The Seven Boxed Set

by Sarah M. Cradit

  Was this an example of appreciating their past without embracing it? Ophelia said this place was haunted not only with the ghosts of their ancestors, but also the weight of decisions made. The old office on the third floor had seen many deals brokered, some of which benefitted the family today. The faint perfume of cigars from generations past still lived in the old wood; behind the lightly peeling red and gold wallpaper of the parlors.

  Richard, their butler, peeked his head out from behind the bannister, coming from the direction of the west kitchen. “You okay, Miss Colleen?”

  “Yes, Richard, I’m fine. Why are you still up?”

  “Why, Miss Colleen, I’ve always waited up for our family’s Council members. Least, that is, when we had them in the heir’s line.”

  Colleen watched him hover protectively in the shadows. Richard and his sister, Condoleezza, were as much, no more, a staple of Ophélie as the deep heritage whispered in the foundation. They were close to retiring but never would, they said. They’d been raised here, almost as a sibling of August, and the family rumors said that they were his siblings, illegitimate children of the known libertine Charles II. If true, and at this point they were less rumors than casual fact, this made the two of them Colleen’s aunt and uncle.

  “I’m home now, so no need to worry anymore.”

  “I never worry about you.”

  She kissed his cheek and made her way up the first set of steep, half-carpeted steps. The edges of the fabric frayed from years of use, and she wondered if anyone would ever live here full-time again, would ever tend to these details.

  It would not be her. She knew that much.

  She was close to passing out on the spot but had an urge to be near someone. With most of her siblings not speaking to her, she considered whether any of them would give her the comfort she sought.

  Colleen stopped at Evangeline’s room. She peeked inside. Her sister was sleeping half-on, half-off the half-tester bed. Colleen crept in and eased Evangeline back into place. Evangeline stirred, and Colleen slid in beside her.

  But even this bond was fractured. With her relationship with Rory neatly defined as more than friendship, Evangeline had pulled back, as if sensing something had shifted, something that left her out of things.

  Evangeline woke. Her eyes hung half-open, drawn back to her interrupted sleep.

  She turned her back to Colleen and settled back into the bed. Not a rejection, but not an invitation, either.

  Colleen curled into her sister and wondered if things would ever be okay again.

  Seven

  Fire & Rain

  Madeline had trouble piecing together exactly what had happened. How it had all gone so horribly wrong, so quickly. Even after the drugs and excitement of the day wore off, the picture was hazy, full of emotions but devoid on details.

  To her left, Augustus drove without words. His hands rolled over the leather wheel, knuckles white. He adjusted his set jaw every few seconds or so, and each time she thought he was about to speak, but he never did. His silence said everything he didn’t.

  Armstrong Park. Congo Square. Madeline had secretly attended several protests there over the past year, but she felt connected to the land for other reasons. The true ancestors of New Orleans—not the wealthy landowners, not the entitled white barons, not the Deschanels—were those who had built it; literally died toiling in the sub-tropical sun as their own rights were stripped away to boost the privilege of others. Congo Square was their place, where they went to feel human again, and to connect with their culture; where they were unafraid and uninhibited. Where the Second line was born, and all that beautiful, magical jazz and blues, and so many dances.

  There were few things in the world more awful to Madeline than how everyone in New Orleans, from the teachers to even her own family, had painted over those days of slavery with a lily-white brush. “Times were different then.” Oh, how many times had she wanted to slap those words from the mouths of someone in authority? As if any words could erase such barbaric, inhuman actions. When Madeline stood on the bricks in Congo Square, she was drawn to the reality of the past, and though it was painful, she would never shy away from this. Just as she would never stop trying to end the war, which was just another form of slavery, as she saw it, or genocides across the world still happening. Still! Her teachers might disappear into the comfort that they were in “different times,” but the world hadn’t changed much at all, not really.

  This, all of this, brought out the best and worst of Madeline, and whenever she stood upon those old bricks, she was filled with a fierce and powerful need to correct the wrongs of the world still present. She could not change the past. She could correct those trying to rewrite it, but she couldn’t rescind the wrongs done. But, unlike those who preferred to live in their comfortable homes and never think of such “unpleasant things,” Madeline promised herself she would never forget, and she would take these lessons seriously. The past informed the future. The past was cyclical. It was Augustus who had said these things to her, likely without knowing how she would apply them and turn them into her personal mantra.

  And now he wasn’t speaking to her. She’d never seen him mad enough to ignore her, so the truth of that evening must be even more terrible than she thought.

  Jill and Josh. They’d picked her up in Josh’s ugly orange van with the shag carpet that had dozens of burned out spots from how clumsy Jill was with her joints. Madeline never liked sitting in the back, because she knew smoking grass wasn’t the only thing they did excessively there. She knew because she’d slept with Josh back there herself, once upon a time, or many times. Before Jill… before Madeline realized his interest in protests and activism was more about the thrill than the conscience. She always sat at the far end of the bench, nestling herself behind the peeling leather of the driver’s bucket seat, and tried to keep her eyes forward.

