CHAPTER 19
THE FORREST GUMP OF MUSIC
February 20, 2024
Della was extremely concerned about Ricki. Della thought her granddaughter had lost her mind, and had taken to discussing it with everyone she knew. On a covert phone call with Tuesday, she whispered, “That girl’s acting stranger than a soup sandwich.” Over breakfast with Naaz, she said, “That girl’s acting like she ain’t got but one oar in the water.” On another phone call, to her Links walking club, she announced, “That girl’s acting three pickles shy of a quart, if you get my meaning.”
Everyone got her meaning.
If the elder woman was freaking out a bit, it was understandable. Ricki had passed clean the hell out on her living room floor. And why? Because she’d shown her an antique pearl bracelet? It was odd. Plus, Della wasn’t convinced that Ricki was eating (or sleeping) properly, her eyes were starting to look faraway, and she often trailed off midsentence.
Whatever was going on with Ricki, at least she was as punctual as ever for their standing tea party. She arrived upstairs at Della’s triplex at exactly noon, and Naaz welcomed her with a bouquet of sunflowers.
Ricki had been invited to an intervention.
First of all, they were meeting in the dining room, instead of the living room. And instead of Lorna Doones and crustless sandwiches, Della had arranged for Sylvia’s Restaurant to deliver a gourmet meal: Sassy Wings, Catfish Fingers, and Salmon Bites, Ricki’s favorite dishes. Plus, Tuesday was there, legs crossed and arms folded, looking imperious.
Della greeted Ricki with a wide smile on her face. Today, she was feeling weaker than usual, so she blew Ricki several kisses from her dining chair instead of hopping up to give her a hug.
“What… is all of this?” Ricki lowered herself into a chair, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Have a Catfish Finger,” suggested Tuesday, behaving as if her presence at tea was super normal.
“Don’t look so distrustful,” said Della. “Dear, you’ve been acting so strangely. You came to tea and passed clean out, mid-conversation. Naaz had to wallop you back to life! You closed the shop for two days, which you never do. You won’t answer your phone. And Tuesday told me that you’re dating a serial killer.”
Stunned, Ricki shot a betrayed look at her friend.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” asked Tuesday, who was wearing a stiff navy pantsuit with a modest chignon.
“Tuesday, what are you doing here? And why are you dressed like a district attorney?”
“Serious business calls for a serious outfit.”
Naaz poked her head into the living room. “I like the suit; it’s giving Marriott concierge.”
“Naaz, please,” huffed Della, who was in no mood for her relentless enthusiasm.
The nurse threw up a peace sign and exited.
“Look, I know I’ve been acting weird,” started Ricki. “My whole life is turned upside down.” She took a beat, trying to quell her nervousness. “Ms. Della. Tuesday. I have something to tell you both. It won’t make any sense, at all. If you’re worried about my mental health now, you’ll want to have me committed by the end of this story. But please, try to believe me. What I’m about to say is real.”
Ms. Della and Tuesday looked at each other, sighed, and nodded at Ricki.
Then Ricki spilled it all. She was already on the spot, so what good could come from holding back? She told them the story of Ezra “Breeze” Walker, his immortality, and her projected February 29 date with death. Without stopping, she revealed practically every detail, down to their tour of New York City’s highest-rated spiritual specialists the day before.
She did leave out some important details: who cursed him, why, and where.
Without stopping to take a breath—or check to see if her audience was with her—Ricki talked and talked and talked. When she was done with her lengthy confession, she felt blissfully relieved. And starving. With a famished groan, she sat back and tore into a Sassy Wing.
Had she checked, she would’ve seen that her audience was visibly distraught. They both stared at her. Ms. Della had frozen with her teacup halfway to her lips. Tuesday’s mouth was slightly agape, her eyes wide.
The silence was thick. And it lasted for minutes as an oblivious Ricki housed the entire platter of fried chicken. Tuesday was the first to speak. She cleared her throat, tapped her chignon into place, and went in.
“So, what I’m hearing you say is that Ezra Walker is a one-hundred-twenty-four-year-old man in twenty-eight-year-old cosplay, and you two are fated soulmates.”
Ricki nodded eagerly, chomping on chicken. “Yes, that’s it.”
“And the reason y’all keep running into each other is not because he’s a stalker, but because you’re both involuntarily drawn to each other. Like lizards instinctively turning towards the sun.”
“Lizards? I don’t know that I’d put it like that…”
“And Ezra is basically the Forrest Gump of music, weaving in and out of important historical moments over the past century?”
