The Good House

by Tananarive Due

  But Tariq was happy to forget Myles Fisher.

  Angie was in front of him, whirling and dancing before a cedar tree. Seeing her, Tariq’s anger gave way to relief. Thebaka should never be doubted. Thebaka had promised this day.

  Tariq kicked the dog, who was jumping against Angie’s legs as if he expected her to pet him. Stupid creature! The dog yelped and ran to hide.

  “Are you here,manbo?” he said to her.

  The whirling stopped, and Angie looked at him with her head lolling slightly to one side. Her face was all Angie, but her gentle, bright eyes were not hers.

  “I’ll cast thebaka from your head,” Marie said with Angie’s mouth. “Take my hand.”

  “Awww, you’d do that forme?” Tariq said sarcastically. “Did you check with your granddaughter on that one,manbo? I think she’d rather see me dead about now.”

  “Angela knows you aren’t who you seem to be.”

  Tariq nodded, unbuckling his belt with one hand while he leveled his Glock at her with the other. “Is that right?”

  “You fought a good fight, Tariq.Two years, you fought. You’re a very strong man.”

  “Marie, if you’re going to lick my balls, I prefer the real thing.” He whipped his shirt over his head, wincing when the fabric pulled at the bloody wound on his left shoulder. His shoulder throbbed, but the cool rainwater soothed the raw, torn gap where he’d yanked the arrow out.

  “Don’t be foolish, Tariq,” Marie said.

  Tariq strode up to Angela Marie, pinning her against the trunk. She didn’t struggle, standing soft and still beneath his weight. That was good. That would feel more like old times. Now if only he could convince her to stoptalking, too.

  He nestled the muzzle of his gun against her temple. Holding her against the tree with his lower torso, Tariq ran his hands across Angela’s breasts, squeezing them hard enough for her to understand that this body now belonged to him, not to her. Now that he was with her, so close to her face, he did not want to hurt her despite all her transgressions. She was too beautiful. Angie had been taking care of herself. He suddenly felt reasonable.

  “We can do this a couple of ways,” Tariq said, breathing heavily. “Either you take those clothes off, or I’ll have the pleasure of removing them myself.”

  “Thebaka has made a home in your anger, Tariq,” she said. “But you can release it.”

  Tariq took her hand and pulled it into his pants, forcing her to touch his ready nakedness. He felt himself jump at her touch, his senses thrilling. Even her lifeless, reluctant fingertips sent currents of pleasure through him. “I’ll decide what I want to release,” he said.

  Her hand remained where he held it, unmoving. “Where is your powerfulbaka, Tariq? Why would he let any pain touch you?”

  “Pain makes the man,” Tariq said, tugging on the wet sweatshirt that hid Angie’s flesh from him. “That’s what good ol’ Leland Hill used to say.” With two more rough tugs, he’d pulled the sweatshirt over her head and thrown it over his shoulder. Angie’s brown skin gleamed with perspiration. He buried his face in the soft cleavage captured in her bra. Her scent was intoxicating.

  He felt her shift beneath him, trying to move away from his touch while she pulled her hand out of his pants. “I’m sorry you got lost, Tariq,” Marie said, stealing Angie’s voice. Or, maybe thathad been Angie, fighting her way through her grandmother’s spirit.

  “You’ll be much sorrier before too long, Snook, I’m afraid to report.”

  “No,” she said, her tone certain. Tariq felt something cold at the nape of his neck.

  That .38, he remembered. The one Sheriff Rob Graybold had given her.

  Tariq laughed, shaking his head. “Bad judgment has always been your problem, Marie. You know that gun is a piece of junk.” Thebaka had been very unhappy with the way the boy circumvented its will in the wine cellar, firing the gun to kill himself rather than doing as he had been told. Thebaka would not let another gun fire in its presence unless it was its will.

  “Take the gun from me then,” Marie dared him, her voice as sure as the rainfall.

