Residue

by Laury Falter

  “Oh…” He smiled to himself, harboring a joke he clearly wasn’t going to share with me. “I’m fairly certain of it.”

  I was just about to pester him to be included on his inside joke when suddenly, and with deep intrigue, he launched into a series of questions, all focusing on me. From that point forward, until we reached Mr. Thibodeaux’s door, I felt as if I were rattling off answers to questions so rapidly I couldn’t recall the one I’d answered directly before. What I did recall, or rather what struck me, about his list of questions was that he didn’t ask a single one about my family. Nothing about siblings or who I lived with in New Orleans; nothing about my mother or father. He did listen intently, though, seeming to memorize every answer and showing little emotion to any of them.

  I’d never been self-conscious before. It simply wasn’t in my nature. At an academy assembly, I’d demonstrated my self-defense skills in front of two hundred girls and the entire faculty without breaking a sweat. I’d delivered a thank you address during Parent’s Weekend to several hundred attendees and didn’t stutter or stumble once. When my skirt unraveled in front of the boys at their academy during a school-sanctioned dance, I simply slid it back over my hips, zipped up, and continued moving to the music.

  Yet, I felt self-conscious now. This passed quickly enough though when he came to a stop.

  “We’re here,” he announced because again there was no way to tell there was a store within.

  “Do any of these places have a sign?” I asked; searching for one in case I’d missed it.

  “No, you’ll never see one,” he replied flatly. “We keep our world fairly well hidden.”

  Our world, I mused. I still had little understanding of the world he was referring to and wasn’t entirely certain I wanted to be a part of it. It still seemed like a dream-state, a childhood nursery story, something unreal and untouchable. Yet, by birthright alone, I was clearly invited in.

  He pulled at a set of wide, wooden doors, opening them to reveal the entrance to what was once a carriageway. The secluded cobblestone entrance was encircled on three sides with faded peach stucco walls, windows opened to the fresh afternoon air, and vines clinging to the clay roof.

  “The Thibodeaux family runs one of the oldest shops in the city…at least for the items we’re looking for,” explained Jameson as we approached a small, inconspicuous door. “They are well respected and have an enormous amount of influence - in our world.”

  There were those words again. They hung in the air between us, mystical to me, common to him.

  Jameson knocked lightly on the door and then stepped back several steps, which seemed odd to me until a few moments later.

  The door slowly crept open, outward and directly over where Jameson had been standing. Now I understood why he’d given it clearance. What wasn’t obvious to me was how the door could open without anyone touching it.

  No one had answered Jameson’s knock, at least not in person.

  I approached the entrance as Jameson entered, a little suspicious of what I’d find inside.

  From the light of flickering candles, an elderly man sat at a weathered table, his legs extending out and crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped across his round belly. While there were no visible signs of an air conditioning unit or even a fan, the air inside was cool and dry. The humidity seemed to halt at the doorway.

  Jameson was already speaking with the man in a hushed voice when I reached the table.

  “…and Mr. Thibodeaux, I would like to introduce Jocelyn Weatherford,” Jameson stated solidly while ushering me closer.

  In hearing my name, the man’s eyes lit up and then moved, questioningly, between Jameson and myself several times before he even uttered a sound.

  Finally, he stood and extended a hand to me. “Ms. Weatherford…” he said with an accent that could only come from living in the south for most of one’s life.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thibodeaux,” I replied, shaking his hand, noting its softness despite the man’s age.

  “As it is for me,” he replied with a curious smile hovering beneath the surface as he again glanced in Jameson’s direction. “Now, you’ve come for school supplies?”

  “We have,” said Jameson.

  “Excellent, I’ll get them for you.”

  As Mr. Thibodeaux opened the only item on his desk, an aged ledger, and perused the pages, Jameson explained how the Thibodeaux’s worked.

  “They sell only the best, and rarest, tools - some dating back to the fourth century. Because they are housed in select and highly-secure warehouses, whatever is ordered needs to be bought well ahead of time. Basically if you need something powerful, special, or unique, you come here and then you wait for it to arrive.”

