silence. The room grew warm.

Over the next few hours the ice began to melt from the furniture. The vines shriveled up and fell to the floor like autumn leaves. I swept them into piles and dumped them into large garbage bags.

The blood I'd smeared on the thresholds to the front and back doors seemed to evaporate and I felt a strong desire to shower, change my clothes, brush my hair. My husband would be returning soon.

The next morning, when Drake came through the front door, he looked apprehensive. I'm sure he was wondering what my mood might be.

But I embraced him enthusiastically and said, "I missed you, love. The house was so empty without you."

I glanced at Bondye whose face was frozen in a grimace. Despite his disapproval a sense of peace came over me. I had emerged from the glass palace and no longer needed the camouflage of the medieval forest or the thick walls of a fortress.

It had taken a long ten days and a bizarre spiritual journey to realize, good or bad…Drake was my home.

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