  Tariq hesitated, unsettled. Could Marie have wrested control from thebaka? Thebaka had promised him he could have Angie easily! Again, Tariq felt doubt.

  “Don’t make me kill her so soon, Marie,” he said. “I wanted to fuck her first,then kill her. The sequence is important.”

  “You’ll do neither,” Marie whispered huskily. “This was not to be, Tariq. None of it. And it ends here. It ends today. I’ve returned Papa Legba’s word to him. I spoke it while I danced.”

  “He won’t be so easily placated as that! You’ve always underestimated him, Marie. His ruined love for you can’t compare to thebaka ’s love for me.”

  Her calm eyes didn’t blink. “What do you see in your future, Tariq?”

  For the first time since his transformation, Tariq saw nothing at all of his future before him. Thebaka seemed to have retreated from him, taking its knowledge. The pierced muscles in his thigh pulsed with a new jolt of pain. What was happening to him?

  This woman must die now, he realized. She was dangerous to thebaka.

  Tariq pumped the trigger of the gun his son had used to kill himself in the wine cellar. This time, his gun did not buck in his palm. His trigger did not yield.

  Yet, he heard a gunshot. The deafening sound came from behind his ear.

  Freed from thebaka at last, like his son before him, Tariq felt a bittersweet joy.

  Angela woke up shivering and soaking wet, curled in a hollow at the base of an old cedar tree.

  She was naked from the waist up except for her sports bra. She was cold, but that wasn’t why she was shivering.Gramma Marie was here, she realized, and her body trembled. Gramma Marie had come inside of her, had become a living part of her, speaking through her mouth. Gramma Marie had…had what? The memory had been there, but as soon as she turned her attention toward it, it faded. She remembered dancing, though. She remembered Onyx coming. She remembered seeing Tariq. But she couldn’t remember anything else.

  Cramped, Angela crawled out of the hollow, wiping wet needles from her skin. Her sweatshirt lay on the ground near her. Angela picked it up, wrung it out, and tied it around her waist. She didn’t need to wear it anyway. Her skin felt burning hot.

  Tariq should be here, she realized, confused. But he was gone.

  She needed to get home. Right away. But she had no idea where she was, except that she was somewhere in the heart of her woods. It was bad enough she didn’t have a compass, but fog was descending over the trees. It would take her forever to find her way out of here, she thought.

  There was an incline ahead of her, a small ridge, so Angela walked toward it, hoping she could get her bearings with a wider view. Maybe she would see as far as the Four, or she’d see Gramma Marie’s house; either one would help her decide which way to walk. Her feet slid on the drying mud, slowing her progress, but she climbed to the top, clinging to a branch.

  There, below her, she saw something large dangling from a nearby tree branch, facing the west. It was wooden, probably cedar, hanging vertically, slowly twirling. Finally, it faced her and she recognized it: a dangling canoe. The hollowed wood was crammed with wrapped bundles strung in place with coarse rope. One of the bundles, she saw, was the size and shape of a full-grown man.

  There were others. Wooden canoes were strung from all the trees as far as she could see in one direction. Like great ornaments, hundreds of them decorated the woods. All of the canoes were filled with the dead and their belongings.

  The fog was thickest where the canoes were strung, shrouding many of them from her view, but she couldn’t understand why she had never noticed them before. Her grandfather John’s people had been buried here, she realized. This was a burial ground. The canoes were the last remnants of a people, and their spirits had been here all along, whispering stories as they hung.

  Angela’s skin shivered.

  She turned back the way she had come. After
passing the tree where she’d been sleeping, she saw a thin path, maybe a deer trail. She followed it. As she walked, squirrels, moles, and wild rabbits conducted their pursuits around her, unconcerned by her presence. A cow elk wandered in front of her, stopping in her path to tug at a dripping huckleberry bush. Angela only realized later, when she’d walked a good way past the elk, that wild animals usually had more fear of her. This was a new experience, she realized. She had come to a new place.

  Gramma Marie had brought her here.

