by J Nell Brown
Orphan Dreamer Saga: Episode Three
She Laughs Last: A Short Story
Copyright © 2019 by J. Nell Brown, LLC (Jeanelle Denise Brown)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher and author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to J. Nell Brown, LLC, using the “contact us” page on www.JNellBrown.com.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published by J. Nell Brown, LLC and Rogue Reads, LLC
“We Wear the Mask”
Words by Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906
Public Domain
For ordering information, contact the publisher via the author’s website, www.JNellBrown.com.
Printed in the United States of America.
First Edition, 2019
Books by
J. Nell Brown
Nonfiction
Shhh, My Father Is Speaking, and I Am Listening: A Bible Study on Hearing God’s Voice
Blood Moon—God’s Warning: Why Knowledge of Jewish Feasts Is Essential to Understand the Blood Moons of 2014 and 2015
Fiction
Orphan Dreamer Saga
Orphan Dreamer and the Missing Arrowhead
Orphan Dreamer and the Glass Tattoo
She Laughs Last
Orphan Tree: Rooted in Eternal Love
Collector’s First Edition Paperback
The Omega Journey: Blood Moons Whisper
Coming Soon
A Generation of Lighted Evergreens
Orphan Falls: Wild and Free
House Guest
Orphan Star: The Mark
Little Peach Lies
Orphan’s Seed
If Love’s a Fish
Orphan’s Horizon
Orphan’s End
What sorrow awaits you who laugh now, for your laughing will turn to mourning and sorrow.
—Luke 6:25
“We Wear the Mask” by Paul Laurence Dunbar
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
Chapter 1
1—Grandmothers Can Lie Too
July 7, 1981
Georgia
She who laughs last wins: true or false?
Sandwiching man and woman between the first and the fourth dimensions, the universe suffocates its human prey before consuming it. Promising light beyond the darkness and truths that are nothing more than lies, it laughs last—for now.
Laughter.
A lie.
Tears.
The truth.
We wear the mask.
It fits, so we wear it well.
Chapter 2
2—Grandmothers Can Lie Too
July 7, 1981
Georgia
She wouldn’t miss it for the world, even though the soon-to-be grandmother’s least favorite time of day had arrived. Nightfall. The sun hides on the other side of Earth, while the moon makes a paltry attempt to replace the sun’s blazing presence, casting a swath of pale blue-white light across North America.
Her back ballerina straight, Mrs. Gertrude Smith has been sitting smack-dab in the middle section of a Greyhound bus for the last six hours. Tapping her right foot, she adjusts her crocheted shawl, securing the coverlet around her slight shoulders to hide the goosebumps popping up across her arms—the evidence of her fear. She curves her lips into a smile—a mask—determined to conceal her truth from the other passengers.
The driver keeps the bus moving at a constant speed, while the Greyhound charges south down I-75 toward Gainesville, Florida. The swamp.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Almost out of Georgia.
Born and raised in just another dried-up farm town in America—Chadbourn, North Carolina—Mrs. Smith rummages through her carpetbag, looking for a worthy distraction. She finds it in a paperback, discovered at a book depository in Whiteville, North Carolina. Like a schoolgirl playing hooky during a boring class, she hunkers down, shines a flashlight on yellowed pages, and reads the fancy scientist’s wisdom in Questions about the Universe.
The first dimension gives the universe its length: the x-axis. The second dimension describes its height: the y-axis. And together, the x-axis and the y-axis form a square. The third dimension, known as the z-axis, describes the depth of the universe, giving an object area and even cross-section as illustrated in the properties of a cube. Look at a cube and note that it possesses three dimensions—length, width, depth—and thus, volume. The fourth dimension represents time. Time governs the properties of all other matter at any given point in the universe.
“I’ve got it, Mister Science-man.” Widowed for the last ten years, Mrs. Smith had gotten used to talking to herself and keeping herself company. Fortunately, the passenger sitting in the window seat next to her didn’t mind and chimed in to the conversation.
“Got what, ma’am?”
“What the professor’s trying to say in this book, Questions about the Universe.”
“Well, what’s he saying?”
“Time is the boss lady of the other three dimensions, no different than I’m the boss lady of my farm.”
“Oh. You own your own farm?”
“I do.”
“Farming I understand. Never owned one, but I grew up in South Carolina. There was cotton for days. But . . . dimensions? I don’t have a clue what you’re going on about.”
“Neither do I. At least not completely.” Mrs. Smith chuckles as she closes her book and removes her reading glasses, giving her eyes a rest.
“Where are you traveling?”
