served with hot tortillas and small dishes of chopped chile serranos, chopped onion, and wedges of lime. I don’t know whether it was the fellowship or the menudo (which is said to be a cure for hangovers), but I went home feeling good and woke up feeling better.
“Hello, China,” Angela said. “Hi, Ruby.” She gave Sybil a close look. “Are you going to show them, Mrs. Rand?”
Angela Sanchez is not a woman who sits back and waits for somebody else to take command. She’s a graduate student in the anthropology program at CTSU. She plans to get her doctorate and teach. For now, she supports herself by working in the homes of women who can afford to hire other women. She’s a good worker, the best, and she doesn’t work for minimum wage.
Reluctantly, Sybil went to a desk. On it was a typewriter with a sheet of paper rolled into it, a list of Latin plant names, probably an inventory. She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a curious doll-like object dressed in black. It had black yarn for hair and a bit of shiny copper wire twisted around its neck. Sybil put it on the counter, smiling tightly. “A passable imitation, don’t you think?”
“A voodoo doll?” Ruby asked.
“Yes,” Angela said. “Santeria.”
“I found it on the deck this morning,” Sybil said, “with this.” She held up a tarot card. It pictured a grim skeleton holding a scythe.
Ruby’s face became still. “Death. Who sent this, Sybil?”
“If I knew,” Sybil said shortly, “I would have sent it back.” She tossed the card on the counter beside the doll. “Anyway, it’s nothing to get excited about. It’s just some friend’s idea of a joke. I wouldn’t have told you, but Angela insisted.”
I picked up the card and studied it. I hadn’t gotten my own tarot deck yet, but I’d looked at Ruby’s, and I remembered this card, sinister and threatening, a symbol that evoked an ancient fear. “Your friends like to play jokes like this?”
Angela took off her apron. “This is no joke,” she said firmly. “When I was a child, my cousin Juanita’s husband, an Anglo named Carl, decided he wanted a divorce. Juanita said no, because she was Catholic. Carl got this old bruja — a Mexican witch—to make a doll and put pins in the throat. When Juanita found the doll at her door, she nearly went crazy. The next morning, when she woke up, she couldn’t talk. For two or three days, she couldn’t talk. She went to the doctor, but there was nothing wrong with her, not physically, anyway. She went to the priest, but he couldn’t help, either. Finally, after a couple of weeks of this, Carl brought over this paper saying that Juanita would give him a divorce. The minute she signed, her voice came back.” She opened the pantry and hung up her apron. “A bruja made this doll, too. The death card makes the magic more potent. Somebody’s got it in for Mrs. Rand.”
Sybil folded her arms. “If you’re finished with the kitchen, Angela, you can go.”
Angela refused to be dismissed. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Mrs. Rand. It’s witchcraft. Santeria. It’s dangerous. Ruby can tell you—she knows about such things.”
I was surprised that Angela, with her education, was still trapped in the old superstitions. “Your cousin got sick because she believed in the power of the doll,” I said.
“Yes,” Ruby agreed. “It was her fear that kept her from speaking, not the doll itself. That’s the way magic works. It has a great deal of power, but only over those who believe in the power.”
Angela’s dark eyes flashed scornfully. “You’re all missing the point. What Mrs. Rand believes or doesn’t believe doesn’t matter. What matters is the sender’s motives. If this threat doesn’t accomplish the purpose, whatever it is, that person is likely to try something more direct.”
I felt like a rebuked kid who’d been set straight. “You’re right, Angela. Would you mind keeping an ear to the
“Hello, China,” Angela said. “Hi, Ruby.” She gave Sybil a close look. “Are you going to show them, Mrs. Rand?”
Angela Sanchez is not a woman who sits back and waits for somebody else to take command. She’s a graduate student in the anthropology program at CTSU. She plans to get her doctorate and teach. For now, she supports herself by working in the homes of women who can afford to hire other women. She’s a good worker, the best, and she doesn’t work for minimum wage.
Reluctantly, Sybil went to a desk. On it was a typewriter with a sheet of paper rolled into it, a list of Latin plant names, probably an inventory. She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a curious doll-like object dressed in black. It had black yarn for hair and a bit of shiny copper wire twisted around its neck. Sybil put it on the counter, smiling tightly. “A passable imitation, don’t you think?”
“A voodoo doll?” Ruby asked.
“Yes,” Angela said. “Santeria.”
“I found it on the deck this morning,” Sybil said, “with this.” She held up a tarot card. It pictured a grim skeleton holding a scythe.
Ruby’s face became still. “Death. Who sent this, Sybil?”
“If I knew,” Sybil said shortly, “I would have sent it back.” She tossed the card on the counter beside the doll. “Anyway, it’s nothing to get excited about. It’s just some friend’s idea of a joke. I wouldn’t have told you, but Angela insisted.”
I picked up the card and studied it. I hadn’t gotten my own tarot deck yet, but I’d looked at Ruby’s, and I remembered this card, sinister and threatening, a symbol that evoked an ancient fear. “Your friends like to play jokes like this?”
Angela took off her apron. “This is no joke,” she said firmly. “When I was a child, my cousin Juanita’s husband, an Anglo named Carl, decided he wanted a divorce. Juanita said no, because she was Catholic. Carl got this old bruja — a Mexican witch—to make a doll and put pins in the throat. When Juanita found the doll at her door, she nearly went crazy. The next morning, when she woke up, she couldn’t talk. For two or three days, she couldn’t talk. She went to the doctor, but there was nothing wrong with her, not physically, anyway. She went to the priest, but he couldn’t help, either. Finally, after a couple of weeks of this, Carl brought over this paper saying that Juanita would give him a divorce. The minute she signed, her voice came back.” She opened the pantry and hung up her apron. “A bruja made this doll, too. The death card makes the magic more potent. Somebody’s got it in for Mrs. Rand.”
Sybil folded her arms. “If you’re finished with the kitchen, Angela, you can go.”
Angela refused to be dismissed. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Mrs. Rand. It’s witchcraft. Santeria. It’s dangerous. Ruby can tell you—she knows about such things.”
I was surprised that Angela, with her education, was still trapped in the old superstitions. “Your cousin got sick because she believed in the power of the doll,” I said.
“Yes,” Ruby agreed. “It was her fear that kept her from speaking, not the doll itself. That’s the way magic works. It has a great deal of power, but only over those who believe in the power.”
Angela’s dark eyes flashed scornfully. “You’re all missing the point. What Mrs. Rand believes or doesn’t believe doesn’t matter. What matters is the sender’s motives. If this threat doesn’t accomplish the purpose, whatever it is, that person is likely to try something more direct.”
I felt like a rebuked kid who’d been set straight. “You’re right, Angela. Would you mind keeping an ear to the
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