For no reason at all, I started thinking about the shotgun house and the red door, and I couldn’t wait to get into the woods again.
Chapter Fourteen
But after church service concluded—almost three hours later—we were ushered to a dinner at Uncle Lee’s place. Uncle Lee, Aunt Lillie’s kid brother, was in his early eighties, tall and sinewy, with the straight-backed posture of a young athlete. He lived on family-owned land, too, down the road from Aunt Lillie, in a well-kept home with creaking wood floors. About fifty of us gathered inside, where the rooms were redolent with the mouth-watering smells of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, greens, cornbread, sweet potatoes, baked beans, and peach cobbler.
All of us held hands as my cousin the pastor said the blessing, and then it was time to eat.
“With all this incredible food we’ve been getting, I’m going to be as wide as a barn,” Asha said, as we shuffled down the makeshift buffet line in the hallway.
“Orca whale or not, I’ll still love you,” I said. She rolled her eyes.
But her remark made me notice something: none of my blood relatives were obese, though some of those who’d married into the family were on the hefty side. Some of my blood kinfolk were slim, others were athletically built, many were of average build, but none carried excessive poundage. Yet from what I’d seen, they didn’t follow particularly low-fat diets.
I reflected that I’d never faced a weight problem, either, and I basically ate whatever I wanted, and exercised maybe three times a week. The same was true of my mother and grandmother.
Good genes? It had to be. Although the explanation failed to entirely please me.
Laden with plates and glasses of sweet tea and lemonade, folks were sitting on every available seat throughout the house, but Asha and I were given chairs of honor at the dining room table. Aunt Lillie was already seated there, along with several cousins whose names I’d been told earlier but couldn’t remember; all of the faces and names of the people I’d met had become a cheerful blur.
“Y’all hear ’bout what happened to Miss Eunice last night?” one of the cousins said.
A chill gripped me; I knew what she was going to say. “Was it another home invasion?”
The cousin nodded, eyes downcast. “Poor Miss Eunice. They kicked her door in. She had a shotgun but I hear they took it from her and beat her with it—”
“Lord have mercy,” Aunt Lillie said.
“Broke her ribs, her arm, and her jaw,” the cousin said. “And they took everything. Her money she kept in there, her jewelry, her TV set . . . I hear she’s in a bad, bad way up in the hospital. You know Miss Eunice got a heart condition . . .”
“Are the police doing anything about the rash of crimes?” Asha asked. “This is the fourth break-in.”
Asha’s question provoked scattered, bitter laughter around the table.
“Honey, this ain’t Atlanta,” another cousin said. “Police here ain’t used to nothin’ like this. I hear Chief Williams said he thinks it’s a crew from Memphis behind it, but . . .” She shrugged. “He said he doin’ the best he can to catch ’em.”
“Thank God no one in the family’s been victimized yet,” I said.
“Yet,” one of the cousins said. “Somebody need to put an end to things ’fore that happens.”
There was murmured agreement around the table. My cousin’s emphasis on the word somebody made me suspect she was speaking of an actual person, and I remembered what Cousin Tee had said at breakfast yesterday: “If it keeps up . . . somebody ’round here gonna have to go ’head and take care of it on his own.”
Who was this somebody? Was there a family vigilante I’d yet to meet who ensured the safety of the clan? Some country crusader for justice, some backwater Charles Bronson?
The conversation abruptly switched gears, to Asha. My cousins remarked that it would be wonderful to have a doctor in the family, that she would be the first. Basking in their attention, Asha winked at me.
As dinner wound down and people began to drift outdoors, I cornered Aunt Lillie in the living room.
“How you doin’, child?” she asked. “You enjoyin’ meetin’ all your kinfolk?”
“It’s been great,” I said. “I wanted to ask you about something I saw in the woods last night. The woods behind the house?”
“Hmm?” Her eyes gave up nothing.
“I saw a house back there, Aunt Lillie. One of those little shotgun houses.”
“A house?” Blank eyes.
“Someone was living in there. There were candles burning inside.”
“You sure you wasn’t dreamin’, child?”
“I was wide awake, Aunt Lillie.”
“Child says he seen a shotgun house back in the woods,” she said, in that manner she had, as if she were addressing an invisible presence. “That’s news to me, sugar. Somebody livin’ on ancestor land without us knowing . . . hmph.”
“You know all about it, don’t you?” I said. “Who lives there? Tell me, please.”
But she only said, “Cousin Bert wanna meet you this afternoon. She ain’t make it over here ’cause she had to up to Memphis this morning, but she wanted me to bring you by her place after dinner.”
“Cousin Bert,” I said glumly.
“She ’bout two years younger than me, she know a lot of family history, too,” Aunt Lillie said. She tapped my arm. “Be good for that book you writin’ ’bout us.”
“Knowing who’s living in that shotgun house might be good for my book, too,” I said.
Her smile vanished. “Good to know, but not good for no book,” she said, and squeezed my wrist firmly. I winced at her unexpected strength, tried to pull my wrist away, but her grip was iron. “Everybody don’t need to know everything ’bout the family roots,” she said.
“But this book is exclusively for the family, it’s not for the whole world to read.”
