“Vee!” His voice cracked as he called her name. “Gideon!” No response. He jumped from his bed on the couch and banged his shin on the coffee table, welcoming the shooting pain as confirmation that he was, in fact, still here. He leapt up the stairs, two at a time. “Vee! Gideon!”
They were gone.
Charlie ran back down the stairs – sliding more than stepping – and dove for his phone. His hands shook, his mind constructing the worst possible scenario. He would never see them again. He scrolled through his recent calls and dialed her number. “Pick up, pick up, please pick up.”
“Hello –”
“Vee!”
“You’ve reached me! I am terribly sorry I am unable to speak with you at the moment. Please leave your contact information at the tone. Have a lovely day!”
“Vee, it’s me. I…” Why would she listen? “I… Um… I need… I… I need you.” He couldn’t let them go. He searched his contacts again.
Charlie paced the floor as he waited for Stephen Blackwell to answer the call. Stephen had been at their party; he would know what happened after Charlie left. “Come on Stephen, come on.”
“Hello.”
“Stephen! It’s Charlie… My family… They’re gone. I don’t know where they are. I need your help. Have you seen them?”
“Charlie, it’s okay; they’re at the market. I think you should get here as fast as you can.”
Charlie located his shoes from the night before – neatly paired at the end of the sofa but badly scraped, and one of the soles had pulled from the leather. He grabbed his coat and let the door to their Toft house slam behind him. In the distance, through the morning fog, he could see the Coraloo Flea Market at the top of the hill, like a beacon. He paused a moment, took a deep breath, and ran.
CHAPTER 27
1929
Following Mungo Blackwell’s epic battle with the pygmies and before the birth of their first son, on a visit of the shoe-cobbling nature to Dokabar, the sheikh had invited Mungo and Sarra to view his collection of exotic birds. One bird in particular caught the eye of Sarra – the Doka bird of Dokabar. The bird’s eyes glowed emerald green, and its feathers changed from deep garnet to blackish purple when it became too warm.
While it was its beauty that caught her eye, it was its song that captured her heart. It is said the Doka bird will only sing for love, and this particular bird had yet to sing, as the sheikh of Dokabar was only twelve and still of the mindset that love and kissing and all that stuff was quite disgusting. But when Mungo and Sarra stepped in front of the bird, it opened its beak and sang, Coralooooo, coralooo. Each time it sang, the roll of the r became stronger, and it held its gentle tune longer.
From that moment on the word became a term of endearment between the two – a gentle whisper in the other’s ear – coraloo; a playful luring – coraloo. When the Blackwell children were small, they would play and sing songs about their parents’ funny word. “I Love You, Coraloo” was sung every year at Christmastime. When it became evident the family had grown so large they had formed their own little town on the hill, with the Tofts spreading out in the valley below, and settlers passing through finding it a lovely place to dwell – it was time to give the town a name. And so, it was agreed, a place full of the love of the Blackwells should carry the song of the Doka bird – Coraloo.
Word of the upcoming event had spread far beyond the growing hillside town of Coraloo weeks before the day of Mungo Blackwell’s funeral. Mungo had invited the whole town – most of which were his children and his grandchildren, and even a few great grandchildren. Among the guests were the barber who kept Mungo supplied in his favorite brand of beard wax – The Queen’s Nomad – the priest he had asked to give the eulogy, the innkeeper and his wife, and the doctor.
The morning of his funeral, Mungo Blackwell woke early. A hint of damp hung in the air from the night’s rain. He had hoped for a sunny day, but it was no matter – rain or shine, he would get the answer he needed. In the barn he had built forty years before, a black coffin made from the same walnut from which he had made their bed hung from the ceiling. At one time it had sat on a rafter, but as the children recognized it as a desirable place for hide-and-go-seek, Mungo had moved it to an even less accessible location.
