Song of the Shaman by Annette Vendryes Leach Read Free Book Online Page A

traffic lights. She needed a wife. At least she had Leatrice, her trusty babysitter. Where would she be without her? A paper bag with warm french fries balanced on a pile of work she brought from the office. She touched it and thought of Zig.
    The car pulled up behind a Fresh Direct truck double-parked in front of her building.
    “You’re home, Sheri. Lemme know what time you want to be picked up tomorrow night.”
    Jimmy drove her home so often he was practically her private chauffeur. The balding Irish man gave her a voucher to sign, along with a sympathetic look. He was forty-four—four years older than her and he already had two sons in college.
    “Pick me up at six, Jimmy. Tomorrow’s Friday—if I’m not in the lobby by five after, come and get me.”
    Cell phone handset hanging from her ear, she dumped a large portfolio, laptop case, and an oversized handbag onto the sidewalk. The french fries! She reached back in the car to grab the greasy bag, suddenly aware of her growling stomach, the power bars she’d eaten for lunch having long worn off. A blustery wind made her shiver, but she didn’t bother to put on her hat. Instead, she craned her head to find her apartment window among the string of identical ones. There it was—her Glo-Ball lamp. From the sidewalk the floating opal was like a lighthouse tower guiding her way. It meant Zig was still eating dinner with Leatrice. Sheri would surprise them. She hurried around the idling Fresh Direct truck and started down the long walkway to the front entrance. She barely saw her son by the light of day; only on weekends when she wasn’t traveling could she see his sweet face in natural sunlight. She checked her watch: seven twenty-seven. Inside the lobby Juan was surrounded by boxes. He jabbered on, his Dominican accent ricocheting off the art deco ceiling. A deliveryman crossed names off a sheet of paper. Some of those boxes had to be hers. Point-and-click grocery shopping was how she spent her meager downtime at the office. She pictured immigrant workers tossing bananas, boneless chicken, and canned soup into boxes without a thought to checking expiration dates or dents or the rotten carrot on the side of the three-pound bag. Juan spotted Sheri and yelled.
    “ Mami ’sjust in time for her deliveryyyy!”
    He came from behind the front desk— he was barely a foot taller than it.
    “All of this is for you!” he said, waving his hands at a tall stack of boxes. “What are you feeding that boy? For a five-year-old he eats like a man!”
    “Five years, five months, and two weeks.” she replied with a brief smile. It was best not to engage Juan in any extended conversation, especially after his evening joint. She waited for the delivery guy to load her boxes on a hand truck, resisting the urge to hurl her heavy bags on top of them. Juan assumed his pseudo doormanlike authority.
    “Okay. Ride up with Miss Lambert to 7B. Mira, you want me to watch the truck? The cops are out.”
    The delivery guy wheeled the boxes toward the elevators.
    “Nah, there’s another guy out front. He’ll move it.”
    Juan swore under his breath, always in pursuit of a tip. The delivery guy shoved the cart into the elevator like he was schlepping file cabinets instead of food. His skin had the dull cast of someone who ate bodega sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She caught a whiff of crushed basil and oranges and counted off five boxes—did she really order that much stuff?
    When the elevator doors opened the guy rolled the cart down the hall behind Sheri. Her keys jingled as she unlocked the door, and right away, she heard the familiar sound of Zig’s chair scraping the floor as he pushed away from the table.
    “Mommeee!”
    The door swung open before Sheri had a chance to turn the knob. Zig wrapped his little arms around her waist, almost knocking her into the delivery guy.
    “See? I told you my mom would come home early today!” He glared triumphantly at Leatrice. She