The next day passed calmly. Rose arrived in the early morning. She proved to be a stout, cheerful, middle-aged woman with a slight Irish brogue, and when Melda introduced herself, she said, “Well, and isn’t it about time there were a couple of sensible women around the place to take care of Mrs. Beaton and Wanda!” Significantly, she didn’t mention Mr. Beaton.
“They need all the help they can get,” Melda said.
Rose cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve met the father, have you?”
“’Deed I have.”
“Then you understand why his wife and daughter need taking care of. I’d’ve quit this job months ago, but I didn’t want to abandon them, what with Mrs. Beaton taking to drink, and Wanda acting strange.”
“That’s good of you, Rose,” said Melda. “I feel the same way. But I think you’ll find them a bit better today.” She paused, wondering how far she could trust the cook. Obviously Rose was fond of Mrs. Beaton and Wanda, and she certainly knew what a beast Mr. Beaton was. So she went on: “It’s the husband we have to take care of now, but not in the same way we’ll take care of the wife and daughter.”
She told the cook everything that had happened while she was away. Rose seemed incredulous at first. “A duppy? Get away with you! Are you some kind of voodoo woman?”
“I’m from Jamaica, not Haiti. I don’t cast spells or any of that kind of thing. But I know how to ask the spirits for help. And they usually grant what I ask.”
Rose thought that over for awhile and nodded. “That sounds familiar. In County Mayo, one of my grandmothers was a witch. The parish priest threatened her with hellfire and damnation if she didn’t repent, so just to shut his gob, she made a confession, said seven Hail Marys by way of penance, and started attending Mass every day, and twice on Sundays. But she went on talking to the old spirits, the powers who were there before Saint Paddy chased the snakes out of Ireland. And she helped a lot of people with her charms and incantations.”
“Yah, well, I ground the duppy into powder.” She got the little bottle out of her apron pocket and showed it to the cook. “It’ll still work, but maybe not right away. Sprinkle it into his coffee, say, and something interesting will happen to Mistah Simon Beaton.”
Wanda came into the kitchen, neatly dressed for school in a white blouse and a green-and-red plaid kiltie that fell to her knees. No makeup, Melda noted, and her face looked prettier without it. “Hi, Rose!” she said. “How was your day off?”
“Oh, it was grand, love,” said the cook. “My family and I went to an Italian restaurant for spaghetti and meatballs, and afterwards we watched an old horror movie on TV.”
“Which one?”
“Ah, well, now, there was a young girl possessed by the devil, and a priest came to save her, and…”
“Oh, sure,” Wanda broke in. “’The Exorcist.’ It’s really cool, like the way the girl starts yelling dirty words in a man’s voice, and her head turns all the way around.”
“You weren’t scared?” Rose asked.
“Come on, Rose. It’s only a movie, right? None of that stuff was real.”
Rose laughed. “Well, it certainly made me me jump a couple of times. Especially the dirty words.”
“How are you feeling, dearie?” Melda asked.
“I feel like I’m me again,” said the girl. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Of course I do. The duppy was stealing part of you, and now it’s gone.”
Wanda ran to Melda and hugged her. “Thank you, Melda! Oh, thank you!”
Melda gave her a kiss on the cheek and disengaged herself gently. “No thanks necessary, sweetness. I only did the necessary.”
“Did you tell… does Rose know what happened?”
“I’ve told her everything.”
“About Daddy, too?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Wanda, dear,” said Rose, “I always thought your father was a cruel man. But I didn’t know he was actually evil until Melda told me.”
Wanda nodded. “Maybe he’s possessed by the devil like the girl in the movie.”
“Do you believe in the devil?” Rose asked.
“I don’t know,” Wanda said. “I’m not even sure I believe in God.”
“Well, I stopped believing in God the same year I stopped believing in Santa Claus,” said Rose. “And as for the devil, there’s no need for him. People are wicked enough on their own.”
Wanda looked at her with dismay. “You mean there’s no Santa Claus?” she asked. She tried to keep a straight face, but cracked up when Rose began to laugh.
Melda chortled. “You’re yourself again, darlin’, no question. And a very fine self it is.”