He slowly lowered the coffin, wondering who would have lowered it had he passed before his funeral. He slid off the lid and ran his hand through the yellow wheat berries that filled it. He would send his boys, but not his oldest, for it later. His eldest, Menzies, refused to partake of the event. As the most superstitious of the now thirteen children, he feared God would strike them all down dead for partaking in the funeral of a man who had not yet died. Menzies instead opted to stand guard over the Blackwell estate with the dog.
Mungo stood outside the door of his home and greeted each of his guests. A crowd was forming in the distance – onlookers, he assumed, curious Tofts who wanted to witness the gates of heaven opening up to smite the Blackwells. Mungo would not have it. In the brown leather boots he had cobbled for the day, he marched to the horde of valley dwellers and with a raised fist shouted, “Cowards are the men that won’t try what has never been done!” And then he turned to leave.
“You invited all of Coraloo, Blackwell!” A familiar voice emerged from the gathering. As the years had passed the town on the hill and one in the valley had experienced such growth no one was quite sure where the Blackwells began and the Tofts ended.
“Never a Toft stepped foot in the home of a Blackwell.”
“And never a Blackwell in the home of a Toft,” the old Toft snarled.
“You may listen from outside.”
Mungo then entered his funeral, set up in the entertaining quarters of his home, sat on the front row with Sarra, who was fully supportive of his endeavor, and waited for his coffin to arrive. There was a contagion of Toft gasps outside, as two of his sons along with a grandson and a son-in-law arrived carrying the coffin to the front of the room, where they sat it down on a table Mungo had made especially for the occasion.
The boys sat and Mungo stood. He carefully slid the lid off of the coffin and proceeded to distribute a handful of the exotic Moroccan wheat berries to each of his guests. He said five words: “In memory of the day.” He thanked everyone for coming and introduced the Baptist preacher, Reverend Ronald M. Smith, whom he and Sarra had met while attending the Barnum and Bailey Greatest Show on Earth. The ringmaster had had a bout with bunions. Hearing from two clown brothers about Mungo’s work, the ringmaster sent for the infamous cobbler. Not only had the ringmaster compensated Mungo heavily for his craftsmanship, but he had given Mungo and Sarra ringside seats. It was there Mungo met the preacher and for the first time heard stories of a man who walked on water. Curious about the likes of such a man, Mungo promised the preacher to one day bring him to Coraloo.
Reverend Ronald, a stout man who paced the floor wiping the sweat from his forehead, preached a loud message unlike any the people of Coraloo had ever heard before. Menzies was right, mostly. While God did not strike down the guests of Mungo Blackwell’s funeral, Reverend Ronald spewed fire and brimstone across the gatherers in such a way the Tofts swore they felt the heat outside. The women were wide-eyed and the men somber. The innkeeper and his wife tried to sneak out the back, afraid the fiery reverend had gotten wind of their side business and would ask them to openly repent in front of their customers and their spouses.
At one point the reverend walked out on the porch and admonished the Tofts, who had set up small booths of their wares hoping to make a profit off the grand event. They fell on their faces in pools of tears, swearing they would change their ways and give the money back.
Two hours later, when the reverend asked if anyone wanted to be baptized, everyone in the room, including the priest, stood up. In a single-file line, with Mungo in the lead, all of the funeral goers, followed by the Tofts, marched down to the river. One by one, Reverend Ronald submerged them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Spirit. Born again, the funeral party returned to the house, where Father Ferguson proceeded with the eulogy.
“Cursed at birth,” the priest said. The people nodded; they knew this part.
I’m still cursed, Mungo thought. A man can’t go to his grave cursed. As Mungo heard the great feats of his travels, his soul ached with yearning to carry on to yet-untrodden lands. But he couldn’t; this was home. He had fought the urge for forty years, set up shop in his home, and tended to the feet of travelers from all over the world. He listened to their stories, anxious and eager, wondering if there was more. The curse. Father Ferguson continued, his voice like aloe to the burn of Reverend Ronald. He spoke of Mungo in terms of his family and his fatherhood. The reverend mentioned the names of places and people all too familiar to the family. They were the tales of Mungo Blackwell – their patriarch and their leader.
