Conceiving (Subdue Book 3)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  “Why here?” Curious now, Luna moved to stand.

  John looked as if he wanted to help her up, but probably thought better of it and remained where he was. Clearing his throat, he said, “It is what she wanted.”

  “What she wanted?” Luna almost laughed.

  “It is.”

  “How do you know, murderer?” Luna glared, uncaring for whatever anger or retribution this creature could unleash upon her. “What do you care? Are you not Samedi’s puppet?”

  John did not move. “I am no one’s puppet.”

  “You killed them, my family.”

  John was silent.

  “So why bury your enemy?”

  “She was not—”

  “What, murderer? What?”

  “Yes. I am a murderer. Worse. But still, we need to bury her.” With a massive arm, John gestured across the clearing on the other side of the Great Willow. “Over there is something worse than me. Your grandmother has done more in her lifetime than she’s confessed to you.”

  Luna balled her fists. The anger was coming on strong. Boiling inside. Rumbling in her empty stomach. “She told me about O’Reilly.” She swallowed hard. “And the others.”

  John seemed to smile. “Did she tell you he’s alive down there? That those severed heads are down there, alive with him also? Did she mention that to you, girl?”

  Luna thought. Did she? Did she say he was alive? Perhaps, perhaps not. The recent passing made it hard for her to focus. What did it matter? She peered over to the spot John had gestured to, the patch of soil void of natural color, void of mineral or life, ashen and dead. She did not ask again why they should bury her, but John answered anyhow.

  “Her burial here will act as a lock. Keeping those bastards where they belong. In the ground.” John moved closer, a hint of surprise to see Luna had not flinched away. “Besides,” he continued, “this is where she’d want to be anyway, with her beloved willow.”

  Luna gazed back to the motionless form under the blanket on the ground. She turned and stared upward at the Great Willow. The branches swayed in the breeze as if in confirmation.

  “Okay,” she said, turning back to John. “Okay.”

  Chapter 20

  Dinner Party

  Neville

  Despite her reservations, Neville Petry took comfort in her husband’s near feverish good-mood. Every day was a new adventure, for Boris. He was never like this at Ole Miss. At Ole Miss he was always sort of glum, or bored more like. Covering classes like, American Colony or American History before 1865 & after 1865 or Native North or Western Civ., rarely able to diverge into something more geared to his specialty. Something focused. Purposeful. The full professorships and department heads approved courses, and his were never very popular among the staff. She adored Boris’ enthusiasm, even though most of his “talks” put her to sleep, but often she couldn’t help but wonder why he picked one of the toughest topics to broach hundreds of miles below the Bible Belt. African-American studies seemed better suited for schools like Howard and Alcorn and Rust and Miss Valley and Jackson State. And, though she loved him so, weren’t these classes better taught by someone…well…someone of similar pedigree? What student would want to sit through an hour lecture about slavery or civil rights from a white professor? And not just any white guy, but a rather dweeby looking one to boot. With his dapper hairstyle and bow ties and thick as bottle cap glasses and bug eyes, it was hard to imagine any of his student actually taking him seriously? But now that’s all changed. Baelo University seems to have fully accepted Boris and his lectures. He’d already submitted proposals for spring. And even with the bland course work for the current fall semester, they’ve more than welcomed a few deviations to the curriculum. He’s gotten everything he ever wanted.

  And more.

  Department Head of History.

  Neville stood before the tall glass mirror in the bedroom. She looked good in black, she knew, but still couldn’t help the disappointed look as her gaze fell to her flat childless stomach.

  When will I get what I want? she wondered morosely.

  Boris was humming in the bathroom, some song she didn’t recognize. He sounded especially cheerful, brushing his teeth and spitting. Somehow the song found its way to her lips. Still standing in front of the bedroom mirror, she hummed and tossed her long curly sandy brown hair over her shoulders, imagining what it would look like if she got it cut. Turning to get a good look at the back of her dress, she wondered if the slim lace was perhaps too revealing, this was a University function, after all. And her—their—first soiree in Jotham at that. She’d been to holiday parties at Ole Miss, but those were typically casual drunken facility get-togethers. This was different. This was…elegant.

