Dead Willow

by Joe Sharp

From the corner of her eye she saw the toe of his boot headed for her side. She lifted her stomach slightly and caught the kick higher up, his ankle connecting with her awkwardly. She blew out another lung full of air. That would leave a deep bruise, but it was better than a boot tip through the ribs.

  Annabel locked her arm around the back of his ankle and rolled into him, trapping his leg under the weight of her torso. He toppled backward and went down, flailing uselessly like an upended turtle. She almost felt sorry for him; he was so gentle that he had never learned how to fight.

  “This isn’t you, Paul,” she said breathlessly, jumping up and straddling his chest with all of her weight. “It’s the memories, you know that!”

  He strained against her, but she rode him like a champion bull rider. She knew Paul was in no condition to push her off. Ever since he had become the warehouse foreman, the most he pushed now was some paperwork. That’s what had made the assault such a surprise. If she had seen him coming, it never would have gotten this far.

  “What do you know of it?” He spat the words at her. “You fuckin’ niggers think you’re just as good as us! They’re gonna stretch that goddamn black neck of yours for what you done to me!”

  Annabel couldn’t believe that Paul even knew that word. But his eyes burned red and his body bucked like a wild animal beneath her, and all she could do was ride him until it passed.

  They were told that the attacks were rare, and that they need not be concerned. They were told that a clan representative would be with them shortly, and they always were. Annabel often wondered how they knew, but, of course, she kept those thoughts to herself.

  They all knew what it was. It was the memories, the memories that were theirs but not theirs. The flashes of a face in the mirror, a face that was their face, a face that they had not seen before. The memories and the feelings.

  Paul’s breathing began to quiet and his tremors slowed to a simmer. Annabel laid a hand on his chest and worried for her friend. He had better goddamn well get through this, she swore. If he couldn’t get a hold of himself, then the clan would get hold of him, and that was never a good thing. Better he go back to the tree than let the clan get him.

  “Annie?” His voice was as thin as smoke.

  “Hey, baby, how you doin’?” she whispered calmly, running a hand gently over his forehead.

  His frightened eyes darted around, taking in their surroundings, then settled on Annabel. His lip quivered like a lost child as his eyes welled up with tears.

  “Did … I … ?” He struggled with the question and Annabel thought that maybe he didn’t really want to hear the answer.

  “You’re okay, baby,” she assured him soothingly, patting his chest. “You just slipped and fell, that’s all.”

  But she knew that he knew. Right now the rumors were running around inside his head, stories they had all heard of friends and neighbors who had gotten the memories and couldn’t get rid of them. Everyone knew where they went, how they disappeared quietly while the town slept. When they came back later, they were … different.

  Annabel didn't want her friend to be different.

  “Come on, baby,” she prodded, pulling him to his feet. “You need to get up. We just need to get some coffee in you and you’ll be fine.”

  Paul struggled to his feet, Annabel getting her shoulder under his. He seemed dazed, the way she imagined a person might look after drinking alcohol. His eyes jerked in their sockets, unable to settle on any one thing for long. Then, they fell on Annabel, and he began to frantically search for some sign that he had …

  “I’m fine, sweetie,” she told him.

  Annabel flipped up a chair that had been overturned in the struggle and helped him into it. Then, she placed her hands on the sides of his face and made sure their eyes met.

  “You don’t need to worry about me. You need to worry about what comes next.”

  Paul seemed to understand and took several deep breaths. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked over his disheveled appearance. Annabel went over to the break area and poured some coffee into his mug. She brought it to him and placed it in his hands.

  “Drink,” she ordered, and then she began to tidy up.

  The lunch room looked like a cyclone had touched down, flipping over tables and knocking lockers to the floor. She took hold of the end of one locker and tilted it up until it fell back against the wall. She started on another one when he spoke again.

  “I hurt you.”

  She stopped, the locker halfway up. “I’m fine. It’s just a little bruising. Forget it.”

