by Y G Maupin
“Two people died, Sharon. There’s nothing good about that.”
“Grum-py. I know two people died, brainiac. I’m the one who told you. I’m sorry that they’re dead and all but this is real!” Sharon was gleeful. T stopped to look at her. She knew the woman was going with the excited emotion of having ancillary knowledge about what could possibly be happening ,but this was one thing she wasn’t excited to be right about.
“I know, Shar, but how many more people are going to die until we figure this out?” starting to walk again they made their way to front doors. “What if we never figure it out? Are we just going to watch our friends and family get killed so the dead can come back?” T felt sick to her stomach. She needed to not have the heavy caffeine load from her triple espresso right now. Once inside the building, they went their separate ways, Sharon closer to the language arts department and T to the science halls. Unlocking her room and switching on only half her lights, T found comfort in her work and went to her desk. By 7:30 there were close to four students that would make their way in before the class to finish homework or read in silence without being harassed by other students. For whatever reason, they preferred T’s class than the library, as even there they were outcasts themselves. T got up and started to write on the white board at a quarter to eight. By five after eight, her class was full and buzzing with the news of the police activity that T had to quiet them for the morning announcements.
“Good Morning, Mustangs! What a wonderful day in Texas! Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
As the announcements droned on, T passed out graded paperwork, walking the rows of her classroom. She liked to get up and walk around to see what her students were doing, make sure they weren’t damaging desks or books, like her third period class liked to do and also to keep them and herself awake. She could see a few passing notes behind her, as cell phones were not allowed to be on in her classroom, but she let that pass. She knew that it was a small enough town and news of the murder of two prominent towns people was the hottest topic in town for months. She kept the lights half on and used her overhead projector to go over the test that they would be taking at the end of the week before they went out on Spring Break. She would keep them half on for the rest of her class schedule that day.
Anesta parked her car in the rear of the funeral home but decided to walk in from the front door to give Anjolie an official tour. Anjolie had remarked that she had been going there for over fifteen years and even remembered what it looked like before the remodeling they had done to update most of the viewing rooms and chapel. Anesta passed the reception desk, where her much younger cousin sat at, usually doing her makeup and on her phone. She made her way to the back, past the viewing rooms going towards her office. Flipping the switch, she entered the closet sized room with an enormous cherry wood desk. Anjolie ran her hand over the picture of her parents and the small one of the whole family together before their tragedies that sat on Anesta’s desk. The light was bright and harsh, one of the many reasons that Anesta preferred to lounge and work in the casket supply room, where it was cooler and considerably darker. It was too much to ask for someone to come in and change the light bulb for her when she could have easily done it, but just the same she kept that office as a presence to the rest of the family that she was involved and had just as much right as they did in the running of the business.
“I need coffee. Let’s see what’s going on in the gossip area. You keep an ear out for crazy talk that sounds like spirits, ok?” Anesta strategized with her sister. She nodded and they made their way over to the room where the drivers, salespeople and most of their family members that were part of the owners would sit and watch the money come in.
Mikell, a driver, was talking to two of the salesmen about the upcoming finale of the college basketball finals. Wagers were common in this part of the building, every time of the year. He nodded at Anesta as she came in and grabbed a mug to pour herself some coffee. He was a great listener and was always there with any scoops inside and outside Dukes Funeral Home.
“Any word on the Henderson deaths last night? I know we won’t be getting that family’s business, that’ll more than likely go to Bunkers Funeral, but just wondering if anyone has said anything about what happened?”
Everyone was shocked and words tumbled out as they all tried to outdo each other about their run ins with Olive Henderson, since she was the most visible of them all. Mikell looked up from his phone having received a text.
“I’ve got some people in the know finding out for me. I know this happened before my time, but does anyone remember the Olive Henderson scandal from the seventies?”
