Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

  I did as I was told, and placed the jar on the worktable. “Would you like me to label it?” I glanced at her hands. She certainly could never do it herself.

  “That will not be necessary,” she said with a bitter spark in her eyes. “I’ll know.”

  We sat down again. “You promised to tell me more about your family. I’m sorry, Francesca. I forgot my main tape recorder. This all has to be off-the-record today. “

  “Yes. That will be fine.”

  People often talk more freely when they think it’s off-the-record anyway, and I never ever violated this. Francesca relaxed.

  Pleasant, so very pleasant to just listen without the hyper-alertness required to direct formal interviews. So very pleasant to listen to this ancient black-clad woman. Even though Francesca dabbled in spells and curses and heaven knew what, today I was more at ease here than in my own household with a miserable husband and a tragic stepdaughter who looked like she would blow away in the first stiff breeze.

  I asked personal questions. Intimate questions. Questions I normally would never ask. They were none of my business. Curiously, all of my professional training, my filters drained away. That which prevented me from prying. But it was so pleasant here in the sun, and she answered so freely that I couldn’t help myself.

  “The lawsuit. A number of people have told me there was a lawsuit that has been going on in your family ever since they were born. Is that true?”

  “Oh, yes. And from long before the time when my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents were alive.”

  “I’ve been through all the newspapers. I haven’t seen it mentioned.”

  “No. It was from a time when there were no newspapers out here. When Victor decided to become a lawyer, I knew it was time to take it up again. When Victor understood what I had, he became very excited. Until that woman convinced him it was foolish to take up the cause again.”

  “What cause, Francesca?”

  “Our claim to more land. Much more.”

  “Did Maria know about this?”

  Francesca shook her head. “I think she knew land was involved, but Victor told me he didn’t want his wife to know everything.” Her face twisted with bitterness. “She wouldn’t have believed me anyway. Only Victor seemed to grasp the importance.”

  It didn’t make sense. Clearly the Diaz Family did not own vast tracts of land. And she said own not owned—like it was still hers. I had gone through deeds. The land encompassed in this compound was the extent of their holdings.

  “And you believe the lawsuit was a factor in Victor’s death?”

  “Of course,” she said softly. “Of course it was.”

  My tongue was heavy, wrapped in wool. I glanced at my open briefcase again for my notebook and stared dully at the contents. I could write on the back of one of the papers lying within if I had the energy to find my pen. Had to get all the details down for Sam.

  Swiveling my head was hard. I should follow up on something but I couldn’t remember what. I should make use of the time anyway. Stupidly, I recalled my usual questions. About health, about school, about marriage. There were others, I knew there were others. I began with health.

  “Your hands. I know healthcare was very limited years ago, but when did you first begin to develop arthritis? Was it painful? Could your family afford to take you to the doctor?”

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I had asked three questions at once, without giving her a chance to answer any of them. I shook my head, trying to click my brains into place.

  She trembled and lifted her terrible hands. “This is not arthritis.”

  “What then? Some other disease?”

  “No. This was done to me.”

  Chilled, I stared at her gaunt face now twisted with rage.

  “How could that have happened? Who?”

  “Who? People who hated me for the kind of work I do. Hated me without knowing a thing about me. Hated me because I could heal and they didn’t understand how I could.”

  “Oh, Francesca.” My stomach lurched.

  “They came for me one night. Dragged me and my poor husband out of bed. My beloved Henry. They made him watch. They called me a witch. A child of the devil. A daughter of Satan. The Devil’s spawn.”

  Too stunned to speak, my hands gripped the arms of the chair until my knuckles were white. My teeth clamped like a vise in my jaw.

  “They made him watch. They dragged us here to this workroom. My beloved workroom. The same room countless members of their family had come to. For this reason, for that reason. Because they needed my help and their own doctors couldn’t help.

  Bile scorched my throat.

  “They put my hands on my worktable. They picked up a hammer. They put my fingers there and smashed them one by one. Then they cut off one and ground it up with my pestle.”

  Black spots swirled before my eyes. I swayed in my chair.

  “I did not practice the dark arts. Not then. Then I was pure. Like the sun. Never dark. I knew they wanted more than to punish me. Men who mask themselves with religion who insist they are honoring their God always want more.”

  I did not want to hear. I put my palms over my ears and took deep breaths. Her voice seemed to come from a far place.

  “Then they started on the animals. Our poor animals. My husband had horses. Six rare beautiful horses. Andalusian—the horse of kings. They were descendants from Esclavo, the original stallion. They killed them first. Then the dogs.”

  “Oh, Francesca.” My lips quivered. Then I couldn’t speak.

  “Then they killed my cat. My dear little cat. They said witches always had a cat and that she was my familiar.” Tears streamed down her withered cheeks. “They even took her little collar. For a souvenir, one of them said.” She closed her eyes. “It had a bell. A dear little bell.”

