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

was picking up bits of food off the floor under his chair.
    “Right you are, Zig! He was telling me all day you would be here before eight o’clock.”
    “Hi, Leatrice. Yes, I managed to escape early today.”
    Sheri stepped aside with Zig dangling from her body so the young man could wheel the boxes into the kitchen. When he finished unloading them she tipped him five dollars. He thanked her, the bill disappearing into his meaty fist.
    She dragged her cumbersome portfolio in from the hallway, leaving the door ajar. The living room smelled of wet socks and rubber boots. She threw her handbag on the leather Eames sofa and straightened one of the matching chairs in front of her glass Noguchi coffee table. Though they were scratched and showing signs of age she never tired of them. The mid-century furniture’s simple, modern lines concealed nothing yet revealed everything about the daring pop art on the walls, art she had lovingly amassed over the years.
    Zig had dried ketchup on his chin and on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He was holding his favorite toy—not one of those newfangled electronic gadgets, but an old wooden canoe that she’d found at a stoop sale, its patina dull from constant coddling. He pulled Sheri to the sofa.
    “You smell like french fries! Did you bring me some fries?”
    “French fries? Hmmm…let’s see.” She opened her handbag and slowly lifted out the fries. “Whoa! How’d these get in here?”
    Zig snatched the paper bag and ran to his room with glee. Sheri glanced at her smiling babysitter cupping crumbs in her hand.
    “Did he finish eating, Leatrice?”
    “He et all except de broccoli,” she replied in broken patois.
    Sheri called out to Zig.
    “No fries until you eat a little broccoli, k?
    “K…,” he called back, mouth already stuffed.
    “How was his breathing today?” Sheri passed Leatrice a small waste paper basket for the crumbs.
    “Pam said he was okay in the playground. He ’ad one nebulizer treatment afta school and another one at seven o’clock.”
    There was no shortage of West Indian nannies in Brooklyn. Raised in Grenada, Leatrice was sincere and steadfast, especially regarding Zig’s asthma. If she couldn’t babysit on weekends her younger sister, Desiree, who also did housecleaning, was Sheri’s backup. They both had a proper air, the formal residue of British colonialism. After grilling several babysitters from a host of nanny agencies, Sheri had hired Leatrice when Zig was just three months old. Calm and collected, her face never betrayed any uncertainty; you could hear palm trees sway in her graceful movements. Pulling her thin jacket on, Leatrice quietly reported some news as Sheri walked her to the door.
    “When we were coming home from school today Zig asked me if I loved him.”
    Sheri froze.
    “Oh…what did you say?”
    “I told him yes, I love you.”
    Sheri looked everywhere but at Leatrice, afraid of what she would see. But Leatrice was still smiling, her brown lips ashen from a missed meal. She’d said the right thing, whether it was true or not. Guilt tightened its grip on Sheri’s throat.
    “Thank you, Leatrice,” she replied, barely above a whisper.
    “Good night, Zig! Have a good evening!” Unaffected, Leatrice made her usual cheerful exit, venturing deep into Crown Heights in hopes of seeing her own three kids before bedtime.
    Sheri closed the door and tried to shut out her wounded pride. Should she ask Zig about it? He ambled into the living room, relishing the last of his french fries. She collapsed on the sofa and yanked off her suede boots. No, she let it go. Right then, all she wanted was to sprawl there and admire his beaming little face.
    “Why didn’t you eat your broccoli, Z?”
    “I ate some. Broccoli is so pointy.” He tapped her gold elephant drop earrings, an impulse buy from the Met gift shop and a favorite of his.
    “Pointy! You have the weirdest way with words—the makings of a good writer. How’re tomatoes