The witchs apprentice, p.5
The Witch's Apprentice, page 5
Ma tries again. “How long has it been since I was a guest here? Ten or twelve years?”
“Too long, apparently. Need I remind you, Ma, that there are certain rules that must be followed if you are to stay at this establishment?”
“Of course, Miss E. It’s just that Jaxon is my apprentice, and since this is his first time visiting Chicago, I wanted him to experience the finest accommodation. But if you’re willing to issue us a refund, I suppose we could try to find another play to stay….” Ma turns to Mrs. Benjamin and asks, “Doesn’t Clara Simpson run a bed-and-breakfast nearby?”
“It’s just one block over, I believe,” Mrs. Benjamin replies with a straight face, though Dutch smirks and Quayesha smothers a snicker.
Miss Ellabelle must not want to lose paying guests to her neighbor, because she sniffs and says, “Well, I suppose I can make an exception just this once. He does appear to be clean, at least.”
Ma’s determined to be polite, but the smile on her face is slipping. “Jaxon is very tidy and very polite. He’ll be no trouble at all, I can assure you,” Ma says in a terse voice. “Now if you don’t mind showing us to our rooms, we’ll just leave our bags and make our way to the convention.”
Miss Ellabelle finally steps aside, and Ma nods at the snooty little woman as she leads the rest of us up the stone stairs and into the impressive foyer. A chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, and portraits of elegantly dressed people hang on the walls. The wallpaper looks like it’s made of gold and red velvet, but I don’t dare touch it with my fingers. To the right is a dining room with dark green walls and a long table that could seat at least twenty guests. To the left is the parlor. The pocket doors are only partially open, but I glimpse a grand piano in one corner, a fireplace that I could almost stand inside, and old-fashioned sofas covered in protective plastic.
Miss Ellabelle sees me craning my neck to get a better look and pulls the doors shut.
“The parlor is off-limits,” she says.
Ma raises an eyebrow, which makes me wonder if our host is making up new rules just for me.
“Your rooming house looks more like a castle,” I tell Miss Ellabelle, hoping my attempt at flattery will work as well as Ma’s.
But our unhappy host just scowls at me and says, “It was patterned after the sixteenth-century château of the king of France.” Then she points to a rubber boot tray and says, “Shoes.”
I kneel to remove my sneakers, and the others slip their shoes off as well. In our sock feet we pad up the carpeted stairs, the curved wooden staircase creaking beneath our weight.
I hang back a bit to put more space between myself and Miss Ellabelle. She’s talking about the history of the building. It’s clear she’s very proud to be carrying on the tradition of her grandmother, who was born enslaved in Missouri but came to Chicago and opened a home in the 1920s for the many migrant women who flocked to the city looking for jobs.
I look up and see the head of a bison mounted on the wall. Then my mouth falls open because the shaggy head turns to look down at me before pulling its head out of the wall with a soft popping sound! Only a wood plaque with a gaping hole remains on the wall.
No one else seems to have witnessed the bison’s vanishing act. I tug Quayesha’s hand to get her attention. “Is Miss Ellabelle…a hunter?”
Quayesha shakes her head and says, “I think her grandmother bought the house furnished, so that probably belonged to the original owner.”
I glance up at the empty plaque and ask, “Is Miss Ellabelle a witch?” I can easily imagine our unpleasant host with a pointy black hat, stirring a cauldron full of green goop that turns boys like me into toads!
But Quayesha just laughs. “There’s magic somewhere in her family, which is why she rents rooms to folks like us. But there is nothing remotely magical about Miss E. She chose another path that’s very straight and very narrow.”
I look up to find Miss Ellabelle glaring at me from the second-floor landing. There are more questions I’d like to ask Quayesha, but I zip my lip and hurry up the stairs to join the rest of our group.
Our host explains that we’ll have the entire second floor to ourselves for the next three days. I wait my turn as Miss Ellabelle leads us down the long hallway, stopping to open a door and deposit a witch in one grand bedroom after another. Some have four-poster beds with velvet canopies; others have crystal chandeliers and marble fireplaces. When we get to the end of the hall, there’s only one door left.
