The Magic of Karma

I brushed powdered sugar from my lips and left the last bite of my beignets. I couldn’t finish them. After a huge lunch at Mulate’s, there was simply no more room. I pulled up a map on my phone, reminiscing on the seafood gumbo I’d just enjoyed, eager to resume my sightseeing.

My first trip to New Orleans was off to a lovely start. Time away was just what I needed: a change of scenery and a precious few days to figure out my next move. I was a long way from Philadelphia and in no rush to get back. With a free night’s hotel stay and airfare credit that was soon to expire, I left quickly and with little planning. I decided what I wanted to do on the flight…experience live music on Bourbon Street, pop in the House of Voodoo, eat beignets at Café du Monde, shop the French Quarter, tour the haunted places of the city, have a tarot card reading and relax in a quaint, independent bookstore, my most favorite of places.

A bell rang, announcing my entrance. Dust swirled in the sunlight as I inhaled the musty smell of old books. I ran my fingers along the spines, comforted by the thought that I was surrounded by words. Books themselves were just as enticing to me as the stories they contained. As I made my way toward the back of the shop, movement caught my eye. A huge, gray cat sauntered around the corner and tucked himself away on one of the bottom shelves.

I never could resist a feline. I squatted down to scratch under his chin, and his purring began immediately. Why did cats always seem to enjoy lying on hard objects? You could provide them the coziest of beds, and they would invariably choose the most treacherous ledge to perch themselves. This cat was no different. He wound into a tight ball making him look half his size on a pair of books laid flat for re-shelving. I stood to leave him to his afternoon nap when I noticed a small black notebook beside him stuffed next to a bookend. It looked out of place next to its heftier counterparts. The cover read The Magic of Karma. Intrigued, I flipped it open to the dedication: “May she who finds this small treasure have everything she lost returned to her.” I scanned the back for a price. Finding none, I headed to the cash register.

“May I help you?” asked the young man behind the counter.

“Yes, can you please tell me the price for this book?”

He looked at the cover and paused. “I don’t recall ever seeing this in our shop. Let me call the manager.”

I waited for their short conversation to end. Everything in me knew that I was meant to have that book. Call it female intuition.

“The manager said since there’s no price, and the notebook is very small and doesn’t seem to be part of our inventory, you can have it for $10.00.”

I paid cash and rushed out before he had time to change his mind. I caught an Uber and headed to Audubon Park. There, standing under the Tree of Life, I read the first page of the book:

The Great Law of Karma is cause and effect. What you do in this lifetime will come back to you. What you sow, you reap. You have helped others in need, you have tried to be good to all those with whom you come in contact, you strive to be the best you can be, but you have lost so much. You have cried many tears that have gone unseen. It may seem unfair, that life has cheated you, but sooner or later, the tables turn. Today, you were meant to be here. Today, the scales balance in your favor. There are beautiful, serendipitous moments. You are in one now. It’s time to claim your prize. The answers will appear when you need them.

The second page appeared to be a riddle:

With hatred in their hearts, blood was spilled

You must go to the place of remembrance for those who were sacrificed

Rusty metal shackles have no place with God

Your compassionate heart leads you there

I knew in an instant where I was supposed to go. I caught the Tchoupitoulas street car to Canal & Magazine and walked the last mile to St. Augustine Catholic Church and the Tomb of the Unknown Slave. This memorial wasn’t on most tourists’ bucket lists, but for me, it held great importance and was on my agenda for tomorrow. I walked to the side of the church where the iron cross sculpture lay on its side. Was I supposed to find something there? How long was I supposed to wait? Several minutes passed. I started to feel foolish for thinking a strange little book held any answers for me. As a child, I had always sought out mysteries, fancying myself to be the next Nancy Drew. I shook my head and focused on paying my respects to the ancestors. This was hallowed ground. With tears stinging my cheeks in the scorching New Orleans heat, I prepared to take my leave.

Voices coming from inside the church through an open window startled me. I listened and could clearly make out two male voices. They were discussing money…a lot of money…and how the transfer of it would be conducted. They arranged to meet that evening at 9:00 at Holt Cemetery. A duffel bag would be left at the grave of Delia Hebert by one man, and the second man would come by immediately thereafter and pick it up. They would be in separate cars. I headed toward the corner of the church just as the main door creaked open. Why did I even do this? Who cared if someone walked out of the church? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was visiting a public monument, but I was scared. I instinctively ducked out of sight, wondering what I would do if anyone decided to come my direction.