  “I see,” I replied, though I didn’t. Not entirely. “So, if these items need to be pre-ordered, how did mine arrive so quickly?”

  Jameson, caught unexpectedly by the question, gave me a puzzled stare, which quickly fell to Mr. Thibodeaux.

  Without lifting his head from the ledger, he replied, “Your purchase, Jocelyn Weatherford, was made on the day of your birth…exactly sixteen years ago.”

  Jameson blinked in surprise. “Today is your birthday?”

  “Yes,” I said hastily before readdressing Mr. Thibodeaux. “But, why was mine ordered so long ago?”

  “Most likely to secure the purchase,” he muttered, flipping a page. “It’s one-of-a-kind.”

  Mr. Thibodeaux had apparently found what he was looking for because he thumped his finger against the page and stood up to shuffle to a small door a few feet away. Briefly disappearing inside, he returned with a square object wrapped in brown paper and twine and set it in front of Jameson.

  Without delay, he then pulled open a drawer in the table between us to withdraw a metal box and slid it across the table, keeping his hand on the lid.

  Jameson, who’d been distracted from his own purchase, a book of casts, stepped closer to mine, settling on the more extravagant of the two items Mr. Thibodeaux had brought out.

  “Jocelyn, this item has been sought after since it went missing back in the fourth century,” said Mr. Thibodeaux. “It is incredibly valuable. The Sevens recently resorted to confiscating my inventory in search of it. Half of my goods are now gone.”

  Clearly, this was not another book of casts. “I understand.”

  He hesitated. “You will take extra special care with this purchase,” he added for good measure.

  “I will.”

  Only after my reassurance did he release his hand.

  I drew the box toward me, glancing up at him. He was fearful, which made no sense to me until I asked a seemingly benign question. “So, who are The Sevens?”

  It was their reaction, a tense meeting of wary eyes, which told me I should pay attention to Jameson’s answer. “They’re the equivalent to our world’s judicial and legislative branches combined. Their name comes from the fact that there are seven of them who preside over our welfare.” He scoffed, then, before mocking, “Welfare. Right…”

  I took it that he didn’t agree with that assessment, which only made me more curious as to what the box held. My hand reached out to lift the lid, curious about what I might find, but Mr. Thibodeaux wouldn’t allow it.

  “You will keep this lid closed until you are safely home,” he instructed.

  Jameson’s eyebrows lifted with interest and I knew he was thinking the same thing as me.

  “Well, can you at least tell me what is inside?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not a bomb, is it?”

  I intended that last part to be a joke but Mr. Thibodeaux didn’t share my humor. “It is not. But it is just as dangerous.”

  I laughed uncomfortably. “Wonderful.”

  Mr. Thibodeaux ignored my comment, turning instead to wrap our purchases.

  As the box was extended to me, Mr. Thibodeaux gave me a final warning…as if I needed one at this point. “This is not a school supply. It is a gift. Don’t let anyone know you hav
e it until you are ready to use it.”

  I placed my hands on the box but Mr. Thibodeaux refused to let go.

  “I am allowing you to walk out of my store with this box because your mother insisted you’d be safe. I believe her and that is the only reason.”

  Still unnerved, I nodded sincerely and slipped the box, now wrapped and unidentifiable in silk fabric, into my canvas shopping bag.

  We said our goodbyes and left with Jameson still shaking his head at the item tucked away even as we crossed the carriageway toward the street. Yet by the time we reached the wooden gate Jameson’s reaction had turned to concern.

  “Do you really think you’ll be safe getting home with that…” he paused realizing he didn’t know how to refer to whatever was now in my possession “…thing?”

  “Yes,” I replied decisively.

  His eyebrows lifted, still not entirely convinced. “I don’t know, Jocelyn.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I replied.

  While he didn’t agree, he did shove open the gate and step out onto the street.

  And then he froze.

  I nearly collided with him but managed to stop myself.

