Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 01 - Deadly Pedigree

by Jimmy Fox

  Nick couldn’t tear himself away, though he was aware he didn’t have time just now to be enjoying Ivanhoe’s account of his family’s bloody drama.

  Skimming, he saw that it wasn’t long after this 1870 entry that Ivanhoe married; then, the first child, Erasmus, arrived. Ivanhoe wrote lovingly of his land and his hopes for his children. Eventually he moved his family out to the old Chirke place. This, Nick guessed, was where the Balzars lived today. Clearly, he’d bought the building in which Nick now sat, and the Chirke place, with money Mulatta Belle, his mother, had left him. He had gotten nothing from Hyam–except a father’s love.

  The evidence was there in the diary: Jacob had stolen Ivanhoe’s rightful legacy. He obviously suborned the three witnesses to swear to a bogus nuncupative will. Ivanhoe, in the room as his father lay dying, saw Jacob rip apart the legitimate written will, the will that really expressed Hyam’s intentions, the will that dealt generously with Ivanhoe and the sons of Mulatta Belle’s other unions.

  Had Jacob acted alone? As yet, Nick knew nothing of the personality of Euphrozine Balazar.

  Ivanhoe was about thirty when he started his journal; he reserved a few pages at the back for some vital statistics on family births and deaths, which Nick knew would be invaluable later in his investigations. It seemed to Nick that Ivanhoe had an intuitive understanding of the meaning of genealogy that most people lack in these times. Ivanhoe was facing the stark possibility of the destruction of his past, having already seen the hijacking of his present. He realized that knowledge of his ancestry, and especially the transmission of that knowledge, was of life-and-death importance to the generations that would follow him.

  How many impossible gaps had Jacob Balazar created? His father’s dalliance with Mullata Belle was a humiliation for him. Thus the real will had to go. What else had he eliminated? Was this why there were no further courthouse records showing Hyam’s estate moving through the probate process? Jacob was a powerful man, who brooked no opposition.

  And what of the letters to Ivanhoe, Jeremiah, and Chapman? As mini-wills, they posed a threat; they could cost Jacob a lot of land–and more, in the case of Ivanhoe. If, with his letter, Ivanhoe could prove he was Hyam’s son, could he have taken Jacob to court to claim some portion of Hyam’s estate? Maybe a thousand acres wasn’t all Ivanhoe would have been due if the issue had been adjudicated properly. Jacob might have faced coughing up more than his ravaged lungs.

  Nick surmised that the letters to Mulatta Belle’s three sons were identical, each setting out Hyam’s bequests to the three of them, as insurance. That would explain why Jacob would want them all, why he would kill for those letters, and why Mulatta Belle was so careful with them.

  For Jacob, it was a question of twisted honor, not merely land: he could not live with Ivanhoe as his acknowledged brother.

  The letters were probably long gone now; but in this diary, written by his own hand, Ivanhoe had made his own immortality, attained his own silent victory.

  Nick noticed a change in the style and content of the diary. Ivanhoe started with the noble intention of presenting his side of the story, of instructing his children; but as the years passed, his affairs become more complicated, and he seemed to reach a level of relative affluence and considerable respect in the community. His attention shifted to his business and civic affairs. Town gossip, only momentous family news, and balance-sheet concerns persist, without much of the humanizing spirit of the first entries, until an abrupt cutoff in 1881.

  Isn’t that the way of the world? Nick thought, taking a last look at the room that had once housed Ivanhoe’s shop. We start with the grand visions of overconfident youth, with a simplistic lust for radical accomplishments, and soon we lapse into a belittling obsession with minutiae, like an old man on a park bench picking lint from his sweater.

  Ivanhoe wrote his diary to preserve the truth; now it was Nick’s task to continue its destruction. He didn’t like the role he was playing. Ivanhoe’s testament should not remain silent forever. He should edit and annotate the volume, get it published. It would become an instant classic of the field, stocked in libraries around the U.S. and the world, translated into a dozen languages.

  Nick would be famous. Posthumously.