Delia Hebert.

Everything in me wanted to scream and run. Delia Hebert. My heart started pounding so hard, I could see my shirt moving. Sweat dripped into my eyes. Delia Hebert. I stole one furtive glance around the corner and caught sight of one of the men, his shirt sleeve, arm and the watch I’d bought for him three Christmases ago. Thoughts of me with bruised ribs, a black eye, and a broken finger, running as hard as I could for the car. The metallic taste of blood and fear. Delia Hebert. Driving two hours to a different hospital where he wouldn’t find me, knowing it was the last time, and I would have to leave him. Learning that Julien made his money through illegal means, not the least of which was selling drugs. The abuse. The times I nearly died. Moving around Philadelphia because I didn’t have enough money to leave the state. The restraining orders. Changing my number multiple times. Delia Hebert. The reason I had taken a trip to get away and plan my next move and ultimate escape.

Julien Hebert was my ex-husband, and Delia was his mother. She had passed away nearly two years ago from cancer. I never knew where Julien had her buried because by then, I’d already left him. I knew she was a native of New Orleans. I knew he wanted a quiet resting place for her, away from prying eyes when he visited her grave. Never did I dream he would bring her home. It was too risky. But then, Julien had always been a little too messy for his own good, and now, here he stood. I heard closing car doors. Within moments, they were gone, and the street fell silent once again. I hadn’t been seen. I sent for another Uber to take me straight to my hotel. Climbing into the cool air conditioning, I slumped in the seat, feeling some combination of dehydration and disbelief.

Back in my room, I showered and laid across my bed. The day’s events played over and over in my mind. The book. The riddle. Going to the church. Seeing Julien after so long. And all the while, a small voice inside me kept saying, “Secure the bag.” I got up, dressed, threw on a ball cap and headed downstairs and back out into the stifling humidity. My body knew where it was going before my brain had a chance to catch up. I asked the taxi driver parked out front if he could take me to Holt Cemetery. “Lady,” he said, “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, but that’s not a smart place to be at this hour.” I told him I had no intentions of entering the cemetery, but I needed him to let me stay in the car and basically be my driver for the evening. I handed him $20.00 and told him I’d pay another $50.00 over the fare if he would do this for me. He reluctantly agreed, and we headed for the cemetery.

At exactly 9:00 pm, a man entered the cemetery carrying a dark duffel bag. Moments later, someone pulled up, and the man got in their car and sped off. At 9:02, Julien stepped out of the shadows. I watched silently as he slipped into the cemetery only to emerge carrying the same duffel bag. The cab driver looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Follow him,” I said.

A second car pulled up, and Julien climbed in. We followed a safe distance behind. The car dropped Julien off at Muriel’s, duffel bag in hand, backpack in the other. He entered and took a seat at the crowded bar. I headed to the rear of the restaurant. At the back door, I called and asked for him. I described him to the manager down to what he was wearing and said that he was likely at the bar waiting for a table. “Tell him it’s urgent,” I said. “Tell him it’s Karma.” Through the window, I watched Julien get the message that his destiny was calling. I could see the brief flicker of panic, as he tried to control his expression. In his haste, he did exactly what I thought he would do, what I counted on him to do. He left the bag unattended, and just like a perfect thief in the night, I flitted through the crowd, slid my hand around the soft, leather handle, and walked out into the night with the bag that would change my life. The cab driver glanced at me over his shoulder. We never spoke a word.

Back at the hotel, I asked if he could take me to the airport. He waited while I quickly packed. I checked out, and we headed to Louis Armstrong. In the cab, I quietly unzipped the bag and stuck my hand inside. Cash. Lots and lots of cash. We arrived, and the driver got out to retrieve my suitcase. I put $200 in his hand and started toward the entrance. “Don’t I even get to know your name? I’m Dave,” he said.

I stopped and turned around. “Karma. My name is Karma.”

In an airport bathroom stall, I switched the cash from the bag to my suitcase, locked it and checked it. $20,000 for my pain and suffering. $20,000 to start over. I stuffed the empty duffel bag in my carry-on. People were always sloppy and left bags in trash cans. They left clues. Not me. I would dispose of it later and much further away.

Because I had changed my flight last-minute, I had to make a connection in Chicago. With more pages to discover in the little black notebook, I started toward my next gate down a long moving walkway and to the right.

I stepped off the belt and turned left.