The Choice

Mention of rape, violence, and use of racial slurs

Summer, 1968

The afternoon sun burned so hot, the oak trees groaned for relief. The bayou water stood still, hornets buzzing in wait for their prey. The women sat at the round kitchen table, the wood scuffed and gouged, filled with unopened mail, herbs, and empty glass cartons of milk that needed a good cleaning. Patting her freshly curled hair, she examined the house—it was a beautiful house, good bones. But the knick-knacks, plants, and strange African statues made the kitchen look like a cacophony of chaos. Her legs crossed at the ankle, she tried her best not to touch anything. She watched the Vodou priestess work in silence, preparing tea the woman hadn’t asked for. With her pocketbook placed on her lap and pearls draped around her neck, she fidgeted in her chair, waiting for the priestess to join her at the table.

As the sun’s rays filled the kitchen, the priestess came to her with a tea kettle in hand. The woman tried to hide her disgust at the unkempt woman who sat there—hair wrapped, no bra, kaftan, a gold tooth that beamed against the sun. She poured the tea into the chipped china, then flopped into her chair. “Wha you wan?” she asked, her hand resting on the back.

She cleared her throat and stammered, “Excuse me?” She had heard of the Louisiana accent, but to hear it—the way it sounded was like the clunking of a guitar.

“Wha you wan?” The priestess extended her hands as if she were speaking plain English. Annoyed, she sucked her teeth and rang a brass bell that sat on the cluttered table, yelling loudly, “C’mere.”

Small footsteps filled the roof of the kitchen, down the stairs, and inside came a little girl who looked as if she had been playing in the dirt. She ran and stood next to the priestess. They exchanged words the woman could not understand—some backwater Creole slang.

“She is asking you to tell her what you need. It won’t work unless you say it… ma’am.”

“Well… an associate recommended you. Said you could help with… things.” She clutched her pocketbook even tighter, afraid this was all a scam. In the beauty salon, there had been much talk of the Vodou priestess in Louisiana, who would help you for a price. The associate had said loudly, the priestess gave her a love potion to help her find a good man who worked as a teacher in the colored schools. The woman acted unconcerned at first. She was a woman of God, worked for the O'Connell's as a maid since she was 18 years old, never asked for anything. But her prayers had fallen on deaf ears, and this was her last resort.

The priestess stuck her lip out and nodded, sticking her hand out for payment.

“No refunds,” the girl said, transforming into a crude businesswoman.

The woman pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill and placed it in the priestess's hand, making sure not to touch the woman. She looked at the woman’s fingernails—long and yellow—and recoiled quickly at the thought of touching the priestess.

The priestess nodded as she examined the bill closely. “Drink the tea now, ma’am,” the little girl said confidently.

“Tell da trooth,” the priestess nodded in agreement.

The woman cleared her throat and adjusted herself in the seat. She could feel her stomach turn—not only for the cup but for what she was about to do. This went against everything she believed in, consorting with this type of stuff. But she was desperate. She pulled out her handkerchief and rubbed the top of the teacup with it, then delicately picked it up, pinky raised, as if to make a show of politeness. It was sweet with honey and a string of herbs she could not put her finger on. She let it sit in her mouth, and for a moment, thought to spit it out. But the thought of her son flashed in her mind. The thought of losing him pushed her to swallow.

“My son is a speaker for the civil rights movement in Mississippi. He’s gaining real traction, and I’m proud of him. But with the killing of Dr. King, God bless his soul, I am worried the same might happen to him. He told me he has a real big speech up north in Chicago, and I got a real bad feeling about it. Haven’t been able to sleep since…”

“I just want to make sure if he goes, he is not assassinated or nothing like that. He really makes me proud, and if something were to happen… Maybe you could give me some sort of protection while he is away… a charm I can sew into pants or something. You do… spells like that, right?”

The woman took another sip of tea, this time grabbing the cup with all fingers. She could feel the tea working, changing her taste buds. They opened like flowers as she tasted peppermint, spearmint, and chamomile, and something else, something familiar. Memories surfaced—things that she had pushed deep in her mind.

