Free Out of the Blues by Trudy Nan Boyce

first from Africa to Haiti and then here.” Wills climbed and stood on top of the berm, looking out over the park to the city skyline.
    Salt strode up beside him. “A lot of soldiers died here. My father’s great-grandfather fought this battle. The family said he was never right afterward.”
    Wills reached over and smoothed back a damp curl from Salt’s forehead. “Do you know the rest of the story about Saint Michael?” He lifted the gold chain and pendant from her shirt.
    â€œDidn’t he fight the devil or something?”
    â€œYep, and won. But what a lot of people and cops don’t know is that he’s also an angel of death. But in a good way. He’s supposed to carry souls to heaven, where they’re judged and also given a chance to redeem themselves.”
    â€œBusy dude, fighting the devil, delivering souls. Speaking of busy, don’t we still need to get to the market? You’re back on tomorrow, right?”
    â€œI’m afraid so.” He took her hand as they galloped down the hill, allowing gravity and momentum to pull them from the berm.
    â€”
    T HEY DROPPED the dogs at Wills’ place and drove to the market on the north side of the city to an area that was predominantly Asian and Latino, the main artery giving the area its name, Buford Highway, a Southern road, running now through an international community. It had begun as a path used by farmers north of the city to bring their produce to town. In the seventies, cheap housing along the corridor made the area attractive to new immigrants. Those roots took hold so well that when construction began for the ’96 Olympics, the highway drew even more immigrants looking for work. Now marquees in several languages advertised the best food in the Southeast. And for shopping there was no better or fresher fish and produce to be had than from what people called the “Asian Farmer’s Market.”
    Inside the immense converted warehouse, Wills began his systematic shopping through the sections, organized according to ethnicity, and left Salt to her usual wandering. This time it was a display, five shelves, three feet in length, at the end of one of the aisles that caught her eye. Where there would normally be impulse-buy items attracting the attention of people passing in the main corridors, there were dozens of religious figurines for sale—seven- and fifteen-inch Shiva, Ganesha, Buddha, Jesus, and bodhisattvas. They were roughly made and poorly painted, flat white or black, with only slight dabs of color and gilt for the eyes and jewels.
    Wills came by with a loaded cart. “What did you find?” He smiled.
    â€œAssorted God,” she said, pointing to the label “ASSORTED GOD.”
    â€”
    â€œ T HEY WEREN ’ T beautiful or even pretty. But they must be worth having for someone, maybe somebody scared, sentimental, or needingluck or good karma? I imagined a woman standing there and choosing: ‘Let’s see. I’ve gotten everything on my list: coriander, dragon fruit, noodles.’ Then Shiva catches her eye.” Salt and Wills sat on the back porch with all the house and porch lights off. The clouds had disappeared and the moon gleamed off everything. Even Wonder’s black fur sparkled in the moonlight.
    â€œA thousand people shop that market in a day. At night some worker mops the aisles, a manager locks the doors, turns out the lights, and sets the alarm, that little blinking red button. And Shiva sits there, extra arms extended, and Ganesha, his trunk lifted.” She raised her arm elephant-like.
    Inside, the timer on the clothes dryer buzzed. “Your clothes are done, sweetie.” Wills put his hands on his thighs to stand. “Back to reality.”
    The dog stuck his nose in her lap, pushing under her hand, the onyx of his eyes crowding out the amber irises.
    â€”
    W ILLS AND W ONDER watched from the front room window until the taillights of