On Sunday morning, Simon Beaton came back from his conference in a foul mood. He stomped into the kitchen, where Emily sat at the table with Melda and Wanda. Without bothering to greet his wife, he complained that she had forgotten to pack his red power tie. She reminded him, with some heat, that he had done his own packing.
“Don’t you dare raise your voice to me!” he shouted.
She laughed in his face. “Things have changed around here, Simon,” she said. “You can’t bully me any more.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t bully you! I just correct you when you make mistakes, which, by the way, you do all the time, because you’re a goddamn drunk!”
“I drink too much, I admit it. But I’m going to stop. Join AA, or something. Whatever it takes.” She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and slapped Simon across the face hard enough to make him stagger. “That’s for all the times you hit me, you bastard! I’m sorry I can’t slap your goddamn head off!”
Simon was dazed for a moment, but he recovered quickly, and his handsome face twisted into a mask of rage. He advanced on Emily and raised his fist.
“Don’t you dare!” Melda said. “Put that fist down!”
“Who are you to give me orders? You’re fired, as of right now.”
“Suits me fine, mon, “she said, “but you will not strike your wife again. Ever.” With remarkable speed for a woman of her heft, she stood up and grabbed a carving knife from the rack over the stove. Simon made a gargling noise in his throat as if his anger was actually choking him, and snarled, “I’m calling the police!” He took his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket.
“Go ahead,” Melda said. “Tell them I threatened you with a knife. I’ll tell them you beat your wife every time she does something that displeases you. And Wanda will tell them that you molest her sexually.”
Simon froze. “Now, wait, hold on a minute,” he said, putting the phone back. “Let’s not get overwrought here. I apologize for losing my temper. The conference was a disaster – the Chinese were supposed to send a delegation for the first time ever, but they cancelled when Trump started that sanctions nonsense. The Brits spent the whole time fighting with the French and the Germans over Brexit, and the Italians and Greeks fought among themselves, as usual. Nothing got done, and when the news got out, the Dow dropped three hundred points, almost enough to trigger a recession. So I’m a little upset. Please forgive me. Melda, you’re not fired – I hope you’ll stay on. I’ll raise your salary. Just let me know what you think is fair. And Emily, darling, I know I’ve been a brute. My doctor is worried about my blood pressure, and he advised me to take anger-management classes. I’ll take his advice, I promise.”
“What about me, Daddy?” said Wanda. “Are you going to give up the secret games?”
For a moment it looked as if Simon was going to erupt again, but he controlled himself, with some effort. “Oh, Princess,” he said, “I never meant any harm. But I know what I did was wrong. I’ll never do it again, I promise.”
“Do you believe him?” Melda asked. Wanda looked at her father for a long time. At last she said, “Maybe he ought to have one last chance to prove he means what he says.”
“One chance? He’s got it,” Melda said. She put the knife back in the rack.
“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m glad everyone has calmed down,” said Simon. “Now if it’s not asking too much, may I have some coffee?”
“Of course,” said Melda. “Sit down while I fetch it.”
He sat next to Emily, who looked at him steadily, without betraying any emotion. He tried to stare her down, but she didn’t break her gaze, and he had to look away. Nobody spoke. Melda poured him a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove, stirred in a splash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar, the way he liked it, and set it down in front of him. She remained standing. After a moment he gave a weak laugh. “The atmosphere in here is thick enough to cut with a knife,” he said. “If you will excuse me, I’m going to my study.”
“Suit yourself,” said Emily.
He marched out, but the dignity of his exit was spoiled when he had to lurch in order to keep his coffee from spilling.
As soon as he was gone, Rose said, “Maybe you won’t have to use the duppy powder, Melda. He already looks like he’s been cut down a peg or two.”
“I trust that mon about as far as I can throw him,” said Melda. “It’s all an act. He’s still convinced that he’s Mistah High Cockalorum. And now that we’ve humiliated him, he’ll be wanting revenge. But he won’t get it. The duppy powder’s in his coffee.”
“But you said you were giving him one last chance!” Wanda protested.
“I did,” Melda said. “He might not drink the coffee.”
