Indeed, he takes us through the things we forgot in order to remind us how deeply curious we are or were about each other but more importantly about ourselves. He gives us back our wonder. True graceful wonder. Wonder at a world that would deny love to a boy because he aimed it at another boy. Wonder for a town that could not keep the secret affair of a pastor’s wife from diminishing his following. Wonder for an elderly woman, mad at the world, bent on heavenly reward, finding grace and joy at a child’s game like Pac-Man. That wonder will have you back reading, feeding the fire of questions that continue to consume you, burnishing your spirit with each revisit, each time more curious with a capital C.

—Tarell Alvin McCraney

December 2021

White Sorcery

White Sorcery

The Lord is in his Holy Temple; let all
the earth keep silent before him. I was
glad when they said unto me, Let us go
into the House of the Lord . . .

December 8, 1985 8:45 am

December 8, 1985

8:45 am

“Lord, Lord, Lord,” she said.

The first time she slipped on the grass and fell that morning, he rushed to her, but she shooed him away and clambered, slowly, to her feet. But then, after a few precious steps, she fell again.

“Lord, Lord, Lord.”

This time she just sat there on the frost-covered lawn, between her house and Jimmy’s car, her head hung down, her eyes closed.

“You okay, Aunt Ruth? You want some help?”

Jimmy stood less than two feet from his great-aunt, but he hesitated. When he walked up to her and stooped over to pick her up, she opened her eyes and shot him a look that sent slivers of ice through his veins.

“I’m fine! Leave me be! I can get up on my own. Just leave me a spell.”

Reluctantly, Jimmy stepped back and watched her jam her cane into the earth as though she were driving a stake, and, after getting up onto her knees, put one foot on the ground and stop.

“Helpher, boy.”

From the car Zeke called to Jimmy. He leaned out the window from the front seat of the blue Oldsmobile and watched the old woman with impatience. Like her, he was wearing Sunday-go-to-meeting best; his fedora, perhaps as old as he, sat in his lap.

“I don’t need no help, Ezekiel Cross!”

“You do, Ruth. Let this boy help you.”

“I been standing up on my own for ninety-two years and I—”

“Yeah, but look like you ain’t doing too good a job right now.”

Her cane slipped again and down she went with an umph and a sigh like grey.