I steal another glance at the newspaper headline and the accompanying photo: National Tobacco Corp. Names New Chairman. The face is unmistakable. It hasn’t changed one iota. The skin is as pale as it was thirty years ago, the eyes as vacant, the smile as subtly contemptible. He hasn’t aged a day. Beneath the photograph, the caption reads Donald Van Owen, son of noted Confederate Captain, Hendrik Van Owen. So he is posing as his own son. The article details his rise within the company, how he introduced new techniques for treating the tobacco, new guidelines for shipping cigarette products across the ocean, and how he has recently moved to Atlanta from Montgomery, Alabama. He is here in Atlanta with me. I curse my poor judgment for staying in the South, but I know that he would have found me eventually no matter where I went.
The contractions grow more intense. The pain is unimaginable, like a force within me is pressing outward me from the inside. I can see Ray twitching, trying to climb out of his daze. For a moment, he begins to exert control.
“Amara, we’ve got to…,” he says, trying to stand.
But I grab hold again. I will not go to a public place—a hospital—and be so exposed in this condition. I tell myself that as soon as the child is born, I will convince Ray that we must move elsewhere. We will leave Atlanta, even if I have to force my will upon him to make it so.
As if in response, Ray announces, “We can’t stay here.” I can’t discern whether these are my thoughts about Atlanta or his about my birthing the child here in our tiny apartment above the hardware store where he works. I can’t think straight with the labor pains tearing me apart. Trying to give myself a moment‘s peace, I decide to put a calming thought in Ray’s mind. I show him a fabricated image of the three of us—him, me, and baby Rolanda—walking by a lake. The water is clear and reflects a perfect blue sky. The fields are combed with flowers; birds chirp a melancholy song.
Then another contraction comes, closer than the previous. Ray and I scream together. It jolts me up almost into a sitting position. I try to maintain the fantasy image for Ray, but then my constructed world shudders, the ground quaking at the sound of Van Owen’s voice.
“Amara,” his voice erupts in my head, “what is this trite charade?”
He’s found me. My eyes glance everywhere, searching the bedroom, searching the vision, but only his voice is here. Somehow, in the weakness of labor, in the struggle to use my power to control my husband, I have let down my guard. Van Owen has heard me. From somewhere in Atlanta, he has sensed me, and he has latched onto my thoughts as a beacon. While I hid and became complacent, too afraid to use my ability for fear that he might sense me, he has grown more and more powerful. And he has found me.
“There is no lake, Amara. This is an illusion. Who are those people with you?” Then his tone turns angry, accusing. Jealous. “Who is that man at your side?”
I maintain the vision of the lake and the countryside, but I remove Ray and Rolanda. At my side now, instead of a husband and a daughter, is a rifle. I hold it up at shoulder level and shout, “Show yourself, coward.”
“Oh, I will,” Van Owen says softly, “but first, why don’t you go to sleep.”
Above me, in the vision, the sky turns dark. Violent clouds roll like factory smoke across my perfect sky. Lightning explodes in jagged bolts, striking the water near me. My feet are bare and wet, so the electric shock jolts through my body. I know that the lake is only a fantasy—my own creation, infiltrated by Van Owen—but the pain is real. The lightning currents burn and jar me at the same time. The next bolt comes, lighting up the sky in a brilliant, burning white that doesn’t dissipate. All I can see is whiteness, filling the sky, spreading outward, spilling all over me. It burns my eyes; they feel like they’re melting. I keep waiting for the light to fade—for my lakeside scene to return—but everything stays white. I try to leave the fantasy, but it won’t end. Consciousness begins to creep away, its flight offering an escape from the pain of the contractions and the pain of the blinding light. The baby will be here soon; I must stay awake. If I pass out, I won’t be able to protect her. But the contractions are mounting, successively closer, and I don’t know what happens next—I haven’t seen it yet. Who will protect my baby?
