Annie, my little assault vehicle, reminds me of the human condition, the curse, the gifts, and myself, my curses and gifts. Sometimes, unexpected and out of nowhere, she comes unwound. The shell shock fury of her gun blast echoes in the air, bystanders ducking and running for cover. I laugh every single time it happens. It’s who she is. It’s part of her makeup. Annie lets her voice be heard. Her royal existence demands a shotgun salute. The sounds ring out, “I’m dented and dingy with peeling paint. I smoke, I sputter, I rattle but by God, this is who I am. Take it or leave it. I’m Shotgun Annie, hear me roar!”
She travels the highways of life without cares. Her rusty carriage purrs with regal confidence. She strolls in paved lots and parks right next to a spit shiny, high maintenance rhinestone Cadillac with a diamond encrusted Eagle hood ornament. It screams my uppity, old money sister, Maggie Storm. Annie doesn’t care about outside appearance, not one bit. It’s the heart, it’s the inside where it counts. Shine all you want, she says, but I shine too. Her tragedies are the roughage that reveal the diamonds through the dents, the sparkle gleaming out from rusty holes. Annie knows who she is. She takes her rightful place.
I love my Shotgun Annie. I have never been more thankful for life. My days are filled with a lot more laughter now, than darkness. I am thankful for the little things. If this is the tradeoff for the bullets of rage and chaos I endured in a loveless marriage, I’ll take it. I’ll take every crumb. I’ll take the quirks, the craziness, the dents, no handles, back door dances, shotgun blasts—I’ll take it all. At least now—I’m not the target.
One day, God willing—Willodean Hart will take her place too and when she does, I hope it’s next to a spit shiny Cadillac. By then, maybe, by then, I won’t give a damn what people think. I will be enough. I AM enough.
PTA
Upon waking, my gut burned. A horrible dream escaped me, leaving an empty presence of fingertips on my mind as it drifted out the window, uncatchable, too heinous to remember. On Saturday mornings, I sleep late or watch cartoons but I don’t want to. My skin trickles and pops like it does when a Dresden is near, but not as intense, only as if I was dreaming it, and the aftereffects are left over. I hear the wall clock in the living room ticking in loud bursts of anxiety through my bedroom wall. The gut burn went to my ears until I felt feverish. Something is wrong. I could feel it in every ounce of my body. I jumped up, threw some clothes on and high tailed it to Maw Sue’s. I streaked past Lena in the kitchen who mumbled something I didn’t have time to hear. I made it to her house in under a minute, a record for me. I leaped on the old porch, the freezer moaned as if it was eighty, which it may have been. I opened the screen door, it squeaked, balked and slammed shut. The bell clanged and rang an eerie chime of death in my ears.
“Maw Sue?” No answer. I looked everywhere for her, scurrying doors open, glancing in and out. She wasn’t in the house, garden, or chicken coop, and she wasn’t chant marching around her house. Not in the garage. Where could she be?
Maw Sue was the healthiest, sick person, I ever did see. She was seventy four years old and in her mind, she had every disease under the sun. Each week a mysterious illness plagued her, slowed her down, made her creak, pop, or consume a gazillion pills I called tic-tacs because that’s how she ate them, one after another. In addition to tic-tac’s she enabled the help of ancient remedies of herbs and potions. This was part of our Cupitor heritage she was passing on to me. She had a recipe book of recipes, strange old magic. She was either making a new concoction or walking with a gimp, coughing, wheezing or creating another newly found disease for the doctors to cure. At other times, I’d find her marching around her house, rebuking the devil like a militant soldier shouting ancient chants to rid the world of evil.
“By his stripes we are healed.” She’d say. March, chant some more. It didn’t help or cure her sickness but it sure scared the neighbors.
