A Series of Thirds

The merciless August sun glared down at anyone who dared to step outside. Across from where Anaïs’ father had parked, an older woman on a porch fanned herself with a paper plate. A TruFate Landscaping van was parked down the road to her left. Two men rested against it, wordlessly picking off blades of grass stuck to their skin and gulping water from a gallon they passed back and forth.

Jumping out of her father’s truck, Anaïs prayed this would be their last delivery of the day. The humidity was suffocating, and she felt as if she was moving through glue. She stopped when she found her father frozen just past the gate that led to the backyard.

“What’s up, Papa? Is the table not where you left it?” She tried to peer past him but he whipped around and grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m going first.” His eyes were wide. “You stay behind me. Don’t touch anything.”

Anaïs pried his hand from her arm. In this heat, any contact was unbearable. “Why? Isn’t this just a regular pick up?”

“The people who ordered the table... they needed it for a voodoo ceremony.” “What do you mean? What ceremony?”

He sighed. “Believers hold an annual ceremony to celebrate the spirits and present

offerings. Without a spirit’s blessing, they must endure a year of death and pain.”

“That is so cool!”

“No, chérie, not cool. This is dangerous, understand?” he asked.

Anaïs nodded distractedly, eager to encounter the mystical side of her Haitian heritage. She rose on the balls of her feet to get a better look at the backyard.

“Anaïs!” He gripped her chin, eyes flashing. “I’m serious. Do not question anything. Do not touch anything. Do not even look at anything.”

“Ok, fine! God, Papa.” She pushed past him and stopped short, gaping at what her parents, devout Catholics, had refused to associate with.

The backyard was in disarray, empty liquor bottles strewn about and chunks of fried pork scattered around the neglected grass. The heat rendered the stench of alcohol and meat insufferable. Presiding over the mess was an ornate shrine that housed a statue of a woman holding a baby. Meticulously painted, it seemed out of place amongst the chaos. The woman’s robes were a deep blue and her eyes were stained an eerie vermillion, and though Anaïs certainly didn’t believe in any of this mumbo jumbo, she couldn’t ignore the goosebumps forming on her arms. She dropped her gaze to the foot of the statue and spotted hundred dollar bills mixed in with the flowers and food.

“Holy crap. What is all of this?” she asked.

“Offerings. Each spirit prefers something specific.”

“So this one wanted alcohol, fried pork, money, and flowers?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked, cracking a smile.

“I guess so.” She gingerly followed her father to the banquet table that was propped against a shed. “But this is such a waste of food. Do they at least drink the liquor?”

“Not all of it. If the ceremony is done correctly, the spirit possesses someone. That person becomes the physical form of the spirit for the night and is given gifts and some alcohol. Here.”

He threw her a thick towel. “You grab the bottom of the table with this. I’ll take the other side. Do not touch it with your hands.”

Anaïs did as she was told. “What happens to the rest of the money?”

“If people know about it, they come and steal it.” They began walking, balancing the large table between them.

“Well, it’s hardly stealing— they’re basically throwing the money away. And they’d be idiots to think that no one would at least try to take it.”

“It’s seen as stealing from the spirit. Besides, believers trust that every offering is protected by the spirit. It’s simple, really. If something’s stolen, the thief will be punished.”

She scoffed. “I thought you didn’t believe in all this stuff, Papa?” She let go of the table with one hand to wipe the sweat from her brow.

“You know I don’t. It’s all fake. Haitian folklore blown way out of proportion.”

Anaïs glanced pointedly at the towel. “It sure doesn’t feel that way to me.”

He let out a huff. “Anaïs, in Haiti, your grandmother made sure we didn’t mess with this stuff. She called it a perverse form of religion, and she was right. People used it as an excuse to harm others, and when someone did something wrong, they’d hold the spirits accountable rather than the person. Why should I associate with such people?”

“Jeez, I get it. I just think you’re taking this really seriously for someone who doesn’t believe.”

They were at the gate when Anaïs stopped short and swore. “Papa, I think my phone fell out of my pocket when I bent down to lift the table.”

He let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll put the table in the truck. You have 20 seconds.”

She waited for him to turn toward the truck before darting to the shrine. Plucking three hundred dollar bills from the foot of the statue, she stuffed them into the pocket that held her phone, deliberately avoiding those disquieting red eyes, even as she insisted to herself that she wasn’t a little bitch. After all, if her father didn’t believe, why should she?

Anaïs climbed into the truck cab where he was waiting, grateful for the air conditioning. She peered out her father’s window as he fished his key from under his seat. No longer alone, the old woman stood on her porch, flanked by the two men from TruFate Landscaping. She wore gardening gloves and used large shears to deadhead the spent roses hanging from planters suspended above.

As if she could feel Anaïs’ gaze, the old woman paused and looked directly into the truck. Knowing eyes bored into Anaïs’ and she frowned at the girl, shaking her head. Before Anaïs could think, the woman’s stare of disappointment was severed by her father resurfacing with the key.

Anaïs ignored his first failed attempt at fitting the key into the ignition. The second time, she snorted at his clumsiness. The third time sparked a troubled curiosity, and she realized that his hands were trembling so much that he couldn’t control them.

“Papa? What’s wrong?”

No answer.

“Dad!”

He finally faced her, trying in vain to conceal his panic. Her hands grew cold as she stared into terrified eyes. “Dad? You’re scared, aren’t you? Being in that yard scared you.”

The money in her pocket grew unbearably warm — like it might burn through the fabric. But that was impossible; this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“Dad, you’re scaring me!” He was frozen with fear, or perhaps something much more sinister. “You said you didn’t believe, you said it was all fake! Answer me!”

A few yards behind him, the old lady resumed pruning, beheading the red roses and letting them plummet to the porch. Anaïs heard the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat in her ears, felt it mimic the tempo of the woman’s flowers falling to the wooden porch.