Here Mungo sat, partially hearing the words he had written himself, but one word echoed in his ear – cursed. The funeral had done what he had intended for it do. He had brought his loved ones together, entertained them, and saved their souls – even though Reverend Ronald was a bit much for his taste, he had gotten a good laugh out of the drama, and found some truths in the preacher’s teachings he had never heard before. And, as he had hoped, now the family wouldn’t have to fuss over a funeral once he was gone. But it turned out he had also discovered that what his family would remember about him was not the man he wanted to be; he discovered the one thing he had yet to do in life.
Father Ferguson proceeded to read the names of Mungo’s family, which traditionally would have been done graveside. But as Mungo said it would be a waste to bury an empty coffin only to unearth it once the ceremony was finished, he asked the priest to read them at the end. The priest’s words passed over Mungo. He stood up solemnly. There was one more thing he had to do before he died. He had to find his peace – he had to break the curse.
CHAPTER 28
Once again, Charlie Price stood outside the arched doorway of the Coraloo Flea Market, struggling to process Shug’s words of the previous night: the vendors weren’t coming back – Shug had said he had “plans” – so there would be no reason for him to come back either. So why was he here, if only to be humiliated and shamed for his failures? Was it all a sick joke? Were his wife and son really waiting for him inside? And what could he possibly say to them to make up for everything he had done? His sorry would never be enough; he had nothing to offer them. Why would they ever forgive him?
He stepped through the door. Constable Roy Blackwell waited for him inside dressed in formal uniform – including a high hat adorned with a silver badge. As if on cue, the rows of Blackwells seated under the chandeliers turned to face him.
“Let’s get you fixed up.” Roy straightened Charlie’s tie with his white gloved hands, smoothed down Charlie’s stray hairs, and dusted off the shoulders of the black suit coat Charlie had slept in.
“What is this? Where’s my Velveteen?” Charlie scanned the sea of sober-faced Blackwells looking for his wife.
“You’re lucky you didn’t die out there; but maybe that’s what you had in mind.”
For a moment he thought maybe he had, but then an absurd idea popped into his head: If I had, Granny would surely have something to say about it.
“There’s not much we can do about those.”
Charlie followed Roy’s eyes to his badly scraped shoes.
“We can get you a new pair when it’s over.”
Realization dawned as Charlie looked at the man before him. “You brought me home,” he choked. “I’m not sure that was a good idea.”
“We’ll see. I tried to warn you.” Roy dusted off his shoulders once again. “There. You’ll be fine.”
“Be fine for what?”
“Go on, Mr Price.”
Charlie walked cautiously toward the group. The Blackwells stood – clothed in black from their hats to their shoes.
“One more thing, Mr Price…” Charlie turned back to face the constable, “when you take off the lid, be sure to pass out the wheat berries.”
“Wheat berries?”
The constable nudged Charlie Price forward, but stayed close behind him as if Charlie would turn and run the other way.
Charlie walked down the center aisle, flanked on either side by rows of Blackwells. He knew them all by name, but in their suits and gowns he had to study their faces to place them in their shops. There was still no sign of Velveteen or Gideon – Stephen had said they would be here. He looked back at the constable, who stood back now and waved Charlie on.
The Blackwells graced him with gentle smiles and nods. He made his way to the front. Then he saw her, standing by herself on the left.
“Velveteen!” He ran to her and hugged her. “I’m so –”
She held her finger to her lips. “Have a seat, Charlie.”
Charlie sat, followed by the Blackwells.
From the front of the market, from the general area of Granny’s, he could see his son walking toward him slowly, balancing something huge on his shoulder. On the other side was Stephen. He could see Danger and the oldest of Stephen’s sons. Between them they were carrying a large black coffin – his coffin. Charlie Price was attending his own funeral.
Velveteen placed her hand upon his knee. He rested his shaking hand on hers. She reached for something from the pocket of the black satin dress she had worn to the vigil of Granny Blackwell. Sunglasses. She discreetly placed them over her eyes.
