Lovecraft Country

by Matt Ruff

  Most of the vandals saw her coming and ducked down, but one of them was facing the wrong way and for a moment she had a clear shot, the gun’s twin barrels aligning perfectly with the space between the hooded figure’s shoulder blades. Then time seemed to stop and Letitia heard her father’s voice again, reminding her of the rules of this particular game: who could be shot in the back with impunity, and who couldn’t, and what lay at stake if you confused the two.

  The moment passed. Letitia lowered the gun without firing, and the figure whose life she’d just spared laughed at her and waved as the trucks rolled away down the street.

  Inside the Winthrop House, the telephone began to ring. It rang a dozen times before Letitia heard it over the pounding of blood in her ears and a dozen times more before she walked, stiff-legged, to pick it up.

  Heavy breathing on the line. “Who is this?” Letitia said.

  A male voice answered: “This is the only warning you’re going to get. Next time, we’re coming inside.”

  He hung up. Letitia put the phone down and walked in blind circles of rage, her legs finally carrying her back to the dining room.

  On the dining room table, the scattered playing cards had been gathered and stacked neatly to one side. A chessboard Letitia had never seen before had been set up with the black pieces on her side of the table. The white king’s pawn was already advanced two squares from its starting position.

  Letitia stared unblinking at the board for a long time. Then she leaned the shotgun carefully against the wall and sat down and put her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands. “All right,” she said nodding. “All right.”

  And then she said: “What do you want to play for?”

  Friday, dusk.

  They came in through the kitchen. The silence that had lain on the house since just before sunset was broken by the smash and tinkle of glass as a crowbar knocked out the windowpane above the sink. A boy wearing a grain sack for a hood and work gloves that still stank faintly of manure pulled himself up into the window. Crouching unsteadily with one foot on the sill and the other on the back edge of the sink, he pulled a snub-nosed revolver from beneath his belt. The .38, which had seemed so potent when he’d taken it from his father’s dresser, now felt small and ineffectual, and his hand shook as he extended it in front of him, expecting the German shepherd to come leaping from the shadows.

  The shepherd did not come leaping. Worried that the grain sack was interfering with his hearing, the boy pulled it off, exposing a head of blond hair. Behind him in the alley a voice whispered hoarsely: “Jesus, Dougie!”

  “Shut up,” he said. He listened to the house. Nothing. With his finger on the trigger of the revolver he climbed down clumsily from the sink, in the process nearly shooting himself in the thigh.

  The back door was locked and bolted. The bolt was stuck and he had to hammer it open, making a godawful racket and chipping the revolver’s grip. He opened the door and two other boys came in, one carrying a gasoline can and the other the crowbar.

  “Where’s that fucking dog?” the boy with the gas can said.

  “I don’t know,” said the blond boy. “I thought it’d be out back. Maybe she took it with her.”

  “She didn’t take it with her,” said the boy with the crowbar. “I told you. She drove off with some other nigger an hour ago. The dog wasn’t in the car.”

  “Well it’s not in here.” Relaxing, eyes adjusted to the dimness, the blond boy surveyed the kitchen, so much larger than the one in his own house. “You believe this place?” Trailing his hand along a countertop, he went over to the dining room door.

  “Dougie, where are you going?” said the boy with the gas can. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “I want to look around first.”

  “Dougie . . .” But the blond boy went into the dining room, and after a moment the boy with the gas can followed him. The boy with the crowbar started to follow as well, but as he crossed the kitchen he felt a sudden draft.

  The blond boy continued through the dining room into the atrium. At his first glimpse of Hecate he started and swung the revolver up, but then he laughed.

  “What is that?” said the boy with the gas can. He pulled off his hood and squinted at the goddess. “Is that . . . some kind of voodoo thing?”

  Together they walked forward until they were standing directly in front of Hecate, the blond boy grinning, the other boy frowning.

  “Come on, Dougie. Let’s torch the place and get out of here.”

  “Relax,” said the blond boy. “Where’s Darren?”

  “I don’t know. He was right behind me.”

  “Go get him.”

  The other boy sighed with exasperation, but then he set the gas can on the floor and turned and walked back to the kitchen. The blond boy stepped into the dry fountain pool. He looked up smiling into Hecate’s face and reached out a hand to cup one of her breasts. “Hey babe,” he said.

  He heard a sharp hiss and something nipped him in the shin. He yelped more in surprise than pain and stumbled back, tripping over the marble ring. He fell hard and sprang up again, scrambling for the gun, which he had dropped, thinking, the dog. But there was no dog, only Hecate, motionless on her pedestal.

  “Ronnie!” he called. “Darren! Where the hell are you guys?”

  Beneath the gallery, the elevator gate rattled open. The boy ducked sideways to get a clear view of it, but the elevator was a well of darkness among shadows. “Who’s there?” he said. “Darren? Don’t screw around, I’ll blow your damn head off!”

  Something was there. Not Darren. Not Ronnie. Not the dog. Suddenly he wanted very badly to run, but he looked down and saw to his horror that his feet were sliding forward, gliding over the tile as though the floor were greased. “No,” he said, “no way,” and he raised his arm to fire but the .38 flew from his grasp and then hands were on him, a grip of iron, dragging him screaming into the darkness.