  “I meant before.”

  Annabel let the locker slam back into the wall. Then, she leaned against it with both hands. She didn’t look at him; he probable wouldn’t want that.

  “You don’t know nothin’ about before,” she said firmly. “All you know about is now. So finish drinking your coffee.”

  She stepped to the next locker, but he wasn’t finished.

  “Those things I did to you - ”

  She let the locker drop back to the floor with a bang and turned to face him.

  “Look, I don’t know about ‘those things’ you did to me, and I don’t want to know! It probably wasn’t you anyway! We both know how this works!”

  “But they were my hands!”

  He held his hands in front of him, staring at them like they were wretched things. That sent a tingle up the back of her neck. Paul’s eyes were pleading with her … but pleading for what? Forgiveness? Forgiveness for something that Paul says happened? Annabel had her own memories of before, but this wasn’t one of them, and she had no intention of adding it to the list.

  She decided to get firm with him. “Your clan is going to be here any minute and it looks like Morgan and his troops marched through here! Now I can’t do this by myself, so get up off of your sniveling ass and help me!”

  Annabel glared holes into him until he finally started to move. He nodded his head stiffly and started to look around the room as if he really saw it. She took the mug of warm coffee from him and waited while he rose on his own two feet. Then, she temporarily took the role of foreman.

  “You can start by hanging that bulletin board back up.” Annabel turned away before he could say anything else, and walked the coffee mug back to the break table.

  It was going to be a long goddamn day, she thought.

  They didn’t pull up in a black SUV, or a Hummer, or even a Crown Victoria. They didn’t wear black suits and black ties and black sunglasses. There were no earpieces coiling down the backs of their necks and no microphones in their sleeves.

  They wore tan shirts and brown pants and large wool coats. They were big and well-muscled, and like their Washington counterparts, they had no sense of humor.

  They were the Paladin’s own backwoods version of the Secret Service, and they were in the break room at Morgan Farms.

  Colonel Davis’ men searched every room like they were thinking of buying the place. One lingered by the break room door, his eyes never leaving Paul Greggson. Annabel was afraid that if Paul twitched, he might find three-hundred pounds of Paladin in his face before he could blink twice.

  There was a tingle of energy about the bunch, as if they were waiting for something to happen. When the others had completed their sweep of the warehouse, one of them stuck his head through the door and mumbled something unintelligible to their giant brown babysitter, who nodded solemnly. A moment later, in strode Colonel William Morgan Davis.

  Davis glanced about the room, then his eyes lit on Paul Greggson. Annabel watched the color drain from Paul’s face, and she willed him to hold it together for just a little longer.

  Colonel Davis was one of those for whom intimidation was a virtue. When you stood before him, you immediately began to assume you had done something wrong. Paul’s upper lip began to sparkle with perspiration, and he wiped a hand across his mouth nervously. He already looked guilty and the questions had not yet begun.

  Davis stroked h
is bushy black beard as he stepped closer to Paul. He stopped two feet away and stood ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back. This did not put Paul at ease.

  “Seems we’ve had a spot of trouble,” he remarked, in a voice that could have called a court to order.

  Paul opted to lie. “No, sir, not really. Just a flash … or two.”

  “Hmm … ” Colonel Davis looked down at the floor around them. Annabel hoped she had cleaned up all the broken bits of wood from the smashed chair. Then, Davis turned his gaze on Annabel.

  “And what about you, Miss Jeffers? Would you agree that it was only a flash?”

  Annabel was astonished that he even knew her name, much less that he would invite her testimony. She hoped this would bode well for her friend.

  “Yes, sir … it seemed to … come and go very quickly.”

  Davis eyed her dubiously. “I see. Then, when did you realize that Mr. Greggson was experiencing … a flash?”

  When he broke a chair across my back, she thought. But that was not the answer she chose.

  “He seemed to kind of … blank out for a moment.”

