by Eric Wilson
“There’s this wonderful place down on Elliston, though I believe it closes at five on Sundays.”
“Too bad.”
“Never fear.” Sammie’s eyes twinkled. “I know someone with a key.”
When we first found her, I thought she was dying.
Seconds after Sammie and I had unlocked the door and pushed into Black’s, I noted the glow of the kitchen light. That was unusual. Normally, only the track lighting over the espresso machine stays on overnight. As I moved around the bar, I saw that Anna Knight had polished the floors and counters to a radiant gleam. Her cleaning routine had been completed, yet lights were still shining at seven thirty.
“Hello?” I stepped past the upright freezer. “Anna?”
The sound of crying.
“Are you okay?” I pushed aside my own recent horrors and poked my head into the kitchen. “It’s me. Aramis.”
30
Anna Knight was seated against the tiled wall, one arm resting on the yellow mop bucket. When she lifted her chin, strands of hair slid along her cheeks and clung to her mouth. She looked shaken, but okay. No blood. No stab wounds.
“What happened?” I said. “What’re you still doing here?”
Sammie flashed me a quizzical look and knelt beside her. “Anna.” Her voice was low and soothing. “You’re safe, honey. Aramis is going to check the rest of the property while we get you cleaned up. Does that sound okay?”
She nodded. “I was so afraid of what he might do. I feel so … silly.”
“What in the world happened?” I said again.
Another look—more withering this time—from Sammie.
“What? We need to know what we’re dealing with.”
She circled her finger in the air, giving me the signal to move out.
I armed myself with a crescent wrench from beneath the triple sink. Since it was Sammie’s investment that got this place off the ground and since she signs the paychecks, I’ve formed this little habit of following her orders. She rarely pushes it—not her style—but if she told me to paint the walls hot pink, I’d do it.
With some game resistance, of course.
Flipping on lights as I went, I cleared the dining room and musicians’ stage in the corner, the drink prep area, storage room, hallway, bathrooms, and back office. I checked and locked front and back doors. Doused the main lights again.
“One Southern pecan latte,” I whispered, “coming right up.”
I turned on the grinder—nothing but the freshest for Miss Rosewood—then steamed milk as the machine extracted crema-heavy espresso into shot glasses. I measured flavoring into a black mug, added the shots, topped it with frothy milk.
She met me as I was wiping things down. I handed her the mug.
“For me?”
“For you.”
She took a cautious sip. “Mmm. You’re the best.”
“Why, thank you, milady.”
“Anna’s freshening up in the bathroom. She’s a bit addled.”
“Did she say what happened?”
“She did. When we first came in, though, she needed assurance she was safe, not badgering for explanations.”
“I didn’t badger.”
“You blundered blindly.”
“Ouch. Okay, I should’ve been more sensitive.” I began dispensing espresso for my own drink, though my attention was diverted by Sammie’s posture with hands on hips. “What’d I do now?”
“Aren’t you even going to ask what happened to her?”
I exhaled in exasperation. “First I’m in trouble for asking. Then I’m in trouble for not asking?”
She smiled. “All a matter of timing.”
“So what happened?”
“Anna’s ex is in town. Apparently he tracked her here from Orlando and came in demanding that she take him back. When she told him that was out of the question, he started yelling, cursing, making threats. She was afraid to step out of the store.”
“Did she call Metro?”
“By the time they arrived, he was gone. He could be anywhere out there, and basically the authorities have their hands tied. He didn’t actually commit a crime.”
“Seems wrong.”
“I agree.” Sammie sipped again at her latte. “I’m going to take her to my place tonight in case he knows where she lives. I have good security—Miss Eloise’s choice—and Digger always helps.”
“The Golden Retriever Canine Alarm.”
“But only you and I know he’s all bark.”
“I’ll follow you. Make sure you get there safely.”
