Jilly C- Note’s push-up bra was starting to feel like a form of torture: ordeal by undergarment.
“Dr. Livingston is the founder’s widow, according to Jeffrey,” Max said. “Shall we go inside?”
“Wait. First tell me what’s bothering you about this.”
“Oh. Well, it may be nothing . . . but I’m wondering why the substitute teacher has ceased to come to work.”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. “It probably is nothing, Max. At almost every job I’ve ever worked, there’s a problem with employee attendance. A lot of people are flaky and unreliable; and actors are flakier than most. Like Jeff, the replacement might have gotten an acting job that conflicted with his teaching schedule. Or maybe he just didn’t like this job and, instead of quitting, he simply stopped showing up. People do that sort of thing all the time.”
“You are no doubt correct. Nonetheless, without further information, I am somewhat troubled by the fact that an employee has stopped coming to work, without explanation, precisely when—we currently suspect—another employee is roaming Harlem after dying and being reanimated.” He concluded, “It’s troubling.”
“Well, put like that, it’s certainly troubling,” I said.
“If you become an employee here,” he said, “you should maintain an alert attitude and take no risks. And I, of course, will be vigilant on your behalf.”
“Agreed.” I turned to enter the building. “Now let’s go inside.”
After my initial surge of relief at feeling the artificially cool air of the interior on my hot, damp skin, I noticed that the inside of the Livingston Foundation was a pleasant surprise after the impression created by its generic exterior. The halls were painted in bright colors, African batiks and Caribbean art decorated the walls, there were beautiful mobile sculptures hanging overhead, and the furnishings were eclectic and interesting, rather than institutional. An elderly African-American man at the reception desk in the lobby greeted us with a friendly smile and, at our request, directed us to Dr. Catherine Livingston’s office, saying that Jeff had told him to expect us.
We ascended to the second floor by way of a stairwell, then turned left, as directed. We entered a narrow hallway where the walls were painted a soft apricot color. One wall was decorated with vibrant textile artwork, each piece depicting figures and symbols in bright patterns.
“These are very pretty,” I said, looking at one that portrayed a big red heart which contained smaller hearts created out of silver and gold sequins. It was set against a field of tropical foliage, also studded with sequins, and surrounded by multicolored abstract symbols.
The cloth hanging next to it, created out of shiny fabrics quilted together, was divided into four panels, each containing a large geometric symbol depicted in contrasting colors. One of the symbols appeared to be a cross decorated with flourishes and abstract motifs; next to it were the letters LEG B A. Another of the symbols was a triangle with curly lines sprouting out of it. The letters next to this one were O G O U N.
Max was studying these hangings with intent interest, a dawning expression of . . . something on his face. I wasn’t sure what.
“Max?” I prodded.
“They’re drapeaux,” he murmured, his tone implying that this was significant.
“What are drapeaux?”
“Flags,” he said, still staring at the artwork. “Ceremonial flags. They’re carried at the beginning of a ritual to salute the spirits and start the ceremony.”
I frowned. “What sort of spirits? What kind of ceremony?”
“Vodou,” he said, nodding slowly.
“Vodou?” I shrugged, still frowning. “What is Vod—Oh! You mean voodoo?”
He nodded. “These look like traditional Haitian Vodou drapeaux.”
I thought they looked like art projects made by talented young people taking classes at the foundation, but I took Max’s word for it. I moved on to
“Dr. Livingston is the founder’s widow, according to Jeffrey,” Max said. “Shall we go inside?”
“Wait. First tell me what’s bothering you about this.”
“Oh. Well, it may be nothing . . . but I’m wondering why the substitute teacher has ceased to come to work.”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. “It probably is nothing, Max. At almost every job I’ve ever worked, there’s a problem with employee attendance. A lot of people are flaky and unreliable; and actors are flakier than most. Like Jeff, the replacement might have gotten an acting job that conflicted with his teaching schedule. Or maybe he just didn’t like this job and, instead of quitting, he simply stopped showing up. People do that sort of thing all the time.”
“You are no doubt correct. Nonetheless, without further information, I am somewhat troubled by the fact that an employee has stopped coming to work, without explanation, precisely when—we currently suspect—another employee is roaming Harlem after dying and being reanimated.” He concluded, “It’s troubling.”
“Well, put like that, it’s certainly troubling,” I said.
“If you become an employee here,” he said, “you should maintain an alert attitude and take no risks. And I, of course, will be vigilant on your behalf.”
“Agreed.” I turned to enter the building. “Now let’s go inside.”
After my initial surge of relief at feeling the artificially cool air of the interior on my hot, damp skin, I noticed that the inside of the Livingston Foundation was a pleasant surprise after the impression created by its generic exterior. The halls were painted in bright colors, African batiks and Caribbean art decorated the walls, there were beautiful mobile sculptures hanging overhead, and the furnishings were eclectic and interesting, rather than institutional. An elderly African-American man at the reception desk in the lobby greeted us with a friendly smile and, at our request, directed us to Dr. Catherine Livingston’s office, saying that Jeff had told him to expect us.
We ascended to the second floor by way of a stairwell, then turned left, as directed. We entered a narrow hallway where the walls were painted a soft apricot color. One wall was decorated with vibrant textile artwork, each piece depicting figures and symbols in bright patterns.
“These are very pretty,” I said, looking at one that portrayed a big red heart which contained smaller hearts created out of silver and gold sequins. It was set against a field of tropical foliage, also studded with sequins, and surrounded by multicolored abstract symbols.
The cloth hanging next to it, created out of shiny fabrics quilted together, was divided into four panels, each containing a large geometric symbol depicted in contrasting colors. One of the symbols appeared to be a cross decorated with flourishes and abstract motifs; next to it were the letters LEG B A. Another of the symbols was a triangle with curly lines sprouting out of it. The letters next to this one were O G O U N.
Max was studying these hangings with intent interest, a dawning expression of . . . something on his face. I wasn’t sure what.
“Max?” I prodded.
“They’re drapeaux,” he murmured, his tone implying that this was significant.
“What are drapeaux?”
“Flags,” he said, still staring at the artwork. “Ceremonial flags. They’re carried at the beginning of a ritual to salute the spirits and start the ceremony.”
I frowned. “What sort of spirits? What kind of ceremony?”
“Vodou,” he said, nodding slowly.
“Vodou?” I shrugged, still frowning. “What is Vod—Oh! You mean voodoo?”
He nodded. “These look like traditional Haitian Vodou drapeaux.”
I thought they looked like art projects made by talented young people taking classes at the foundation, but I took Max’s word for it. I moved on to
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