  That was when Angela heard drumming. This wasn’t the hidden drumming she’d heard in the rain earlier; this was the sound of human hands on real drums, at least three of them, one of the instruments pitched deeply, the others higher, more teasing. The drumbeats raced and chased each other, their rhythms clashing and then blending. Angela heard applause and human cries, calls of appreciation for the drummers. Although it was growing dark, she saw firelight glowing ahead, not too far. The Spot. Were some kids having a party, making a mess? She was almost home now.

  The pain and sadness she felt was barely a prick. Angela knew what was waiting for her at The Spot—what had happened there today—but she refused to bring the memory out for air.

  As Angela got closer, she heard more and more voices, as if she were at an outdoor concert instead of in her family’s woods. This was not a typical teenage party, she realized. The light from the fire was brilliant, offsetting the arriving evening darkness. Walking grew easier, without so much tangled brush. Soon, she was on a clear trail she didn’t remember seeing before, not from this direction. She was grateful for it, because it seemed to lead her straight where she wanted to go.

  The van was gone. None of her heartaches awaited her here.

  Instead, Angela smelled cooking meat. A large animal was roasting on a spit where the van had been. Angela stared a long time at the giant, charred rack of meat, trying to recall where she’d seen such a beast, which must have been the length of three horses. She couldn’t remember, exactly, although she couldn’t quite forget.

  Whatever it was, it couldn’t hurt her now.

  The Spot was teeming with people gathered around a bonfire, two hundred or more people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They swayed together, clapping and laughing. Their eyes were trained toward the fire, where Angela saw men and women leaping high into the air, their heads soaring above the crowd. They leaped higher than Angela thought should be possible. All the revelers were colorfully dressed, their clothes clashing and blending like the drummers’ rhythms.

  It was like stepping into Africa, she thought.

  No, not Africa—Haiti.

  There were a few whites swaying and clapping with everyone else, but most of the people here were black. And Native American. A tall Native American man with black hair that draped down his back walked past her wearing a loincloth. Passing her, he smiled, and she smiled back at him, mesmerized by his face. Sheknew him. He wasn’t her grandfather John, but he was close to him. John’sgrandfather.

  “Kouzen!”a woman’s voice called to her, and Angela strained to see who had spoken. She saw a woman’s frantically waving hand, but then the woman was gone, woven into the crowd.

  Another young woman shimmied away from the back of the crowd, her head wrapped in a purple scarf, topping off a dress as colorful as Christmas lights. The woman hiked up her skirt as she danced toward Angela with a euphoric expression on her face, shaking a rattle. The woman was young, about thirty, her dark skin drenched in perspiration. Her hips rolled as if they were barely attached to her body.

  “What you think? Nice party?” the woman said. Her voice had an island lilt.

  Angela nodded. “What’s the occasion?”

  The woman peered at Angela incredulously, stepping closer to her. “What kind of fool question isthat? You know the occasion,cher. Today, we are free.”

  That time, Angela heard the husky quality in the voice she had known her whole life, and she gazed at the woman with disbelieving eyes. She stared at the broad nose and eyes, seeing them for the first time. This was how her grandmother had looked before Angela was born.

  “Gramma Marie?” she whispered.

  “Yes, yes,” Gramma Marie said, sounding impatient. Then, she grinned, outstretching her arms. Angela fell against her grandmother, hugging her. Gramma Marie held her, laughing from her bosom before she let out an excited cry, squeezing more tightly. “Yes, Li’l Angel. You did a very good thing today. A very, very good thing. But that’s no excuse for you to come here and not know your owngrandmère, not to know her face!”

  If she had hugged the woman right away, she would have known it was Gramma Marie by her scent. The smell of her skin was unchanged, talcum and a hint of peanuts. She also smelled as if she had been standing in a cloud of the incense from her altar.

