Her lashes raise to reveal the pride in her eyes. “I feel no need to explain them. I don’t hurt anyone, and I help when I can.”

The server comes to take our orders, but that interruption doesn’t dispel the tension my question introduced, and as soon as she leaves, we resume our fascinating, if slightly odd, discussion.

I search her expression for some clue to this lovely enigma. “So do you believe in spells and potions and stick-pin dolls and—”

“I believe we don’t know everything,” she cuts in. “And I believe there are forces at work bigger than me.”

“Forces at work? Lotus, I know you grew up with these . . . superstitions, but—”

“These superstitions, as you call them, have roots going back to Africa, to Haiti, to people who had nothing to depend on but their faith, whatever form that assumed. That was part of how they survived.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Religion is a cultural coping mechanism. They had nothing to depend on, so they made these constructs to give them something they believed could save them—could improve their lives or guarantee something better when they died.”

Her full lips tighten, then loosen into a tiny smile.

“You don’t believe in an afterlife?” she asks

“I believe in now. It’s the only thing I can see and prove. It’s rational.”

“One man’s rational is another man’s cowardice.”

“You think I’m a coward because I’m not religious?” I ask.

“No, but I think faith, real faith, requires bravery. With every prayer, we risk heartbreak.”

“So prayer and voodoo?” I ask. “How’s that work?”

“People would come see MiMi with their Bibles in one hand, and leave with one of her potions in the other. Voodoo and religion grew up together in Louisiana like kissing cousins, whether it was the Baptists or the Catholics.” She laughs, resting her chin in her hand. “MiMi started and ended every session with prayer.”

“Session?” I rub the back of my neck, not even sure I want to know but asking anyway. “What happened in those sessions?”

Her expression shutters.

“MiMi was the most important person in my life,” she says, her voice stiff and starched. “I won’t expose her to mockery. I want to keep liking you, and I’m not sure I could if you thought of her as foolish or said the wrong thing.”

“Hey.” I put my hand over hers. “I don’t mean to insult your great-grandmother, or your mother, or—”

“MiMi was the last. My mother didn’t practice.” She looks away and toward the door. “Neither did her sister, Iris’s mother. Neither did our grandmother.” Her lips thin and twist with cynicism. “Now they were the ones who really knew how to cast a spell on a man.”

I want to ask, to probe, but Lotus said before there were things she didn’t want to share yet.

“I just need to know you’re not making dolls of me and sticking needles in them or something,” I say to lighten the atmosphere.

A smile dispels her sober expression. “I save the dolls for the really bad guys.”

“I’m not sure if I should laugh, feel reassured, or run for the hills.”

“There’s the door.” She tilts her head toward the entrance. “If you want to run.”

I drag a glance over her wild hair, and sultry eyes, the high, full breasts straining against the sunshine silk, and the lips that beg to be kissed.

“I’ll take my chances,” I finally reply.

She doesn’t answer, but the knowing look she gives me all but says that’s what I thought. The server brings our food, giving me the chance to shift the topic to less dangerous ground.

“That looks good.” I point my fork at her shrimp and grits.

“So does yours.”

I ordered a veggie plate of black-eyed peas, collard greens, and macaroni and cheese.

“You don’t eat meat?” she asks, scooping the shrimp and grits into her mouth.

“I don’t eat fried meat generally,” I clarify. “And that seems to be their favorite thing here.”

“Well it is soul food,” she says with a laugh. “What’d you expect? Why’d we come here if you don’t eat this stuff?”

“I thought you’d like it, and Sylvia’s is one of those things you should do when you’re in Harlem.”

“I’ll have to take you around Brooklyn some time. You can never do everything in New York. And summers here are my favorite.”

“I’d love to see Brooklyn. I have to go to Philly next week to check on some business interests. Maybe when I get back?”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m trying to change the conditions of our . . .” The look she sends me is half-teasing, half-earnest. “. . . friendship.”

“Friends do things together.”