Van Owen answers me: “I will, Amara. I’ll protect her. You just sleep. Sleep and dream. I’ll see you soon. All’s forgiven, my dear.”
“Ray,” I stammer aloud, just before I slip away, “wake up. I need you.”
Twenty-Three
“Who the hell are you?” Marco asked in his toughest voice. He’d opened the door only because he thought it must be Terry knocking, but this Black man in the doorway was older and a stranger, though there was something familiar about him.
Rainwater dripped from the man’s face and clothes, creating a widening puddle at his feet. From the doorway, he stared Marco up and down. He removed his baseball cap as if in respect, revealing eyes reddened with fatigue and perhaps something more. “I’m Warren Kelly, Terry’s brother,” said the man, his voice hoarse and raspy.
Marco gaped for a few moments before nodding. “Yeah, I’ve seen you. I should have recognized you.”
“Where’ve you seen me? I heard you don’t go outside.”
“I’ve seen you. Sometimes I look out the window after Terry leaves, and I see you waiting for him across the street.”
“Oh.” He took a breath before blurting out what he’d come to say. “Some guys got him. They got Terry.”
Marco’s voice grew loud. “Got him? What do you mean they got him? Is he…”
Warren’s voice was flat. “They took him. In a car. I saw them, but I couldn’t stop them. They had…”
Marco was agitated. “What guys? Was it what’s-his-name…Akins?”
Warren turned away, glancing around the room as he spoke. “No, but they work for the same dude Akins worked for—guy named Dominus.”
Marco’s expression turned from distress to despair. “Van Owen. Akins works for Van Owen? That’s why Akins has been bullying Terry all this time?”
“No.” Warren stepped inside. His eyes darting about, taking in the meager apartment, before settling back on Marco. “Terry says you used to be a gangster.” He paused. The real kind.”
Marco stared for a moment before mumbling, “That was a long time ago.”
“I’m going after Terry.” He wiped the rain from his forehead. “You coming with me?”
Marco felt his heart rate jump. His breathing became erratic. In only seconds, sweat formed at his temples. “I don’t know what I can do…I’m old…I can’t…”
Warren’s tone turned to disgust. “I should have known.” He started moving quickly toward the door. “Terry thought you were all that—like you were something back in the day. This was a waste of time. You’re just some broken down old man.” Marco stood in the doorway as Warren stomped down the stairs, muttering under his breath, “I’m not wasting any more time on you.” He opened the front door to the building. “I shouldn’t even have come…”
Marco stormed out of his apartment in time to look down the stairwell and see the building door close. He peered down at his feet. He gripped the banister with shaking hands, his face hot, his breaths coming in tiny gasps. He felt as if he’d been tossed under a harsh wave that was pitching him about violently. Vertigo, a doctor had told him years ago, but Marco had known it was something much worse: fear. And fear could be conquered only by something stronger than fear: resolve.
The wave pulled him forward, step by shaky step, down the stairs one at a time, each step measured, in a lumbering line toward the building door, which seemed so far away. His hands clung to the banister, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. But by the time he reached the ground floor, he almost felt balanced. He was moving more quickly. He was still breathing hard, and he could feel the dampness on his face, but his heart was thumping not with fear but with anticipation. It had been so long.
The brass door handle was cool against his palm. He groaned
as he turned it and opened the door and propelled himself onto the landing, into the wet, cool night air. Into the world outside.
“Warren,” he shouted down the block, his voice thicker than before. “I’m not just some old man. I’m your grandfather. And I’m going with you.”
By the time Warren made it back into the building and up the stairs, Marco was already in his bedroom, pulling a white dress-shirt over his tank-top undershirt.
As Marco turned toward him, Warren finally looked straight at him. “You’ve got green eyes,” said Warren. “So does Terry.” He opened his own swollen eyes wide. “So do I… when they’re not red.”
“My best feature,” Marco smirked. “That’s what Willa said. Glad I could pass them on.”