  “You’ve changed,” Angela said, assessing her. Her grandmother’s face was much more playful than Angela ever remembered, her eyes brighter. And the way her body moved, so unrestrained! From the way Gramma Marie’s chest jiggled, she couldn’t be wearing a bra. This was not the same Gramma Marie who had sat primly in her library while she tutored in Sacajawea, wearing the same navy blue skirts and white blouses day after day.

  “We don’t wear only one face,” Gramma Marie said, shrugging. “I let you see one or two of mine, the ones you needed to see. The rest belong to me.”

  “You should have told me, Gramma Marie,” Angela said, with more sadness than scolding.

  Gramma Marie’s smile faded. “Yes. I should have,” she said, and nodded briskly, as if to say,Yes, but let’s be done with it. It’s behind us now. She patted Angela’s rump hard, something else she’d never done. “Next time, I’ll know.”

  Angela scoured the crowd for other familiar faces. Gramma Marie took her arm and steered her away from the bonfire; steering her the way Corey had at the Fourth of July party, when he gave her the ring.

  “Fleurette, you know, will be sorry she missed you,” Gramma Marie said. “She’s always bragging about you so. You would think she was the one who raised you.”

  “I’ll stay and see her.”

  For the first time, a frown blemished Gramma Marie’s face. When Angela saw her grandmother’s frown—an old woman’s frown on an inexplicably young woman’s face—she felt more than a prick of pain. This time, the pain burned. Bad memories were waiting to erupt in her.

  Gramma Marie squeezed Angela’s arm to pull her from her thoughts, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Don’t look so sad,cher,” she said. “I’d love for you to stay, butje peux recevoir personne. I’m not allowed any guests. See the dirty looks? They’re jealous of you. Your own blood! Don’t be fooled, because it isn’t nearly so lively here all the time. Today is special. Today, we’re celebrating a miracle.”

  Angela saw a young, dark-skinned girl in pigtails run in front of her before disappearing into the lively crowd. She knew that girl, too.Mama, she thought, amazed. Angela tried to follow the girl’s dress, but her eyes lost her in the maze of colors. As she gazed at the celebrants, Angela’s feet shuffled to the rhythms. She wanted to dance with them!

  “Do you know what you did?” Gramma Marie asked her.

  She had felt Papa Legba embrace her. She knew that much.

  “I think so,” Angela said. “Is it gone?”

  Gramma Marie raised her hands over her head, swinging her head with delight. She snapped her fingers. “Yes, yes, the One With No Name won’t trouble us again. See how we’re blessed with the favors of thelwas? We are no longer exiled. But that’s the start, not the finish. God is smiling on us. This is a miracle day.”

  “What’s the miracle?”

  Gramma Marie playfully bumped her nose against Angela’s. Angela couldn’t get used to this new incarnation of Gramma Marie, so girlish and excited. This woman felt more like a girlfriend than her grandmother. “You choose,” Gramma Marie said.

  “Me? Why me?”

  “You were brave enough to let me ride you, so you banished t
hebaka. You preserved the line. You choose your miracle today.”

  Angela couldn’t choose a miracle. She didn’t dare hope for one. She wanted too much. The sadness trapped inside of her was working its way free. Angela sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know if I believe in miracles, Gramma Marie.”

  “What! You’re afraid to believe in amiracle, but not afraid to believe in thebaka?” Gramma Marie’s girl-face frowned again. “I should have taught you better.”

  A woman cackled loudly from the crowd near them, and Gramma Marie turned to shout at the woman in Creole, waving her arms in annoyance. Angela had rarely heard Gramma Marie raise her voice, either. She would love to have spent a day withthis woman, to have known her.

  Gramma Marie turned back to her, shaking her head. “Fleurette is laughing. She was always telling me, ‘You didn’t show that childwho she is.’ Everyone knows best! But you’re ready now, Angela. It’s time.” Her eyes gleamed with pride, as if she were gazing at a newborn. Gramma Marie hugged her again, swinging energetically back and forth.“Adieu, cher. You were brave today. I knew you would be.”