  They came home late, and laughing. Atticus’s Colorado trip had gone well enough for George to slip him a little extra cash, and he’d decided to spend the bonus taking Letitia out on the town. They’d had dinner and gone dancing. Letitia was flying high as they rounded the corner, but the sight of the fire truck in front of the Winthrop House sobered her instantly. Atticus barely had a chance to slow down before she was out of the car and running for the front door.

  Inside the house all the lights were on and men in uniform were nosing around. A policeman turned from ogling the fountain to challenge her: “Who the hell are you?”

  “I live here,” Letitia said. “What’s going on?”

  “You work here? You the maid?”

  “I live here.”

  Both the first-and second-floor elevator gates were open and a pair of firemen were up on the gallery looking down into the shaft. The elevator itself was between the two floors, with the bottom of the car suspended just below the top of the ground-floor doorway. A blond head stuck out through the narrow gap, on the verge of being guillotined. Letitia, who’d seen a similar gruesome accident in a housing project once, thought the blond boy might already be dead, his throat crushed. But then one of the firemen jumped down, none too delicately, onto the roof of the elevator car, and the jostling brought the boy to life, screaming hysterically.

  Atticus entered as the screams were trailing off into whimpers. “What happened?”

  “Kid broke in to vandalize the place,” the policeman said, indicating the gas can on the floor. “Not sure how he got himself stuck, but one of the neighbors heard him howling and called us.”

  “I want him arrested,” Letitia said. “And charged.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll charge him.” The policeman looked at Atticus. “Is this really your house?”

  “Her house,” said Atticus.

  “And you just moved in, right?” The policeman eyed the gas can and nodded to himself. “You mind my asking how you managed to afford a place like this?”

  “Yeah,”
said Letitia, “I mind.”

  Another policeman emerged from the dining room. “We found two more in the basement,” he announced.

  “In the basement?” said the first policeman. “Are they . . .”

  “No, they’re alive. More or less.” The second policeman grinned. “White as sheets and covered in bug bites, but still breathing.” He paused to flick something from his sleeve, then jerked a thumb at Letitia and Atticus. “Who’s this, the help?”

  “Rent’s due the first of the month,” Letitia said. “You have use of the kitchen, laundry room, and up and downstairs bathrooms. The basement’s off limits, and so’s the corner room upstairs marked ‘Private.’”

  The new tenant, Mr. Fox, stood nodding in the dining room doorway. From behind him came a stamp of hard-soled shoes hopscotching on the atrium tile. “Celia,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” said Letitia. “Your room is next to Mrs. Wilkins’s. She’s hard of hearing, so noise doesn’t bother her, and she loves children. If you need someone to watch your daughter while you’re at work, I’m sure she’ll be glad to.”

  Mr. Fox nodded again. He gestured at the chess set on the table. “That your game?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Black has checkmate in three.”

  “I know,” Letitia said. “I’m just waiting for my opponent to figure that out. You play?”

  “Now and then,” Mr. Fox said. “A little gin rummy, too.”

  Letitia smiled. “You’ve come to the right house, then. Why don’t you and your daughter go take a look at your room? Just turn right off the top of the stairs and follow the hall. It’s the room with the green curtains. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Mr. Fox nodded once more and turned away, calling his daughter’s name.

  Letitia stood up and went to the window. A moving van was parked in front of the cottage across the street, and two of the other houses had FOR SALE signs on their lawns. “Bye-bye,” Letitia said waving, and behind her on the chessboard the white king tottered and fell.

  “Mr. Archibald?”

  The Realtor, leaving his office for the night, found Atticus standing out in the hall. “Yes?”

  “Atticus Turner,” Atticus said. “I’m a friend of Letitia Dandridge’s. She bought the Winthrop House?”

  Mr. Archibald locked his office door and slipped the key in his pocket. “I’m afraid I don’t have any other properties like that one,” he said. “But if you’d like to come back during business hours—”

  “I’m not in the market.”

  “No? Then I’m not sure how I can help you.”

  “It’s about the Winthrop House. I have a question.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mr. Archibald. “If Miss Dandridge has a concern, she knows how to contact me. But I don’t know you. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Rather than step aside, Atticus widened his stance. “There’s a picture of the Winthrops on the dining-room wall,” he said. “Something about it’s been nagging at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. Then yesterday I found this box of other photographs down in the basement, and I figured out what the problem is. In the dining-room photo, you can’t see Mr. Winthrop’s right hand.” As he said this he looked at Mr. Archibald’s hands, which were small and pale and unadorned by even a wedding band. “In some of the other pictures, though, you can. You can see the big silver ring he wore. And then there’s this . . .” He brought out a picture showing two men in front of a shiny black roadster. “Assuming that’s a new-model Ford, I’d say this was taken about twenty years ago. And the man with Mr. Winthrop looks an awful lot like Samuel Braithwhite. You familiar with that name?”

  The Realtor didn’t even glance at the photo. “Get out of my way, Mr. Turner.”

