Page 79 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

They sat down on plastic folding chairs across from Madame Sessy, who was perched on a wicker throne, 1983 bridal shower edition. And then, with animated hopefulness, Ricki explained their situation. Madame Sessy nodded while setting an actual crystal ball on the aluminum coffee table between her and her guests.

“This is an underworld issue.”Ziss iss an undahverld eeeshew.“According to astrology, the underworld is in the Fourth House, which is the house of the ancestors. It’s a dark labyrinth populated by old gods, old wounds, and restless souls. Mr. Ezra, the curse cast you down into the underworld, a purgatory of sorts, where you’re barred from the human experience.” And then she shouted, “WITH NO WAY OUT!”

Surprised, Ricki and Ezra reflexively jumped in their creaky seats.

“What you need,” Madame Sessy continued, “is a psychopomp.”

“And circumstance?” joked Ricki.

Ezra snickered, and the psychic glared at them both.

“A psychopomp is a guide to escort Mr. Ezra out of the underworld. Mr. Ezra, I’m happy to be your symbolic psychopomp, leading you by torchlight back to mortality. It’s a painless ritual involving special candles, essential oils, and a large aluminum gong.”

“Appreciate you,” he said with his usual cordiality. “May I ask what it’ll cost?”

“For you? Sixteen thousand dollars, flat.”

“I see.”

“In Amex gift cards,” she said without a trace of an accent, “if you have them.”

Their next stop was an energy healer located a fifty-minute train ride away, in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Phoebe Lore was a middle-aged Black woman wearing a floor-length tunic and a yellow snapback with the wordSTONERacross the front. She welcomed them into her bohemian-chic studio, which she shared with a tantric yogi. In one corner, a sweaty hetero couple was locked in a tangle of limbs as a man-bunned dude in a leotard coached their breathing.

With its sleek wood floors, exposed brick walls, and patchouli candles, the space oozed upscale chill. A bit of Ricki’s earlier optimism was fading, but she remained undeterred. Besides, since she was a sucker for aesthetics, the carefully curated decor made her feel like she was in professional hands. Ezra and Ricki settled into a suede love seat and took in Phoebe’s advice.

“What you need,” announced Phoebe, “is a magic mirror box.”

“A magic mirror box,” repeated Ezra, massaging a temple.

“I place a mirror in a wooden box, along with something that represents the person cursing you. A photo, a doll, et cetera. Then the mirror reflects that person’s curse back onto them.”

“The curser’s deceased,” noted Ricki. “Can she absorb magic from beyond the grave?”

“Don’t see why not!”

Ricki turned toward Ezra and whispered, “The pearl bracelet.”

“You don’t seriously believe this’ll work?”

“I trust her. Look at that majestic tunic; she looks so authentic.”

“Authentic to what, though?” whispered Ezra. “Biggie’s face is silk-screened on that tunic. All that tells me is she’s representin’ BK to the fullest.”

Ricki blinked. “You know that phrase?”

“I told you, music references, I know.” And then Ezra forgot himself and started talking. Ricki’s presence had that effect on him. “Besides, I helped write ‘Unbelievable.’ I had a dog-walking job over on Fulton around ’92, and I overheard this oversized kid outside a bodega, mumbling bars under his breath. His lyric wasLive from Bedford-Stuyvesant, Voletta’s son, but I suggestedLive from Bedford-Stuyvesant, the livest one. ’Cause it was braggier.”

“’92?” Phoebe frowned. “You were wordsmithing like that as an embryo?”

“No less believable than a magic mirror box,” grumbled Ezra.

Clearing her throat, Ricki asked, “How long does it take for the mirror to work?”

“At least one month, sometimes up to six.”

“One month?” She tried to stave off rising panic. “We need to break the curse by the twenty-ninth! Do you have a rush option?”

“What, like a mystical FedEx?” Phoebe scoffed. “Sorry I can’t be of help. Love and light, though.”

---