“Florida.”
“Family?”
“First grandbaby’s on the way.”
“Ahh. The first. So special.”
“Special. Magical. A dreamer.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “A child who will bend time.” But what exactly does bending time mean? Mrs. Smith rubs her fingers across the book’s cover, hoping it will answer her question. “Tibet promised Austin, my son-in-law, that our grandbaby would be special.”
“We’ve got one of those in our family. A five-year-old boy trapped in a sixteen-year-old’s body. He�
�s a sweet kid.”
“Are you a grandmother?”
“Seven times over. I can see you’re already so proud of her even though you ain’t even met her. That’s a grandma’s love.”
A grandmother’s love. Tenacious. Soft. Unforgettable. Mrs. Smith lifts her chin, basking in the sunlight of her own maternal pride. After rubbing her eyes, she opens her book and continues reading.
The other dimensions are where deeper possibilities—even alternate realities—may come into play. But explaining the existence of additional dimensions can be tricky. According to the Superstring Theory, inside the fifth dimension, and perhaps even the sixth dimension, other worlds may exist. If a human could see through these dimensions, could we travel back in time or explore different versions of the future?
Time travel? What if a person gets lost and can’t find her way back? Mrs. Smith’s heart pounds against her ribs like a monster begging to be released from prison.
Bending time, even realities. That’s what Tibet had promised.
“But how?” She slaps her hand across her mouth. Passengers shoot daggers at her from behind their bloodshot eyes. “Excuse me. Didn’t mean to disturb.” A scowl fades from the passenger’s face who sits across the aisle, but Mrs. Smith’s question persists.
How would her granddaughter—the descendent of sharecroppers, slaves, preachers, teachers, and farmers—distort something as powerful as time?
“How many dimensions are there?” she asks out loud, as though the author of the book is sitting beside her.
“Ten . . . that we know of.” The man with the fading scowl points at her book. “I wrote it.”
She gasps. “Professor Albert?”
“That’s me. In the flesh.”
“N-n-nice to meet you, sir.” Mrs. Smith nods as she clutches a handful of her paisley dress. “I’ve never met a professor before. That is, until my Jeanette went off to Spelman College.”
“Well, how do you do, Missus . . . ?”
“Smith. Just fine, sir.” She clears her throat. “Why are you riding the bus, Professor?”
“Is it a crime?”
“I mean . . . it’s just that usually a well-off white man owns a car and drives himself wherever he wants to go.”
“I own a car, but I can’t drive.” She wants to ask why, but that would be rude. “Multiple sclerosis. My legs are too weak to drive.” He quells her curiosity with nine words.
“But your mind is still strong.”
“For now. My memory’s going the way of my legs—south.” He chuckles, hiding his pain. He wears a mask too. “If you have any questions about the universe and its dimensions, ask. I’ll try to remember what I wrote.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Smith’s heart flutters. How can she help the man? Even a rich man can be unfortunate. Maybe a Greyhound bus heading South isn’t as dangerous as she’d thought.
A few seconds later, the answer to her question about bending time comes in the form of a deep knowing. The answer is simple: her granddaughter would learn how to bend time—and thus, her reality—by tapping into a source of power higher than the fourth dimension, something or someone omniscient, all-knowing, all-wise, and all-seeing, not limited by the constructs of time. The great I AM. Ever present in humanity’s past, present, and future.
Another question lingers. The professor won’t know the answer to that question, so she whispers a prayer, “Promise me. Don’t take my grandbaby too.”
Chapter 3
3—Grandmothers Can Lie Too
July 7, 1981
Georgia
Mrs. Smith adjusts her mask, hiding behind a glaze of faux smiles and feigned bravery while she fiddles with the frayed edges of her shawl. The professor glances at her, and she forces a smile across her mahogany face—but her mouth dries and a cold sweat drips down the nape of her neck, slithering down her back.
It’s not the 1960s anymore.
You’re okay.
But she isn’t okay now—and she wasn’t okay back then. Neither was her son, James.
Oblivious of her silent fears, the bus driver shuttles her deeper and deeper into the Southern night. Goin’ down the river, as the old folks used to say.
“Mister Driver, don’t stop—not for nothing and no one,” she says beneath her breath. Her slender frame shudders, but she must act brave and swallow her fears, because in less than twenty-four hours, her only surviving child, Jeanette Cavanaugh, would give birth to a baby girl, transforming Mrs. Gertrude Smith into Grandma Gertrude.
