WINDA BEAUJOLAIS

Winda couldn’t sleep.

She slipped quietly from bed, careful not to wake Timothy, and stood over Imani’s crib watching her make sucking motions with pursed lips. What did her daughter dream about without words to frame the pictures? Listening to the rain, she maneuvered around the cardboard packing boxes piled along the walls and looked out every window. She couldn’t help worrying about the missing old woman out there, cold and alone.

In the dark of the unfamiliar house, she let herself consider the possibility that she and Timothy had made a major mistake. What were they thinking, leaving their crowded, noisy, variegated Brooklyn neighborhood for this place? The teaching job had felt like such a plum, so convenient and perfect, but danger could be lurking. Maybe her dark skin was simply a box to be checked off in the college’s diversity portfolio. Maybe the odd, hooded woman from next door wasn’t the only one who would look at her beloved daughter and back away.

Or it could be just bad luck that they moved in on the day an old woman with dementia wandered off. The police would probably find Mrs. Blum in the morning—or maybe she was already tucked into bed with her husband—and everything would return to normal on Azalea Court. Yes, that was most likely what would happen.

Still, she heard her grandmother’s voice in her head. Would it hurt to pray to your ancestors to bless your new home? Winda didn’t actively pray to the elders in her family who had passed on, not like her mother and aunties did, but she didn’t entirely dismiss the practice either. Timothy had never questioned the small shrine she kept by her bed so why should she feel slightly embarrassed by it? Especially here, in this place so foreign to her upbringing, it could be a comfort.

She smiled to herself as her grandmother’s voice continued. Listen to your Bibi. The rain is a good sign, but it may not be enough. Let us guide you. We are with you.