“Thank you. In the morning I’ll call the temp agency to help cover the second shift. You’re opening, right? And Diesel comes in early. If I’m not mistaken, you both have classes on Monday nights.”
“Our final is tomorrow.”
“I’ll make sure the store’s covered. I’ll close, if need be.”
“You’re the best,” I echoed.
Standing in the passageway, Anna cleared her throat and gave a weak smile. She looked embarrassed. How long had she been standing there?
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“Not at all,” Sammie said, turning. “I’m just glad you’re safe and sound.”
“I feel so foolish. I didn’t mean to worry anyone. Was it wrong of me to stay in the store?”
I went to her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Your safety is most important, Anna. You hear me? Your ex didn’t touch you at all, did he? Anyway, I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry.” In my peripheral vision, Sammie was nodding. “I was worried about you when I came in. Just didn’t know how to express it.”
“I know you care, Aramis.”
“I’m clumsy showing it sometimes.”
“Oh, you’re a doll.” Anna looked to Sammie for affirmation. “Don’t you think he’s a doll?”
Sammie was still nodding, and I felt my heart skip a beat. But was she responding to Anna’s question or still approving my apology?
Not that it mattered. That’s what I told myself.
Atop brick-and-mortar pillars, the flicker of lead-paned lanterns illuminated the driveway’s entrance. A mailbox set into the stonework bore simple black letters reading Rosewood. My headlights cut swaths between the elm and poplar trees lining the route to the two-story plantation-style home with its vast wraparound porch. As we crested the drive’s gentle curve, starlight played over the fenced tennis court and a long, low building of stables. The old smokehouse, whitewashed and cut into the hill, conjured images of the antebellum life on this edge of modern Nashville.
Digger growled from the porch as I parked behind Sammie’s Mustang. He’s big and imposing, a stellar judge of character—which explains his affection for me—and protective of Sammie, who chose him from a neighbor’s purebred litter. As Anna and Sammie climbed the steps, I kept close behind.
“Attaboy, Digger.” I ruffled his ears. “As you can see, Anna, he’s a real terror.”
“He’s beautiful.”
Digger’s ears perked up, and he trotted to her side. From the stables a horse whinnied, while crickets serenaded us with the strident sounds of old violin strings.
“Thanks for the escort,” Sammie said.
“Nobody followed us. That’s a good thing.”
She unlocked the front door with its oval, beveled glass, then stepped inside and disarmed the alarm. “It’s getting late. You’re welcome to take the sofa, if you’d like.”
“Appreciate it. Johnny’s leaving early, though, and I wanna send him off.”
“I’ll be there too. Five a.m. sharp.”
“Think the band’s gonna be up and ready to go?”
“If not, they’ll be hitching a ride to Atlanta.”
“Sammie, you’re such a hard-nose.”
“All an act, of course. I learned it from you.”
My mind flashed to the airport, to my scuffle with Mr. Hillcrest. I took one step down and turned. “For me,” I said, “it’s no act.”
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“That may be. But your rougher side’s only a remnant of the old you.”
“Remnants. Sometimes I wonder if they’re all I have to work with.”
“Aramis, honestly. Stop your navel gazing and go get some rest.”
In the brownstone’s shadows, Freddy C was waiting to talk to me. Bearded, layered in heavy clothes, he was a formidable sight.
“Hey,” I said. “You shouldn’t be lurking around late at night.”
“That’s my secret. That’s how I do it.”
“Do what?”
He cupped his hand into a C. “Fight crime.”
“Okay. Listen, Freddy. I don’t know what your deal is, but I need to know the truth. Last night did you hurt Felicia in any way?”
“If only I’d got there sooner.”
“Yes or no. Did you do anything to her?”
He clenched his jaw. “No. You must believe me.”
“You don’t know anything about that old van or the lady who was inside? You didn’t happen to go scissors-crazy today and cut someone’s hair?”
He took a step back, then glanced away. “Nobody believes. No believers.”