  “Francesca.” All I could say was her name. Over and over. What words could I possibly come up with? Then finally, “I can’t even take in such cruelty. Why? Why would they do such a terrible thing?”

  “Oh, I knew why. They may have used our religion as an excuse. His Catholicism and what they perceived as my witchcraft, but they wanted my land. There had always been rumors. They wanted to know where I had hidden the claim to my land. My father’s land.”

  I could feel the color leave my face. The veins on my hands stood out like blue cords.

  “My poor husband. They made him watch when they went to work on my hands. They did not need to do anything to him because he never recovered from what they did to me. They hated witches and they hated Catholics. But I knew what they really wanted was to burn my proof of ownership.”

  “Oh, Francesca.”

  “I didn’t tell them where we had hidden the papers. They couldn’t make me tell them.”

  Faint now, I doubled over.

  “They joked, they chanted all the time they were doing this.”

  I knew I should go to her, but I couldn’t move.

  “I could not abide such pain. There was no help. No hope anywhere.

  “I laid in bed for a month. For a week I could only sip soup and enough water to stay alive and could only speak enough to tell my sister and my children what to bring me for my pain. My unspeakable pain.”

  “Your children?”

  “Are dead. Before, there was one, always one who was willing to learn the old ways. One who could be taught. I was the one from my generation. I told my daughter, the chosen one of her generation how to prepare the medicines, the compounds required to endure the unspeakable pain. She wrapped my hands with a poultice of the healing leaves. Somehow I endured. But my husband did not. It killed him.”

  Now I understood why this old woman chose to live in isolation.

  “Not being able to protect me killed him. He begged me to tell them. But I would not. As I lay there in bed in
that room, I changed. Until then I was a shaman; I healed. Afterward, I followed the path of a nagual, a sorcerer, and became the master of that which I had vowed I would never delve into.”

  The dark. The rearview mirror. It had not been my imagination. She had been teaching me to call the dark.

  “I learned the ways of revenge, but I could not see. Today you have mixed the herbs that will allow me to see. Their faces. Their names.”

  I couldn’t think.

  “The ministers, the priests, they will tell you that love keeps you alive. But that is not true. Hate is more powerful. And before I die, I will have my revenge.”

  When I could control my teeth, my stomach, my lips, and start my heart again, I lifted my head. “My God. You poor woman.”

  “I will be free to die.”

  “Did Victor know about your hands?”

  “No. He did not know. You are the only one now who knows how the hands came about.” She thrust them toward me. “None of my grandchildren, great-grandchildren— great-greats now—have ever known. What do they know of grief? All they know of loss comes from video games. And imitations of life. Shadows of the real thing.”

  I looked at her hands, and then looked away.

  “Even Cecilia, my beloved little Cecilia, only wants to think about the pretty side of religion. She wants to cloak herself in Virgin Mary-blue and whisper soft little chants and work among poor people clean enough not to offend her.”

  Woolly headed, strung between two worlds, I could not will myself to come up to where I belonged—a world of sunshine and light. I knew if I were able to think, I would hone in on validation. Documentation. Some proof that her ruined hands were the result of mob action instead of a rogue disease that had crippled her.

  She sensed this. “You don’t believe me, do you? You don’t believe.”

  I couldn’t answer. It was too horrible. I couldn’t take it in.

  “Go to the chest under the windows in the west corner. Look in the third drawer down. There is a fine wooden box. It was made by my grandfather. I keep my keys in that drawer. Open the box, then take out the piece of paper. Read the chant silently. I know it by heart. I do not want to think about those words again.”

  I rose unsteadily. I placed my hand on the back of the chair for a moment until I got my bearings.

  “They joked. They left a silly little poem.” Her voice broke. “A joke verse. Like a children’s chant.”

  I carefully walked over to the corner. I opened the third drawer and picked up the keys lying on the velvet lining. I opened the lid on the beautifully crafted walnut box nestled within.

  There was a piece of rolled paper. I carried it back to the chair where the light was better. I could feel her watching my face. Waiting for my reaction. She got one. I even recognized the verse. It was well-known historically. Very well-known.

  I would rather be a Klansman

  in robe of snowy white,

  Than to be a Catholic Priest

  in robe as black as night;

  For a Klansman is AMERICAN

  and AMERICA is his home,

  But a priest owes his allegiance

  to a Dago Pope in Rome.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I heard a soft rustling and eased up in my bed to see Angie quietly closing the door. “I’m awake,” I called.

  “Keith,” she hollered, “Lottie’s awake.”

  In a moment he appeared in the doorway looking solemn. “Finally.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  “You’re kidding? I don’t believe it. I’ve never slept this late before in my life.”

  “I know.”

  “When did I get home? I don’t even remember.”

  “After eight. I couldn’t rouse you on your cell or even the car phone. About the time I was really starting to get worried, you came driving in and went straight up to bed. Without a bite of supper, I might add. Did you eat something while you were there?”

  “No. Well, I don’t think so. To tell the truth I don’t remember one single thing about my visit to the compound. Not anything.”