“Forrest Gump is… a reach, but sure.”
“Ricki!” Tuesday burst out laughing. “Bitch, why didn’t you just tell me this when I came over the other day?”
Ricki stopped chewing. “Wait. You believe me?”
“I’m relieved! I really did think you were on meth. You’ve been acting so secretive and shifty. Honestly, your story isn’t that crazy, you know. I once played a teenaged medium in a Hallmark Halloween movie called If You’ve Got It, Haunt It, and it was based on a true story. For a whole summer, I hung out with the medium I was playing. She told me all about Perennials!”
“Seriously?”
“By the way, don’t call Perennials vampires,” Tuesday told Ms. Della. “They hate that.”
Ricki was aghast. “Tuesday Rowe! You broke into Ezra’s house. You told Ms. Della he was a serial killer and got her all worked up into an intervention! How dare you change your mind so easily. You’re so reactive and dramatic.”
Tuesday’s brows shot to the ceiling. “Says the woman fucking a supernatural entity.”
“Ladies, that’s enough.” Ms. Della looked extremely concerned but patient. And then, in the calm tone reserved for reasoning with toddlers and lunatics, she addressed Ricki. “Sugar, are you finished?”
“Well… no. There’s more.”
“Lord, help me over the fence,” she exclaimed before coughing heartily into the crook of her arm. Then she gazed into her cup, looking as though she wished it contained something stronger than Earl Grey. Shaking her head, she placed the teacup atop the stack of plantable note cards Ricki had gifted her (she hadn’t found a better use for them than “makeshift coaster”).
Ricki held back, genuinely frightened to tell the rest. She hadn’t planned on telling Ms. Della about Felice. It wasn’t her place to reveal harsh truths about a woman Ms. Della never knew, the mother she’d surely spent her entire life building up in her head. When Ms. Della told Ricki that she bought the building to feel closer to her, to fill in the blanks of her history, she couldn’t have known she’d find this out.
Telling her the truth felt cruel.
But now she was on the spot. Shoulders slumping, Ricki said, “I don’t really know how to say this. Ms. Della, at first, I didn’t believe Ezra’s story about the curse. It’s so far-fetched, it sounds like a fantasy. But when you told me about the history of 225½, your… uh… stories matched up. And then I knew it was true.”
“I don’t follow.” Ms. Della coughed again.
Ricki hated seeing her so unwell. She seemed unusually fragile, almost like her pajamas were drowning her.
I need to have a private talk with Naaz, thought Ricki. Ms. Della’s not okay. It’s obvious. And she’s too proud to ever tell me what’s wrong.
“Should we let you rest?” asked Ricki. “We can talk about this another time.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” she responded, laying her beringed hand on her chest. “Ricki, what does my house’s history have to do with Ezra?”
“Ezra was cursed at a rent party on February 29, 1928. It was held downstairs, Ms. Della. In Wilde Things. Like I said, Ezra’s a pianist. And back then, he was a famous one, called Breeze Walker. The piano in my apartment? It was his. It was left in the house and boarded up all this time.”
“Dear, that’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, I know,” said Ricki. “But it’s also true. And there’s more. He’s immortal because his then girlfriend cursed him. And her name was… Felice.”
Ms. Della looked uncharacteristically stricken. And then she quickly collected herself.
“Felice who?” she asked.
“Fabienne.”
Tuesday looked confused. “Who’s Felice Fabienne?”
“My mother,” said Ms. Della sharply. “Which is obviously impossible.”
“It isn’t, though,” said Ricki, her voice soft. “I don’t know how to tell you this… so I’ll just spit it out. Felice cursed him on the roof and then committed suicide. Which matches up with your story. That pearl bracelet you showed me? Ezra gave it to her. His monogram is inscribed on it. BW + FF. Breeze Walker plus Felice Fabienne.”
Tuesday gasped, clapping her palm over her mouth.
“Felice wanted him to marry her and move back to Louisiana to be with her baby, but he… he turned her down. And she was furious.”
Ms. Della made a scoffing sound and smoothed out the wrinkles in her pajama pants. “Ricki, you can’t possibly believe such a thing.”
“I wish it wasn’t true, Ms. Della.” Ricki’s voice was trembling in shame. “I’m so sorry. I hate that I…”
The older woman held up a wrinkled, shaky index finger at Ricki, signaling for her to stop talking—now. When Ms. Della spoke, her voice was witheringly sharp.