Half an hour later, Simon came out of his study. “I have to go to the office,” he said. “The Shanghai Stock Market Index is dropping through the floor. Lester is on the way with the car.”
“But you haven’t had breakfast,” Emily said.
“The coffee was enough for now. I’m not really hungry.” And he walked past the women without another word.
The accident happened on the FDR Drive, just south of the East 34th Street exit. An Uber car, driven, it turned out, by a Russian immigrant whose driver’s license had expired, passed Simon’s Bentley on the right, and swerved back into the left lane, where it abruptly slowed down, for no apparent reason. Simon’s chauffeur, Lester, slammed on the brakes, and the big car skidded head-first into the median wall. A yellow taxi crashed into the left door of its back seat, right where Simon was sitting. The impact crumpled the door inward, the Bentley’s airbags deployed, and Simon wound up wedged in his seat, unable to move. A third car, this one an SUV driven by a young woman who was texting, smashed into the back bumper of the taxi, hammering its front end deeper into the door of the Bentley. Simon’s skull was cracked like an egg.
Nobody else was hurt, not even Simon’s chauffeur, who was saved by the front-seat airbags. Due to heavy traffic, the ambulance took more than twenty minutes to get to the scene, even with a police car proceeding it, lights flashing and siren howling. On the trip to the nearest hospital, an EMT tried to restart Simon’s heart, to no avail. He was pronounced dead on arrival.
The three women were still in the kitchen when the phone rang. Emily answered, listened briefly, thanked the caller, and hung up. “He’s gone,” she said, with no emotion. “There was a car crash.”
Wanda made a soft noise in her throat. “He’s really dead?” she asked
“Yes, love. He’s really dead,” said Emily, and put her arms around her daughter.
“Was anyone else hurt?” Melda asked.
“They didn’t say.” Emily let go of Wanda. “I have to go down to Bellevue Hospital to identify the body.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Melda.
“No, it’s all right. You stay here with Wanda. She shouldn’t be by herself. I’ll call as soon as I’m on the way back.”
“Do you have cab fare?”
“Oh, I’ll just take the Bentley,” Emily said.
“It’s wrecked, Mother!”
“What? Oh. Oh, yes.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
“That settles it,” said Melda. “We’ll all go.”
At Bellevue, Emily tried to keep Wanda from going into the morgue, but she insisted. “I need to make sure it’s him,” she said. “Hospitals make mistakes sometimes.”
“True fact,” said Melda. “When I was a girl, someone from Kingston Public Hospital phoned to say that my Uncle Desmond had died of a heart attack. Uncle Desmond answered the phone himself, and it took him awhile to convince the caller that he was who he said he was.”
There was no mistake with Simon Beaton. The back of his skull was caved in, but his face was intact. It wore an offended expression, as if the dead man resented being dead.
“Look at that,” Emily said. “He’s angry, as usual.”
“Maybe he drank something that didn’t agree with him,” said Melda. Wanda giggled. The morgue attendant grew impatient. “Ma’am, could you please identify the deceased?” he said to Emily. “We have a backlog of cases today.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Yes, this is my husband, Simon Beaton.”
She signed the document the attendant handed to her, and there was more paperwork involving the release of the body to a funeral home, and the payment of the ambulance company’s whopping fee, but finally the three women were free to go. On the cab ride home, Melda asked Emily, “He had life insurance, didn’t he?”
“Of course. Simon was as meticulous about money as he was careless about human feelings. He paid high premiums, and the payoff could be in the millions. He never thought I paid any attention to our finances, but after the stock market crashed in 2008, I got nervous and hired a CPA to keep track of Simon’s investments. They’re all sound – he even made money during the recession. So we’re pretty well off.”
“What are you going to do with the body?”
“Well, my family has always preferred cremation,” Emily said.
“Not a good idea, Missus. Might could be some duppy powder is still in him. It might get into the ashes and go on doing harm. Best to bury him. That way you can go out to the cemetery from time to time and dance on his grave.”
“I look forward to it,” said Emily, and smiled for the first time that day. It was not a pleasant smile.