  Annabel spoke the lie as evenly as she could, but it was her hand that betrayed them both. At the thought of Paul’s assault, her hand had gone to her bruised side of its own accord. It was a tell that could not be missed. Colonel Davis walked slowly to her and spoke softly in her ear.

  “Miss Jeffers … I am going to have to ask that you unbutton your blouse.”

  Annabel couldn’t believe what he was asking, but one look in his eyes removed all doubt. She looked around the room at the unmerciful faces and a knot grew in the pit of her stomach. Paul stood straining to maintain his brave facade, unaware that she was about to bring it crashing down around him. She resolved not to look at him as she betrayed him, and she turned away.

  Her eyes glistening with tears, Annabel brought her shaky hands to the top button of her pale blue blouse and began to undo them. As each button fell away, more bruises and scratches were revealed, culminating in a dark purple blotch the size of a fist. Annabel looked away as Davis examined her side. Then, he pulled the two halves of her blouse together and looked away, as if the whole affair had made him feel … ashamed.

  “You may cover yourself, Miss,” he said respectfully. “And … apologies.”

  “It wasn’t him,” she argued, pleading with Davis in a whisper. “You know it wasn’t.”

  He looked at Annabel the way a kindly grandfather would as he was about to impart some wisdom. Had there been gray in his beard, the affect would have been complete.

  “Sadly, Miss, … it really was.”

  Paul had watched them with keen interest. He might not have heard the exchange, but their actions were unmistakable. When Colonel Davis turned to face him, he crumbled a little in his spot. Two Paladin were at his elbows before he could hit the floor. They held him firmly as the Colonel approached.

  “They are still in there, yes?” Davis pointed a calloused finger at Paul’s head. “The images you see, the feelings? They are in there because they were always there. You cannot run from what you are.”

  “But, I’m not!” Paul strained against the Paladin enforcers. He looked at Annabel, eyes begging. “Tell them, Annie! Tell them who I am.”

  Annabel felt herself drawn to him, but her feet never moved. It was useless, she knew that. Even the words she had said to Davis were cause for a visit to the council. This was clan business, and this was not her clan.

  That’s why the first outburst had been whispered into Davis’ ear. It was an actionable offense, and if the Colonel ever spoke of it, then she could end up following Paul into whatever oblivion was awaiting him.

  Annabel felt a tear roll down her cheek and she quickly brushed it away. Wouldn’t do to be seen challenging another clan’s jurisdiction. That was the line you never crossed.

  Paul saw the tears in Annabel’s eyes and turned away. She was already thinking of him in the past tense and it was all over her face. Couldn’t blame him for not wanting to see it. She also couldn’t blame him for what happened next.

  The Paladin led Paul to the door, and, if the rumors were to be believed, to a place from which he would never return. Paul couldn’t resist getting in the last word.

  “You niggers never did have a spine!”

  Paul cried out and reared back violently, almost knocking the Paladin to the floor. He craned his neck around to look at Annabel, who stumbled back with a start.

  She saw his face.

  The burning eyes were back, the facade shattered. He apparently wasn’t trying to fight the memories anymore. He had embraced them. He was reverting to, what? The real Paul? Annabel didn’t want to believe that, but she was finding it harder to ignore the evidence. Whatever he was remembering was stronger than the Paul she had known all these years.

  The Paladin struggled to force him to the door, but his glare was riveted to Annabel.

  “You had better pray they grind me, bitch!,” he threatened through gritted teeth. “Whatever’s left is coming back, and it’ll be just like old times!”

  He got a blood-curdling snarl on his face that triggered a memory in Annabel. It wasn’t the first time.

  “I can’t wait to get that ass in my hands again!” he taunted, and then he was gone through the door.

  The rest of the Paladin filed out, leaving Annabel alone with the Colonel. He stood idly, watching the floor, obviously embarrassed by this black mark on his clan. He slowly raised his eyes to Annabel and said the last thing she expected.

