Southern Rites

by Stuart Jaffe

  He patted Max on the cheek and stood. With a motion of his head, the hooded men followed him as he walked on the park path. Max waited until the night covered the last trace of them. Then he stumbled over to Sandra.

  “You okay?” he asked as he helped her sit up.

  Dazed, she rubbed her jaw. “He hit me,” she said, with a bit of surprise.

  “You took it like a champ.”

  “Great. You can make a movie about me. Did he get the bone?”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” Seeing she wasn’t seriously injured, he dropped back against a tree. “What kind of spell was that?”

  “Nothing, really. Just a light show. It doesn’t really do anything. It’s more of a beginner’s exercise to try to focus energy.”

  “It was enough to save me. Thank you.”

  She leaned over to rest her head on his chest, but he recoiled. She tried to hold him, but he groaned. Finally, she stood and offered her hand. “How about I drive home?”

  Chapter 8

  When Max awoke, the sun had yet to rise. He felt worse than hungover — he felt like he had been beaten by a gang of hooded thugs. Oh, wait.

  Careful not to disturb Sandra — her soft snores brought warmth to his heart before the bruises on his body whisked it away — Max slipped out of bed and crept downstairs to the kitchen. He shuffled across the tiled floor like an old man suffering from arthritis and bad joints and weak legs. Turning a dimmer knob, he brought up the over-the-sink lamp — enough light for him to see by but nothing bright and blinding so early in the morning.

  As quietly as he could manage, he scooped coffee into a filter, placed the filter in the machine, and filled up the water. After turning it on, he leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and pursed his lips. All he had done was make coffee, yet his muscles were already tired. The old body did not bounce back like it would have a few years ago.

  A little coffee, some breakfast, and he should feel better. Not one-hundred-percent, but better.

  How did this keep happening? How did they keep getting stuck in these situations? Having Mother Hope and the Magi take over should have been a step up from the Hulls, but at least with the Hulls, Max knew where to look for the double-crosses and outright lies. With Mother Hope, he had no idea what to expect.

  “Morning, Max,” Drummond said, rising up through the sink.

  Max pulled a coffee mug from the cabinet. “What does it say about me that you don’t even faze me anymore?”

  “Really? I thought the sink thing was rather new.”

  “Maybe it’s just too early for a reaction. Besides, after the night I had, I doubt I could muster the energy to be surprised.”

  Drummond looked Max up and down. “What happened to you?”

  While sipping coffee and letting the caffeine boost do its trick, Max told Drummond all that had transpired. The part about Leon’s fighting skills forced Drummond’s begrudging acknowledgment. But when Max reached to point where Edward decked Sandra, Drummond’s pale face burned.

  “Bad enough this punk punched a lady, but he dared to punch our lady. Next time I see him, I promise we’ll make this right.”

  Max’s headache throbbed too much for more than swirling his coffee. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

  “It means he better watch his step ‘cause he’s got a ghost for an enemy.”

  “You be careful about that. I don’t want you getting too riled up and then losing control. You know what could happen to you.” Once before, Drummond’s rage had taken over — nearly turned him into a poltergeist. “And I’d hate to have to fight you, too.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I got myself under control. I know how far I can push it.”

  “You better.” Max’s stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. No good ever came to him from eating before sunrise. “Wait a second. The sun’s not even up. What are you doing here?”

  Drummond drifted backwards as if he needed to put a little distance between them. “Nothing. I mean I came to report in, but it can wait. Go back to sleep.”

  “You clearly don’t have any big news to report. I know you. If you’d found something worth telling, you’d be bouncing around like a little kid. And you always wait until we’re at the office for that kind of thing. What’s going on?”

  “Relax. There’s no anything going on.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Drummond wiped his forehead. “Now don’t get all upset. You’ve got healing to do. Besides, this is nothing. Honest.”

  “You know what I think when people tell me they’re being honest.”

  “Look, all that’s happening is that sometimes, on occasion, not often at all really, but sometimes I come by here in the morning or late at night to make sure you guys are safe, that’s all.”

  “What? You’re sneaking in here at night? Like a peeping Tom?”

  “Hey, that’s not it at all. I worry about you guys. That’s it. You know, it isn’t easy being a ghost, especially a P.I. ghost. Lots of people in the Other want to give up worrying about the law, so they don’t take kindly to a guy like me. I don’t make a lot of friends.”

  Max paused. “Wow, that was honest.”

  “I’m not trying to be a creep or anything like that. But since you got that curse on you and then we spent time together with you as a ghost, well, it got me thinking.”

  The curse, its mark on Max’s chest — Max didn’t like to think about it too often. But it was there within him, a grenade under his skin, ready for Mother Hope to pull the pin whenever she chose. “You’re worried that we’ll be killed, that we’ll end up stuck as ghosts like you.”

  “I think if you get killed, you’ll both move on with ease. And then that’ll be it. I’ll have nobody here to work with.” Drummond raised his hands before Max could speak. “I know, I know. Eventually, you two are going to pass on. But that shouldn’t be until you’ve lived a long, full life. So, if I have to come in here now and then to make sure everything is safe for you guys, I’m going to do it.”