Next morning she contacted the Walter Cooke Funeral Home, and Woodlawn Cemetery, arranging to have Simon buried as quickly as possible, without a viewing or a post-interment reception. She notified Simon’s office, and she emailed Simon’s cousins, informing them of her husband’s untimely death, but without inviting them to the funeral. Because of Simon’s prominence as a financier, The New York Times already had a prewritten obituary, and all she had to do was tell the paper to run it. She considered notifying Princeton University, where Simon had gotten his B.A., and the Wharton School of Business, where he’d picked up his M.B.A., but figured that the two institutions could get the news of their distinguished alumnus’s passing from the Times.
She still had to decide what to do with Simon’s extensive wardrobe, whether or not to buy a more modest car to replace the Bentley, and how much severance pay to give Lester, but by midday she was exhausted and hungry. Rose made soup and sandwiches, and the four women ate in the kitchen. Emily wanted a drink, badly, but she resisted the urge by imagining Simon’s ghost mocking her for her weakness. However, the urge remained powerful, and she knew she couldn’t go on fighting it without help.
“I’m sure the three of you know this already, but I have a problem with alcohol,” she said.
“Not just a problem, Emily,” said Melda. “You’re a drunk. We need to get you into a detox program right away, and meanwhile, let’s get rid of all the wine and liquor round the place.”
“Right!” Wanda said. “Pour it all down the drain!”
“Even the cooking sherry?” Rose asked.
“Does it have salt in it?” Melda asked.
“Yes.”
“Emily, you’re not desperate enough to drink salted wine, are you?”
“I’m not sure. I used to love margaritas, and the glasses come with salt on their rims.”
“Out with the sherry, then,” said Rose. “I can always substitute a dash of vinegar in the recipes that call for it.”
They disposed of the alcohol with some ceremony. Emily did the pouring herself, beginning with the wine. There were quite a few bottles: Simon, though he never drank to excess, had stocked a number of choice vintages to serve his business associates and their wives when they came to dinner. By the time she was through, Emily estimated that at least three thousand dollars worth of fancy plonk had gurgled down the drain. As the first bottle emptied, Melda intoned, “Begone, Demon Rum!” Wanda objected that it was wine, not rum, and Melda told her not to be so picky. “We’re exorcizing a demon, like in the movie Rose saw,” she said.
“Oh, OK, I get it,” said Wanda, and after that the chant became a call-and-response: Melda’s “Begone, Demon Rum!” followed by the others’ “Trouble us no more!” The hard liquor followed, until the alcohol fumes in the kitchen were so strong that Emily actually began to feel tipsy. She retreated into the living room and lay down on the couch, where she noticed that her heart was racing and her were trembling. The beginning of withdrawal symptoms? But surely they wouldn’t come on so fast. She took several deep breaths, closed her eyes, and tried to summon back the triumph she had felt at the news of Simon’s death. Her heart slowed down, and her hands stopped shaking.
Wanda came in to check on her. “Are you all right, Mother?” she asked. “The booze is gone.”
Emily sat up. “I’m fine, darling. It was just the smell of all that alcohol.”
Wanda embraced her. “You’re going to be fine, Mother,” she said. Emily returned the embrace. “Everything’s going to be fine, dearest one.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die, no fibs, no backsies and no lies,” she said. Wanda laughed. “I haven’t heard that since the time I had the flu when I was eight and you told me I’d get better.”
“It was a solemn promise then and it still is. Everything’s going to be O.K. potatoes.”
“I don’t know that one.”
“Just something your Grandma Sally used to say to me when I was sick. I still don’t know what the potatoes meant, except that she knew I liked them. But it always cheered me up.”
“All be irie now, Wanda,” said Melda. “Old man trouble’s gone away from our door.”
“I hope you’re right, Melda,” Wanda said. “I only hope you’re right.”
At the Walter Cooke Funeral Home, Simon Beaton lay on the steel embalming table. The mortician, scalpel in one gloved hand, laid his other hand on the corpse’s chest as he prepared to make the Y-shaped incision that would reveal the internal organs. “That’s odd,” he told his assistant. “The body’s still warm.”
Note: I got the names of the Igbo spirits and gods from Nigerian writer Chigoze Obioma’s “An Orchestra of Minorities.”