The Committee (6 page)

Hattie felt a cold shiver as she stood at her kitchen sink peeling a bowl of potatoes. She gripped the black handle paring knife tightly in one hand and a half-peeled potato in the other as the chill traveled up and down her back. She knew it was a sign, but had no clue what it was about.

“Lord,” she said out loud as a steady stream of cold water from the tap splashed the brown spuds, sending droplets in every direction, “one of your children is in trouble. Whoever it is, protect them, Lord,” she prayed. “Hold them in the safety of your arms. Guide their footsteps and deliver them from evil.”

Hattie commenced with the peeling of the potatoes, having done all she could do with the limited information available. Ringlets of brown peel twirled under the blade and fell intact into the sink. Her hand trembled slightly, a sign she was concerned about whoever was in need of prayer.

A hymn slipped involuntarily from her lips.

The pile of potato skins grew as she continued the preparations for her signature salad. Every morsel coming from within the loving walls of Hattie's kitchen were coveted treasures: sweet potato pies, macaroni and cheese, the magical mixture of greens from her garden, smothered pork chops with gravy and biscuits kissed by an angel. They were always the most sought after dishes in the buffet lines at church events, family functions, and picnics. This particular salad would grace the table of a repast scheduled for the next day.

A pot of bubbling water stood at the ready for the naked orbs on a snow-white O'Keefe & Merritt stove. Hattie handled the potatoes as if they each had a story to tell, and she wanted to hear every word. “Love is the ingredient most folks forget,” she often said. “When you love what you're cooking and who you're cooking it for, they can taste it in every bite.”

She placed each potato into the boiling pot and waited with reverence until it sank to the bottom before the next spud was dropped. It took three trips from the sink to the stove before the pot was filled. Hattie wiped her moist hands on a tea towel hanging from the oven's chrome door handle and made her way back to the sink, each step accompanied by the lines of the hymn.

A bunch of scallions fresh from the garden, newly boiled eggs with steam still rising from the shells, yellow mustard, relish, white onions, and celery waited for Hattie on a butcher block next to the sink. She skillfully sliced and diced the ingredients and formed neat piles of each on the board. The chill in her spine had not gone away but continuing the hymn was her way of saying, “I'm listening, Lord.”

Hattie knew the potatoes were done without even poking them with a knife. Steam from the boiling pot rested on the window above the sink, causing a kaleidoscope of light from the afternoon sun to bathe the room. Hands that had touched the face of God squeezed the now soft potato flesh, creating just the right balance of mashed and potato chunks. She couldn't ignore the tingling traveling from her spine down to her legs, but learned from years of experience you can't rush the Lord.
When He wants me to know, He will tell me.

“In my troubles, Lord, walk with me,”
her hymn continued.

And then it happened. The window over the sink became cloudy. Billows poured from the edges and formed a fog through which she couldn't see.

There was no time to reach for the tea towel on the stove behind her. Hattie rested her mashed potato-covered hands on the counter and braced herself for what was to come. Slowly, she saw Gideon's face emerge through the fog. He was oblivious to the white smoke enveloping him. His bright eyes focused intently on something in the distance Hattie couldn't see. She could sense the danger waiting just beyond her view, but it was clear Gideon couldn't. He moved steadily through the haze directly toward the source of the threat.

“Don't go any closer,” Hattie said softly to the window. “Danger is waiting for you over there.”

Gideon couldn't hear her warning. He moved at an even faster pace than before. The fog grew darker with every step he took. Hattie felt he would soon be face-to-face with a force he couldn't possibly be prepared for.

“Turn back, boy,” she admonished. “Turn back.”

Her words simply bounced off the glass, unheard by the determined man in the window.

“He won't listen, Lord. Make him—”

The image of a woman appeared in front of Gideon before she could finish her plea. Hattie couldn't see her face, but immediately knew everything about her.
There's evil in her heart. She doesn't know it yet, but she's going to destroy him.
Hattie silently read the essence of the woman's soul as if it were scrolling on a ticker tape at the bottom of the window.
There are powerful forces around her and directing her every move. They will destroy anyone who gets in her way.

The two figures were now so close their noses were almost touching. Suddenly the fog began to clear, and Hattie saw for the first time who the woman was.

“Oh, Lord, no,” she gasped, lifting her potato-covered hand to her mouth. “Camille Hardaway.”

Camille turned sharply toward Hattie as if she heard her name uttered from across the divide and looked Hattie directly in the eye. Camille did not speak, but Hattie heard her words clearly, “Keep out of this. This isn't your battle.”

Hattie locked eyes with Camille and said firmly, “Jesus put you in my window, so that makes it my battle.”