  “I am very sorry for your loss, Miss.” He closed his coat and stepped out into the parking lot, shutting the door behind him.

  The sudden silence made her ears ring. Annabel stood motionless for several minutes, waiting for reality to burn off the fog. Then, she eased herself into the wood chair that Paul had sat in the last time she had laid eyes on him. The Old Paul. It was starting to settle in. The next time she came to work, he wouldn’t be here. He would never be here.

  She had the flashes, and now she knew they were true. She wondered how long it would be before they were coming after her, after the real her.

  And who would that be?

  She finished stuffing her blouse back into her skirt. Then, she reached into her locker for the shawl and bonnet that would shelter her from the breezy evening chill. As she tied the bonnet strings beneath her chin, a knock rattled the break room door.

  It wasn’t a furious pounding, which ruled out the New Paul coming back to relive old times. Perhaps she and the Paladin had unfinished business, a thought that made her shiver in spite of her shawl. One thing was clear; Annabel couldn’t spend the rest of her life being afraid of a knock at the door.

  She took hold of the knob and eased the door open. What came through the door was a blast of cold October wind, and a blast from her past.

  “Hey, baby!” He looked her up and down. “Nice outfit.”

  It was a face and a body she hadn’t seen since her night at the No-Tell motel, and it was a face she had expected to never see again.

  Mr. Starlight Motor Inn.

  Crystal, October 8th

  Crystal Ambrose read the note again. It had been slipped under her door in the middle of the night, and was not altogether unexpected. In fact, expectation was an enduring part of her life; she had just never known what to expect.

  She ran her finger lightly over the gold embossing around the edges of the invitation. That’s what it was; the fancy calligraphic lettering of the cryptic words was an invitation.

  Come and see … come and see what is in store for you!

  For Crystal, life was like sitting by the phone and waiting for it to ring. Of course, Crystal never had a phone, but she understood the concept. Her life was on hold, while she waited for someone to get back on the line and tell her why she was here, why she was alive.

  What do you do, she wondered, when your entire life came down to a single moment, and the moment was now?

 
This is your destiny.

  Crystal mulled over the meaning of the strange words Mother’s Day. She was familiar with the practice of marking days to celebrate special events or individuals. She knew about mothers; she had seen enough of them traipsing down the streets of Willow Tree with their brood in tow. More often than not they lashed out with a harsh tongue or a swift swat to the backside, and that was on a good day.

  But, what did that have to do with her? Crystal could scarcely remember having had a mother, and she certainly didn’t think it something to be celebrated. She even knew of several in town whose mothers were also in residence, and they didn’t seem anxious to advertise the fact. The consensus among the population of Willow Tree was that the concept of parentage was a dead form, no longer practiced.

  After all, how could there be parents, when there were no children?

  Still, Crystal was intrigued. A meeting with Eunice held such great possibility. In all the years of her life, Crystal had never made a dent in Willow Tree society. Not even her own clan could pick her out of a crowd. She was a dying star out of a billion stars and her light was destined to go out long before her life did.

  Then came the invitation. The gold leaf trim and cryptic calligraphy could have come from only one person, and at 9:00 she would be sitting across from her.

  This is your destiny.

  She had seen this in a memory. Crystal had never put much stock in the flash of images that popped into her head. They had never put a morsel of food on her table or given her a leg up on the Willow Tree social ladder, so she ignored them. She had heard of what happened to those who did not.

  But this image wouldn’t go away, so much so that she began to suspect that she had tucked it away for a reason. Now, she was about to find that reason out.

  Crystal twisted and turned in front of the small bathroom mirror, trying to get an overall sense of how she looked. Preparing for a meeting with Eunice could be tricky. Her best bonnet, of course, would show the requisite respect with just a touch of dazzle. She would need to wear an extra petticoat; it was never a good thing when Eunice filled out a skirt more than the woman across the aisle.