“I wanna believe you. But what were you doing out there, huh?”
“The envelope. Did you get it?”
“I got it. Tell me about that tattoo of the ax. I need tangibles.”
“Too dangerous. Not till tomorrow.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, stirring a stale odor. “Then he’ll be gone.”
“Who? The leader of the Kraftsmen?”
“I know where he lives. Might know a way inside.”
“What’s his name? Tell me that much.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll meet you at Black’s.”
“I open the store and don’t get off till two.”
“Two it is. Two o’clock.”
“His name,” I insisted. “Gimme something to know you’re sincere.”
“Just a nickname—that’s all I know.”
“Cough it up.”
“Chigger.” Freddy’s eyes darted along the sidewalk. “I gotta go, gotta keep moving. Good-bye.”
I slipped inside. A note from Johnny lay on the entryway bookcase, letting me know he’d turned in early and planned to see me at his morning departure. Did he believe me about Mom? Could I fault him for taking charge of his dream?
No. It wouldn’t be right to keep him here, not now.
I felt alone, empathizing with the words Sammie had spoken over dinner.
As I moved toward my bedroom, the wood planking carried the sound of my footsteps in front of me so that I felt I was chasing a figment of myself down the hall. I set the two Fauxbergé eggs on my windowsill, beside the empty bullet casing, the bloody razor blade, and the ebony memento from my mom.
I tucked strands of her hair into the box, clinging to my belief.
At my bedroom computer, I decided to investigate amnesia. If Mom’s mind had short-circuited during the attack at the riverbank, she may have been pulled from the water without any knowledge of what had happened, possibly even without her own identity. It was possible presumptions about her death had curtailed the authorities’ search.
In the mideighties, identification techniques were less sophisticated and, by comparison, poorly organized. Maybe Mom had been stretched out in a hospital room and plugged into a machine—a Jane Doe.
I printed out some selected pages and plopped onto my bed.
I read how under normal circumstances the temporal lobe’s hippocampi use a process of consolidation to move short-term memory into long-term. Chemical changes then embed each memory for future access. But in an amnesiac, physical or psychological factors interrupt that consolidation. A head injury during a car accident could terminate the embedding process so that any recollection of those moments before the crash would be erased.
In the case of dissociative amnesia, defense mechanisms and incidents of high stress can cut off the brain’s storage feed. While new memories might be stored in the retrograde state, prior events are compromised.
Physical trauma. Psychological. In Mom’s case, they were both present.
Despite family tensions, long-held secrets, and a bullet in her leg, she had fought to survive, throwing herself over the edge into the cold, churning river. Evidently she had avoided the second bullet. But she could’ve hit a rock beneath the surface, jarring her memory.
I closed my eyes and imagined her washing downriver, being discovered by some well-meaning rancher’s wife. Wouldn’t such a person report it to the police or local medical officials? Yet what if Mom had been found by one of her attacker’s accomplices? Where would she have been hidden?
At the Frist, she had referred to her abductor as her husband.
Could that be?
I didn’t want to think of the abuses she might have suffered. After all these years, was my mom still the same person? Had they stripped away everything that had made her Dianne Lewis Black?
On Oak Street, through the windshield of a Dodge van, we had locked eyes. I held on to that. Played it over and over. No matter what else had happened, I was still her son. Her blood.
Soon, at Bicentennial Mall Park, we would have a second shot at this reunion.
Please, God. Are you listening? Wherever she is, protect her for me.
If I lost her again, I hated to think what I might do.
31
Enough already,” I grumbled.
A slap of my arm sent my jangling alarm clock onto the rug, where it seemed to sound off in even louder protest. When a pillow pulled over my head failed to muffle the noise, I snapped upright and marched across the floor. Removed the battery. Climbed back into bed.
I was still clutching the Energizer AA when my brother shook me awake.
“Aramis, it’s four twenty-nine.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Aren’t you coming to send us off?”