Warren watched as the old man prepared himself. “Terry says you haven’t left this apartment in like forty years.”
“Yeah.”
“How come?”
“’Cause I forgot how.”
“That’s no answer.”
Marco held back a smile. He could imagine Willa saying that same phrase. “Well, I don’t have any other answer. At first I had to stay in hiding. There were people who didn’t want your grandma and me together, for obvious reasons. It was 1955. Nobody liked it when a white man dated a Black woman. Especially my family. And Van Owen has always had this thing for your family. He was chasing Willa. I figured if he found me, he could use me to lead him to your family. I couldn’t do that to Willa or your mother or to any of you. So I hid.” He turned away for a moment. He wanted to tell his grandson about the all-consuming fear that Van Owen imbedded in him, but he wasn’t ready to talk about such things, so he continued with a half-truth. “And once you hide away long enough, it only gets harder to change. That’s something you should understand.”
Warren shifted his weight, squirming as he changed the subject. “I stopped at my family’s house before coming here. I wanted my Pop to come with me…but he wouldn’t take me. He’s going after Van Owen himself.”
“Damn,” Marco snapped. “He’s gonna get himself killed.”
Warren wanted to say that his father could take care of himself, but he was thinking of something else he’d seen at home. He stuttered, trying to get out the next words. “I saw Regina. First time ever.”
Marco nodded and then asked, “Did you see Willa?”
Warren nodded.
“You didn’t tell Willa about Van Owen, did you?”
“Yeah, I did. Seemed like she already knew who he was, too. How do you know about him?”
“Long story.” Marco opened a dresser drawer and retrieved a shoulder holster and a Smith & Wesson K-22 Masterpiece pistol. He had held it from time to time over the years, taken it out to clean it and admire it, but it had always felt foreign to him, a relic, something that belonged to a younger, stronger man. He marveled now that it felt natural. He tried not to admit to himself that it even felt good in his hands. He loaded the chamber and filled a suit jacket pocket with extra bullets. His movements were smooth. He spun the barrel and returned the gun to the holster, fastening it over his shoulder with agility.
Warren watched intently. “That’s an old gun.”
“So am I,” said Marco with a smirk as he pulled on the gray pinstripe suit jacket. “We both still work.” He retreated into his closet and returned with a tie around his neck. He stopped near the door and checked his image in the mirror.
“Dressing up nice for your funeral?” Warren asked him.
“My funeral? Nah, that’s long overdue anyway. I just want to look nice for your grandma.”
“Grandma Willa? She’s not gonna be where we’re going.”
Marco nodded yes. “Willa will be there. No way in hell she’d miss this. Seems like everybody’s gonna be there.” He thought of something and smiled. “Four generations will come together to fight as one. That’s what Amara told me fifty years ago. My guess is she was talking about today.” He donned a faded gray fedora and tilted it forward so that it almost concealed one eye. “It’s gonna be a big family reunion.”
As he headed out the door, he turned back to survey the empty apartment.
“What’s wrong?” asked Warren.
“Nothing,” said Marco. “I just wanted to look at the place one last time.” Then he shut the door.
Twenty-Four
It’s raining outside. I can hear it beating against the window. It’s dark. It must be nighttime. A baby is crying.
A door opens and closes. Rubber shoes squeak across a polished floor. Someone lifts my wrist, squeezes softly for a time and then lets go.
A man’s voice, familiar: “How is she?”
Another man: “Her pulse is much stronger. Her temperature’s back to normal. She should be fine. Just call me or one of the nurses when she wakes up.”
It’s still so dark. Why don’t they turn on the lights? How can they see in the dark, these men? Why can’t I? Are my eyes closed? I can feel my eyelids fluttering. My other senses are returning. I can smell the soap and alcohol in the air. My fingers are moving; I can feel the bed sheets, crisp and rough against my hands. The bed is soft. Too soft. The baby keeps crying. I lift my hand to my face. Why am I so weak? My belly burns. Everything burns. Why does that baby keep crying?
