The Good House

by Tananarive Due

  He saw Gramma Marie’s statues on the piano, the mantel, and the shelves, and suddenly he knew them on sight: They were Papa Legba and Shangó and Labalèn and Oyá and Oshún and Oggún and Simbi la Flambo and Gran Ibo and Ezili la Flambo. Gramma Marie had written about them all. They should be protecting the house. As Corey stared at them, the silent statues seemed to weep.

  WE HAVE FUCKED UPBIG.

  Mom wasn’t in the living room, even if everyone else in town was. Corey thought there must be at least fifty or sixty people crowded in the room, even though Mom had invited thirtyexactly. It wasn’t a costume party, but the flock of people standing near the picture window on the other side of the room wore black top hats and tuxedos, their faces covered with masks that looked like grinning skulls. The masked figures fanned themselves with thick, leafy twigs, screeching at each other like ravens. Mom had not invited them. Corey knew that.

  Maybe he was dreaming now. Maybe that was it.

  “Where’d my mom go?” Corey asked the man in the matching T-shirt, Art Brunell. This man wasn’t wearing a mask, but he was laughing as if his head would burst. While Corey stared at the man’s laughing jowls, he saw streams of smoke escape from his nostrils although he wasn’t smoking.

  The man leaned close to him, cupping his ear. “How’s that?”

  Corey forgot his question, staring up at Art Brunell’s son, who was on his back. The boy’s lips were purple, his eyes vacant and white as he grinned at him. His neck was ringed with bruises.

  Welcome to death, kid,Corey thought, and suddenly the boy looked normal again.

  “You seen my mom?” Corey mumbled, remembering his question.

  Art Brunell pointed toward the foyer, winking. “Thataway, kiddo,” he said.

  Mom wasn’t in the foyer, but she’d probably gone through the butler’s pantry to the kitchen, her favorite route. Corey paused before walking inside the butler’s pantry. He gazed at the door to the wine cellar beyond him, at the end of the hall. He heard a clanging noise beyond the cellar door. Where Corey was standing, the floor shook as if a train were racing past.

  Hellbound Express, he thought.

  He must be going crazy like his grandmother, Dominique. But there was one thing about his grandmother Dominique worth admiring, Corey thought: When it came to demons, she’d had the last laugh, hadn’t she?

  Curiosity almost made Corey open the cellar door, but he had to find his mother first. He had something important to do. Something to give her.

  There were no strange smells or sights waiting for Corey in the kitchen, and he breathed with relief. Gramma Marie was strong in this room. This room had not yet been overtaken, and people seemed to know it, because the room was bright, crowded, and full of laughing. Corey saw his mother standing over the sink with a wineglass, digging into the sink for ice. She yanked her hand out of the sink, cursing. Gramma Marie was trying to talk to her, to warn her.

  “Mom? Can I talk to you? I have to give you something.”

  Mom’s eyes studied him. Even with Gramma Marie so close, Mom didn’t know how to listen. But she would, one day. Gramma Marie would teach her.

  “Baby, how’s your stomach?” Mom said.

  “Whatever, it’s a’ight,” he said, his first of many lies. As soon as he’d walked into this room, his stomach had begun screaming. He had to go back to the foyer, near the wine cellar. He had to shut up his stomach. He led Mom where he wanted to go, away from the people, away from the pain.

  “Mom, I did something, and I have to make it right. It’s been heavy on my mind.”

  The sound of his own voice, so controlled and rational, surprised him. He’d been trying to think of what to say—trying to rememberwhy he wanted to talk to his mother—but luckily, his mind knew how to speak for itself. The ring was in his hand, ready. He opened his palm so his mother could see it, and the joy in her eyes helped him fight the feeling that he was melting away like the ice in the sink. Melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  “At first, I was gonna play like I’d seen it at a yard sale or something, and say, ‘Hey, Mom, look what I found, it’s just like Gramma Marie’s.’ But it’s the same one.” Corey was proud of how lucid he sounded. He must not be as crazy as he felt. Besides, so far, he was telling the truth, and the truth felt good.“I threw the brick and broke your window, Mom. It sounds dumb, but there was this girl I liked, right?” Before he knew it, he was telling her all of it, how Sherita had refused to give the ring back, how he’d panicked. His stomach still complained, but Corey’s heart loosened, freed.

  TAKE the ring, Mom. TAKE it,he thought, because he was fighting the urge to pull it away from her, not to let her touch it. Whatever had invaded the house did not want Mom to have the ring because it might serve as a weapon for her later. Whatever had invaded the house was creeping into his thoughts again, making him wonder why he was so eager to banish thebaka when thebaka had always done as it was bidden.Why not throw the ring down the bathtub drain where it belongs?

  “How’d you get this ring back?” Mom whispered, taking the ring at last.

  He almost told her, because he enjoyed the freedom from his lies. The new lies he’d invented refused to leave his mouth, so he glanced away from her. But then he imagined Mom sinking into a pool of mud, screaming and flailing her arms, and he told Mom what he’d rehearsed: He had written to Sherita, and she’d sent the ring back to him. Voilà.