“You do realize, Ricki, that there’s nothing new about a man blaming his ex for every wrong turn that’s happened in his life. Women are blamed for all the ills of the world.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be naive. Every baby mama is a B-word; every ex-wife is crazy. The second wife is trained to hate the first. Somewhere, right this second, one of your ex-boyfriends is telling some girl you’re a witch.”
“Men do be vilifying exes.” Tuesday nodded.
“Believe me, I know,” whispered Ricki, her voice unsteady. “But this time it’s different. Ms. Della…”
“What, dear?” she asked in a thin voice, her patience worn.
“Ezra told me that Felice’s daughter was named Adelaide. He told me this before you told me your real name. How would he know that?”
Ms. Della huffed out an exasperated sound.
“Do you know why Felice named you Adelaide?”
“No, and neither do you. And neither, certainly, does Ezra.”
Worriedly, Ricki chewed on her bottom lip and glanced at Tuesday, who gave her an encouraging nod. And so she kept talking. “Felice named you after her idol, Adelaide Hall. She was one of the first Black Broadway stars. And she inspired Felice to move to Harlem and become a dancer.”
A mighty exhale escaped from Ms. Della, leaving her looking smaller than ever. It was almost as if she had deflated.
“Felice loved you so much. Ezra said so. She was working hard to raise enough money to send for you. Everything she did was for you.”
“That’s enough,” said Ms. Della, fingering a napkin.
“It’s true. I wish it wasn’t. Because it also means I’m going to die in nine days.”
“Girl, please, you’re not going anywhere,” scoffed Tuesday.
“But everything else in the curse has come true. Ezra’s immortal; I even saw him stab himself and not get hurt! My face has haunted him every leap year February for over a century. He heard notes to a song for decades, but it never came together till he met me. I’m the soulmate he was cursed to lose. I’m going to die the same day Felice did.”
Ms. Della pulled off her red-framed glasses and set them on the table. Gingerly, she rubbed her eyes. “I’ve heard enough. All this dark magic and sorcery is not of the Lord. You both are welcome to stay, but I’m going to take a nap.”
Naaz, who’d been listening at the door, skipped into the room and stood behind Ms. Della, helping her out of the chair.
Crushed by guilt, Ricki ran over to Ms. Della and clasped her delicate, thin-skinned hands in hers. The last thing she ever wanted to do was upset her grandmother. She knew that in a certain light, the whole thing looked like another one of her catastrophic flights of fancy. Another example of her being just “too much.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ricki apologized, on the edge of tears. “You know I wouldn’t tell you all of this if it wasn’t true. And I understand if you need some time.”
Ms. Della disentangled her hands from Ricki’s. “I love you like you’re my own. But let’s end the conversation here. And know this: the villain depends on who’s telling the story.”
Then Naaz carefully led Ms. Della from the room. And Ricki plopped back down on her chair, resting her head on the table.
“I believe you, don’t worry.” Tuesday nibbled on a Catfish Finger. “I won’t let you die. Even if I have to lock you in a closet or something.”
“I will never forgive myself for hurting Ms. Della,” mumbled Ricki. “I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me, either. Fuck.” She raised her head off the table. “Sorry.”
“Are you really apologizing for saying ‘fuck’?”
“Oh. That’s Ezra. He doesn’t like to curse in front of me. He’s so gallant, in an old-fashioned way. He says ‘malarkey’ and ‘spectacles.’” She shrugged and smiled softly. “It’s cute.”
Tuesday’s eyes widened, and a slow grin split her face. “Girl. You liiiike him.”
“Stop.”
“You do. It’s all over you. You’re like a character in that series you’re always reading. Those supernatural erotic stories.”
“Speaking of, I should go. I have a ticket to Eva Mercy’s book reading at Sister’s Uptown Bookstore. It starts in an hour, and my entire future may depend on it.”
“No shade, babe, but if this is your last week on Earth, you’re choosing to prioritize a book reading?”
“It’s not just any reading, Tuesday. She’s a voodoo expert. I’m going to ask her how to reverse the curse.”
Breathe, Ricki, she thought to herself. This could be it, the thing that saves me and Ezra.
“Here’s the thing,” explained Ricki. “Eva Mercy has Louisiana Creole heritage, like Felice. She writes the Cursed books I’m always reading. Anyway, she’s been researching her ancestors down on the bayou and has become an expert on folk magic. She just wrote a fascinating piece in the New Yorker about hoodoo, voodoo, and the intersection of African religious traditions and Catholicism in the New World, et cetera, et cetera. Did you read it?”