  How was that possible? I eased up against the headboard. “The office. Who is at the sheriff’s office?”

  “Betty and Marvin are basically it. They will call here if something comes up. Or page me when I’m out in the field. By the way, Tom and Josie are driving out from Manhattan. They will be here late afternoon.”

  “But why?”

  “She called a couple of hours ago and I told her I was worried about you. You know Josie; she wants to see for herself.”

  “Oh, brother. I don’t know if I’m up to an inquisition.”

  “Lottie, it’s not just last night. You’ve been jittery. On edge. I want you to talk to her.”

  “As a psychologist?” I rose up on my elbows.

  “No, damn it. As your sister. Do you think I haven’t noticed you’re not up to snuff?”

  How could he not notice? I had lost weight. There were circles under my eyes. I couldn’t blame everything on the heat. “I’ll get a physical. I’m overdue.”

  “Good. That’s always the first step. Now, I’m going to make you eat something.”

  Suddenly disgusted with myself for lying in bed like a truant teenager, duty kicked in. “Damn it. It’s my day at the historical society. How could I have forgotten?”

  “Margaret has it covered.”

  “Margaret? But she quit!”

  “Not to worry. I called Margaret and told her you hadn’t been feeling well lately and weren’t quite yourself.” With a flap of his hand, he mimicked Margaret’s mannerisms. “She told me you had insulted her. I told her that was not at all like you. You held her in the highest esteem and would she please…”

  I started laughing. “Stop, oh please stop. Just give me the bottom line.” He looked so handsome, smiling there in the sunlight, one hand braced against the door jam, with a lock of thick brown hair falling down on his forehead. Boyishly delighted by his own orneriness.

  “Bottom line, she’s back in the office. And I expect you to apologize sweetly.” He walked over to the bed and sat beside me. He reached down and kissed me. I grasped his cheeks between my palms and pelted him with more kisses. He grabbed my hands and held them to one side while he eased off the bed.

  “Just a minute while I lock the door. Remember, we have a kid around now.”

  ***

  Coffeed, showered, I know I glowed when I walked into the kitchen. Self-consciously I glanced at Angie but she wouldn’t have noticed if I were lit up like a Christmas tree. She sat listlessly at the kitchen table staring out the patio door. I poured another cup of coffee and went outside.

  No matter how happy Keith and I were in bed, we couldn’t stay there forever.

  The sun was still hot. The wind still blew. The crops had burned up. And no one believed the Royals would ever win the pennant. Not anymore.

  I decided to make a list of everything that was bothering me. I went inside and grabbed my notebook from where it was sitting beside the phone on my kitchen desk. The notebook. For an instant, I remembered wanting it when I was at Francesca’s. I had wanted the notebook…and had wanted something else. What was it? Bothered by my inability to remember one thing about yesterday’s meeting, I wondered if I had been getting a touch of flu. Or something. But that couldn’t be true because I felt just fine today. Not even tired.

  Back in my lawn chair, I began jotting everything down. Then I intended to isolate the problems I could actually do something about and make a plan.

  I started a separate list of things I couldn’t affect. The crops and the weather went on it.

  My sister.

  My stomach lurched. My sister. I still hadn’t faced that little problem. Josie was having an affair with my husband’s son, and his sisters w
ould blow sky-high when they found out.

  Tosca was next on the list. The uppity little dog who had turned on us all. There was no wooing her back either, until she deigned to receive us again. Like she was the queen of England who could pick and choose. I smiled ruefully. Fat chance. Keith would have to live with his sins.

  The investigation. I had been kicked out of the loop. No more information flowing to us from the KBI. That was more of a blessing than a problem, but at a county level we weren’t any closer to finding that killer than the big boys in the state office.

  Angie. The lonely stepdaughter sitting in my kitchen. I could not fix her miserable marriage and I would be out of my mind to try that anyway. I didn’t want to fix it. I didn’t ever want to see Steve Bender again.

  When I finally finished I stared at the enormous column of things that were nagging me. I could not do a single solitary thing about any of them. Even Angie’s unhappiness was a problem she had to work through by herself. We could only offer her sanctuary until she got back on her feet.

  ***

  The big Mercedes SUV roared up the drive late that afternoon. Tom sat in the front seat and Tosca was in the rear, strapped into all her safety paraphernalia.

  As I had predicted, the moment after the luggage was inside, and Tosca watered, Josie took me aside and started looking me over. “What’s going on, Lottie?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m fine, really.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Yeah. Well. It’s been a long hot summer.”

  “Okay.” Her rose and white T-shirt matched the ribbons in Tosca’s topknot. Her white knee-length shorts were still spotless after the long grueling drive. Her glance said she was clearly at her professional best.

  Instead, I wanted my sister.

  “Keith said you haven’t been feeling well. Has anything unusual been going on?”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Not really. Just general work for the historical society. I’ve been interviewing an old Spanish woman and recording a number of spells and rituals.”