  * * *

  Augustus asked her how she could hang out with friends who didn’t share her passionate beliefs, but it wasn’t so simple for Madeline. Even those who believed activism was a calling still went home to their suburban lives and nothing changed. They could turn it off, and on, as needed, and Madeline could not. As an empath, she had to learn to accept that to function in the world, and so she accepted that her friends were a means to an end. If Josh and Jill were going to the protest, she would go with them. Their motivations were less important to her than having a safe ride. Hitchhiking was a dangerous business in New Orleans, and even in Madeline’s most erratic moods, she knew better.

  The National Guard had formed a line in their riot gear. Madeline remembered that much. They were there when Madeline and her friends showed up, ready. She also remembered thinking that you didn’t wear riot gear unless you were expecting, or hoping for, a riot. She liked to stand in front of these lines sometimes and inspect the faces behind the heavy bulletproof plastic shields. How many of them wished they were out there protesting with the other hippies? How many of them ached for one single excuse to open fire, like they had at Kent State?

  Chanting and signs everywhere. Madeline had brought a sign the first time, but she felt they impeded her and wore down her energy. But oh, how their words inspired her and connected her to them. She recognized a few faces, but most were complete strangers, united by their common disgust for the governments of the world.

  I don’t give a damn for Uncle Sam.

  Heil Nixon.

  Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity.

  Cajuns against the war.

  We love the Beatles!

  Madeline had smoked half a joint on the ride over, so she was feeling fine by the time they settled into a spot on the square. The air was a cloud of smoke, daring the authorities. But they were too serious and too busy looking scary and official in their heavy gear.

  * * *

  “I’m not telling Mom.” Augustus’ low, disappointed voice pulled Madeline from her reconstruction of the night.

  She didn’t think he woul
d, because he never did, but the way he said it provoked the question. “Why not?”

  “For her sake, not yours. She’s had enough heartbreak,” her brother answered, and then his face returned to the same pensive detachment as he navigated the car down River Road.

  Madeline could weather all the bullshit her siblings and mother could dish out, but her brother’s disappoint was too sharp a cut.

  * * *

  She returned to the day, searching for the moment.

  Was it after the second joint? It hit her harder than the first, and in a much different way. Time became fluid, and the world had no fixed axis, no stability. She wavered on her feet as the chants came from deep within her. When her vision blurred, she reached for Jill, but Jill was dancing several feet away, caught in a moment with herself.

  “What was in that?” Madeline asked, for she knew by now this was no standard grass.

  “Angel dust, angel,” Josh said, followed by that annoying stoner laugh that had been at least part of why she broke things off with him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He swayed to the sounds of Crosby, Stills, & Nash rolling off a nearby portable radio. With a grin, he pulled down his ridiculous John Lennon glasses and winked. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Feels like someone lied to me,” Madeline said, and that was the last she remembered seeing Josh or Jill.

  * * *

  Augustus pulled behind their house and parked next to the other cars. Madeline sighed and reached for the door, but when he made no move to do the same, she withdrew her arm and sat back against the seat.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Madeline said, and she hated how true this was.

  “You know, I promised myself I wouldn’t ever use my powers of persuasion to get our family out of trouble. It’s unethical. It’s… wrong.” Augustus rested his head on his hands, which still gripped the wheel. “It’s wrong, Madeline, but I did it, to protect you, and I thought I would feel good about this, but all I feel is sick.”

  “I don’t want you to feel that way,” she said, helpless, trying to remember.

  “It’s too late, Maddy.”

  * * *

  Someone threw their sign at the National Guard. It missed, or perhaps ricocheted off a shield, Madeline wasn’t sure. Her head was a mess of disorganized chaos, and though she searched for a thread, anything to help her find her grounding again, she only spun further away from anything tangible and real.

  From there, a movement started, and signs flew from the crowd and into a growing pile of wood and words. Madeline watched in confused wonder as they flew over her head, beside her, across the square. Why were they throwing their signs? She didn’t understand. And the guards… they stood motionless, waiting. Like a lion watching a gazelle with the measured patience of one who knows the reward is worth the wait. As if they knew something was coming and were biding their time.

  Someone yelled out, “Light it up! Light it up!” Madeline brightened at the strange suggestion, which seemed perfectly reasonable and also… also…. she lost her thought process as she stumbled through the excited crowd, but then found it once more. Light it up. Yes, she could do that.

  No one knew that, of course. Not her mother. Not Augustus. Certainly not all the weird people gathered around a pile of signs. Madeline couldn’t just be born with one strange and terrible affliction. No, she also had to be an elementalist. Fire. She could create it, with only a channeled focus from her mind. Conjure it from nothing.

  “Light it up, light it up!”

  * * *

  “Why did you start a fire? That’s what I don’t get.” Augustus shook his head without looking at her. He hadn’t looked at her once. “I don’t get it, Madeline. You’re not like this. You protect, you don’t destroy. Isn’t that the whole point of protest? To make the world better?”

  “I hate when you call me Madeline.”

  “I hate when you set an entire park on fire and I have to brainwash everyone to keep you out of prison.”