  His worries about the dangers of me carrying my secret merchandise seemed to now be erased as he stared down the street. In fact, based on his stance, the resolute set of his jaw, and the sternness in his eyes, a far greater fear was approaching.

  Searching for it, I noted three boys around our age just a few blocks away.

  Sighing in agitation, he spun around to face me. “They’ve seen us. I have to go, Jocelyn. I’m…” His eyes took on an intensity that both stunned and intrigued me. “I’ll make sure you get home safely.”

  “Sure…” I replied, dazed by his sudden need to leave.

  He’d been so relaxed the entire time I’d been with him. Not even the chaos in the first store where we’d crossed paths had caused this type of concern in him.

  I glanced passed his shoulder at the boys, who were now a short block away. They had the same sandy blonde hair as Jameson and were smiling in our direction as they drew nearer.

  They didn’t appear to be of any real concern. Still, he gave them a fleeting glance before snapping his head back in my direction. “I’ll see you at school, Jocelyn.”

  What struck me was that his goodbye wasn’t jovial or even as carefree as I would have expected between two schoolmates, new or otherwise. No, instead there was an underlying sadness to it. And I got the distinct impression that something between us was about to change.

  Then Jameson spun around and hurried to cross between me and the approaching boys.

  I watched as he met them, talked briefly in a small huddle, and then motioned toward another side street in the opposite direction.

  He’s drawing them away from me, I thought. Maybe he isn’t ready to introduce us?

  I shook my head at him and felt my stomach shake with a small laugh. He was odd - my first friend in New Orleans. Handsome, charming, and odd.

  I strolled slowly down the street, no longer seeing him or his friends anywhere in sight.

  I was smiling then, happy to have met him and having absolutely no premonition whatsoever that I’d just spent the day with my family’s most dangerous enemy.

  4 BIRTHDAY

  It was late afternoon by the time I returned to Aunt Lizzy’s house and, despite the haze stretching just over the buildings, an oppressive heat began to swelter across the city. I wasn’t sure if this was unusual for early September in New Orleans or not but hoped it was just a one-day heat wave. After closing the front door behind me, I could have kissed the air conditioning unit.

  The house was just as quiet as when I’d left, but as I passed the dining room and found five canvas bags identical to the one I carried from my shopping excursion, I was reminded that it wouldn’t be that way for long.

  The bags were lined up in a row along the table, waiting for their owners to retrieve them and as I stood there I couldn’t help feeling dumbfounded.

  They weren’t there when I’d left, which meant sometime over the course of the day Miss Mabelle had set them out.

  She ordered my niece’s and nephew’s school supplies but not my own? Giving her the benefit of doubt, I settled on believing she just hadn’t had enough time. After all, I had just found out myself as of yesterday that I’d be relocating here.

  Carrying my bag upstairs to my room, I closed the door against the silence that weighed down the rest of the house, rubbed another round of Nurse Carol’s ointment on my diminishing scar, and then opened my mother’s gift.

  Withdrawing the silver case, I lifted the lid and found something completely unexpected.

  Inside the box, was a simple rope, although I was learning that nothing was truly simple in this new world…It was not manufactured at a factory, I was certain of that much, because it didn’t appear to be made of twine but instead consisted of hundreds of strands of hair. Blond. Auburn. Black. Dark brown. It was held together by seven strips of brown leather evenly placed down the length of it.

  “All right…” I muttered without a clear indication as to why this rope was in any way significant or why anyone would bother to look for a bundle of hair over the course of centuries.

  Regardless, I figured that if someone was looking for it than it must be important in some small way to them. And therefore I should find it a hiding place.

  The room was small so I didn’t spend much time determining that there wasn’t a single spot I’d feel comfortable leaving it. Standing in the middle of the room, hands on my hips, I considered my options.

  Then, as if in answer to my search, a small, square sliver of wood dropped from the back corner of the room, just above the floorboard. Stooping beside it, I fitted it back in position and found that whoever had cut it did so in the direction of the wood grain so that when in position it was undetectable. It would be a perfect hiding place. Opening the flap, I found it was empty, notwithstanding the cobwebs that covered it, so clearly it wasn’t in use.