Her eyes were steady. “Everybody in the family don’t need to know ’bout the family roots, neither. Don’t you never forget that, child.”
She released me then, smiled sweetly, and wandered away. I massaged my wrist, my head spinning.
I wanted to dismiss what she’d said as the meaningless blather of a feeble-minded old woman, but I knew there was nothing feeble about Aunt Lillie. She had as much clarity of thought as anyone I’d ever met, and she’d meant exactly what she’d said, as crazy as it sounded.
Everybody in the family don’t need to know ’bout the family roots, neither.
What the hell was she talking about?
Chapter Fifteen
After our visit with Cousin Bert—she lived on family land, too, and was much like Aunt Lillie, with a sharp-eyed gaze, a hearty laugh, and an infallible memory that defied her age—we finally returned to Aunt Lillie’s. I was eager to venture back into the woods, but Cousin Tee had offered to take us to the casinos in Tunica, about a half hour’s drive away, and of course, Asha wanted to go. Not wanting to be a wet blanket, I went along and tried to act interested.
Asha and Cousin Tee loved the slots. While Cousin Tee steadily pulled the arm of one of the machines, the gleaming lights glinted off her ruby ring.
“Where’d you get that from?” I pointed at the gemstone.
She touched the ruby. “This? This here’s the family stone.”
“The family stone?”
“You know, how like some families have crests or whatever. We got us a stone.”
“I’ve noticed a lot of our relatives wearing it,” I said. “Can I get one?”
She shrugged. “I ain’t the one who gives ’em out, Cousin Danny.”
“Who does?”
“The family elder,” she said.
“The family elder? You mean Aunt Lillie?”
“Oh, my goodness.” Suddenly, Cousin Tee’s eyes grew huge. “Oh, my goodness, I won!”
My question was lost in the ensuing excitement, and I didn’t bother to bring it up again. I figured that Aunt Lillie, the eldest surviving memb
er of the Booker family, had given Cousin Tee the ruby. Who else could it have been?
We didn’t get back to the home place until almost nine o’clock that evening. Darkness had settled like a shroud over the land, the velvet sky bright with stars.
So much for exploring the woods by daylight, I thought. But I was not going to let the pitch-blackness keep me from going out there again. I wasn’t going to let anything keep from me from going out there again.
We sat up for a while with Aunt Lillie, drinking chamomile tea spiced with honey and talking about family, and then Aunt Lillie retired to bed, and so did we. Asha and I made love, our hunger for each other as intense and urgent as it had ever been, and then I lay in my twin bed and waited for her to drift asleep.
As soon as I heard her breathing heavily, I silently dressed, and tiptoed out of the house.
Chapter Sixteen
One Monday morning in May, my literary agent, Sandy Clark, called with a shocking request from my publisher: could I turn in my next novel early? Like, within two weeks?
I hadn’t even started writing the book yet. The contractual deadline was two months away. I paced across the kitchen, feeling as if I’d been sucker-punched in the jaw.
“Why?” I finally said, when I could speak again.
“An opportunity has come up with Wal-Mart,” Sandy said. “They’re launching a new promotional program where they’re going to highlight three new mystery titles each month in all of their stores nationwide, and they’ve specifically asked about your new book, Daniel. They want to include it in the program during this year’s holiday season, if it’s available.”
Prime placement at Wal-Mart during the holidays? Authors would have sold their firstborn for a chance like that.
“That’s really exciting,” I said. “But two weeks?”
“It could be a big boost to your numbers,” Sandy said. “I wouldn’t present this to you if I didn’t think it was worth the effort, and you’ve always been a relatively fast writer. You said you wrote your last novel in six weeks, if I recall.”
“That’s true . . . but I haven’t even started on the book yet, Sandy.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, in a small voice.
“And my girlfriend and I are going out of town on Wednesday,” I said. “We’re going to Hawaii for ten days. Everything’s already been booked, and Asha made me swear that I wouldn’t do any work during the vacation, can’t even bring my laptop.”
“They aren’t going to budge on the deadline—I’ve already asked.” Sandy sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to tell them to pass you over for this one. With us wanting a new contract in the fall, though, it would’ve been nice to have this feather in our cap when I go to bat for you.”
I wandered into my home office and looked at the big calendar on the wall. It was Monday; in two days, we’d leave for Hawaii, and when we returned, the two-week deadline would be expiring in a couple of days, and I’d be seriously jetlagged and useless to work, anyway.
But . . . could I write the entire novel before my vacation? In two days?
Call me nuts, but I felt a twinge of excitement at the challenge. I’d heard of stories in which authors had written a complete novel over a weekend, and I’d long wondered if I were capable of such a feat. The only reason I’d never attempted it was because I’d never had a reason to try.
“Let me see what I can do,” I said to Sandy. “I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up the phone, and as soon as I did, I sat in front of my laptop, opened Microsoft Word, and started writing. I didn’t have any notes, an outline, or even a clear idea of what the novel would be about. My original plan had been to spend our vacation mulling over various plot ideas so that when we returned, I could get to work and wrap up the book in a few leisurely weeks.