“The tour …”
“On our own Prevost bus, if you can believe that.”
“Okay. Gimme a couple minutes.”
“Sure you’re awake, kid?”
I rubbed my eyes, saw his face swim into focus. “Think so.”
“Stay put, if you want. We’re swingin’ back through town Thursday, and you can send me off then.”
“This Thursday?”
“On our way back for a show in Little Rock.”
“No, I’m up.” I swung my feet to the floor. “I’m your biggest fan.”
“Not my prettiest.”
“Wait till I put on my makeup.”
“See ya there.” He waved from my doorway.
“Hold on.” I pulled on shorts and flip-flops. “Need to ask you something.”
“Gotta go.”
“It’s about Mom.”
He stiffened. “The band’s gonna be waitin’ for me.”
“They’re musicians. They’ll be late.”
“Here. Yak at me while we load up the truck.”
We shouldered loads from the living room to his Ford Ranger. Lemon and violet streaked the predawn sky while birds chirped in anticipation of a balmy Monday.
“That note.” I tossed a gym bag into the pickup. “Remember, the one with Mom’s handwriting?”
“What about it?”
“Did you read it all the way through? It talked about a Masonic ring, something that might’ve been hidden with my inheritance.”
“Which you won’t touch.”
“Just trying to make an honest buck these days.”
“And I’m not knockin’ that.” A street lamp winked off as Johnny closed the tailgate. “Tell me this though. How’d you know about the ring?”
“You still think I made up that note?”
“Don’t know what to think.”
“There is a ring then?”
“Was.”
“Past tense?”
“Had some Latin writing on it, dated 1644.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Would I make that up? And
, yeah, there were some old Masonic symbols. I’m into that stuff. The term Freemason was used as far back as the 1300s. Some people think they were tied to the Knights Templar.” He climbed into the truck, rolled down the window. “Well, I noticed something on the ring’s band, a family name. Fair’s fair, so I did some searchin’, tracked down and contacted the owner’s descendants. I mailed the ring to a woman in Silverton, Oregon.”
“You did what?”
“She was the youngest and most direct descendant.”
“I need that ring!”
“Sorry, man. It’s hers now. She sent a thank-you letter, seemed real appreciative.”
“What’s her name?”
He fired up the engine, combed hair out of his eyes. “Here’s my advice. Drop it. Let it go. Whatever foolishness you’re mixed up in, don’t let it drag you down again. You nearly got yourself killed last year, and this time around you’ve lost an ex-girlfriend. Just leave it be.”
“But Mom’s alive!”
“You think I don’t wanna believe that? ’Course I do.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You’re stirrin’ up old ghosts, kid. I’m outta here.”
I ran back inside, pulled on jeans and the special T-shirt I had printed up. Stamped in gray over a black Stetson, the name Johnny Ray Black dangles silver spurs from the tails of both Ys.
Eight minutes later I was at Desperado Artist Development, parked behind a maroon and black tour bus that dominated the curb along Sixteenth. The bustle of band members, belongings, and schedules kept me from cornering my brother again. Sammie had shown too, tired but obviously excited. She gave a little wave.
Chigger lumbered by with his guitar case slung across his back. He wore a Lynyrd Skynyrd tank top. On his thick right arm, an executioner’s ax gleamed in the breaking dawn. Avoiding my eyes, he kept his head down and bumped into me as he climbed on the bus.
Through Black’s panoramic windows, the Italianate Kirkland Hall bell tower on Vanderbilt’s campus told me I had twenty minutes until opening. Time for the local homeless to grab a cup of joe.
“Come in, come in,” I urged the raggedy line on the Elliston sidewalk.
Insulated coffeepots faced out along the mahogany counter so that each person could choose his or her own poison. Sweeteners and half-and-half stood at the end. A few slipped back to the rest rooms to freshen up after a long night on hard surfaces. A few others—the ones I really worried about—seemed beyond caring.