I couldn’t find her. Where could she be this time of morning? I panicked. I could think of no good place. Only…my thoughts went from bad to worse. Wait. Maybe she’s at Papa Hart’s and Dell’s. Yeah. That’s reasonable. I bolted out the door. The sprint left me winded, while the insidious house inside me, flashed images of fear into my mind. Maw Sue dead, bleeding, tortured by gun wielding lunatics. The shadows really know how to stir me up. Stop it—stop it—stop it. That’s crazy thinking. I argue with the internal dialogue devil. I’m not sure why my family was cursed with a generational house of horrors like the Dumus of Umbra or Dresden’s and why I had to be the chosen one to deal with such poppycock. Mag’s gift is entirely different than mine, as if all she has to do is sit on a royal throne, collect gifts and enjoy riches. But me—I get the bottom of the barrel, the creepy stuff. I suspect someone killed a prophet in ancient days, marking our family for life, an eternity screwed. Maw Sue always said to stop fretting because we don’t get to choose our blessings or our curses, for that matter. Everything is appointed before our birth, already mapped out for us, it is a matter of acceptance and the rest is free will, a choice of many roads. Seekers encounter evil, troubles and much more, it’s a part of life. Trust in the beyond and move forward, come what may. She said it gets better after it gets way, way worse. Maw Sue was all kinds of convinced, on several levels that everything is guided and outlined by the heavenly places, the otherworldly realms invisible to the eye on earth, except to seekers and those born into the realm of three, the Cupitors.
“But what about those born at 5:55 or 1:11?”
“I don’t know about those folks” she’d say during our story time. “God don’t give it nilly-willy. You have to find the path, diligently search for it, find the gift, put it on like armor, and wear it daily. It has to be sharpened, honed, chiseled and perfected. It cost time, days, work. It’s sacrifice, sure, but why would you want to be anything other than who you were created to be?” I languished inside the house. Pondering words and the future, and what great sacrifice my gift might cost me.
According to old legend, the realm of three is where the dark meets the light and a great battle ensued which continues even today. Folks say it started when Jesus took his last breath on the cross which happened to be 3:00, in 33AD. Others who like to argue and debate say it was exactly 3:33, 33AD. No one knows for sure, but the significant factor in all of it, is threes. A thick veil separated the temple holy place from the people, over 60 foot and it was fashioned from blue, purple and scarlet material and fine twisted linen. The temple sacrifice was always at 3:00 when the temple priest killed an innocent lamb behind the veil, where God’s presence dwelled, holiest of the holy, separated from mankind because of sin. I mean, we were so bad, God couldn’t even put his eyes on us. It was kind of like the wizard of Oz—except no wizard, just God behind the curtain. And no Emerald City, just Earth. And no munchkins, just priests. Replace Glenda the good witch with the holy spirit, and the wicked witch of the west is the devil and the flying monkeys are the demon shadows that haunt us. And we are all a lot like Dorothy with our pet, Toto, and Dorothy’s friends, the scare crow, the Lion and the tin man. Each of us are looking for something to fill us. Whether it’s a new heart, or the courage to move forward or just the road home. When Maw Sue explained it like that, I understood it a little better. Of course, then she got real. When Jesus died on the cross, he took the little lambs place. No more temple, no more priests, no more confessionals, no more baby lambs dying for our mess ups. Jesus died for all our sins and the world was never the same. The earth went into convulsions, great spasms, with earthquakes, mountains rumbling and rocks splitting. The sun closed its eyes and gave no light, while a great mass of darkness fell upon the earth for three whole hours. The curtain veil of the temple split wide in two and God was not there. Graves opened and saints walked the earth. People basically freaked out. God was done. Had enough. He wiped his hands of the old system of law and religious do-gooders like Tessy Pearson. Those folks turn more people away from God than they ever bring to him. So God had enough. No more. Done.
/> “It is finished.” Jesus said. And he meant every word of it. He joined God up in the sky in the third heaven, which according to Maw Sue was way, way, way up there. Mankind is left to finish what he started. For my family, it’s the Cupitor legend. We must become the seeker we were meant to be, and by doing so, we touch the fingers of God. Jesus filled the gap, the void between the fingers is now complete, a full connection of one. All of us lie in between. This was my favorite part of the story, but like she said, it gets worse, before it gets better. That wicked curse is still undoing my family. At the realm of three which is the intersection of both worlds, the highest concentration of light is manifested which is what forms a being into their true self. Attached to this gift—is the darkest form of dark. The lesser light. Maw Sue was born in this realm, along with other generations before her. I too, was born into this realm, but something happened. Maw Sue was never able to explain it but she always told me I would discover the truth one day if I continued to seek it.