  He visited his old life for a minute or two with her mother, actuallytalking to her the way she always complained he wouldn’t; even joking with her(Like they say on TV, I cared enough to give the very best). When he saw in her face how much he’d hurt her by stealing her ring, he suddenly didn’t care about anything else. He was sorry. He would rake leaves, pick up trash, and pull weeds all summer without complaining, just to make things right.

  “I know you’re mad at me, huh? Well, I’ve been thinkin’ about a punishment—”

  “Corey…” Mom cut him off, touching his chin. There was something about being able to rest his chin in her warm palm that made Corey feel more like himself than he had since before Dad moved away. “I don’t know if you remember, but not long after you took this ring, everything fell apart for us. Your daddy and I lived in separate houses, in separate cities, and we forced you to choose between us. I think maybe that’s punishment enough. What do you think?”

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.The longer Mom touched him, the more he was sure he would lose himself to sobs. He could curl up in her warm palm and sleep, safe and free.

  “Come here, baby…,” Mom said, and she hugged him.

  Corey clamped himself tight, stiffening. He could barely let himself listen as Mom told him how he’d grown into a young man, how proud she was, how much she loved him. If he couldn’t keep his emotions under control now, he never would. Not in time to go to The Spot.

  Corey didn’t think he could pull himself away from her hug. She would doanything for him. Maybe she could help him tonight, somehow. Maybe she knew more than she’d let on. Maybe she already knew about the curse. Corey imagined going to The Spot with his mother to finish the banishment, and his heart soared. They were stronger together than they were apart, he realized. With their spirits combined, it would be harder for thebaka to bother them.

  How hadn’t he seen it before?

  “Mom, did Gramma Marie tell you stuff about the ring? Like, those symbols. Did she tell you what they mean?”

  Nothing showed in her face. “It’s West African, she told me. She got it from her grandmother, and I forget how far it goes back before that. At least another generation. I guess she thought it was a good-luck charm.”

  He had to make her understand what he was asking. Corey paused, taking a breath. “But what about the symbols? She never told you anything about them? Like…”Like Bo Cryer being sucked shrieking into the mud. “…if they’re supposed to have powers or something like that?”

  Mom’s face was all ignorance. “Powers?”

 
“You know,” he said. “If they could…make things happen?”

  “What kind of things, Corey? I don’t understand.”

  Corey felt his heart breaking. She didn’t know. Gramma Marie hadn’t told her anything, so it was all on him. No one else could carry this weight tonight. Even if he tried to tell her now, there wasn’t time to make her believe him. He had run out of time.

  “Nothin’. Forget it,” he said, whispering.

  Mom seemed to feel bad then, as if she’d failed him. He hadn’t meant to make her feel bad, so he tried to throw her a bone or two, teasing her about how Dad was sneaking to her room at night. When he said that, her face nearly flushed, and he realized how pretty she must have been when she was sixteen. No wonder somebody had climbed the tree to ask her to the prom.

  Then, Corey felt his stomach lock, as if someone had a wrench and had tightened his insides. The pain dazzled him, making him forget what he’d been saying, something about trying to fix mistakes. But some of them couldn’t be fixed. He knew that now.

  “Corey, you look awful,” Mom said. “Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t have to help with the fireworks if you want to lie down. I’ll explain it to your dad.”

  With the arrival of the pain, his mother’s voice tortured his ear. He wantedquiet. He had to get himself together. His thoughts were rolling around him, hard to capture. He was sinking in his own mind, like Bo had sunk into the ground.

  “I’mfine, dag,” he heard himself say.

  “Then do me a favor and go to the cellar and bring some sodas up, okay? They’re stacked in the corner. Bring up a couple cases. And you might as well bring up the fireworks, too.”

  Why was this fucking bitch always telling him what to do? Why couldn’t he stand still and have one fucking moment of PEACE AND QUIET?

  “I have to go to Sean’s,” Corey said. He had his own plans tonight, and that was that.

  His mother’s mouth began nattering again, making excuses, saying I-told-you-so, giving him orders.She never listens—she only talks. If she doesn’t shut up, I’LL LOSE MY MIND.

  Maybe losing his mind wasn’t such a horrible thing, Corey thought. His problem was, heneeded to lose his mind. His mind was holding him back. He should have celebrated when that fat-ass redneck got sucked into the mud, because even if Becka had lied, that didn’t mean Bo wasn’t a waste of air. He and Sean had acted like punks after it happened. What was all the drama about?He’d WANTED it to happen, so why had he been crying?

  Again, the mind-twister came to Corey: Since thebaka had been so good to him, why did he want to banish it? Exactlywhat was the point of that?

  The logic was fucked up. No matter how much Corey turned the question over in his mind, he could not think of an answer that made sense. Thebaka could give him anything he wanted. That was thepoint of having a word stolen from the gods.

  It was so obvious, Corey couldn’t fathom how Gramma Marie had missed it.