  Just as I placed the silver box containing The Seven’s rope inside and closed the secret compartment, an uproar started downstairs.

  Listening from my crouched position, I thought it might be a brawl breaking out but there was laughter and contented squeals in the midst of the commotion.

  My cousins were home - and they weren’t the quiet-mannered type.

  I stood and slipped out my door to the top of the stairs, still listening.

  “Purple! Exactly the kind I wanted!” said the voice of a melodic, but authoritative girl.

  “Ohhh, this is going to be fun…” came another voice. This one was distinctly male with a deep, rumbling resonance.

  I was at the bottom of the stairs by that point and standing only a few feet away. No one noticed me, their focus being entirely on the school supplies that were now littering the dining room table. Then Aunt Lizzy, who was still fighting grogginess, broke the commotion.

  “This…” she said, standing off to the side with a weak smile, “is your cousin Jocelyn.”

  All of them spun around to face me, frozen, stunned, and, most of all, silent.

  Then the roar began again, louder this time, just as they launched themselves at me. I was suddenly surrounded, being patted on the shoulders and hugged by arms that came from the crowd, each one talking over one another gleefully.

  “Let her breathe!” came Aunt Lizzy’s voice. “LET HER BREATHE!” she repeated over my cousins’ screams. “I told you they’d be thrilled,” she shouted to me.

  Nodding back, I was almost carried into the room and dropped beside the dining room table. I am certain the introduction would have gone on longer if it weren’t for the loud clap that came from the direction of the kitchen.

  My cousins and I quieted down instantly and turned to find Miss Mabelle standing in the open doorway.

  “Turtle soup’s ready,” she declared, never breaking her glare.

  “Turtle?” I asked under my breath.


  “You’ll love it,” said Aunt Lizzy. “All right. We have a special dinner prepared tonight. It is Jocelyn’s sixteenth birthday so let’s make it memorable.”

  That started another exuberant commotion from my cousins surrounding me until Aunt Lizzy cleared her throat. “Clear off that table and take your seats.”

  A few minutes later, as I stood awkwardly off to the side, my cousins raced their heavy-laden, supply-filled canvas bags up to their rooms and returned. Then commands were issued by Aunt Lizzy as the commotion continued to swirl around me.

  “Placemats. Silverware.” She pointed around the room. “Distribute,” she said to a short, thin girl with strawberry-blond hair while shoving a stack of plates in her hands.

  The girl didn’t lift a foot to follow the order.

  Instead, she remained in place, whispered something under her breath, and the plates began rising one after the other on their own and moving across the room and landing on a placemat before each chair.

  I stood across the room certain I was witnessing an optical illusion or maybe the imperceptible snap of her hand so that the plates landed where she wanted. It occurred in the midst of two boys elbowing each other and another girl shouting for Miss Mabelle to make her soup spicy. No one took a second look at the plates.

  As everyone was pulling out their chairs and Miss Mabelle began bringing in the soup bowls, something else caught my attention.

  “Oh…” Aunt Lizzy grumbled, realizing she’d forgotten something. “Candles, Estelle.”

  The girl who had liked the purple candles she’d received in her bag of school supplies earlier, tossed back her dark brown hair, mumbled something that sounded like Latin and pursed her thick lips together before lightly blowing through them. As if it were an everyday occurrence, the rest of the table went about their business while the wicks began to flicker with flame, without a matchstick or a lighter in the room.

  As if that wasn’t enough to make everyone I know run for the door, with a quick lift of Aunt Lizzy’s finger jazz music began filtering softly in from the living room.

  Stunned into silence, I tried to rationalize what was happening. Maybe tricks were being played? Wires had carried the dishes and the candles had special timers. And these things had all been set up before they’d left for camp just to fool with me. But I knew this wasn’t the case. How could it be? No one knew I’d be coming.