Darzsa had been to this part of town before. Those big, well-to-do houses down by the river—built due to white flight out of the Quarter—but he’d never seen anything like what stood before him. No amount of medals or fortune-telling could afford Josiah or that woman something like this. They weren’t inside yet, but Darzsa got the indication from the outside alone that this house cost more money than even Pearl would get her grubby hands on in her lifetime.

“I have to ask,” Darzsa started, “you don’t live here, do you?”

“I don’t,” Josiah replied, letting the top up on the car. “Lottie is hosting her readings here. The owner saw her elsewhere and begged her to use his living room. She helped him communicate with his son, who died from the Spanish flu and gave him some advice on a few business ventures. He’s felt indebted to her ever since.”

“You mean to tell me he’s letting some colored woman set up shop in his house and everyone,” he pointed to the houses up and down the road,” is alright with it?”

Josiah came around to Darzsa’s side and opened the door for him. Darzsa took his extended hand and stepped down onto the pavement. “He’s not ‘one of them,’ and he’s offering to pay—a lot. There are quite a few mixed crowds around here, like at your club. Finding solace has no boundaries when you’re grieving someone close.

“A lot of these ofay want to alleviate the guilt of their forefathers. They help ‘poor us’ out, and they have a story to pass down to their children. Besides, they came for a show; might as well give them one. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Darzsa hung onto every word Josiah said and didn’t realize he was still holding onto his hand. Instead of letting go when he was securely on two feet, onto the curb, and up the steps, Darzsa insisted on the contact. Josiah granted him the pleasantry by not letting go. Voices poured out of the door, coaxing Darzsa to release him. Within the haven of cozy rooms behind closed doors, Darzsa would have craved more than hand-holding. Nothing to do with the physicality of intertwined bodies but the serenity and connection to familiarity. 

Peace.

Josiah gave his hand a firm squeeze before relinquishing their attachment. “You ready?”

Darzsa stood at the top of the steps, unmoving. Breathless. Lost in the cedars of Josiah’s eyes that lit up when he gazed down at him—a kindling in the creases around his eyes when he smiled at Darzsa and the warmth it carried. 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

Josiah opened the door further, and they both walked inside. Darzsa’s bedroom could fit in the foyer. He tilted his head to marvel at the high ceilings and what could be upstairs. In the hall stood men and women, those high hats who made some kale every time they breathed. Josiah wasn’t lying about them throwing money if these were the people doing it. 

Darzsa followed Josiah as he passed them by, acknowledging them when Josiah shook their hands and greeted them. The living room and dining room had to be the length of Darza’s floor in his building. Windows stretched upward, and ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling. 

A bare round table sat in the middle of the room near the fireplace, empty, save for a couple. The woman had her pressed hair in Marcel waves, and the sequins of her red dress competed with the chandelier crystals, illuminating her skin like polished onyx. She had style. Darzsa made a beeline for the table to get the empty chair next to her, but Josiah grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

“I have to take care of some business upstairs. You’ll be okay by yourself?”

“You’re not going to stay with me?” 

There went their date. 

Josiah made sure no one was paying attention when he leaned down and whispered in Darzsa’s ear. “It won’t take long, and if you need to leave, I’ll be outside.” He touched the small of Darzsa’s back, a firm pressure that sent shivers prickling through him. 

Darzsa’s mouth formed several responses, but none of them met Josiah’s ears. Again with being tongue-tied. No one ever had him at a loss for words, and here he was flustered over a simple touch. Darzsa turned on his heel and slid into the chair next to his new muse. 

A few more people joined them, filling the seats at the table except for one. Darzsa glanced around the table, observing them one by one. Bald. Sweaty. Too much perfume. Drab. This medium better knock his socks off because he was over it sitting with this mixed bunch.

An older man with a suit that cost more than Darzsa’s monthly salary ambled into the room, approached the table, and spoke in a hushed tone, “Welcome everyone, I see we have some new faces today.” His eyes fell on Darzsa, as did everyone else’s. “Ms. Howard will be in shortly. She has some new tools I’ve procured for her. May you all seek answers in the Spirit and in truth.”

The old geezer left the room and a few moments later returned with a woman dressed in a Jacquette blouse with beaded trim and a silk skirt. Her head was covered in a scarf, tight curls peeking out from under it and framing her face. 

Well, she was dressed nice enough, not a total eyesore. She took the empty chair across from Darzsa, greeted them, and thanked the host, calling him Mr. Santoro.

“Around this time, the Samaritan woman would be at the well, avoiding judgemental eyes, to get water. Though the Messiah knew He wasn’t supposed to associate with her and knew of her misdeeds, He offered her living water. By grace, the woman accepted His truth and spread His Word, ushering in those who sought to believe.”

She finished her biblical rendition with a snap of her finger, and this Mr. Santoro waddled to her side with a box, holding it in his arms. Taste and authority. Darzsa liked this Lottie already. She swept her eyes around the table once more, avoiding eye contact, and closed her eyes. “Hands on the table.”

Those around the table obeyed, Darzsa included. Silence befell them. Everything ceased to exist in the tranquility she commanded. A soft hum emanating from her throat was the only steady sound over the crackling fire. His ears honed in on the drone of the humming. It burrowed into his skin, traveled through him to his core—pressure built in Darzsa’s chest from the reverberating disruption juddering his bones. Flames from the hearth cast tall shadows, shrinking the room. As soon as he couldn’t endure it anymore, she stopped. 

Mr. Santoro scrambled to stick a pen in her hand and a sheet of paper in front of her. Every scritch cemented Darzsa’s grip on the edge of the table. When she dropped the pen, Darzsa blew out a hard breath through his nose. Everyone but him leaned forward to read what was scribbled on the paper. Chatter about messages the participants convinced themselves were for them brought life back into the room. 

A single line across the bottom baffled the sweaty man who asked what the message meant. Darzsa partook in the nosiness to see what had everyone in a fuss. 

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