  —Elegant, imagine that, in the middle of nowhere, Texas. In Jotham of all places. The town was not how she imagined it would be. Perhaps a bit more Mayberry than first gleamed. Everyone was friendly. The traffic was mild. The shops were family owned. Even the movie theater seemed lost in time, preferring to play classic black and whites instead of the new muss and fuss of Hollywood blockbusters. The mood jived to the beat of that old-time Shirley and Lee song, “Let the Good Times Roll.” Donut shops with actual made fresh goods and cops who walked beats smiling instead of having that look that’s bred from suspicion. There was even a bit of local color, some house out on Oak Lee Road. Supposedly haunted, or something like that, had fallen into a sinkhole last winter, just before spring. Mysterious, the whisperers and head nods would say, but it sounded to Neville more of an urban legend, unique to Jotham, as most towns probably have their own story old timers like to share around the campfire. And each story designed to teach or pass on some important lesson, like, “Don’t talk to strangers,” or “Save sex for marriage,” or “Brush before bed,” or “Honor your mother and father,” etc. etc.

  “About ready, hun?” Boris peeked out from the bathroom, smiling, looking like a boy at prom.

  “I’ve been ready, mister.” Neville turned away from the mirror. “See.”

  Boris winked. “For once.”

  Hands on her hips, she scolded, “Watch it buddy, or you’ll be going alone.”

  “Oh, please don’t leave me alone with these people.” Boris pouted.

  “These people? I thought you loooved the school?”

  “I do, it’s just…”

  “What?”

  “They’re strange.”

  Neville laughed. “Strange?”

  “Yes. Politeness is one thing, but these people take southern hospitality to a whole new level. I mean, come on, someone makes a joke in front of Weidler and he just stares blankly and then at the end of the day bursts out laughing. Not to mention how bizarre it was for him to show just before school started, seeing how I took his position and all. He doesn’t even seem to care. He’s ecstatic, almost. Or Doctor Connors, the guy literally pats his pocket every four seconds, just to make sure god knows what is still there.” Boris came to the bed. Sitting down, he reached under for his dress shoes. “And don’t even get my started about the Dean.”

  Neville giggled, masked partially by her hand.

  “You’ll see. The man is—intimidating.”

  “It can’t be that bad, babe.” Neville turned back to the mirror.

  “That’s not even half it, Dr. Prystank without fail refers to other people as, and I’m quoting here, ‘wonderful human beings.’ Strange, right? And none of them seem put off or angry with Bachman giving me, the new kid on the block, the head of department chair.” Boris laced his black dress shoes, humming a song about bunny rabbits jumping through the rabbit hole.

  Neville turned to look at her backside again. “Maybe they don’t care.”

  Finished, Boris combed a hand through his hair. “Maybe,” he said.

  Neville came to the bed. “It’s a new school. Maybe the move is finally hitting you, you know. Big change and all, and you didn’t seem much affected by it at the time. Maybe everything is finally catching up to
you. Giving you the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Is that a technical diagnosis?”

  “Don’t be a turd.”

  They both laughed.

  Boris stood. “I think you might be right.”

  “Of course I am. I’m always right.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Good boy.”

  “Shall we.”

  “Lets.”

  They both smiled, making their way downstairs. Outside, the air was mild and comfortable, but you could tell the colder parts of fall were not far behind. Neville wrapped her shoulders with her gold and purple shawl as Boris input directions to Bachman’s residence on Oak Ridge Lane into the GPS of their newly bought Cadillac Escalade. The onboard console twanged pleasantly and instructed them to take a right off Main Street. With a press of another button, lights came on, and the engine roared into life.

  Shifting into reverse, to back out the drive, Boris turned to his wife. “Ready?”

  “Born ready, dear.” Neville winked.

  ***

  “Oh you’re going to love it here.”