  “Penumbra Real Estate,” Atticus said. “Is that a Braithwhite family company, or is it owned by the Order? And which do you work for?”

  “I’ll ask you to move one more time. Then I’m going into my office and calling the police.”

  Atticus sidestepped just enough for Mr. Archibald to squeeze past him. The Realtor moved swiftly down the hall and had reached the elevator when Atticus said: “I spoke to Mr. Bailey, too.”

  The Realtor paused, his finger on the call button.

  “He does know you,” Atticus continued, “and he admitted to doing the occasional deal with you, but he was real surprised to hear you described him as a partner. That day Letitia and Ruby were supposed to meet with him? He says he never called you. Turns out the cops grabbed him on his way over here and kept him handcuffed in the back of a patrol car for two hours, asking him about some liquor store robbery. Meantime, you stepped in and stole his customers. He’s still pretty upset about that.”

  “Not too upset to take his share of the commission,” Mr. Archibald said.

  “Yeah, he said you cut him in to keep him quiet. But he’s still thinking about reporting you to the Realtor’s Association. Trouble is, he thinks they’d be less concerned about you cheating Negroes than doing business with them in the first place.”

  “The way of the world,” said Mr. Archibald, pressing the elevator button. “Still, what does it matter? Hal and I both have our money, and your friend has a very nice house. Everyone’s happy.”

  “For now,” said Atticus. “But you need to tell Caleb Braithwhite that whatever he’s up to, his business is with me. Letitia’s not a part of it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Turner.”

  “Yeah, you do. And there’s something else you should know: I looked up your home address in the phone book. Can’t say I’ve been to the neighborhood before. But if anything were to happen to Letitia, I’m sure I could find my way.”

  The elevator arrived. Mr. Archibald remained in the hallway a moment more, mouth open, groping vainly for a retort.

  Then, like a ghost, he was gone.

  ABDULLAH’S BOOK

  As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you are sincerely disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you . . . At $25 a month for me, and $2 a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to $11,680. Add to this the interest for the time our wages has been kept back and deduct what you paid for our clothing and three doctor’s visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio.

  —letter from Jourdan Anderson to his former owner, August 7, 1865

  The Monday before Thanksgiving, George and Montrose went to the bank to retrieve the Book of Days. The Book was a ledger that contained a full accounting of their great-grandmother Adah’s servitude: the labors she’d performed, the indignities she’d suffered, and the wages and penalties she was owed. Adah had died in 1902, but the family continued to keep the Book, meeting annually to calculate and record the interest on the still unpaid debt.

  Every year, after adding a new line to the ledger, they’d tell the story of how the Book had come to be: how Adah had been born into slavery on a Georgia plantation in 1840; how at the age of seven she’d been set to work in the fields; how she had toiled there until November 22, 1864, when Union soldiers with torches had arrived at the plantation gate; how she had then become one of the thousands of ex-slaves following in the wake of Sherman’s army; how in February of 1865, sick with typhoid, she’d been consigned to a hospital camp set up in an old sanitarium outside Savannah; how, through the haze of her fever, she’d gradually come to realize that the sanitarium was not a place of healing but a death trap meant to reduce the population of freed Negroes; how, still ill, she and another former slave named Noah Pridewell had contrived to escape; how they’d made their way west, coming, after many m
ore trials, to Kansas, where they settled and married; and how finally in 1878, on the fourteenth anniversary of her emancipation, she’d begun working on the Book.

  Adah’s daughter, Ruth, did most of the actual writing; though Adah had learned to read, she had no penmanship. What she did have was perfect recall. By concentrating on a given date, she could summon a memory of everything she had done, and everything done to her, from the moment she woke up until the moment she fell asleep.

  Ruth recorded each day’s labors on a separate line in the ledger. Where appropriate, Adah added, in her own hand, symbols representing insults she’d suffered: Whippings. Beatings. Other.

  In the matter of wages Adah deferred to the wisdom of her old master, Gilchrist Burns. Burns was in the habit of renting out his slaves when they weren’t needed on the plantation, and he made no secret of what he charged, so the slaves all knew exactly how much he valued their labor. As a child, Adah “earned” twenty cents for a full day’s work. By age sixteen, she was up to a dollar a day—the same as a male field hand, Master Burns being remarkably egalitarian when it came to money destined for his own pocket.

  For the penalties, Adah consulted her Bible. She charged twenty-seven dollars and twenty-six cents for each whipping, 27:26 being the verse in Matthew’s Gospel where the Savior was flogged. Her price for the most common of the “other” insults, twenty-two dollars and a quarter, was based in Deuteronomy.

  Ruth entered the figures in neat columns, subtotaled and summed them. The final tally, after the subtraction of living expenses but before interest, came to $8,817.29—a small fortune at the time.

  But for Adah it was the count of days that carried the greater significance. Holding the completed Book in her hand, she realized that she’d performed a kind of exorcism. Though her memories of slavery remained as sharp as ever, their weight had been transferred to the ledger’s pages. Now doubly and truly freed, she set about living the remainder of her life with a peace she hadn’t known before.