It was around nine-thirty in the morning when I started working. When Asha arrived home at six that evening, I’d already written a hundred pages.
I’d never written so rapidly, or with such intense focus. I couldn’t explain it. It was as though I’d discovered some hidden ability to immerse myself in a prolonged, creative trance.
Asha and I had dinner together. After dinner, I returned to the computer. I worked through the entire night; when Asha left for work the next morning, I was on page two hundred and forty.
The words were simply flowing out of me, as if funneled through my fingers from some pent-up reservoir of creativity that I’d managed to burst wide open. I couldn’t stop, and though I hadn’t slept at all in over twenty-four hours, I worked throughout the day, too.
At three o’clock that afternoon, I called Sandy.
“Check your e-mail, Sandy,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, and about thirty seconds later, I heard her gasp. “This is a new book?”
“Hot off the press,” I said. “I think my laptop is still smoking.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then: “You actually wrote all three hundred and eighty-two pages of this manuscript after we talked yesterday morning? You didn’t already have this finished?”
“Wish I had,” I said. “I would’ve gotten some sleep last night.”
“Oh, wow,” Sandy said softly. “I’ve never heard of anyone writing a book of this length at such an incredible speed, Daniel, and I’ve been in the business for twenty years. This is unbelievable.”
“I only hope it’s good. ” I wiped my eyes, which felt grainy and sore. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap, and then start packing for our trip.”
Six days later, when Asha and I were at the resort on Maui, we came back to our room to find a bottle of Moët champagne and a typewritten note.
Book is not good—it’s great! Publisher so excited they want to talk new contract. Call when you get a free moment.
Congrats,
Sandy
Chapter Seventeen
This time, the trio of canines did not escort me through the woods, but their guidance wasn’t necessary. I knew exactly where I was headed.
And in case I didn’t, the continuous droning drew me forward. It seemed louder than last night, deeper somehow. My entire body vibrated.
I glimpsed candlelight ahead, reflected flames licking the leaves. I was ready to plunge out of the thicket of greenery and into the clearing—but stopped when I heard voices ahead.
Men in a heated conversation. Two of them, it sounded like.
I took cover behind an oak tree at the edge of the clearing, and peeked around the trunk.
Through the interlacing leaves and branches of surrounding shrubbery, I had a view of the house. A very tall, slender silhouette paced back and forth across one of the front windows; the window was open, the warm night air carrying the men’s dialogue to me.
I cocked my head, listening.
“You must choose a side, Oringo,” a voice said, which I believed came from the pacing figure. The man had an accent that I took to be French. “Remaining neutral is not a viable choice. It is too important!”
“Neutrality has long been my preferred choice, Kyle,” Oringo answered. He spoke in a resonant baritone, thoroughly American but with the eloquent air of an aristocrat. “Surely your dear mother has explained that to you. In fact, I am certain that she agrees with my stance.”
“Leave Mother out of this conversation,” Kyle said. “This is between us. You are either with me, or against me.”
“Such moral absolutes . . . you remind me of your father,” Oringo said.
“My father understood the true purpose of our kind,” Kyle said. “It is not to live isolated in the shadows, away from the dwellings of men. It is to hold dominion over men! They are cattle to us, Oringo.”
Sweat trickled down my temple. Was I dreaming again? What on earth were these men talking about?
They are cattle to us . . .
Were they even men?
“I respectfully disagree, my friend,” Oringo said. “Peaceful coexistence benefits us all. It has been our way since time immemorial. I see
no reason to break with tradition so that you may wage your selfish vendetta.”
My feet tingled from standing in place. I shifted my stance slightly. The movement disturbed a nearby branch, a faintly perceptible noise.
But Kyle’s head jerked in my direction, and he stepped toward the window, his face an ink blot. “I hear someone.”
Heart in my throat, I ducked behind the tree. Please, don’t let them come looking for me.
A huge, cold hand fell across my neck like a steel clamp. I screamed.
“Silence, you sniveling, sneaking little mongrel,” Kyle said.
Incredibly, he was beside me. Just like that. From the house to the woods in a nanosecond.
I felt faint.
As if I were a tiny lion cub being carried by its mother by the nape of its neck, Kyle plucked me off the ground and brought me into the clearing. I was so terrified and stunned that my screams died in my lungs. I feebly kicked my legs, flailed my arms.
Kyle laughed. Holding me away from him, he examined me. Shadows danced across his face, and reflections of candle flames flickered in his eyes . . . eyes that were darker and deeper than any I had ever seen . . . like twin portals of oblivion.
Not human, a voice whispered in the back of my shell-shocked mind. Whatever he is, he definitely isn’t a man . . .
“I should destroy you for eavesdropping on us.” Kyle’s lips parted in a cruel smile, and I saw the gleam of teeth. Sharp incisors. Fangs.
My stomach churned sickeningly. An impossible idea careened around my mind. Could this be a . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . it’s not possible . . . don’t even think it ...
Behind us, a door banged open. Kyle glanced away from me.
“Is this one of yours, Oringo?” Kyle asked, as if I were a house pet.
“You know he is,” Oringo said. “Leave him be.”
The Ancestors Page 15