  Mom was looking at him with her puppy-dog eyes, so desperate to know if Corey loved her even if she didn’t give a damn about him. If she did, she wouldn’t have let him move out. She fought for everything else, but this time she’d shed a few tears and let him go. Well, fuck her for not trying. Fuck her for deciding not to be his mother.

  Corey gave his mother the smile he knew she wanted from him, all sweetness and sunshine.

  “I’m gonna take care of you good, Mom,” he said, winking. “You wait.”

  Becka was waiting for him in the wine cellar.

  As he climbed down the stairs, he saw her sitting naked on the floor, her shiny blond hair hanging gently across her shoulders. Her bright areolas gaped like bloodstains against her pale skin. Corey knew he was mad at Becka, although he couldn’t quite remember why. He didn’t let himself feel glad to see her, even if he wanted to be.

  The walls in the cellar were thickly overgrown with vines. The bearskin rug—or whatever kind of skin it was—lay across the entire floor, just like in his dream.

  Becka stood up, her lithe body unfolding. His eyes traveled from her breasts to the ridges of her ribcage, then to her pelvic bone inviting his gaze to the thatch of blond hair between her legs. Becka smiled as he looked at her. She walked along the wall where the wine shelves were hidden from sight by vines and moss. Corey’s eyes followed the slope of her buttocks, the deep dimple in her ass cheek that appeared when she flexed her leg.

  “Stay here with me, Corey,” she said.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I have to bring up the sodas. And the fireworks.”

  Thatwas it.That was why had come down here.

  Becka bared her teeth. “Why?” she said. “Becauseshe told you to?”

  Corey didn’t have an answer for that. Itdid sound ridiculous when Becka put it that way. Humiliating, really. Becka posed seductively against the wall, one arm raised high. She looked like a centerfold from the stack ofPlayboy s his father kept under his bed.

  “You lied to me,” Corey said, remembering that, too.

  “Sorry, Corey, but you needed help. You were too slow. You were going to let himget away with it. You could have died when that horse threw you.”

  “True,” Corey muttered.

  “The Beaumont Cryers of this world make other people miserable their whole lives.”

  “True.”

  “So I just helped you take care of your business, Corey. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with that.”

  There—he’d admitted it. Bo got what he deserved.

  “It’s survival of the fittest. And you’re the fittest, Corey, because you haveme.”

  But that was only a trick, wasn’t it? How could he have someone who wasn’treal?

  “I heard your wish when you were at The Spot,” Becka said. “You wished for me. I’ll be anyone you want me to be, Corey. I can be Vonetta. Would you like that?”

  Before he could answer, Becka had vanished and Vonetta had taken her place; skin the color of caramel, full lips, wide hips, a fuller ass. Vonetta’s areolas were the color of chocolate syrup. Corey’s eyes savored her, amazed. He took a step toward her, not realizing he’d moved.

  “There’s no reason you should die a virgin, Corey,” Becka said through Vonetta’s mouth.

  “Who said anything about me dying a virgin?” Corey said, surprised. Who had said anything about himdying?

  “It could happen. It would be a tragic turn, don’t you think?”

  Corey couldn’t think of anything more tragic. The idea of it almost brought tears to his eyes.

  Vonetta knelt, reaching under the edge of the carpet of fur. She pulled out a gun—Dad’s old gun with tape wrapped around it. It was the gun Mom had forced Dad to give away, bossing him around, as usual.

  “I don’t want that,” Corey said.

  “Yes, you do. You’ve wanted it a hundred times, toshut her up.”

  That was an exaggeration. He might have thought about it once or twice, in the same fantasy part of his head that liked running over old ladies with his car when he played Grand Theft Auto 3 on PlayStation2. But T.’s brother had run over someone in real life, and there was no fun in that.

  It wasDad who’d wanted his gun back. It wasDad who sometimes wanted to kill her.

  Now, Becka was Becka again. Presto change-o.

  “You’ll need to be a man and do this, Corey,” Becka said. “She’s a ball-breaker.”

  She showed him a vision in his head of how easy it would be: He would take the gun, climb the stairs, and see Mom talking to a black man with a shaved head who’d just come through the door. The man was an old boyfriend, and Mom was flirting with him like a skank, with her husband right outside. Corey would shoot the man first, and then he would shoot Mom.Pop. Pop. Quick and dirty, to the head.

  Then,he would be the only one left in the line. He could have his ring back. He would have Becka all to himself.

  Becka smiled. “That’s good, Corey. The more you want to do it, the more you’ll like it here. It
doesn’t have to hurt.”

  She was right. Already, Corey’s stomach felt good again. The twisting pain was gone.

  “Do you want me, Corey?” Becka said.

  Corey nodded. “Yes,” he said. He couldn’t deny it.

  She held out the gun to him, dangling it. Corey took it and wrapped his palm around it. He’d always wanted to shoot this gun.Pop. Pop. Quick and dirty.

  “Bossy people are slave drivers, and they deserve what they get,” Becka said, and Corey couldn’t argue. Mom had been driving him like Kunta Kinte all summer. “Go on, Corey. I’ll play music for you on the piano, to give you a grand entrance.”