  Max poured another cup of coffee — this would definitely be a two cup morning. “Okay, I guess. I suppose I should appreciate it.”

  “Do me a favor, though. Don’t tell Sandra. I think it’ll bother her.”

  “You think?” Max took a deep breath to stop from raising his voice. “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me what you found in the Other. I’m guessing still no Archibald Henderson.”

  Latching onto work, Drummond returned to his usual strong demeanor. “He’s long gone. In fact, most of them are. Turns out the Other has a limit to how long you can stay. Most ghosts that hang around are waiting for some sort of closure from their lives. When that happens, they move on. But some either can’t accept their deaths and stay or, like me, choose to stay for some other reasons. Well, the Other doesn’t like that. So, according to the old timers I could find, the Other will force ghosts to move on if they’ve been around for over two hundred years. It’s important, too, because if that didn’t happen, the Other would overcrowded with ghosts — and it’s plenty crowded as it is.”

  “Are you saying that any ghost from the time of the Revolution is gone?”

  “Most are. But however the Other operates, it isn’t perfect. It misses some of the ghosts, or maybe whatever allows it to force ghosts to move on is slightly selective. I don’t know. But there are a handful of ghosts that are still hanging around. Maybe about one percent. Of course, if you think about how many people have died over the last thousand years, one percent is a lot.”

  “Then there are people from the Revolution?”

  “Heck, there’s a lady from 1502, so yeah, there’s a bunch from the Revolution, but not nearly enough to make it likely we’ll get anything worthwhile.”

  “So, you got nothing.”

  Wagging a finger, Drummond grinned. “Do I ever let you down? I found one guy who claims he fought the British during the war. Says he’s from North Carolina and that he could h
elp us out. I don’t trust what he’s saying entirely, but I don’t know my history well enough to tell for sure. I figured I could bring him in, we’ll chat, and maybe we luck into something useful.”

  Max nodded. “Set it up.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Mrs. Porter said as she walked into the kitchen. She wore a floral housecoat that draped the tiles.

  “Just myself,” Max said.

  “Be careful about that. Wouldn’t want people thinking you’re losing your marbles.” She tittered at her own joke. “How about I make you an egg sandwich?”

  Drummond clapped his hands together once. “I’ll get that guy right away. Enjoy your breakfast. I don’t need to be watching food. That never goes well for me.”

  Max couldn’t respond, and Drummond knew it. The ghost opted for a simple wave good-bye and disappeared through a wall. Mrs. Porter dug out a pan and clanked it onto the stovetop.

  “Easy, Mom. Sandra’s still asleep.”

  “An egg sandwich was always your favorite growing up. No butter on the toast, though. I remember that. Do you? Probably not — you were so little.”

  Max watched as she cracked two eggs into a small bowl. He had seen her do this so many times, and the sound instantly brought him back to the breakfast table in Michigan. “I remember,” he said. “The first egg sandwich you ever made me, you asked if I wanted butter on the toast.”

  “You said you wanted gobs of butter. On both sides of the toast.”

  “I loved that word back then — gobs. I’d find any excuse to use it.”

  “I was a good mother. I warned you that it would be messy that way, but you didn’t want to listen to anything I had to say. So, you got your gobs.” She set two pieces of bread in the toaster and poured the beaten eggs into the hot pan.

  The corners of Max’s mouth rose as he pictured that day. Sitting at the table, his chin resting on his hands as his mother placed the egg sandwich on his plate. For some reason that particular morning, he was famished. He grabbed that sandwich and never took a bite.

  “I can still feel it today,” he said with a snort. “Butter all over my fingers and my palms, and even a bit ran down toward my elbow.”

  “After that, you never wanted butter on your toast. But I give you lots of credit — especially because you were willing to try it again without the butter.” She placed the completed egg sandwich on a plate and handed it to him. “And you’ve loved them ever since.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He kissed her cheek before taking his plate to the table.

  “Well, it’s not like I ever expect you to listen to your mother. But it’s nice to know that you come around to trust me once-in-a-while.”

  Max picked up his sandwich and held it near his mouth. He tried to ignore the unsubtle comment, tried to focus on the simple pleasure of an egg sandwich, but he set it back on the plate. “Something bothering you?”

  “Me? Not at all. I’m here visiting my wonderful son and his wife. Why should I be bothered? Here I am, getting to spend time with you, and it’s barely even morning. I’m dog-tired, but a mother has to do these things sometimes in order to see her child.”

  “You didn’t have to get up special for me.”

  “When else was I going to see you?”

  “Well, maybe if you had given us some warning you were coming, we could have cleared our schedule so that you wouldn’t be stuck.”

  “Who’s stuck? Your employee, J, is a lovely boy. I really like him. We had a great time together.”

  Max couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or serious. “I’m glad you two get along. And I’m sorry I haven’t been available yet. I didn’t expect to be working a case so soon after ...”

  “After what?”

  Rubbing the mark on his chest, Max said, “After our last case. But business is good, and you always told me that you should never back away from good business.”