The Dumas of Umbra, which is Latin in the old language, means house of shadows. This curse of the shadow house has afflicted my family for generations, some succumbed to death, not able to bear its awful effects and others like Maw Sue endured the painful struggle but with great, great cost. Maw Sue said I was up against the worst of the worst since I was tripled affected and born into the realm which was forbidden. It had never happened before, and that’s what threw her off. I was left to figure it out on my own, but Maw Sue helped as much as she could.
She began to tell me the stories when I was five years old. I knew I was different—I just didn’t realize how different. Maw Sue said that difference is the key and to trust myself. Problem is, the curse makes people sleep in a state of neurosis and being they don’t know the true state of their core self, they wander and pattern themselves after other people, replicas, copies, and wannabe’s trying to find their shell. A fit. Each time they pick from other people, they lose more of their identity. Cupitor’s are the seekers, the light bearer’s to draw the lost sleeper souls in, so that they can once again, find their true selves and live out their intended purpose. Trouble is, a seeker has to first find themselves before they can help others. The battle is hard fought. Seekers are sworn enemies to the shadows. The Amodgians shadows are the deceivers, light imitators, false prophets. In olden days they were called the interceptors, the dark ones. For thousands of generations they lived amongst mankind, weaving in and out of them, drifting through our daily lives, undetected. They afflict each family with a curse. The curse covers the light and hides the true self. It distorts the true person and leads them in every direction except the one they are meant to travel. Of course, long before I knew what they were, or they had a name, I knew they existed. I saw them, felt them, and heard them. They were already a part of me.
I arrived to Papa Hart and Dell’s porch out of breath. Fear nipped at my heels, my morbid daydreams coming to life, every grimy detail. I ran inside the house and to the kitchen. They both looked surprised to see me so early. I scanned the room in a sigh of relief. No coffin, no broken adults crying, no rose dripping blood, no death shadow, no earth spinning out of control. My heart sank back to its rightful place and gained a steady beat. Dell was sitting at the bar, a cup of coffee sat in front of her. She smoked a cigarette and stared into her tiny television only inches away from her pushed up against the wall. This is where she sat to watch her soap operas or morning programs. Papa Hart was standing in front of the refrigerator pouring some water in a glass.
“Lord Child! What’s got into you? Why so troubled?” Dell said vexed. She blew out smoke rings one by one.
“You see a snake?” Papa Hart said abruptly. He eyed me through the glass. I could hear the water gulping down his throat, one swallow at a time. In my ears it was a warning thud.
“Where’s Maw Sue?” I looked at Dell and then at Papa Hart. My mind flashed memories of doctor visits, trips to hospitals, clinics, sanitariums, voodoo and snake doctors. Or that’s what Papa Hart said she needed. But they didn’t get along, so who knows. He did give me an odd look when I asked. Dell wasn't so innocent either. Her eyes ticked nervous-like, her lips grew tight and matted while she sucked on the white pendulum. Dell turned the volume down on the tiny TV. She blew out a steady stream of smoke. I tried to decipher the smoke signals as if they would tell me what she wouldn’t. One thing I’ve learned in ten years of life is that the eyes of an adult speak clearly what their lips refuse to tell. And just like God behind the curtain—I had enough.
“What’s wrong—?” I spat. I feared the worst of the worst. I was positive they were hiding something. I started rambling. “Is she sick? In the hospital? Did her spleen burst—liver choke out—tuber—leca—colitis—rheumatism curl?”
They looked at each other, then back at me. It was the same hypochondriac stare they give Maw Sue. I wanted to scream it wasn’t Maw Sue’s fault. I wanted to tell them about the terrible, awful, splendid gifts, about the seekers, the Cupitor’s and the darkness of the house, the lesser light. Apparently, they had no idea what horrible things the shadows could do to a person’s mind.
