by Kim Liggett
His initials written in the margin of our family tree … the numbers, 11:26, weren’t from the Bible, it was the time of his birth. If he was born first, does that make him the sixth?
“How long did my dad know about you?” I ask as I stagger back, trying to keep my footing.
“He knew from day one, but Ma didn’t tell me ’til she was on her deathbed last year. I went to him, told him I just wanted to spend time with him, get to know him, but he was too good for the likes of me. Just threw some money at me, and so I took it, and I kept taking it. And when I threatened to go public, he started confiding in me. Telling me things about this town and the Devil. He took a real shine to me. I thought we were finally getting somewhere, forgin’ a real relationship, and then he came over that night, telling me how he’s sinned, and how it was time to make things right. He gave me a present. Said it was a family heirloom, something a long time coming, generations in the making. Told me I was the chosen one. Special.”
“What did he give you? The present … what was it?” I manage to ask, but I can hardly breathe. My chest feels tighter than an oil drum.
“Our dear ole dad told me to open it at nine o’clock sharp. Wrapped it himself. I was so excited, thinking he’d finally accepted me. I even started packing up, thinking I’d be moving into your house soon, be a real Tate, and then BOOM!” he screams. “Boom. Boom. Boom,” he runs around screaming, as he pounds his fist against the trailer and the side of his head.
“That can’t be…” I brace my hands against my knees, huffing down air. “He wouldn’t do that. He was a good man.”
Lee moves toward me, but he’s all blurry. “How can you say that when he tried to kill you, too?”
“How do you know about that? How could you possibly know about that?” My eyes are stinging with tears as I sink to the ground.
“It’s too late,” Lee says, crouching in front of me. “We’re just like Cain and Abel, you and me. Why can’t you see that? What else do I have to do to make you see the light? One of us has to die for the other to truly live.”
I can’t stop thinking about Miss Granger … how she had Lee’s picture tacked under the Tate column, and how she said, “Unless it’s not you.”
I look up at him, using all my strength to focus in on his face, and I see it now—the pale blue color of his eyes, the broad forehead, the faint cleft in his chin. Like Dad. Like me.
“Do you have it?” I grab his shoulders. “Do you have the mark?” I shake him, but he won’t answer. And all I see is red. Everything’s spinning around me, the clouds are moving way too fast. There’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears, like someone just dropped a yellow jacket nest in my skull. I can’t hear … I can’t feel … I can’t think … the only thing I know is that I need to see the mark. The upside-down U with two dots, above and below. I have to see it.
The next thing I know, he’s lying on the scorched earth, his ripped clothes strewn around him, his mangled flesh exposed to the elements. I look down at my trembling hands in disgust … and then at his body. There’s no mark, but it looks like God chewed him up and spit him back out.
I take off my jacket and cover him up.
“I’m sorry what happened to you. I’m sorry what my dad did. But I am not my father. And neither are you.”
“Don’t leave,” he says as I escape into the trees. “Things were just getting good. I’ll be waiting for you, brother,” he yells, and I pick up my pace. “We have unfinished business, you and me.”
45
I SIT on the edge of the bed of my truck, waiting for Ali to get out of practice, looking up at the sky. I remember when Jess was little, she said she wanted to be an astronaut. I laughed at her, like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. I wish I hadn’t done that. I never see her look up anymore.
As hard as I try, I can’t stop going over everything that happened today on an endless loop. Every family has its secrets, I get that, but this is a doozy. It’s murder. I think about telling Sheriff, nipping all this in the bud, but I figure it’s Lee’s secret to tell. And my family’s been through enough.
I’m starting to think all of this is nothing more than some fucked-up fantasy world Lee and Miss Granger cooked up together. That combined with good old-fashioned sleep deprivation. Ali told me to look into it. And it’s no joke. Lack of sleep can cause psychosis, memory impairment, and hallucinations. Check, check, and check.
The one thing I’m sure of—Lee Wiggins is crazy. I still don’t get what Miss Granger’s angle is in all this, but Lee has a legitimate bone to pick with my family. I won’t deny him that. And if he wants to try and kill me in some delusional Bible scenario, let him try. But if he makes one false move toward Jess, Noodle, Mom, or Ali, I won’t hesitate to finish what my dad started. And if that makes me a monster, too, so be it. I will protect the ones I love until my very last breath.
I spot Ali making her way across the lot. She’s wearing her practice uniform with a zip-up red hoodie, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s like a ray of light in all this. She said she thinks she knows where Miss Granger is getting all of her theories from and if I see it, I might be able to lay this to rest—all the worry, all the uncertainty, all the fear. God, I hope so, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” I say as I stand to greet her.
She snatches the cap off my head and puts it on. “I could say the exact same thing about you.”
“You even make that ratty thing look good,” I say as I close the tailgate.
“Hey, where were you today?” She gives me a lopsided smile. “Everybody was asking about you.”
I let out a deep sigh. “Family business.”
“Sounds like we might call for a drink.” She closes the distance between us.
“Or twelve might be good.” I chuckle.