“If something happened to him… I would simply die. He is my only living child. My other two sons I lost to the war, God bless their souls, and my husband, God bless his soul, died last year. He is a good boy. He is all that I have. He has no children, so I would have no grandchildren. I would be lonely.”

Another sip, and she was no longer in the kitchen but under the tree with emerald leaves that bloomed white flowers in the spring, that sat in front of her childhood home. Her mother had called it the devil’s leaf—no good came from eating it, you let the devil in when you suck on the flower. Her hand went to touch it, but the pungent smell of burning ash took over as she looked at her home devoured in flames, a fiery cross a ribbon on the gift from the Klan. Her father, a minister, had been down at the church telling people to vote and this didn’t sit right with the white folks. But he wouldn’t listen, and now she blamed him for everything—more than the white men who’d done it, more than the spies in church who reported back to the Klan.

The priestess looked on patiently, feasting on the energy from the woman’s turmoil.

“The Negroes up there don’t know nothing about how things really are in the South.” That last ingredient, the devil’s leaf, sat bitterly on her tongue like poison as her son’s face flashed in her mind. “People were so scared when they saw Emmett Till.” Her voice cracked. “Do you know how many Emmetts we’ve seen here? What about Recy Taylor? Folks say them white men raped that girl so bad… her stuff is all jacked up. She can't have no more children. Those men got away with it too.” She looked at the priestess desperately.” No one will protect my son but me.”

Another sip, and the veil lifted—the truth was here.

“Chicago?” She blew a raspberry. “Those niggas up there are ungrateful, all of them. They want to vote, they want this and that, they want King. They don’t understand… they make it hard for hard-working Negroes! They took my husband. My boys. What more do they want from me? They can’t have him!” Her voice cracked as she realized the tea was all gone and she looked at the empty teacup. The tea grounds split into halves of the cup like a for in the road.

The woman felt wild, like the women in church who let their slips show. The priestess grabbed the cup quickly and examined it closely, her long fingers examining but not touching. She leaned over and talked to the girl, who looked over at the cup as they nodded in agreement.

The little girl looked at the woman with cold, transactional eyes. She translated. “You are right. Your son’s fate is in Chicago. If he goes, he will make a great speech and his following will grow. But he will find enemies—those of Dr. King who have no good wishes for civil rights leaders. He will vibrate through and reach the places others could not. But he will pay for it in blood. If he does not go, he will stay in Mississippi, die as an old man—but forgotten. A sadness will live with him.”

The priestess rose and walked to the kitchen, clanking around the cabinet, chopping, and praying. The woman sat back in the chair, looking at the kitchen. She took a handkerchief to blot the beads of sweat that lined her temples. Her gaze settled on a small vial placed in her hand. “Make him tea and place this in it. He will miss his bus ride to Chicago and stay with you.”

“This is not what i asked for! I… I just wanted some type of vodou charm or whatever you do… protection! I can't choose his fate!” The women looked back and forth between the women and the child. 

“ I no doctor, you ask for help, this what the spirit give you.” The preistess said cooly.

“What if I don't give this to him?”

The priestess rose slowly from her seat, joining the girl in front of the room.

She leaned in, her gaze forcing the woman to clutch her pearls in fear. With a flash of her gold tooth, she hissed, “Say goodbye, cher.”

Part 2

“Momma!” Her son walked into the yellow kitchen, bathed in sunlight. The air was thick with the scent of food and cleaning supplies, sharp with lemon. The small kitchen table was covered with white linen and fresh roses. The woman stood at the sink in her pink house slippers, apron wrapped tight, her hair slicked back into a bun. It had been a month since her visit to the priestess, and while her dreams had subsided, the weight of her choice had not. All she had wanted was protection, a spell that would keep her son safe. Instead, she had been left with a small vanilla bottle that sat on her nightstand, watching her every night as she counted down the days until he would leave.

Since then, he had been on the news, leading boycotts and sit-ins against businesses still refusing to serve colored customers. She prayed every day but stopped after a while. In her heart, she knew she had betrayed God.