Henry, a large bellied man that worked in the casket room and took their deliveries stepped forward. Wiping his glasses with his handkerchief he placed them back on his large face. “I remember when it happened. It was an outrage, but her family had money and the police didn’t care about no black man getting shot. From what I heard”
He was cut off by Anesta’s aunt Libby, “What happened was a married black man got involved with a white college girl from a rich family. Got himself shot on the spot in her bedroom and they dragged him out downstairs right past his wife who was the housekeeper for the family. They said it was a robbery gone bad, that he had meant to steal but that Olive had caught him and he was about to rape her before her daddy shot him and saved them all from the big bad black man.” She huffed.
“Like I was saying,” Henry continued. “Alfred Brown, who we all knew as Zeke, had been a musician all his life and gave up the traveling life when he met his wife Beverly. She convinced him to teach music and to stay off the road. He had been teaching Olive for coming up on two months when they were already starting to get cozy. Her poppa caught them naked. Forced them to dress and then he shot him. Zeke’s poor wife had to sit around as he died in their front yard after being dragged outside and then go clean up the blood off the stairs and rugs after the police and ambulance had left. She lost her husband and her only means of real support that night because of course they weren’t going to keep the wife of an accused thief and rapist at their home cooking and cleaning for them.” He shook his head. “Beverly was already in her early fifties when that happened, and she couldn’t find a job in the area to work so she had to go back to South Dallas where they had both worked hard to leave.”
“How do you know all this?” Anesta asked.
“We all knew. The whole town knew what had really gone on. It just happened to be that my uncle was the first black officer in town and of course they called him in for it. I remember I was fifteen at the time.” Here he paused, and looked like he was about to say something, thought better of it and let it go.
“That was one of the most uptight, meanest women to ever walk this part of Texas,” another salesperson added.
“Hush.” Aunt Libby scolded. “We don’t speak ill of the dead, especially not in this funeral home.” Aunt Libby waddled over to where Anesta and Anjolie were standing and looked Anesta in the eyes. With her head she made a motion to the door and walked out. Anesta and Anjolie followed.
In the hallway, Aunt Libby sighed and was the calmest Anesta had ever seen her. “I knew someday that woman would get hers. Now I know that Alfred wasn’t free from sin, but that woman had no business messing with another woman’s man and bringing him further into ruin. God has his day and vengeance is his, so I’m glad that she’s gone.” Anesta was shocked at her Aunt's confession. She was normally so reserved and ready to bless the hearts of all.
“I remember how much Beverly suffered after Alfred was killed. It was a good thing they didn’t have little children, it would have been harder still on her. They were already grown and gone by that time, her diabetes got worse and she eventually had both her feet amputated so she really couldn’t work after that. I think it wasn’t more than eight years later that she died from not taking care of herself.” Aunt Libby looked down. “Anyways, good riddance to trash. Now let’s get our day started l
ike the Lord would want us to.
Beryl held on to the door frame of her bathroom. The woman was enraged, that was without question, but in Beryl’s eyes her power would be nil.
“What are you doing here? Get out of my house, get out, get out, get out!” Beryl shouted, feeling her throat strain with the force of her words. The spirit’s face scrunched up and rushed toward her. Beryl put her arms up defensively and swung at the air catching nothing. Carla swirled around Beryl in a counter clockwise movement, trailing her like a voluminous cloud of ghostliness. Carla reached in and struggled with the older, heavier woman. She had only tried this one time with the officers and she was only able to last a few minutes then. Pulling her head through as if entering a small window, Carla strained and felt herself melding into Beryl’s body. Beryl’s mouth was rounded as she felt the force and pressure of the spirit occupy her. Her vision failing as Carla’s attempted to take over, Beryl rushed to the bathroom sink to look in the mirror. She could still see herself. Hair matted from sleep and lines from the sheets marked on her face. With a sudden jerk she was on the ground, convulsing and rolling. Coughing, she sounded like she was choking and realized she was trying to choke herself. Well that wasn’t going to work. Beryl started slamming her back into the floor, not tile, you cheap condo developers, but laminate marble was what she was facing. She rolled all over and short of banging her head on the toilet or tub, she grabbed the handle of the linen closet in the room and started opening it forcefully on the top of her head. Carla’s hold on the woman’s body was not going to last as long as she looked around for a way to kill her. Seeing the toilet, she crawled fighting against the older woman’s dogged determination to not lose this battle. Beryl looked up. She was fighting to stop from being dragged closer so she reached out to the magazine rack and swung it over and over her body, flagellating herself with the wrought iron holder. It seemed to only have stopped Carla for a moment, as the dragging stopped for a few seconds.