“And this,” she says with obvious pleasure, “is your room, boy.”
Miss Ellabelle turns the knob and steps aside so I can see where I’ll be sleeping. There’s an old cot folded up at the far end of the room and a strange square door in the middle of the water-stained wall. There are dusty marks on the wall where shelves once hung, and the narrowness of the room tells me it probably used to be a storage closet.
I don’t want to seem rude, but in a big, fancy house like this, why should I have to sleep in a musty storeroom? Then I think maybe this is how all apprentices are treated—just like how servants used to have to sleep way up in the attic of the big houses where they worked. Ma looks at my face and generously offers to share her room with me.
“That’s okay,” I tell her, trying to be a good sport. “I don’t need much space.” What I do need is a little privacy. This room may not have any windows and may smell faintly like mothballs, but it’s mine.
“All right, folks!” Ma calls so the others can hear her. “Let’s meet back downstairs in five minutes.”
I take my phone out so I can charge the battery, only to find there’s no plug in my room. “It’s definitely a closet,” I mutter to myself before texting Mama to let her know we arrived safely. I consider sending her a photo of my room, but that would only make her worry.
I check the time before putting my phone away. We’re in the central time zone now, so we’ve actually gained an hour. Since I don’t have much to unpack, I head downstairs, pausing to take a closer look at the wooden plaque on which the bison’s head was mounted.
“Come on, boy, don’t dillydally!”
I hurry down the curved staircase and find Ma at the bottom, wearing the same clothes she had on before.
“What you staring at, boy?” Ma asks grumpily.
“Aren’t you going to get changed?” I ask.
Ma scowls at me. “You saying there’s something wrong with the clothes I got on?”
I shake my head. “No! I just thought…I don’t know. I didn’t think witches could wear everyday clothes to a convention.”
Quayesha laughs and picks a ball of lint off her sparkly pink T-shirt. She has swapped her dress and boots for skinny jeans and a pair of leopard-print high-top sneakers. “There’s a gala on the last night. We’ll wear our fancy clothes then. Hope you packed your tuxedo, Jax.”
Mrs. Benjamin sighs impatiently and nudges Ma through the open front door and down the stairs. The rest of us follow, but when we reach the street, Ma puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “All right, Jax. Vonn should be here soon.”
“Who’s Vonn?” I ask.
“Only the best tour guide in all of Chicago,” Quayesha says with a smile.
Tour guide? I turn back to Ma. “I thought I was going to the convention with you.”
“Not today,” Ma says without looking me in the eye.
“But…what if you need help?”
Mrs. Benjamin snorts and starts heading up the block. Ma doesn’t mean to hurt my feelings, but she can tell how disappointed I am. Why bring me all the way to Chicago if I’m not allowed to learn about the world of witches?
“We’ll be stuck in meetings all day long, Jax,” Ma explains. “You’ll have a lot more fun with Vonn.”
“I didn’t come to Chicago to have fun, Ma. I came to learn.”
“I know, boy, but you got to trust me on this. We got some serious matters to discuss at the convention, and I’m afraid you just ain’t ready to join the conversation.”
“Can I go with you tomorrow? I promise not to say a single word—I’ll just listen.”
Ma sighs impatiently, and I know that’s my cue to stop begging. I try not to look as frustrated as I feel and take a seat on the bottom step of the stoop.
“You got pocket money?” she asks before following after the others.
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter as I wave goodbye. Mama gave me some money for emergencies. I’m pretty sure that, like me, she thought I’d be with Ma all the time and wouldn’t have to worry about buying my own meals. Then I remember the way they were whispering in the kitchen last night. Was Mama telling Ma not to take me to the convention? Maybe this Vonn is just a glorified babysitter.