  He walked to his car, hearing Ivanhoe’s voice as if he’d spent an hour with the barber. Nick understood that Ivanhoe had intended his diary to shake the rotten fruit from his family tree, no matter how long it took.

  A dangerous place for a genealogist to be sitting, under that tree, more than a hundred years later, Nick was thinking as he tried to get his car’s engine to turn over.

  15

  Nick knew he should be concentrating on further sundering the thread from Hyam Balazar to Natalie Armiger. But wasn’t it possible that Ivanhoe had a place in the direct line of her ancestry, that the Ivanhoe-Jacob conflict wasn’t just a fascinating sideshow? The likelihood of surprises multiplies geometrically the further you go back. No, Ivanhoe shouldn’t be relegated to a ghetto of collateral unimportance just yet.

  Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants for Madame Armiger, finding that her blue blood had black and Jewish tributaries! She wouldn’t have a client left–even in the city of which Huey Long once said that a cup of red beans and rice could feed all its “pure” white people, with some to spare.

  Besides, Nick was willing to bet that Jacob Balazar, because he hated his father and his father’s origins and was so concerned with creating his own version of his family’s history, probably had done a lot of the work for him; a few dollars or threats from Jacob might have caused the damage of a dozen courthouse fires or floods…or of one Nick Herald. No wonder so few traces of Hyam existed.

  Nick felt entitled to a little genealogical diversion. He was, as usual, curious: did Ivanhoe ever get his “portion?”

  Ivanhoe had been right about the old Chirke place: he’d overpaid for it. The terrain didn’t look at all like the rest of mostly flat, fertile Louisiana; Nick drove up and down scrub pine-covered hills that had some pretensions of being mountainous. The distinctive red dirt gave the area a rusty, disused appearance. The property was about five miles from Natchitoches, real estate that must have been undesirable even to developers. But the highway department apparently had liked the desolate location: cars zipped along I-49, half a mile away.

  He drove into the dirt driveway of a small wood-frame house with a lean-to carport and a screened front porch. Country silence and red dust enveloped his car when he killed the engine. He knocked on a vertical piece of screen-door frame that had needed painting a long time ago.

  “Morning. My name’s Edmund Spenser,” Nick said to the woman who answered his knocks. “I’m a research associate at Freret University, in New Orleans. Are you Mrs. Balzar?”

  “Why, yessir, I am. I’m Dora Balzar.” She was cherry wood brown, with purple pouches under her eyes; thick around the middle, in her late fifties. She wore a blue polka dot skirt and a polyester white blouse with lots of ruffles. She didn’t seem to be the pants-wearing type.

  “Oh, good. Well, Mrs. Balzar, I’m working on a book, a book about…“ Nick stammered, realizing he hadn’t fabricated the details of his deception on the drive over. “A book on the African American role, uh, in the expansion of the frontier to the West. I have reason to believe that an ancestor of your husband’s might have been a buffalo soldier.”

  “A what kind of soldier? You best talk to my husband, Erasmus. I don’t know nothing about buffaloes, and don’t want to, either. Come on in. I’ll go get him.” She opened the screen door and let Nick in, looking back with some suspicion, he thought, at this white stranger who might very well be the taxman or some other figure of authority who would bring hassles.

  Nick heard a television from another part of the house. An interview show. The audience erupted in laughter, then groaned in disapproval, then applauded and hooted. The living room was as comfortable as straitened circumstances allowed–lots of discount store furniture and the kind of dam
aged antiques and knickknacks well-to-do white people discard when aged relatives die. Clearly, the Balzars were proud of this room, and it was reserved for company, though there probably wasn’t much of that.

  There was no air-conditioning, but several lethargic oscillating fans kept the place remarkably cool. Nick inhaled the aroma of some wonderful meat dish emanating from the kitchen, and decided that Dora Balzar was one of those great Louisiana cooks who could put any New Orleans chef to shame, but whose artistry was known only to their families.