Breathing hard, Beryl rolled over onto her hands and knees and quickly crawled towards the door. Suddenly she was being forcefully dragged back into the bathroom on her stomach. Carla having left Beryl’s body stood over it. She flipped her over onto her back and took the magazine rack over her head to smash it down on Beryl’s face. Beryl’s forearms flew up to catch most of the hit, with only part of the wrought iron coming down on the bridge of her nose. She saw stars and felt the blood immediately run from her nostrils. Now Beryl was angry. With a great force she hopped up to her feet, closed her eyes and started to chant.
“Vole vole vole vole. Take flight. Take flight.” Over and over she chanted, as she had practiced for the last five years, scaring the cats and almost getting caught by her neighbors when she forgot to close the curtains that one time. Beryl began to levitate and spin with her arms outstretched now, passing through Carla’s body.
“Vole Vole Vole, Take flight take flight”
At first Carla was taken aback. She had never thought to have encountered anything like that when she was alive and now from the dead, she was starting to realize that there was more to people out here than she thought. Mesmerized she watched as the large woman spun with her arms out, palms up, head tilted back, eyes closed, chanting, “Vole Vole Vole, Take Flight Take Flight Take Flight.” It was the oddest spectacle, almost resembling what one would imagine an alien abduction would look like. Being levitated up and out into a spaceship against your will. Except, this is not an alien encounter. This was a combined spirit and witch encounter and the abduction was being thwarted by the large woman in the unicorn printed pajamas.
Beryl seemed to spin faster now, a whirling dervish, and colors blazing as everything about her seemed to be caught up in a silver fire undulating over her. As she spun tighter and tighter until she resembled a large, silver streaked top. She floated higher to the ceiling in the condo and rotated there. Carla just stared. This was nothing like what she had planned. Shoot, no one plans for their victim to have flying powers. The human centrifuge was spinning and emanating a beautiful shiny glow of silver and white, no longer being distinguishable from her human shape. Carla just stood there, not knowing how long this would last. This woman was clearly not like any of the others she had ever known. Exhausted from the possession and fight, Carla slipped through the wall and left.
Nineteen
“Mrs. Webster?” The shy boy entered Sharon’s classroom. She smiled. Her incantation to bring him to her had worked.
“Hi Clay. I’m so glad you came. You forgot something.” She reached down at her side from her desk, and pulled out a navy hoodie with the high school mascot in white on the back.
“Uh thanks. I was looking for that,” he replied quietly. “I just wanted to say I was sorry about what I said on the field on Friday. It wasn’t right for me to talk like that to you when you were just trying to help. I feel bad, but mostly embarrassed,” he spoke to the floor, never looking up at Sharon.
Sharon smiled gently from her desk. “It’s ok. I need to remember that not all my students appreciate other people getting involved when they’re worried. I just want you to know that we’re glad you moved here and I’m always here to talk if you ever need to.” The young man looked up. The beginnings of a smile were forming at the edge of his lips. The bell rang for the next class.
“Well, thanks again for my hoodie. I was looking everywhere for it. Can’t believe I left it at my desk. Guess I better hurry to Coach Grady’s class.” He turned and walked out as her second period class filtered in. Sharon looked out at him from the window of her classroom door. Tall and lanky, he was a good kid in the wrong place.
Her next class was antsy and a tiny bit disruptive. “What’s going on with you all today?” she asked, wanting to be let in on the secret.
Jilly Hughes, who sat in front because of her inability to stop talking during class raised her hand. “There’s a lot of weird things going on around the school and town.” Turning in her seat to talk to the kids behind her she added. “My parents didn’t even want me to come to school today, they made my little brother and sister stay home but I snuck out!” turning back around laughing. “I can’t believe I snuck out to go TO school!” and at that the sounds of a single gunshot being fired down the end of their hallway.