“No, now that I’m a writer, I don’t have time to do anything but procrastinate, masturbate, and cry.”
“Well, she’s knowledgeable. If anyone knows how to save me and Ezra, it’ll be her.”
“Godspeed,” said Tuesday. “And Ricki? Be careful.”
An hour later, Ricki was sitting in a crowded space at Sister’s Uptown, an intimate Washington Heights bookstore with a bright purple awning you could spot blocks away. The twenty-year-old shop smelled of fresh paper, coconut oil, and positive community vibes. Ricki knew she was in a room full of Cursed stans, because half the audience was wearing purple witch hats in honor of the series protagonist, Gia, a badass witch.
Why didn’t I bring my hat from Atlanta? Ricki thought. Out here looking like a fake fan.
But, alas, she had bigger problems than a hat. After only five months in New York City, Ricki had done a brilliant job of ruining her life on every fucking level. Except professionally—though pretty soon, that wouldn’t matter, either. Nothing would.
She’d made it just in time, thank God. Tonight wasn’t just about Cursed; Eva Mercy was also speaking about her folk magic research and upcoming memoir. Eva was as cute and relatable as she seemed on Instagram. With her horn-rimmed glasses, DMX concert tee, and Adidas, her vibe was “your best friend’s cool big sister.” And since Ricki recognized her from Insta, she knew that Eva’s teenage daughter, Audre, was sitting in the front row, chewing gum with boredom. She looked like a Disney princess, but festival.
Ricki sat in the audience, listening, trying to forget that she was a dead woman walking. And that she was deeply entangled with a man she couldn’t have. And that she’d possibly ruined her relationship with Ms. Della, one of the most important people in her life. And, because it bore repeating, that she was a dead woman walking.
Eva Mercy was her last hope.
“As we know, so many religions are patriarchal, because men were the ones making the rules, right?” Eva was almost at the end of her reading, standing at a wooden podium in the front of the room, spitting straight facts. “But voodoo was very female centered. Enslaved West Africans and Haitian revolutionaries originally brought voodoo to Louisiana, which was then infused with the dominant religion, Catholicism. It was a powerful alternative to European-based Christianity.
“But voodoo was so much more than a religion, honestly. It was special because at a time when whites controlled everything, voodoo was exclusively ours. White people didn’t understand it. So it gave Black people a sense of power and protection.”
She grinned and held up a Black Power fist, to delighted applause. A room full of bookish women in purple witch hats raised their fists in the air. Ricki got chills. Despite her desperate situation, she felt like a member of the most powerful coven on Earth.
“And then, during the Great Migration period, Southern Black people brought the religion up north to urbanized cities like Chicago, Denver, Kansas City, and, of course, Harlem. It was folded into so many creative expressions: song, dance, books. It’s a little sad that so many modern Black Christians are fearful of the religion. It isn’t inherently dark or evil. White supremacy taught us that voodoo was the stuff of savages, that it was satanic, simply because it was a religion that, to them, gave their human property too much power. But it’s far from evil! Voodoo itself is harmless and peaceful. But like any faith, when it’s used for darkness, it can be dangerous. If you evoke a spirit to harm someone, using curses, potions, and charms, you’ll cause damage.”
Given Eva had introduced the topic of dark voodoo and curses, Ricki decided that this was the perfect time to ask her question.
Feeling her forehead go dewy with nervousness, Ricki shot her hand up. “Hi, my name is Ricki Wilde, and I’m a massive, massive stan. Beyond. And I… just have a quick question.”
“Hi, Ricki,” she said, smiling while absentmindedly massaging a temple. “Ask away!”
Ricki noticed that Eva Mercy kept rubbing her head. She’d read somewhere that the author had been plagued by inexplicable daily migraines her whole life. Talk about a curse.
“Well, I once heard a story about a woman who put a terrible hex on a man right before committing suicide. She was a powerful priestess, I guess, because every part of the hex came true. Is there any way to reverse such a curse?”
“Good question.” Eva nodded slowly, taking in the details. She slid her glasses up her nose. “You said the woman who cursed him committed suicide right afterwards?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm. Not good,” Eva said with a grimace. She paused, rubbing her temple again. “To carry out a dark voodoo curse, you must first beckon a loa, another word for a god. I’d assume she called on Met Kalfu, the loa of black magic. To summon him, though, a sacrifice must first be made. And in the case of a very dark curse, like this one? A human death would be the sacrifice. Which is why she killed herself, I’m sure.”