The pallbearers placed the freshly painted coffin on a long table at the front. Gideon sat down beside his father. Stephen and Danger sat behind him. Danger leaned forward. “You need to give out the seeds and say, Never a Toft –”
“Sit back Danger.” Stephen leaned forward. “The seeds are inside. You don’t have to –”
“No, it’s okay.” Charlie wasn’t sure why this was happening or how the event had been orchestrated, but he would go along with it – if only for Velveteen’s and Gideon’s sake.
Charlie stood up and timidly raised the lid of the coffin – fearful he might discover the remains of Granny Blackwell or some other deceased Blackwell. Inside he found a small box filled with tiny oval seeds – wheat berries. What was it Roy had said? He scanned the crowd for Roy, and spotted him sitting next to his date from the Christmas party. Charlie was shocked they had allowed her – a Toft – to cross into Blackwell territory. What would Shug say? Charlie shuddered at the thought: Was Shug here? But he somehow knew he wasn’t; he felt a strange sense of peace start to wash over him.
Be sure to pass out the wheat berries. Roy’s words came to mind.
Charlie grabbed a handful of the seeds and pulled them close to his body so as not to drop the grains on the floor. He proceeded to give Velveteen one berry, and then one to Gideon.
“Give them some more –” Danger tried to whisper the instructions, but Clover had covered his mouth.
Remembering Danger was an expert on the family, Charlie proceeded to move between the aisles distributing small handfuls of the berries. As soon as Charlie sat back down, in unison, the Blackwells said, “In memory of the day.”
“In memory of the day,” Charlie tried to repeat. His throat was tight, his eyes heavy, and his voice cracked when he attempted to speak.
A man Charlie had seen once or twice in town, but never in the market, stepped in front of the coffin. “Blackwells, Prices, and friends, welcome to the funeral of Charlie Price.”
“That’s Pastor Danger Donaldson!” Danger whispered to Gideon excitedly.
Gideon turned around. “He’s the traveling preacher who delivered you!”
“Right about where you’re sitting. Took me right out of mom’s womb. Fife said the tip boot was overflowing with money that day! Pastor Donaldson doesn’t stay around here most of the time; he usually shows up around Christmas. And he doesn’t do the funerals, but you’re in luck he was here, Mr Price, or we would have had to pretend someone else was the preacher. Fife makes a good p
reacher.”
Stephen passed a stern glance to his son. “That’s enough, Danger. You don’t have to narrate.”
Charlie barely heard Danger’s words, his attention focused solely on the woman next to him and their son. What now? If this was his funeral, then was this the end – the end of life as he knew it, the end of his marriage, his family?
Danger leaned forward again. “This is the part where we would all get baptized, but Mom says we only need to be baptized once if we mean it. When Finella was baptized, the river was frozen too, so we did it in the bathtub. Pastor Donaldson says the Lord doesn’t care. I asked Father Milligan, just to be sure. But my dad says we’re not doing it today. Must be ’cause you’re too big for the bathtub.”
With what Charlie could comprehend between his own scattered thoughts and Danger’s interjections, the pastor spoke on love and forgiveness. The pastor said, “Amen.” Charlie didn’t even know they had been praying.
Stephen approached the coffin as the pastor sat down. “Thank you, Pastor Donaldson. Usually Father Milligan would give the eulogy.” Stephen nodded to the man seated on the other side of the aisle in liturgical garments. “However, your wife has asked if she could do it. Would that be okay with you, Charlie?”
Before he could even think to respond, Velveteen was on her feet. He was at a loss for words. She unfolded a sheet of the monogrammed stationery he had given her two years ago as part of her Christmas present, along with a box of gold sealing wax and a sealer embossed with a scrolling letter “P”. She used the paper sparingly following The Rooning – withholding it for special correspondence.
“I met Charles Edward Price when I was a sophomore in design school.” Her voice broke. She wiped an escaping tear away from the bottom rim of her sunglasses. “He liked the model of my nursery. Um…” She cleared her throat and started again. “I met Charles Edward Price when I was a sophomore…” She glanced down at her paper and then over to her husband. She shook her head. “I can’t do this…”
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 23
