Doc and the girl in the overalls, Dopey, forced me at the point of a pitchfork into a partially curtained area where I was made to climb into a steel washbasin—the kind you might use for a large, filthy, shaggy dog.
They dumped scalding-hot water on me, water that had a strong medicinal punch to it that flared my nostrils. Something about delousing for the protection of the community. I wasn’t sure where Nigel had gone, but it occurred to me that he was likely not in control of his movements. He may have been barred from coming to me by one of the others. Worse, he may have been brainwashed into not wanting to see me. The thought made me shiver even as steam rose from my skin.
Nigel.
It wasn’t too late. Yes, he was dark-skinned. And the mark—it had darkened and spread beneath that beard. Where did it go, and where did it stop? The overall blackening of his skin made the mark almost unnoticeable…almost. But then again, his whole body was basically a mark now.
I would get him back to the City for treatment. It wasn’t too late. It was never too late as long as we were on this side of the void. Dr. Nzinga stood ready to help. And if not her, then one of the other clinics that had popped up across the nation. She’d licensed her techniques, and they were being used from sea to shining sea. All over the world, even. Yes, some other magician could cast their spells, and Nigel would rise. Even if he was now almost as dark as me—well, as dark as I once was.
Out of the bath, I put on sandals and a belted, caftan-type garment they called a tupa. Once I was fully dressed outside the little shack next to the baths, Dopey came to me and picked through my hair with a comb.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Hush, man,” she said. “Can’t have you spreading bad luck. And keep your hands where I can see them. I know you’re some kind of sicko.”
I winced. What had these people convinced my son to believe about me? What false memories and manufactured fears? No doubt there had been some sweat lodge session. Some dark guru presiding. That master would have coerced Nigel to find the so-called source of his so-called pain. No doubt they contorted my son against me, so that he would embrace them and whatever their feeble ideology directed.
A dark-skinned and very pregnant girl in an empire top ambled over. She looked like she would walk right through me if I didn’t get out of the way. But she stopped just short of that and stared at my face. Her black features were unmistakable. Araminta!
Unlike Nigel, and except for the obvious, she still looked like the annoying girl who drove up my blood pressure every time she opened her mouth. Something crashed inside me. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her.
“That’s so weird, mister.” Araminta pulled my cheek, as if to test its substance. “God damn.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady,” I said. “Need I remind you—”
“You really damn did it.” I swatted her hand away.
Her face slid from offense to softness. Then she gave me a warm hug, pinning my arms against my body. It was the first act of kindness any of the New Rosewoodians had shown me.
“Looks like you got into a little trouble,” I said.
“Looks like you got a lot white.” She grabbed my hand and turned it over in hers. “What’s white and white and white all over?” She poked my chest. “You are.”
I had almost forgotten about my demelanization. If there was anyone crass enough to broach the issue of the work I had had done, it was Araminta. To be honest, it wasn’t something I thought much about anymore. Sure, when I was undergoing the process at Personal Hill, I obsessed over my improving visage. It had taken several long months (which felt like an eternity of visits to the DMV). And each week, after a session, I would compare my retoned face in the mirror to the memory of my darker self, fading into the grasslands of the past. Each time I smiled. I smiled when I saw my reflection in storefront windows downtown or in the winking waters of the Myrtles mall fountain. I smiled at the strange absence of recognition of my otherness. When white men saw me, they shook my hand as they would the hand of a brother or old college pal. When white women saw me, there was no fake chumminess to compensate for their fear that I might snatch their purse and run. I was just a man on a mezzanine minding my matters. Uncle George. Mister Smith. Good old Norm from the tavern. I marveled at this new sense of normalcy like a fish that suddenly realized it could breathe out of water. But the novelty wore off eventually, and I took on an unexpected but comfortable invisibility.
A pickup truck tore up the dirt road, trail pluming dust. It stopped hard. The engine knocked as the driver rolled down the window.
Nigel sat in the driver’s seat. “It’s time to go, Dad.”