All the blood drained from Ricki’s face. Her hands went clammy, and she saw bleary dark spots before her eyes.
“Oh,” she responded in a small voice.
“To answer your question,” continued Eva, “a mirror sacrifice must be made to reverse the curse.”
“You mean, another human death.”
“Yep!” Eva said gleefully. The audience broke out in soft laughter. Eva giggled a little herself and then seemed to flinch in pain.
“Sorry, guys,” said Eva. “You know I love all this witchy stuff.”
Ricki saw the author’s eyes wander to the back of the room. Eva mouthed No to someone—a hummingbird-fast exchange—and then she pasted on a professional smile and took another question from the audience.
Ricki looked over her shoulder. In the back row, she spotted an absurdly handsome man with hazel-amber eyes. He’d lifted up a piece of paper reading ARE YOU OKAY? Ricki recognized him as Shane Hall, the bestselling author and Eva’s husband.
Just then, Shane got up from his seat and whispered something to the host, who then came up to the front beside Eva.
“Sadly, we’ll have to wrap up a few minutes early,” said the host, “but this has been wonderful. Give Eva Mercy a great big hand! Signed copies of the Cursed series are up front. And look out for her ancestral memoir, Belle Fleur, when it launches next year!”
Eva thanked the crowd warmly and was swarmed by readers. As it was all happening, Ricki noticed how she looked at Shane with such gratefulness and affection, it almost felt too intimate for the room. It was a tender, sweet moment, two people so in sync that they almost communicated in sign language. A husband so concerned for his wife’s well-being that he knew when she’d had enough, and advocated for her. It was adult, responsible love. And so romantic.
It’s something I’ll never have, she thought, stumbling out of the store in a haze of terror and despair. Reality had just struck her between the eyes, as sure as if she’d been shot.
If someone has to die to reverse Ezra’s curse, then February 29 really will be my last day on Earth, she thought. Only a monster would sacrifice another person to stay alive.
Dazed, Ricki wandered outside into the cold. She walked and walked for endless blocks. Washington Heights was a foreign neighborhood to her; she didn’t know where she was going, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Tears began coursing down her cheeks, and she paced faster and faster. She didn’t bother wiping the tears; she just let them fall, because what was the point? There’d just be more.
Ricki had been holding it together until this point, but now the floodgates were open. She had to face the reality that this was the end. Of everything. God, she wasn’t ready to go.
And she wasn’t ready to lose Ezra. All she wanted was him. His touch, his arms, his heart, his everything. Blinded by her tears, she kept going—heading uptown or downtown, she had no idea—until she felt herself being swept into a powerful embrace.
Without opening her eyes, she knew it was him. She could smell him. Feel him.
Ezra. Of course it was Ezra. They gravitated toward each other, the magnetic pull they couldn’t fight, even if they wanted to.
“You’re here.” She wept into his chest, gripping his coat in her fists.
“I’m here—you’re safe,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Just cry. Let it out.”
Ezra walked her to a nearby bench in front of a café. There, he held her and let her sob against him for however long she needed. He didn’t ask any questions or prod or say that he’d magically fix anything. There were no easy answers, just emotions.
Time was stretchy. Several lattes and hot cocoas later, the sky had turned dusky. The sun was setting. Finally, after endless silence, Ricki spoke. They were sitting side by side, her head leaning on his shoulder.
“I thought you hated hugs,” she said.
“I do hate hugs. But I like you.”
Despite her tears, Ricki smiled. “You like me, huh?”
Ezra pulled away a bit and then cupped her cheeks in his hands, tilting her face up to his. His expression was beatific, radiant with adoration.
“I love you,” he said.
Ricki gasped softly. “You do?”
He nodded, his gaze vulnerable.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
In the grand scheme of things, they’d known each other for only a blip in time. But for Ezra and Ricki, there was no point in playing hard to get or pretending that their feelings weren’t as intense as they were. They didn’t have time, but they had each other. And all they could do was cling to this one, extremely obvious truth.
Ezra’s face split into a wondrous grin. “I wanted to say it in Starbucks.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You can’t tell a woman you love her for the first time in Starbucks!”
“How would you know what’s appropriate Starbucks behavior; you’ve never…”
Ezra interrupted her with a knee-buckling, soul-stirring, dizzying kiss. He kissed her till her lips were puffy and her skin was raw from the scruff of his five-o’clock shadow. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, until the truth felt fake, dark was light, and their looming fate was all a terrible, terrible dream.