“That can definitely be arranged.” She tugs on the hem of my shirt. “So, are you ready to uncover our ancestors’ dark history? I’m afraid you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
“You have no idea how much I need that to be true.”
I lean down to kiss her when horns start blaring.
“Tate!” Someone yells as they drive by. “Good luck tomorrow against the Sooners. Give ’em hell!”
I shake my head. “Let’s get out of here.”
“It just so happens I know a place where we can be completely alone.”
As I lead her to the passenger door, she runs her hand over the side of Old Blue. “This truck is so you.”
“What? Worn-out and rusty?” I say as I take her backpack.
“No. Classic. And true.”
As I open the door for her, I feel a flutter of excitement. This is the first time she’s ridden in my truck in a year—at least conscious.
* * *
WE PULL up in front of the Preservation Society and my heart sinks. The main house is all lit up and there’s a bunch of cars parked out front. “I thought you said no one would be here.”
“It’s just us,” she says as she takes off my cap, placing it carefully on the dash. “There’s a big pregame party over at the Neelys’ tonight. Overflow parking.”
She starts to open her door.
“Wait,” I say as I get out and open it for her. She takes my hand and doesn’t let go the whole way up the brick pathway to the front door.
“You have a key, right?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I let out a nervous laugh as I find the brass one.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know if you heard,” I say as I slide the key in the lock, “but I got caught breaking in here last week.”
“Seriously? Clay, you’re such a badass,” she teases.
“No. It was pretty much the opposite of badass. I didn’t realize I had a key the entire time,” I say as I try to get the lock to turn, but it’s being stubborn.
“Did you have to have one of those awkward talks with Mr. Neely?”
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“Oh yeah, and then he sort of blackmailed me into coming to the Harvest Festival.”
“And here I thought you came back for me,” she says as she slips under my arm, placing herself between me and the door.
I lean into her, brushing my lips against her ear. “I did.” And the lock finally gives. “I guess I just needed a nudge in the right direction.”
“Well, I’ll have to thank him for that someday.”
As we step inside the Preservation Society, I notice the door to Mr. Neely’s office is closed.
“Come on,” Ali says with an excited giggle as she leads me down to the basement, to the end of the long hallway. “I can’t wait to show you this.”
She slides her hand against the wood-paneled wall and a doorway pops open. I remember looking at this wall the night I broke in. There was a strange rotting smell, but now it smells sweet—too sweet, like it’s covering something up.
We step inside and she lights some candles. “There’s no electricity in here. They wanted to keep it pure, like it was in the old days.”
“Of course.”
“But it’s kind of nice … romantic,” she says as she peeks at me over her shoulder.
There’s an oversized leather ottoman in the center of the room. Big enough to be a bed. The walls are filled with books and trinkets.
“What is all this stuff?”
“The council archives. This room has been in existence since they built the Preservation Society in 1889. I think maybe they used it as a chapel … a sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary from what?” I look at her sharply.
“Who knows … their parents, maybe?” She gives a cute little shrug. “This is the one place we can be alone. Invisible.” She shuts the door. I watch the seams disappear into the grooves of the paneling and instantly, I feel better. Like we just shut out the world.
“Okay.” I let out a deep breath. “Let’s never leave this room.”
“Fine by me,” she says as she crosses to a heavy wood sideboard, pouring dark amber liquid from a decanter into two cut crystal glasses.
I take a whiff of the stopper and I guess I make a face.
“My dad’s rye.” She smiles up at me. “Not the smoothest, but it gets the job done.”
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“We do it all the time.” She hands me a glass. “Do you have any idea how boring the council meetings are? It’s the only perk.” She positions herself directly in front of me, clinking her glass to mine. “To us.…”
We both take a drink. It burns my eyes, but it feels good going down my throat. Instant warmth radiating throughout my body.
“Now,” Ali says as she picks up one of the candles, moving it along the spines of a row of books. “They showed us all this stuff when they turned over the council to us last year, but I never gave it much thought until you started telling me Miss Granger’s theory. There’s a prophecy, but not like Miss Granger thinks.”
She pulls down an old book from the shelves, thumbing through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for.
“Here,” she says, pointing to the text.
I read over her shoulder, “The sixth generation will inherit the earth, paving the way for a new age.”
“That’s pretty self-explanatory,” Ali says. “When our ancestors founded Midland, formed the council, everything they built was for the sixth generation. For us.”
“Okay … but there’s six of us … from the sixth generation.”
“I see where you’re going with this, but where’s the other six?”
“2016?”
“Grasping.” She shakes her head and takes another drink.
I read the next line. “In exchange for our sacrifice and obedience, the lord has placed a protective seal over this covenant.” I take another drink. “A seal over this covenant? Like a witch thing?”
“No.” She pulls me over to the original land map hanging on the wall. “They’re talking about the county.”
“Okay. If you squint your eye just right, the dividing lines kind of look like they form a pentagram. How do you explain that?”
“Those were the original plot lines,” she says. “Our ancestors certainly didn’t get to choose that, or believe me, our plots would all be shaped like potatoes or something.”
I study the book with the prophecy in it, holding it up to the light. “It looks like a page might’ve been torn out.”