I sigh and get ready to throw myself a pity party. Like the porch columns, the stone banisters on either side of the stairs are covered with strange carvings. I peer at the one closest to me and see that what I thought was a large flower is actually a face. I do a double take when a pair of stone eyes opens and looks me up and down. Then the face yawns, and its eyes close once more.
“I know how you feel,” I say. “I didn’t expect Chicago to be this boring, either.”
Then I see a teenager loping up the block. Judging from his clothes and the too-cool-for-school way he moves, he’s the kind of kid who’d never be caught dead with a nerd like me. But to my surprise, he nods his baseball-capped head at me before jogging across the street. The logo on the teen’s cap matches the one on the sleeve of his white pin-striped jersey. chicago is spelled out across his chest in navy-blue letters. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen sneakers so clean—they must be brand-new, because there’s not a single scuff mark on his white kicks. When he pulls open the gate, I see my own reflection in the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses and wish I had a pair of my own to block the glare of his all-white ensemble.
“What up, Brooklyn?”
He holds his hand out and I reach for it, hoping my handshake has enough steps.
After three variations, Vonn pulls me up off the bottom step and looks me over for a few seconds. Then he asks, “Mets or Yankees?”
“Uh…”
Before I can think of an answer, Vonn fires off another question. “Jets or Giants?”
“Well…”
“Rangers or Isles? Knicks or Nets?”
Finally I say, “My dad took me to Madison Square Garden to see the Liberty play once.”
“Yeah? A buddy of mine works at the arena. Maybe he can score us some tickets to see the Sky play.”
I hope I look sufficiently impressed. The truth is, I’m not really into sports. My dad was a sports journalist and always hoped I’d share his love of basketball, but when it became clear that I didn’t have the hand-eye coordination it takes to dribble or hit a free throw, Dad found other things for us to do together. I don’t tell Vonn that at that Liberty game I ate so many hot dogs that I fell asleep long before the game ended.
I can’t think of anything else to say about sports teams, so I focus on Vonn’s jersey. “What team is that?” I ask, pointing to the logo on his sleeve.
“The Chicago American Giants,” he says while tracing the A that’s laid over the letter G. “They dominated the Negro Leagues back in the day.”
I’ve seen the word Negro in my history textbook, but nowadays we call ourselves Black or African American. I wonder how a kid his age knows about sports teams that played such a long time ago. “Do you play baseball?”
“Nope. You hungry?”
My stomach settled down once we got off the UR and does feel a little empty right now. “I guess. I have a granola bar in my bag.”
Vonn grins, and I blink as the diamond grillz on his front teeth glitter. “Save your snack for later, Brooklyn. What you need is a real meal. Deep-dish or thin-crust?”
Deep-dish pizza sounds a lot better than a dry granola bar! Mama is lactose intolerant and so am I, but I can’t come all the way to Chicago and not try the city’s famous pizza. Maybe spending the day with Vonn won’t be so bad after all.
“So, Brooklyn, what you know ’bout the Chi?”
I shrug. “Not a lot. My dad used to come here for work. He sent me a postcard once of the big silver bean.”
“Cloud Gate. That’s in Millennium Park. Did your pops tell you anything ’bout the South Side?”
When I shake my head, Vonn spreads out his arms before turning in a circle once. “This is Bronzeville. They used to call this part of Chicago ‘Black Metropolis,’ but Bronzeville is the name that stuck. The fearless journalist Ida B. Wells lived a few blocks north along King Drive. Great writers like Richard Wright and Gwendolyn Brooks lived here, too, along with jazz legends like Nat King Cole and Louis Armstrong.”
“I thought Louis Armstrong lived in Queens,” I say.
“That’s where he ended up,” Vonn explains. “A lot of musicians made their way to New York eventually, but Satchmo got his start here in Chicago with King Oliver’s band. You like jazz?”
I shrug. “When he’s home, my granddad plays scratchy old records. Some of the music is okay.”
“Trub’s your granddaddy, right?”