“Amara?” The familiar voice—Ray’s voice. “Amara, everything’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”
“The baby?” I ask him.
“The baby’s fine. She’s beautiful. Do you want to hold her?”
Without waiting for an answer, he lays her next to my right shoulder. She stops crying, but I can feel her wriggling about. I brush my fingers against her smooth, smooth skin. I roll my palm over the tiny tufts of hair on her head.
“Ray, it’s so dark in here. Can you turn on the light?”
He pauses before answering. “It’s daytime. It’s bright in here.”
I can hear the fear in his voice. I raise my hand, waving it over my face, over my eyes. Gently, I lower my fingers toward my eyes. I can feel my eyelashes twitching, my eyelids opening and closing. I cannot see. I’m blind.
“I’m going to get the doctor,” Ray tells me.
Suddenly, I feel a chill.
“No,” says another familiar voice, “don’t get the doctor, Ray. Stay here with us, Ray.”
I try to sit up, but I’m too weak. I pull Rolanda against my chest. “Ray, run! Get help…”
“Who are you?” Ray asks, confused.
“Who am I?” asks Van Owen, playful but indignant. “I’m Amara’s owner. I’m the man who found her and brought her here to this new land where she wouldn’t have to live out her life as a savage. I’m the man who rescued her from primitivity and gave her civilization. And how do you reward me, Amara? You run off and marry without even asking my permission.”
“Nobody owns anybody anymore,” Ray seethes. “Now you leave this room before I send you out on your back.”
I reach out with my mind, trying to find Van Owen’s, but it’s so difficult sightless. I’ve spent decades growing accustomed to seeing my targets, looking them in the eye before infiltrating their minds. Now I’m a blind woman groping in the dark.
“Ray, go…please… get help…”
I hear a struggle, bodies shoving, pushing, a fist colliding with bone.
“Ignorant cur,” Van Owen thunders. “How dare you strike me?”
“No, Van Owen, don’t hurt him…please. He doesn’t know… he doesn’t…”
“I don’t care what he knows. He shouldn’t have touched my property.”
Ray is wheezing, his breaths coming in choked clips. What’s happening? Has Van Owen entered Ray’s mind; is he holding Ray in thrall while strangling him?
The baby is wailing. I squeeze her against me and try to sit up, but the pain across my middle is searing. I kick and swing with my free arm, trying to do anything to distract Van Owen.
“Please stop… please don’t hurt Ray…”
I hear the terror in my voice, a
nd I know that I’ve been wrong for so long—in spite of all I’ve seen and done and known, I’ve clung for decades to my adolescent belief that Kwame was the only man I could ever love. Yes, he was beautiful and heroic, but I didn’t know him. I’ve clung to an imagined future, to a promise never realized. Kwame and I were strangers. Ray is my husband, the father of our child, the man I have made a life with, the man who is dying for me now. And I love him. And so, desperate, I finally say it for the first time: “Please, Master Van Owen…please…I’ll go with you…” But my epiphany comes too late.
There is a thud, a body hitting the floor. Then Van Owen speaks again.
“There. It’s done. And just like Roland and Harry and Sam—and any other man who dares to put himself between me and my property—his death is on you.”
“No…” My voice is so weak and distant. “Ray…,” I say through tears.
“You brought this on yourself, Amara. I didn’t come here for him or even for you. I came for the child.”
“What? You can’t take my baby…”
“Yes, I can and I will. The child is mine, just as much as you are. You owe me. Everything that is yours is mine and ever shall be. You took something from me when you gave me this power. You took away my ability to impregnate a woman. I won’t have any children of my own. I won’t get to pass my gifts on to my offspring, but I can make sure that no one else is raised to challenge me.” He stops speaking for a moment, as if he’s just staring at me. Then his voice changes to an inquisitive tone. “Why are you staring off that way, Amara?”
Chains of Time Page 17