  Mrs. Porter lifted her chin, and Max thought she might storm out of the room — she never liked having her words thrown back at her. “I’m glad your work is going so well, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m your mother. Aren’t you the boss? Can’t you decide to take the day off to spend a smidge of time with me? After all, I came a long way to be here.”

  “I promise we will get time together, but it’s not all that simple. I am the boss, but that means I have responsibilities, too.”

  “I flew in a plane to get here. Do you know how much I hate flying?”

  “We went to Disney in Orlando when I was seven. I think you screamed more than the infants on the plane.”

  Max hoped his humor would ease her, but his mother’s eyes widened. “Don’t you get fresh with me. I deserve some respect here.”

  “I’m sorry. I was only trying to —”

  “I know exactly what you were trying to do. Your old mother isn’t an idiot. You clearly don’t have time for me, and you don’t want to make time. My ticket home isn’t for a few more days. I’ll try my best to stay out of your way.”

  Though he wanted to remain calm, he couldn’t hide the way his jaw set in frustration. “Stop it. Please. I promised you that we’d get together and we will.” Max had an idea — one he recognized as a bad idea from the start, but at that moment, any solution sounded good to his ears. “How about we have lunch today? I’ll take you to a nice place. Real special. I’ll figure a way to rearrange my schedule.”

  “You don’t have to trouble yourself.”

  “I want to. I’ll get Sandra to cover my workload. And I’ll take you to the Green Valley Grill. We’ll have to leave a little early because the place is in Greensboro. About thirty or forty minutes from here, but it’ll be worth it.”

  Though she was unwilling to smile, Max’s mother did sit a bit straighter in her chair. “I think that sounds lovely. The Green Valley Grill? What kind of food is that?”

  “All sorts of stuff. Fancy stuff. You’ll love it.” He could feel the guilt rising in him, but he pushed on. “The restaurant is attached to this old hotel. It’s a charming place, beautifully built. It’s called the O. Henry Hotel — after the writer.”

  He picked up his sandwich and forced a bite down his throat. He wasn’t sure which caused his food to stick more — using his mother as cover for a visit to the Magi headquarters or knowing that he planned to confront Mother Hope while there.

  Probably both.

  Chapter 9

  The Green Valley Grill had a high, vaulted ceiling that covered the square dining room like an atrium. A healthy mixture of wood and stone decorated the square dining room. Sunlight broke through with a bright, airy feel as if the restaurant had been intended for a social meeting of academics — much like a modern library.

  Mrs. Porter was happy. Max saw it in the excited way she had clucked about the house before they left, the way she chattered along as they drove to Greensboro, and the way she grew silent upon taking her seat as if they had entered a place of reverence instead of consumption.

  “Are you sure you can afford this?” she asked when she looked over the menu.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and for an instant, a flare of pride ignited in his chest. But that made him think of the mark of his curse, and that made him think of Mother Hope.

  She would not be happy to see him — especially since Edward Wallace had escaped with the bone. Though perhaps Mother Hope had taken out her anger on Leon. If Max had any luck, she would be tuckered out and willing to talk. Max never had that kind of luck, though.

  They ordered their food — chorizo burger for Max, baked pecan encrusted trout for his mother — and watched as a young couple with an infant settled in at a table nearby. Mrs. Porter’s face lit up as she twinkled her fingers at the baby.

  She sighed. “I suppose I should give up praying for a grandchild.”

  That snapped Max back from thinking about Mother Hope. “I thought we were trying to have a nice lunch.”

  “What’s not nice about children?”

  “Are you
really going to pretend you don’t know what you said? Nothing’s changed for us. Sandra and I are not having children. We’ve got a busy, full, and fulfilling life down here, and I’m fairly certain a child would ruin that.”

  “Okay. You don’t have to get bent out of shape.” She placed her napkin on her lap with sharp motions. “You two don’t want children, don’t have children. That’s your business. I don’t need to be consulted about it. If you think it’s best not to continue the Porter bloodline, then so be it.”

  “Please, Mom. Don’t start this again.”

  “I’m not starting anything. I’m merely pointing out that should anything happen to you, that’s it for our family name. You act like you’re indestructible, but you’re like the rest of us. You can get hurt, too.”

  Max wanted to lift his shirt, let her see all the bruising from the previous night’s excursion, but that would only have frightened her and led to endless questions. He would have had to explain about the skeleton and the hooded men, how they chased him down and beat him, and how through it all, he feared he would not live or worse, that they might hurt Sandra. Worried he might start to shake, maybe even cry, he shoved his thoughts away.

  “I do not think I’m indestructible,” he said. “But I know I can’t go through life afraid to take a risk.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m talking about the fact that life is unexpected. You can plan for things to be a certain way, aim for a prized job or plan for a specific career, but in the end, life does what it wants. You don’t get a say. Take your father — we never planned for him to die so young. I always thought he and I would grow old together. Frankly, I figured I’d be the one to die first. But that’s not the way life happened.”

  Max twisted up inside. He tried to be angry at his mother for harping on the children issue, but bringing up his father quelled him. At the same time, he kept thinking about Mother Hope. He shouldn’t have set this lunch up — it wasn’t fair to his mother.