I nod and feel proud that Vonn knows something about my family. “He was supposed to come with us, but…”
“Plans change—that’s just how it is. You gotta learn how to go with the flow. I know this ain’t how you thought you’d be spending your first day in Chicago, but it looks like we’re stuck with each other, so we might as well make the best of it. You feel me?”
I laugh and say, “I feel you, Vonn.”
“Right. You want deep-dish. Should we go to Giordano’s or Lou Malnati’s?”
“You choose. I’m just going with the flow,” I say with a smile.
Vonn laughs. “Let’s hit Giordano’s over in Hyde Park. You good to walk awhile? If not, we can wait for the 15 bus.”
“I like to walk,” I tell him. “My dad always said that was the best way to get to know a new place.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Let’s go, Brooklyn.”
Vonn loops his arm around my neck, and we walk like that for a long while, stopping now and then so he can point out a landmark or tell me a story about someone famous who lived in the neighborhood—including the Obamas! Many of the people we pass seem to know Vonn, and he shakes a lot of hands as we walk. Some older women smile at us like they’re pleased—or maybe proud—to see us hanging out together. I wonder if they think Vonn’s my big brother. I’m learning so much from him, I almost wish he was!
We walk for close to an hour, but I’m still surprised when I look up and see the bright lights of the Giordano’s sign up ahead.
“We’re here, at last. Ready to get your eat on?” Vonn asks.
I nod eagerly and pass through the door he holds open for me. Inside the restaurant is busy and loud. Most tables are taken, and there are a few people in line ahead of us. But when the manager sees Vonn, he opens his arms wide and gives both of us a big hug. Then he leads us to a more private table in a corner of the restaurant and asks, “The usual, my friend?”
Vonn nods and asks me what I want to drink.
“I’ll have a beer,” I say, trying not to smirk.
Vonn just chuckles and asks the manager to bring us two root beers and some garlic fries. “Deep-dish pizza takes a long time, but it’s totally worth the wait,” Vonn assures me.
I wonder if President Obama and his family ever come here for deep-dish. I’m about to ask Vonn, when his phone dings and he starts texting somebody. I watch the other diners in the restaurant. If people know about the strange sleep illness spreading across the city, they sure don’t look worried. But then, most of the diners are young, and Ma thinks the spell only affects older folks.
The waiter brings our drinks and appetizer. I get my reusable straw out of my bag and quickly drain about a third of my soda. Vonn slips his phone back into his pocket and takes just one small sip of his root beer. I can’t see his eyes, but his face looks different—more tense than before.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Vonn nods and takes his grillz out before grabbing a handful of garlic fries. “Just some business I gotta take care of later on.”
I sip my root beer more slowly and try to decide whether it’s a good idea to ask Vonn a personal question.
Vonn laughs and says, “Don’t ever play poker, kid. I can read you like a book. What’s on your mind?”
“I was just wondering…I mean, are you…um…how do you know Ma?”
“Me and Ma go way back. In fact, I’ve known her since she was round about your age.”
My mouth falls open, and my straw clanks against the glass mug. “But…I thought you were a teenager!”
Vonn smiles, and his own teeth are just as bright as his white clothes. “Black don’t crack, baby.”
“So…if you’re older than Ma, does that mean…are you also…”
Vonn leans in and whispers, “A witch?”
I nod, and he pushes back from the table. “Naw. I’m a Watcher.” Vonn slides his sunglasses down his nose just enough for me to see his eyes. They’re dark brown, like mine, but in the center of each one, instead of a black pupil, there’s an orange light.
The waiter returns to drop off some plates and napkins, so Vonn slides his shades back into place. When we’re alone again he asks, “Anything else you wanna know?”
A dozen questions swirl around my mind, but I settle on the most obvious one. “What’s a Watcher?”
6
The waiter sets our steaming-hot pizza on the table between us. The tomato sauce looks strange on top, but I see all the layers of meat and cheese stacked beneath it when the waiter serves each of us a big slice. I wait to see if Vonn’s going to eat with his hands and sigh with relief when he reaches for his cutlery instead.