No. Willodean. Don’t tell. It’s a secret. I hesitated not sure what to do. No one believed. Just me and Maw Sue, and half the time, Mag, but only if it involved money or jewels. We were alone. I was alone. Everyone thought it was simply a cock-a-Mamie story in my crazy, hypochondriac grandmother’s head. A story she fabricated after drinking a poppy seed concoction, passed down from her grandmother, who bought it from a carpet bagger or snake oil salesman while they crossed the mighty Mississippi. It was an ancient recipe of the God’s, or gypsies, or Trojans. Who knows, I can’t remember exactly but it was mighty important, nonetheless. I wrestled within the two worlds inside my vision, inside the house, inside me. No one believes. No one believes. I tried to speak and my voice turned pitchy as if parts of an orchestra were held up in my throat. On the second attempt I flung out the flute player.
“Well…” It made a whistling peep. I cleared my throat. “Well….” I said again clearly and irritated at the same time. I waited for someone in the room to talk, to tell me of the disgusting decrepit illness that overcome Maw Sue, making my worst dreams, a reality. A thousand snakes slithered in and out of the house inside me, hissing and crawling on my skin, making me woozy.
“Willodean…” Dell said. She paused a long time, then snubbed her cigarette out in the Marilyn Monroe ashtray. My stomach knotted up. I braced myself. It must be bad, typhoid, malaria, pneumonia-thorax or some dreadful pox. My head reeled with diseases no-one ever heard of. I imagined Maw Sue in a bed covered in spots and oozing with pus. The images pricked and prodded.
“Maw Sue won’t be back.” Dell said.
I gasped in horror—the air sucked down my esophagus and expanded my stomach into a balloon. Coffins creaked in my ears and my eyes saw black coffins.
“Not like that. I mean, it will be weeks, before she’s back.” Dell's said finally clarifying. Her voice plunged off a tall cliff. I watched it splat to a plunking death while the blood splatter spelled out my fears. YOU ARE NEXT. I felt instantly sick. Sick enough to hurl the shadows swirling inside me all over the laminate countertop—putrid, black and dreadful.
“Ty-ph-oid.” I said in slow remorse. “That’s it—isn’t it?”
“Typhoid?” Dell looked at me oddly and then at Papa Hart. “Where did that come from? No. Land’s end. No. She—she doesn’t have typhoid. I honestly don’t know where you come up with this stuff Willodean.” Her brows furrowed and she glanced at Papa Hart again. Silence filled the room. Her eyebrows rose and she cut a few glances back and forth. This was the beginning of the eye squints, head nods, hand shoos, elbow flicks and other oddities that grown-ups share when their concealing information.
“Maw Sue is just sick, she’s mixed up a little, confused, that’s all. Had to get some rest before she comes back.”
The hell you say. I wanted to scream as I watched her mannerisms. Her lips winced, her ey
es glanced across the room, flitting deception here and there. The silver lighter in her hand erupted into a flame. It laughed at me while the lit her puffing stick. The end embers burn red, sizzling and laughing while dark shadows emerge in the smoke.
“She has mental problems.” Dell said flatly. The room shifted with her words or maybe it was my eyesight. “Do you know what that means Willodean?” She looked at me auspiciously, the same way she looks at Maw Sue right before they tote her off, unwillingly, kicking and screaming. It terrified me. How could someone do this to a loved one? I saw them cart her off, more than once, which was enough to instill the fear of God in me, more so, the fear of adults and the powers that be. Dell squinted her eyes and head nodded Papa Hart as if to coax words out of him. Nod. Nod. He turned, ignored us both and rummaged through the pantry. He pulled out a bag of fig cookies and began eating them, nonchalantly.
“Willodean. Do you understand what I said?” Dell said. Her words linger heavy in the space that separates us, where I’m stuck, mortified, tortured. Of course, I understand. The family curse, the subject no one talks about. That’s what I understand. It’s all anyone says. “It doesn’t exist Gavin Clark.” Drip, drip, drip, says Lena Hart. I hear them talking through the thin walls of our house. I know what they say about me. About Maw Sue. About the curse. “She has a vivid imagination—invisible friend, you know stuff like all kids do.” Lena said. “It’s nothing to worry about. She’ll grow out of it. She’ll be fine.”
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 17