Frantically and immediately, the students dove under their desks, chairs scraping, and backpacks swishing over the floor as they were pushed around. Sharon ran to the door, took a quick look out the window and locked the door, pulling the shade down on the small window. There were three more shots in succession, the students screaming each time the sound rang out. Sharon felt like her heart was going to beat out her chest. Looking over her students from around her desk, she counted to make sure that they were all the ones she had in her class. Referring to her seating chart, she noticed no one was missing today. All were accounted for. She slowed her breathing and waited. Some of the kids were crying quietly. It broke her heart. Tears started to stream down her face, and she bit her lips to prevent her from starting to sob.
An active shooter was something that they had practiced for all the time, during school and on break. She had promised Randall that if something like that happened, that she would do all that she could to keep herself and her students safe. But to never try to go out and talk someone out of shooting or to be the hero. Being in this situation in real life now, Sharon didn’t think she had the courage to stop anything. The minutes ticked past and there had been no additional gunfire. Her mind kept racing to her husband. The irony that it was possible she could be killed by gunfire in her line of work before his was not lost on her. Sirens were sounding outside, it was more than just police responding. The fire department, paramedics and the first ambulances would be following as well. She settled back when shouting was heard down the hallway. Her students started to whimper again and a total of seven shots were fired along with yelling. Sharon covered her ears with her hands and cried again.
Anesta was sitting in a sales room talking to a grieving
family that had recently lost an elderly uncle when Mikell slid by and poked his head in. “Pardon the interruption, but the high school is on lockdown. Active shooter. It’s on the news and I just got a text from my little cousin hiding in the library in a study cubicle.” Rushing out he went on to spread the word. Anesta looked at the stunned family.
“Do you have students or family working at the school?” Wide eyed they shook their heads. Anesta turned to Anjolie who was sitting next to her, invisible to the other family. Turning back to the customers, Anesta continued running down the necessary arrangements, hurrying to get them on their way. When they finally left, she was torn as to who to call first. It would be impossible to get in touch with Sharon or T, both teaching at the school. She would have to try Birdie. Hopefully, she was able to talk.
At the time Birdie was stretched out on the floor of Alice and Sarah’s study. The two older women had gone to the bookstore a street over and she had decided to stay back a moment before heading home to shower and change after the circus from the early morning. She didn’t have a charger in her purse or in her car, so at this point her phone was dead. She had also stayed behind a bit as she was hoping that Beverly had come back to tell them what she had seen. But she hadn’t come back or at least she hadn’t made herself known to Birdie. She needed to leave, so she picked up her cotton satchel and made her way out back to her car. Opening the door to her little economy car she heard the first responder sirens race by in front on Main street. She also observed that the number of spirits roaming in the neighborhood hadn’t changed that much but they were all moving in the direction of the sirens. Well, she thought, if someone dies they would want to be the first to be there. The thought stopped her cold. What was to prevent the spirit posse from starting such a large death event? She put her car in reverse and quickly made her way to her apartment to get refreshed, pack a jump bag with supplies, phone charger, her spare glasses and clothes to be a witch in. Or ,to at least look really cool if it turned into a showdown. She had to wait at one of the two stop lights in town as the second ambulance drove past. After a moment, the light finally turned green and she was able to go on her way. When she made it home, she grabbed a backpack that at one point had belonged to a yoga instructor/personal shaman that she had been sleeping with for a short time. It was burnt orange and had the flag of Tibet sewn on its back. Birdie was not a bag stuffer or panic preparer. She thought methodically and with the strategy of effective portability. Medicine and glasses, side pocket. Four pairs of panties and five pairs of socks, two woolen, rolled and at the bottom. If it was the end of days she could always barter with her extra underwear and socks. She heard that soldiers and prisoners did that. A pair of jeans and her favorite rolling stones shirt. Two flannel shirts and a sports bra, the one that actually fit. She always travelled with a tarot deck and her pendulum hung from her rear view mirror so that was ready. One last look around the apartment.