Her son stood before her, glowing in the sunlight, so full of life. He wore his travel outfit, and his bags sat by the door like bricks. “I came to see you before heading to Chicago,” he said with a smile. That was her favorite feature—his smile, white and brilliant, able to light up a room. He had the looks of a Hollywood star, tall and athletic, his voice leaving an impression wherever he went. But for Black boys these days, the closest thing to fame was becoming a pastor or a civil rights leader.

“That’s great, son,” she said solemnly, embracing him before slipping a hand into her apron, fingers grazing the small bottle.

“Let me make you some tea before you go,” she murmured, voice low with shame.

“Momma, I’m not in the mood for tea. You got some biscuits? Sweet potato pie?”

“Why don’t we have it all?” She forced a smile.

“Pack me some for the trip? It’s a real long ride.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She nodded and turned to fill the kettle, hands trembling as she set it on the burner.

Her son sat at the table, his knee bouncing with excitement, like a boy waiting for dessert. “You don’t understand how excited I am, Momma. I got a real good feeling about this. Imagine, little old me from Mississippi going up to the big city to finish Dr. King’s work.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, staring at the water as it started to bubble.

He laced his fingers together. “Also, Momma, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Mary is expecting.”

“A baby?” Her mind reeled. She had thought she would have no grandbabies. Five years, and nothing. The priestess should have told her this.

He smiled. “Yes. Due in the summer. We’re really excited. I was starting to give up. Hopefully, I’ll be done with the movement, and we’ll all be a family. It’s like what Dr. King said—” He stopped himself, then corrected, “It’s like what I say: we deserve a world where all children have access to every opportunity. They say I could be the next Dr. King, Momma. People really follow me.”

The water boiled violently, the kettle shaking. Her hand strangled the bottle.

“Momma, the water!” He jumped up, turning off the stove.

She wiped her hands on her apron. “Go ahead, have a seat.” She kissed his forehead as he eyed her suspiciously.

“Either way, it beats staying in Mississippi. I’d rather try something than be a coulda-woulda-shoulda like Bonkers Billy,” he said, shaking his head.

She whispered, “Who knows… you might like it here now, with the baby. Live a simple life. I’ve given you a nice life, haven’t I? Been a good mother?” She winced as a sharp pain twisted in her stomach. The smell of ash, herbs, and grass filled her nose, making her dizzy.

“You know what happened to your grandfather, your uncles… Men all wanting more, never happy with what they had. A life with me.”

He fiddled with the roses, looking up at her. “I don’t want to end up like Bonkers Billy, sitting in front of the gas station. They say he was the smartest kid in school. Scholarship to Howard for music, and he didn’t go. Now he’s got kids all over Mississippi and nothing to his name but a guitar. That ain’t gonna be me, Momma. I got dreams, too.” He took a deep breath. “You think I want to leave? I don’t. But this is bigger than me. Bigger than you. We’re trying to make things better for colored folks. Ain’t you tired, Momma? Tired of cleaning white folks’ dirty drawers, raising their ungrateful children? Don’t you wish you could do something else?” He let out a breath. “I promise to come back, Momma. I promise.”

Silence filled the room as she sent up a final prayer. “God bless my soul,” she whispered, twisting the bottle open. A deep herbal aroma filled her nose. Honey. Peppermint. That should mask the bitterness. But no scent could hide the weight of what she was about to do.

All she had wanted was to protect him, to shield him from the hateful world he was determined to change. But now, the priestess had set him on a path where greatness came at the price of his life.

She turned, forcing a smile. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“Momma, you crying?”

“No, of course not.” Her voice was soft. “I’m proud of you. I love you. When you have your child, you’ll see. There are so many decisions you’ll have to make. Tough ones.”

Her hands trembled as she set the cup before him. The heat seared her palms, a welcomed punishment.

“What are you talking about, Momma?”

She glanced at the bottle on the counter.

“Nothing, son,” she said finally, her voice steady. “Nothing at all.”