  As he waited, Nick studied family snapshots and Wal-Mart portraits in cheap frames hanging on the walls and dotting every table. Three attractive, happy brown youths, frozen at various stages of life. The newest generation of Balzars. One son looked very much like Dora–probably the eldest, Nick judged. The most recent photo of this young man showed him stone-faced, in some kind of military uniform. Another frame enclosed a lighter, slighter young man, no doubt the younger son; he beamed with pride in a college cap and gown. Following a progression of pictures, Nick jumped through the daughter’s life, each shot a stepping stone in the stream of time. The laughing, gap-toothed girl became the starry-eyed bride in the space of seconds.

  Erasmus Balzar had entered the room before Nick noticed him. He asked his guest to have a seat. Dora brought him a Dr. Pepper and some freshly baked cookies. Erasmus was lighter skinned than his wife, considerably overweight for his five-eight frame, and in poor health. He explained, in short breaths, that he’d worked at the local poultry plant until it closed without warning five years ago, and since then the family had lived on his small Army disability pay, his wife’s meager earnings as a seamstress at a store in town and as a freelancer for certain wealthy white women, and on various other government benefits. A heart attack, diabetes, a lifetime of smoking, and high blood pressure had taken a toll on his activities. The worry showed in the hollow bewilderment of his eyes, and echoed in the pensive silences between his sentences.

  “Now, my grandpa in there, watching the TV. Erasmus the Second–we just call him ‘Twice,’ you know, because of the two after his name. Sometime we call him three times.” He laughed up some phlegm at this old family witticism.

  “Rasmus,” Dora Balzar said, “Lord have mercy, don’t be talking about Twice that way. It’s shameful.” She left the room shaking her head, but smiling nevertheless.

  Erasmus the Third continued: “He don’t have nothing wrong him, ’cept he can’t all the time remember things too good. But he’s ninety-two. Yes indeed. Ninety-two.” He seemed to lose his way, but then added, “Don’t guess I’ll make that.”

  “Do you know anything about your ancestor, Ivanhoe Balzar?” Nick asked.

  “He was my great-great-grandpa, I think. They say he cut hair way back when, over in a shop downtown. Somehow the building got named after him, so he must have been a pretty good barber. I used to hear that a white man shot him down over the price of a shave. They did that in them days, the white folks, you know. What’s this book you workin’ on? It gonna be a movie of the week, or what?”

  Nick searched his small stock of frontier lore and came up with some convincing questions, making a show of writing down Erasmus’s answers. Erasmus gradually grew to like the idea that his great-great-grand might have lived an exciting life in the Wild West.

  “Come on in here and let’s try and get Twice to remember something,” wheezed Erasmus with sudden enthusiasm.

  Twice sat on a slipcovered couch before a large, rather new television. He gripped the changer tightly in one bony hand and rested the other limply beside him. They couldn’t get cable out here, and there was no money for a satellite dish, so they had to do with the grainy over-the-air signals from Shreveport, Alexandria, and Monroe.

  Looking at Twice, Nick thought he could see Ivanhoe himself, and beyond him, Hyam and Mulatta Belle. Just a few pinches of the human clay, just a layer or two more or less of watery beige tint, would do the trick. He was strikingly thin and bent into angles like a grasshopper, though he was probably six-and-a-half feet stretched out. His skin was vitreous, like a piece of glazed old china, relatively unwrinkled and surprisingly youthful looking, with a sandy darkness deep down. Nick imagined he would shatter into a million pieces if touched too hard. His eyes were milky with cataract; Nick doubted he could see much of the show he watched, or even understand it. There were a few curlicues of gray hair around his sunken temples. He was dressed neatly, by Dora certainly, in a light-blue button-down shirt and a crisp pair of work jeans.

  Nick rapidly figured the relationships: if Ivanhoe was Erasmus III’s great-great-grandfather, and Twice is his grandfather, then…

  “Twice, can you tell me about your grandfather, the man named Ivanhoe Balzar?” Nick began, sitting down next to the old man on the sofa. “Did your grandmother or your father ever speak of him? Maybe tell you if there were any important family papers put away somewhere?”

  Nick was thinking of that letter Ivanhoe had mentioned, all the while feeling guilty because the diary really belonged to these people.