The images began to fade just as Hattie spoke the words. The two women's eyes remained locked the entire time. The billowing fog slowly subsided. Gideon and Camille were gradually replaced by the condensation from the steaming potatoes and the cooling pot of water on the stove.

The calm of her kitchen returned as quickly as it had given way to the vision in the window. Hattie looked down at the chopping block piled with onions and the bowl of soft potatoes.

“Lord, give me strength,” she said. “You saved him once, and I know you will do it again.”

Hattie combined the ingredients to create the perfect blend of flavors as only she, and her deceased mother, knew how. The potato salad was made all while Hattie silently prayed for the man in the window.

“Protect him, Lord,” she said placing the cellophane-wrapped bowl in the refrigerator. “Protect him like only you can.”

 

 

Gillette Lemaitre rolled the weathered baseball, given to her earlier by Camille, from one hand to the other on her dining-room table. A photograph of Planning Commission Chair John Spalding sat in a silver tray along with a document containing his original signature. Next to the tray was the unlit black candle.

Gillette came from a long line of practitioners. Her great-great-great-grandmother on her mother's side, Juliette Dupree, was said to have been the colored mistress of Jean-Luc Fantoché, the governor of Louisiana in 1852, and credited with getting him elected for two terms despite his blatant incompetence. Juliette Dupree made available to the governor the substantial benefits of her powers and allowed him into her bed only because he was sympathetic to the plight of Negros.

The candle flickering on the table in front of Gillette contained remnants of wax from the same candle that burned in Juliette's parlor in the French Quarter so many years ago. The black wax had been lit and protected by generations of Dupree women. Cruel plantation owners met sudden and inexplicable deaths, infertile woman gave birth, wandering husbands returned to their wives, and countless fortunes built on the backs and graves of slaves were lost overnight . . . All under the illuminating light of this black candle.

The only light in the room came from the dancing flame. Louie paced anxiously from side to side on the wooden perch in his cage. The occasional car driving past the house could be heard through the wood-shuttered windows.

Gillette closed her eyes and gently pushed the baseball across the table toward the candle. It rolled over the picture of John Spalding and the document containing his signature. When it tapped the candle, the flame suddenly flared, sending sparks and a white plume of smoke into the air. Louie released a loud “Squawk!” and doubled his pace at the sight of fiery display. “Squawk, squawk!” he continued until the fire slowly subsided and resumed its gentle dance atop the black candle.

Gillette opened her eyes and gently tapped the table three times with her open palms. The billowy fabric of her floral caftan dangled around her wrists as she continued patting in intervals of three, her eyes fixed on the flame and the fire consumed her senses. All she could see, hear, taste, smell, or feel was the yellow and blue blaze twinkling in the reflection in her eyes.

She lifted the baseball to the flame and waited patiently for the fire to consume the famous signature and yellowing leather. Soon, the black wool yarn beneath the leather began to crackle and pop in her hand. She placed the burning orb onto the silver tray and watched as it grew to a ball of fire.

She then reached for the photograph. John Spalding's ruddy cheeks and questioning eyes seemed to anticipate what was to come as she moved his face closer to the flame. Gillette lifted the bottom corner of the picture to the tip of the flame. John's face was quickly engulfed in the fire. Gillette placed it back onto the tray and removed the document containing his signature. She did the same with the paper. John's signature was soon lying on the tray burning with the picture and baseball.

The flickering flames caused Louie's shadow to dance on the wall. The black candle went dark when the baseball, paper, and photograph were fully consumed. The room was now pitch-black except for the last of the orange embers on the silver tray. The only sounds in the room were Gillette's labored breathing and Louie's claws scratching against the wood perch as he paced from side to side. Her job was done. John Spalding's fate was now sealed by the flame.

“It is, and so I let it be,” were her final words.

 

 

The morning headline in the
Los Angeles Times
rushed across the city like a flood.

 

 

 

“Oh . . . my . . . God . . . This is perfect!” Sheridan shouted bursting into the bedroom. “Camille, look at this!”

Sheridan ran across the room with his white bathrobe trailing behind like a cape, and silk boxers barely containing his flapping member. It was just before 6:00 a.m. when the Sunday paper was delivered on their doorstep with a thud. Camille propped herself onto her elbows in bed and shook the remains of sleep from her head.

“You are not going to fucking believe this,” Sheridan said, tossing the front page in her lap. “John Spalding got himself killed,” he said excitedly.

Camille felt a quiver travel through her body.

“He crashed on Wilshire and went off the overpass onto the freeway. Died instantly. This is fucking amazing.”

Camille reached for her reading glasses from the nightstand and read silently. As the print leapt from the front page, she could see the flickering black candle in her mind.