“You're the boss, Queen. I'll let him know we'll catch up with him and Mickey tomorrow. I'll just take my baby to get our test and pick you up later.”
“Mickey? Are you sure that's a good idea?” I assume he's aware of the argument she and I had yesterday. I'm sure Nigel filled him in.
“Yeah, it'll be cool. He says Mickey's not tripping off of that anymore, but I am. How come you didn't tell me her man's been trying to push up on you? I'm going to have to have a word or two with that nigga.”
“And that's exactly why I didn't say anything.” I step through the front door so Netta won't hear us. “The last thing you need is a confrontation with that fool. You've got your baby to think about, Rah. Besides, Bryan was there to handle it for me and I'm not afraid of him.” I look inside to see Netta head to the back of the shop.
“Well, you should be. He's nothing to play with. I tried to tell Nigel that shit, but he didn't listen either. But now he's coming after you and you know I can't have no more competition. You already letting this white boy hang around too much as far as I'm concerned.”
I knew he wanted to say something about me kicking it with Jeremy, but he's held his tongue so far. I don't have time to get into it with him right now about any of this stuff. “I'm looking forward to kicking it with you and your daughter, Rah. Let's stay in that moment, shall we?” I reach up and give Rah a big hug before heading back inside. Maybe I'll have more clarity about how to deal with everything after working with Netta all day.
When I step back inside, the shop's lights are off and the candles are burning throughout the cozy space. Incense and sage are burning in the four corners, cleansing the air. The African drums and soft, Cuban male voice drifting through the speakers in the ceiling take my mind briefly off of my own drama, centering me on my new task.
“I'm glad you could make it this morning, Jayd. We have work to do and it starts at the shrine. Put your things up and change.”
I've been waiting to get back to the picture hanging above Netta's shrine. The woman at the river has been haunting my thoughts on the regular.
“Yes, ma'am,” I say, putting my purse down in the cabinet with my name on it. I retrieve my personalized pink apron from the hook along with a clean white scarf to tie around my head. I drape the opening for the apron over my head, careful not to mess up my ponytail. I then tie the scarf over my smooth waves, ready to get to work.
“And when we're on the clock, you can call me Ms. Netta. It gives us an air of professionalism, okay?”
Nothing about this shop screams professionalism, but I'll play along. Now is probably the best time to ask Netta about my problems with Rah, Sandy, Mickey and Nellie. I'll take advantage of the quiet time before the shop's crowded with clients.
“Ms. Netta,” I say, sounding sweet as honey, much to Netta's liking, judging by the big smile on her face. She leads us into the shrine room, passing me a brass bell and a mason jar full of water as I cross the threshold. “I need to talk about Rah.”
Netta silences me by putting her index finger up to her lips and closing her eyes. “Not now, baby.”
She walks toward the east corner of the room and lights the first of five white tealights on the different levels of her tiered shrine. The candlelight brings a warm glow to the tiny room behind the main shop and helps to set the tone for our entire day. Most would see this as a storage room or an office space. But in Netta's shop, this is where the magic begins.
“Get on your knees, Jayd, and give your head to Oshune,” she says, pulling me down beside her.
“Can I ring the bell?” I ask, feeling like I need a little help giving my worries away. I've got too much on my mind to let it all go just like that.
“Yes, little queen, ring away. Whatever helps you let go of that load you carried in with you this morning is alright with me.” Netta takes the mason jar away from me, freeing my hands up to ring my bell. She opens the lid, dipping her fingers in the water and splashing my face several times. “You can't touch anyone's head until you clear yours.”
“But that's why I wanted to talk to you. I have a lot going on and I need help sorting it all out,” I whisper as I gently ring the sweet-sounding bell. I feel like if I talk too loud I'll offend the spirits of everyone living up in here. And from the chills on my arms, there are more present than I can probably count on all of my fingers and toes. At first glance, it appears that the lady in the picture is swaying to the sound of the music, before refocusing her gaze back to her reflection in the water. Working here is going to be a trip.
“Sometimes the best conversations are had in silence. Some of the best wisdom is attained by simply listening. You'll see.”
The doorbell rings announcing the first arrival.
“Okay. So, how do I get the day started?” I ask, following her lead as she rises from her station on the floor.
“You can start by cleaning the shrine. Then follow the instructions marked in the spirit book for each client's products. They are very specific, so pay close attention. When you're done, you can come out and help me in the front.” It's going to take me all day to finish these orders. “And don't worry. You'll get all the advice you need from the ladies in the shop. Get busy, girl. We've got a long day ahead of us.”
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Netta's morning candles have melted down all around the shop, creating a soothing ambiance throughout. Netta serves brunch during the weekends as well as snacks, tea, and coffee throughout the day, all compliments from her and Mama's kitchens. She doesn't allow any other food or drink to be consumed in the shop and makes it known through the various signs posted on the walls.
Cleaning up and filling the clients' orders took up the entire morning, but it felt good to busy myself with Netta's spirit book. I also got to listen to the candid conversations between Netta and the several clients that have come and gone in the four hours we've been open. It's only eleven-thirty and I'm already tired, with about seven more hours to go. I don't know how Netta does it, but she works the entire weekend like this and never complains about it.
The most interesting conversation came up when a young single mother who's a relatively new client of Netta's came in to get her press touched up. She has a long weekend planned with a few different dates and made the mistake of letting the women know. Once she left, the real conversation began. They called her everything from a prostitute to a gold digger and then some. I asked how they were defining gold digger and we've been on the topic ever since.
“Words are tricky, little girl. Gold digger originally came from Mama Oshune, ain't that right, Mrs. Jenkins?” Netta points the skinny comb at me before parting her client's scalp.