  Well, I’ll share the royalties when I get the thing published…don’t kid yourself, Nicky boy; Armiger will never let it happen. Nick struggled to banish those thoughts.

  Twice stared straight ahead at the television. His face twitched with the effort of recollection. “Chocolate! Vanilla! Fresh, fresh berries! Half-price! Hurry, hurry!” he screamed, startling them all. Here was a man who had heard too many commercials.

  “He likes his ice cream, he sure do,” Dora said, smiling patiently at her antediluvian in-law. “Let me just go get him some. Maybe that’ll calm him down.”

  “Twice, Twice. Think, now,” Nick began again, feeling like a hypnotist. “I’m trying to learn all I can about your grandfather. He might have been a hero, and we want to tell his story to the world.” Nick was convinced about the hero part, though not sure that he was exactly sincere about telling the world.

  “The Good Book,” Twice said solemnly, holding up an index finger, in a credible impersonation of the Grim Reaper. “First shall be last, and last shall be first. Time to reap and sow. Rejoice, leap for joy, for your reward. Happy are the mild-tempered; lo, they inherit the earth. Make your peace with your brother and offer up your gift. Yes mean yes, no mean no. Store up treasures, where moth and rust do not consume, thieves break not in and steal. There your heart will be also. Keep on asking, and it shall be given; seeking, you shall find. No rotten tree brings forth fine fruit. Fresh, fresh! Hurry while they last! In the Good Book, look to the Good Book!”

  Dora brought his ice cream, and he was pacified.

  More than eighty years of Ecclesiastes and the Sermon on the Mount had left plenty of echoes in old Twice’s eroded brain. Nick didn’t detect anything useful in the old man’s muddled oration. Too bad. Family secrets often were hidden away in the memories of old ones like Twice.

  “We always been a family that keeps our important dates and such in the Bible,” Erasmus said. “That’s probably what he jabbering on about. It’s right over here. But there ain’t nothing older than Twice written down. Guess the one before this got lost somewhere.”

  Erasmus showed Nick the family Bible, which was nothing special–the branching out of the family from Twice’s generation. He jotted down the information recorded between the testaments, out of habit. At least now he could attach names to the faces in the photos hanging in the Balzar living room: Shelvin, Ronald, and Winfred…for all the good it would do him.

  After promising to send a copy of the book on buffalo soldiers to the Balzars, Nick preceded Dora to the door, eager to move on to his next stop. He had only about two hours left; and even leaving at four, he’d have to burn rubber and any remaining oil getting back to New Orleans by eight.

  He walked out to his car in the searing heat. The trunk and passenger door were open. His bag, in the trunk, had been ransacked. Fortunately, he had hidden the diary and other documents in the spare-tire well, and that seemed undisturbed.

/>   He looked around, but saw no one. Puzzled and pissed-off, he started stuffing his things back into the bag.

  A pair of strong hands grabbed his shoulders and spun him around, slamming him against the side of the car.

  “What the fuck you doing out here, whitey?” said the big guy who was using a forearm to do a professional job of stopping the flow of air through Nick’s windpipe. “I been hearing about you in town. Asking questions about my family. Friend of mine works over at that hotel you stayed at. So, who are you and what you want?”

  “Shelvin! Leave him alone, you hear me! Shelvin! Let the man go. Now!” Dora shouted from the porch. “You all right, Mr. Spenser? My Shelvin, he don’t mean nothing. That Army training and the Gulf War plum ruined my boy’s manners. Shelvin, tell Mr. Spenser you sorry.”

  “That’s not his real name, Mama. He’s up to something no good, like all the white devils. Ain’t that right, Mr. Nick Herald from New Orleans?”

  When a guy introduces himself with the etiquette of a commando and the ecumenism of a religious zealot, small talk is moot. Nick merely coughed in reply, feeling lucky to be alive.

  Shelvin was six-six of lean muscle topped by a shaved head that looked like the old football helmets from Knute Rockne’s day. He wore knee-length black biking shorts, a black muscle shirt with a gold X front and back, and black Converse high tops–all of which made Nick hotter just looking at them.