  * * *

  The pile of signs was a bonfire in seconds. Not a gradual burn, but a whoosh of flame that momentarily silenced the crowd. When they found their words, the questions started. Who had done that? No one, not one person had been seen to walk up to the pile. It was as if they’d spontaneously combusted from the sheer will of the chanting alone.

  But someone had seen something. Someone from the National Guard had witnessed Madeline, head pointed to the sky in her strange trip, hands working through the air like a mad witch. She was pulled from her reverie when her face slammed into the bricks. Blood filled her mouth. Confusion set in.

  Fire. A fire. She’d started a fire. Yes, light it up, light it up! Light it up for….

  For what?

  Hands, all over her back. Her wrists burned as metal tightened. Her mouth was a sea of copper. Now, the chanting was directed at her, to free her, to let her go. They couldn’t have known what she’d done, but they were collectively against the authorities in every way. She could have done murder and they’d still be chanting for her freedom, because their common enemy exonerated them from any real wrongdoing.

  The earth spun in wild circles as they yanked her to her feet. What had happened? It all came so fast. The flames. The assault. Now, the fire stretched into the trees and the sky was a beautiful dance of red and gold. Madeline only had a second to admire the peculiar beauty of this violent destruction before she was dragged through the square, her feet scrambling to keep up and find purchase.

  “You have the right to remain silent.”

  Silent. No. She hadn’t come here to be silent. Madeline could never be silent.

  * * *

  “You resisted arrest.”

  “I resisted, period. That’s what I do, Aggie. I resist.” The headache piercing her skull was unbelievable. She wished she could just ask Colleen or Evie to heal it away, but that would mean making peace, and she had nothing to say to either of them. “Do you realize… have you ever stopped to realize, to consider, that you and Charles will never see a day of battle, never serve, because of who you are? That Mama will never have to receive your casket with the flag draped over it in mourning?”

  “Stop changing the subject.”

  “This is the subject. It’s the whole subject. None of us are equal until all of us are equal, and right now our president is leading the less fortunate men of this nation to sacrifice because he sees the loss of those less fortunate men as an acceptable one to achieve his own personal aims!”

  “I support you,” Augustus said, his voice throbbing through her head, “because I know your heart is in the right place. Because what you do is peaceful. Burning down half of Armstrong Park is not peaceful. It’s degenerate behavior, and I just don’t get it.”

  “You never have. You pretend to, for my sake I suppose, but you don’t get it.”

  “I’m not going to be around as much soon,” he said. Everything about her brother seemed strained. “I’ve filed the paperwork to start my business. Once everything falls into place, that’s where my focus will have to be.”

  “Are you saying I’m not your problem anymore?” She wanted to be excited for him, but found she couldn’t, even though her selfishness was terrible in the face of all he’d done for her.

  “You’ve never been my problem. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you to your choices.” He sighed. “I worry without me to push you that you might…”

  He didn’t finish.

  * * *

  Augustus had been her call from the police station, naturally. There wasn’t anyone else. At the moment she’d called him, she had almost no recollection of the events that had brought her there. She didn’t remember the fire. Didn’t know, then, that the charges pending against her were so severe they had to wait for the judge to set bail.

  She’d sat in the cold plastic chair while Augustus calmly spoke to the officers. It all looked so reas
onable, and congenial, from where she sat, but then she saw her brother’s stance change. Whenever he needed to employ his particular brand of magic, he always squared up, like a pugilist falling into formation. It was subtle, unless you knew what to look for, and Madeline recognized it immediately.

  It was over so fast, she could hardly believe everything Augustus said when she first jumped into the front seat. Her head spun and spun, half from the drugs, half from his words. They were going to charge you with felony arson. Arson, Madeline. Multiple counts. The kind of charge that would keep you out of a good college, or any decent job. Do you understand?

  No, she hadn’t. Not then. But she did now. She remembered it all.

  She could explain this. Josh had laced her grass with a hallucinogen, and then everything went so wildly out of her control, and…

  Madeline stopped herself. She had disappointed her brother, herself, and the cause.

  “I’m sorry,” she said simply.

  Augustus’ expression twitched. He cast a half-look in her direction and then slid out of the car, heading into the house without her.

  * * *

  While her older sister was burning down New Orleans, Maureen surrendered to the demands of the lover who would take her away from all her suffering.

  He’d always wanted to make love in water, he said, which sounded borderline ludicrous, if not pointless, but Maureen had a strong self-interest in keeping him happy, so she acquiesced. Even pretended to be into it, which only pushed him over the edge, until he was driving to the south shore of Lake Pontchartrain, to where he said he knew of just the spot.

  When he stripped down to nothing, Maureen was skeptical. Even in the summer, the lake wasn’t exactly a sauna, and her skin prickled with gooseflesh just thinking about it. She couldn’t use the excuse she had to be home, because she was only in New Orleans to “spend the night at Maria’s,” and her mother wouldn’t be expecting her back at Ophélie until tomorrow. But Mr. Evers—Peter—was so insistent in his beckoning that she had no time for more than coquettish protests.