“Mmmhmm,” Mrs. Jenkins hums, nodding off to heaven, I assume. She looks so peaceful in Netta's chair. I hope I have the same effect on my clients. She's got this elder, Christian sister giving praise to a Yoruba deity right before Christmas. That's how powerful Netta's comb is. Netta leaves her station to check on Mrs. Robinson and directs me to take over Mrs. Jenkins's head temporarily.
“A gold digger was a beautiful, powerful, independent woman who only dealt with men who were equal to her. Your great-grandmother Maman Marie was said to be one, and your grandmother, too.”
It's a bit strange being here without Mama to censor Netta. Who knows what she might say next.
“Yes, that's what I remember,” Mrs. Robinson says from under the dryer. How can she keep up with a conversation surrounded by all of that noise and heat? That's why we keep the magazines there, so folks can read instead of trying to talk. “Your grandmother was something else back in New Orleans.”
About eighty percent of the original Black population in Compton is from the south. And the majority of Netta's clientele and Daddy's church members are from either Texas or Louisiana.
“Me too. My grandmother used to tell stories about that Maman Marie,” Mrs. Jenkins says.
She better not say anything cross about Maman or I'll heat this oil up and burn her scalp.
“She was supposed to be the prettiest, green-eyed gold digger around town. Them Creoles always could snag a man with little effort, no matter who he rightfully belonged to.” Mrs. Jenkins flinches at the extra-hot oil dripping onto her scalp, but continues with her hating. “Ooh, them Creoles work my nerves, with their privileged, high-falutin' airs and such.”
Mrs. Jenkins sounds a lot like jealous to me, but I wouldn't dare say that aloud to an elder. Because these women and others in their hater's club have boring lives, they spread rumors about fascinating women who live their lives, no matter what anyone else thinks or says. That's why they all know about my grandmother, the last real voodoo queen in New Orleans. Mama's always made tongues wag, but they're still talking about when she left the Big Easy with my grandfather. His original church members say she cast a spell on him to get her hands on his money. But that, like most talk out of haters' mouths, was a vicious lie that Mama's had to live with ever since.
“Not all pretty women are gold diggers and not all Creoles are conceited. Now, can we please talk about something more productive, like what y'all are buying me for Christmas?” Netta comes to my rescue again, knowing I've had enough of this conversation.
I have personally noticed that folks from New Orleans consider themselves separate from the rest of the south, Mama not included. She moved around a lot in her childhood after her mama died and her daddy mysteriously disappeared. She spent some time in Arkansas and Texas with her grandfather's kin, as well as the surrounding states. It wasn't until she was about ten or eleven that Mama moved in with her father's sisters and learned about the voodoo lineage running through both sides of her family. Even if she is Creole by blood, Mama's southern by hood, and she's proud of all her roots.
“Mama has lots of haters and I feel her,” I say, unable to hold my tongue any longer. The three ladies stop gossiping and look at me, doing the math in their heads. So they don't hurt themselves, Netta fills in the blanks, giving them their answer.
“Now, you know you can't say nothing bad about Lynn Mae in this shop and get away with it, especially not in front of her grandchild,” Netta says, coming to Mama's defense like a good homegirl. My girls could learn a thing or two from Mama and Netta's friendship. With Mama's reputation around here, a lesser friend might not have wanted to stay associated with Mama for fear of losing business. But Netta's down for Mama no matter what.
“Is that right?” Mrs. Walker, the shortest of three clients in the shop this afternoon, says from her seat at one of the two open dryers. The three ladies are still looking at me as if they've seen a ghost.
“So this is the infamous Jayd,” Mrs. Robinson says, looking up from her book to give me a once-over before allowing me to lift her now-off dryer and work on her scalp.
Netta warned me people would do this once they found out who I was. She told me not to worry about it, as most people think they know me and my grandmother by all the bull they've heard and that I shouldn't sweat it. Mama says like with most bitches, their barks are much worse than their bites. I wish Sandy were that type of bitch.
“Well, why didn't you say something when we were talking about gold diggers? It's in your blood, child,” Mrs. Walker says, making the other two members of her trio giggle at my and my ancestors' expense.
How does Netta keep a cool head around these cackling hussies? Women like these are the reason Mama left the church years ago and never looked back.
“It certainly is,” Netta says, taking over the conversation. I meticulously part Mrs. Robinson's flaky scalp, applying her weekly hot-oil treatment, specially prescribed and made for her. All of Netta's clients have their own combination of products to maximize their full glow. “As a matter of fact, it can be traced back to her great-ancestor, Queen Califia, ain't that right, Jayd?” Netta gives me a sly look through her reflection in the mirror, letting me know this isn't an innocent line of questioning, but more like one of my pop quizzes. “Why don't you tell us about her and her relation to the gold found in this state.”
As I put Mrs. Robinson back under the dryer, I say, “Well, Califiaâthe famed Black queen of Californiaâactually brought the gold with her from West Africa. She and her folks buried it all over the land and dug it up when she needed it, thus earning the nickname gold digger. When Cortez got here, he raped her and the land for the gold, enslaving her in marriage and taking her gold.” Unfortunately, Cortez was an original pimp.
“That's not how I heard it,” Mrs. Walker says, turning around in her seat to look at the decorations hanging from the ceiling. The crystal angels light up the already radiant shop, sending orange and red rays bouncing from the mirrors and off the walls. The Cuban music has faded into jazz, easing us into the evening. “I heard she tried to cajole Cortez out of the gold he found when he got there. She had the good stuff and gave it up easy and he not only gave up the gold, but named the whole damned state after her. Now we have to live with it.”