A baby. A new life, with new dreams all wrapped up inside velvet-soft skin. New hope. New possibilities—and no demon roaming Earth would be stopping that plan. She prays that her hopes won’t mimic those Russian dolls with their hidden layers.
Like a deception masquerading beneath a smiling face—and sometimes, even a laugh.
But still a lie.
Fathered by the prince of lies—the Prince of Power of the Air—before he hid his truth beneath the veneer of fake joviality, all tucked between the first and the fourth dimensions of the universe.
Be brave.
Mrs. Smith dabs her face with a lace handkerchief, removing any signs of pain and making sure her tears don’t melt her mask.
Chapter 4
4—Nomed
One Cosmic Revolution
Immortals—Time without End
Deception. Lies. Misplaced joviality. It is his modus operandi, and so it remains the devil’s business to convince a human to laugh at another’s misfortune. Demons always laugh, but that doesn’t mean they are happy.
Nomed waits in a cold cave, which is rather ironic because he’s in hell.
Tsk tsk. Don’t pity him.
After the moon drips with blood, he will come for you. Until then, Nomed lives at his summer residence, prepping for his meeting with humanity: Armageddon, the day he will scrub Earth clean of its invaders—you, and that girl, the Orphan Dreamer, the one who bends time, sticking her big nose where it doesn’t belong.
Nomed’s plan?
It’s simple: doubt.
Doubt in God’s love leads to hopelessness, then depression, and finally death by suicide. Nomed finishes the blueprint of his war plans and lays down his pencil. Armageddon, the war that will finish off the Orphan Dreamer.
Her end, his beginning.
Nomed smirks. Leaning back against the frigid wall of granite, he laughs until the sun sets and the moon shines. Because when the Orphan Dreamer dies, who will protect Earth’s intruders—you—from Nomed and his army coming to reclaim what they once ruled?
Time’s up.
Moving day has arrived.
Chapter 5
5—Grandmothers Can Lie Too
July 7, 1981
Georgia
Mrs. Smith clutches her paisley carpetbag to her chest. The bag’s tattered fabric protects two priceless gifts: a small weathered mirror and a patchwork quilt that hides a secret map within its patterns.
Promising safety within the darkness, sleep lures Mrs. Smith to rest, but she refuses to close her eyes. The Negro Motorist Green Book suggests that danger lurks in the shadows of highways for even alert passengers meandering deep into the South—and that danger increases for unsuspecting and sleeping travelers.
If a monster with two legs and two arms was going to beat her with iron pipes, hammers, and chains, she would be awake.
The beating.
Followed by screams.
Rivulets of blood.
And even death.
Her body trembles. Please, God. Don’t force me to remember. Bitterness sours her breath. Eyes heavy, Mrs. Smith gazes past the window at the night sky. Moonlight breaks past a bank of low-hanging clouds, casting shadows down the spines of gangly pines.
What she wouldn’t give for a touch of the professor’s mental
fogginess. She had broken her promise, and broken promises demand payment. Since that dreadful day—May 14, 1961—Mrs. Smith had refused to ride any Greyhound or Trailways bus ever again.
No matter what.
Then, six months ago, the phone rang.
“Momma.”
“Jeanette! How’s my little girl?”
“Forty plus, and guess what?
“Give me some good news, Tiger.”
“Momma, this summer, you’re going to become a grandma.”
A grandmother. That was good news, until she remembered that Austin and Jeanette lived in Florida, and she lived in North Carolina. Too far to walk and no car to drive. Only mode of transportation left: a bus ride.
“I’m sorry, son.” Gertrude squeezes her eyes shut, and the fateful memories flood her mind. Dear God! She bites down on her lower lip to keep herself from screaming. Why didn’t you protect him? You run out of angels?
It is a truth not always universally acknowledged that no hardworking, tax-paying American teenager deserved such a beating. He had purchased that ticket at regular price, believing it earned him the right to sit somewhere besides the back of a bus. But the group of homegrown American terrorists who invaded the bus station in Anniston, Alabama, believed differently. It was only twenty years ago that an angry mob of three hundred beat the brains out of those Freedom Riders in the land of the free and the brave—America.
That bloodthirsty mob almost beat James to death right then and there.
Seven days later, he died at home, in his mother’s arms. Mrs. Smith cries softly as she remembers her son. “James,” she says, the words barely crossing her lips.
“Miss.” A familiar voice jars her back into the present. She sniffs hard and wipes her face with the back of her hand before facing the professor.
“Sir?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m just fine, sir.” Smiling, she dons the mask again, wearing it well. But inside, the truth screams, “Jesus, don’t you take my granddaughter!”