“Oh my God … alert the media, it’s a conspiracy.” She laughs as she refills our glasses. “Or maybe Jethro just needed a piece of toilet paper. You could go crazy thinking about all this stuff.”
“Believe me … I know.”
“Here, check this out.” She pulls an old ledger from the shelf, filled with stats. “These are all the natural disasters to hit Oklahoma in the last hundred or so years. Famine … drought … tornados … floods … earthquakes … the dust bowl…”
“Exactly. And Midland escaped every single one of them. How do you even begin to explain that?”
“You can’t. Isn’t it amazing? It sounds more like God than the Devil, if you ask me.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter into my glass as I take another drink.
“The way I see it, it’s all about perspective. It’s like that time we were at the lake, on the floating dock, and we were looking up at the clouds. I saw a dancer. You saw a football player going for the extra point.”
“Did I really say that?” I cringe.
“You really did.”
“Wow. I was super smooth, wasn’t I?”
She studies me, her hazel eyes smoldering in the candlelight. “You were perfect … still are.”
She clinks my glass again and we drink. It doesn’t burn anymore, but there’s a weird chalky aftertaste coating the roof of my mouth. The rye moves through my body, coaxing the tension out of my muscles like warm liquid fingers.
“My point is, I can see how somebody like Miss Granger might want to string all this together, connect the dots. I really do, but she’s an outsider, she doesn’t understand. This town has always been a little off-kilter. I mean, look at our ancestors.” She takes my hand, leading me to their photo on the wall. “They came over on a boat from Ireland with no money, no prospects. And when they heard about the land rush, only the craziest of the crazy decided to head west to fight it out for the tiniest chance at free land. We come from a long line of risk takers with nothing to lose. It’s in our DNA. But they did it for us. I’m not saying our ancestors were saints, but think of Noodle. She’s a Tate through and through. Do you think she’s evil?”
“No way.” I laugh.
“Well, there you go. We have to hang on to the light. Wherever we can find it.”
She laces her fingers through mine, her thumb lingering on my palm, and something vibrates inside me.
“What if we’re not cursed … but blessed.”
“What about Jimmy? Or Ben?” I ask, my gaze settling on their family trees. “The last time I saw them, they looked far from blessed.”
“Free will. That was their choice. It says right here in the next line, ‘Only the strong will prevail.’”
She takes my glass, setting it next to hers on the bookshelf.
“That’s how I know that won’t happen to you,” she says as she steps in close, wrapping her arms around me. Her warmth spreads like embers across my chest. She stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear, “You’re strong, Clay.”
My skin explodes in goose bumps. The feel of her breath on my skin only fans the flames.
She unzips her hoodie, letting it drop to the floor. I try not to look, but I can’t help it. She’s wearing a white, loose-fitting silk camisole. No bra. “Feel my heart, Clay.” She places my hand on her chest. Her heartbeat is like an arrow shooting straight through my palm—strong and steady. The room seems to be spinning around us.
“You must know I’ve been waiting for you all this time.”
Her fingers move down my chest and
I swear I can see trails of sunlight and electricity sparking from her fingertips.
She pulls me over to the leather ottoman and lies back, stretching out her long tan legs.
I sit beside her on the edge, willing the room to stop moving. The nail studs securing the leather to the bottom of the bench feel good, like chips of ice against my feverish fingertips.
Ali pulls her rich brown hair over her shoulder. I fixate on the brand on the back of her neck.
When she catches my stare, she says, “In some cultures a woman is marked when she’s ready.”
“Ready for what?” I ask.
“Ready to become a woman … to receive his love.”
“Whose love?”
“Yours, Clay.” She wets her lips and pulls me down to lay beside her, kissing my ear, my neck. I try to lift my head and get up, but I can’t. It feels too good. I gaze up at the chandelier, hundreds of facets sparkling like our own universe.
And in the blink of an eye, she’s on top of me. I can’t stop staring at the strap of her camisole, teetering on the edge of her shoulder blade. One tiny move and it could slip right off. Or I could make it slip.
She follows my gaze and shrugs, letting the strap fall. “I think you’re ready, too.”
I try to keep my eyes focused on hers, but the pull of her bare breast is too strong to ignore. It reminds me of the vision I had when I saw her climbing out of the cow. I know I should feel disgusted by it, but I don’t. Instead, something primal rises inside of me. Sitting up, I grasp the back of her neck, kissing her deeply. That overwhelming feeling takes over every part of me. I run my hands down the curve of her waist, and she whispers, “Blessed is the seed.”
“What did you say?” A dark ripple of static rushes through me.
“I said, what more do you need.”
She starts kissing my neck again and I could so easily close my eyes and disappear into her skin, but that feeling of unease won’t leave me. I have the strangest sensation, like we’re being watched. My eyes settle on the photograph of our ancestors. I’m drawn to a girl around Jess’s age, holding a doll. “I know that doll,” I say as I untangle myself from Ali and make my way over to it. It looks like the same doll Noodle’s been dragging around since Dad’s funeral. I yank it off the wall to get a better look, accidentally dropping it to the hardwood floor.