“Mmmm,” is her only answer, accompanied by a smile. “So what’s so special about the Rucker?”

I go with her change to a safer subject.

“It’s a proving ground,” I answer. “All the greats go there at some point, some of them playing against local guys who never made it to the NBA, but are as talented as the professionals. If making it was purely based on talent, I certainly wouldn’t be in the NBA. It’s hard work. Staying out of trouble. Understanding the system and working inside of it.”

“Who are some of your favorite players?”’

“The Big O, for sure.”

“I’m a fan of the Big O myself,” she says with a straight face and teasing eyes.

It takes me a second to put that together, and visions of Lotus mid-orgasm make me choke on my black-eyed peas.

“Very funny,” I say, coughing and sipping my water. “But I meant the other Big O, as in Oscar Robertson, the first NBA player to average a triple double.”

“I’m sure he’s great, too.” She shrugs, and that damn strap falls away from her shoulder.

“Why the Song of Solomon?” I ask, nodding to the script tattoo on her collarbone.

“It was MiMi’s favorite. She was a romantic at heart, and the Song of Solomon is one of the most romantic pieces ever written, in the Bible or otherwise.”

“I never think of voodoo and conventional religion co-existing, but seems like MiMi figured it out.”

“She wasn’t religious, but she cobbled together her own faith in a way.” Lotus takes a sip of her drink before going on. “I make the distinction because I think religion, when abused, has been one of the most destructive forces in this world. Religion killed Jesus. Religion led to the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch Trials. People conveniently organize their beliefs around their agendas. Taking money, starting wars, segregating, lynching—all of it had some scripture, some tenet twisted around to fit hate. True faith is about relationship.”

I push aside an empty bowl. “How do you figure?”

“First of all, relationship between you and God. Higher power, whatever you call it. Something bigger than you,” she says. “And second, relationship between people. The Bible says true religion is taking care of widows and those who can’t care for themselves—the most vulnerable.”

“I get that.”

“But religion, as it’s tossed around now, has so little compassion. So little humanity, and faith is first human.”

She pushes the last of the grits aside and rests her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.

“It’s us admitting to the universe we don’t have all the answers. Too often religion says yes, I do have all the answers, and if you don’t like them, you can’t sit at my table. So we have all these tables. Too many tables, and not enough love.”

“You sound like you’ve experienced this firsthand,” I say.

“I did, growing up.” She nods, sadness, memories, something darkening her eyes. “Faith should give hope, not take it away. Church people wouldn’t allow MiMi to worship with them. They called her a witch.”

“Was she?”

“She was an old woman who wanted to celebrate her faith with her community.” Lotus shrugs philosophically. “She couldn’t sit at their table, so she made her own. Every Sunday morning, we’d sing hymns on the back porch. She’d pull out her little Bible and read to me. That thing was falling apart, pages hanging out. She kept it by her bed and read it every night.”

“And that’s how you got into the Song of Solomon?”

“It became my favorite, yeah. You ever read it?”

“We weren’t exactly religious. My father was a judge. Elected official, so we went to church whenever he was running for office. I know some Sunday school basics, but beyond that, no.”

“I think a lot of people just want to feel like there’s something else. Something beyond what life seems to be,” she says, running a fingertip around the rim of her glass.

“And you believe there is more than what life seems to be?”

“You know how scientists say we only use like ten percent of our brains?” she asks.

“Scientists don’t say that,” I correct. “It’s a myth, and it’s been debunked.”

“Are you always this much fun?”

My own quick laugh takes me by surprise. “You were about to make a point using your fake news. Don’t let me spoil all your fun with, you know, actual facts.”

“Well, the point I was trying to make before you butted in with all your facts and shit,” she says, rolling her eyes and then grinning, “is I think we only use a portion of this world—that we miss a lot of the things that are right in front of us, and we miss a lot of things we can’t see, but never sit still long enough to recognize.”

“Are you sure you’re only twenty-five? Now it doesn’t even feel right to call you PYT.”