  “Very friendly town.”

  “Best Little Place in Texas.”

  “Yes. Best.”

  “You’ll never want leave.”

  “Low crime.”

  “Conservative, sure, but no one’s in your face about it.”

  “The playgrounds are perfect.”

  “Wonderful place to raise a family.”

  “Are you two planning on kids?”

  The professor wives and the women from the university swooned and clucked around Neville. Whispering gossip. Laughing about this and that, as the saying goes. The menfolk gathered in the lounge, smoking cigars or tobacco pipes, as was Dean Bachman’s custom, so she came to find out. Martha, the Dean’s wife had greeted her and Boris at the door.

  “Don’t mind the smell,” she had said, wafting her hand about. “Teddy is puffing away with no regard to his guests.” Martha had a shrill yet somehow amusing voice, like a slightly younger Helen Mirren from that one movie about Trumbo. Her dress was a shade brighter than gold, long, cutting off around her ankles and ruffled with coarser fabric above her midsection, giving her cleavage a bit more pizzazz, or so Neville thought.

  The food was fantastic. Catered by some mom & pop place in Jotham proper. Cheese cubes of various blends and lobster puffs and smoked trout with garlic cream and antipasti pizza and artichoke turnovers blending in a melody of tangy taste that’d put June Cleaver to shame. The music selection was some kind of lite jazz, the kind you hear is coffee shops nowadays. There was wine and stronger drinks, likewise catered locally and tended by some boy who didn’t look old enough to drink and kept answering all the wives with “ma’am.” This caused more than a few laughs.

  Talk was plain. Mostly on what the Petrys thought about their little Texas hamlet. Which rolled over into other Jotham related inquires. What have you eaten at or have you been to such and such place. Have you tried etc., etc. And so on. Talk of family came up periodically. Kids. They loved kids, yet strangely enough, none of them had any of their own.

  Neville kept this bit of inquiry to herself. Maybe none of them could have children. Maybe. She was certainly the last brave enough to broach that subject, for her own fears of sterility. No. She certainly did not ask. She smiled with her best Stepford Wives smile and answered their questions heartedly. When in doubt, as her mother used to say, fake it ’til you make it.

  Several drinks later, the gleeful prodding didn’t seem to bother Neville as much. She found herself enjoying their company, despite her reservations and hidden desire of wanting more than to hate this place, to hate Jotham, to hate the school for forcing her and Boris into a position of having to move. She lost count of the Long Island Iced Teas and lost interest of peering over at the hallway leading toward the lounge where the men gathered, sharing dirty jokes and belching laugher, no doubt. Not that the conversations on the women’s side of the dinner party did not teeter on vulgarity. From pubic hair cosmetics to genital sizes to best and worst sex to giggling when they were really in the mood or what puts them in the mood to the best time to hit the markets to favorite things to cook.

  Losing count of her drinks, Neville didn’t care how much like her mother she was sounding. Hell, maybe she’d call her over the weekend and tell her all about how good a housewife she was becoming. Well…except for that one thing, that one small thing that’d make the whole facade perfect. Reaching down, she touched her belly. Recoiling, praying none of the other women took notice.

  The boys returned from the lounge near the end of the evening. All smiling, rosy cheeks and good cheer. Full up on dirty jokes and talk of specialties between the differing departments. Martin Cox seemed especially jubilant standing beside Boris, perhaps one too many cocktails, as he seemed to be the type to refuse plain Jane beer or whiskey. If he was drinking the Long Islands, God help him the next morning. Could use for some of those prayers myself, Neville thought, testing her forehead with her palm. Enjoying the cool touch.

  Is it getting hot in here?

  The couples left in groups and pairs. The wives exchanged schedules for a later get together. The husbands shook hands and likewise made plans for rounds of golf or trying out the new gun range on the other side of town.

  Boris doesn’t like guns.

  And everyone was delighted to have met Boris and Neville Petry, displaying as much with drunken backwards waves and slurred smiles.

  The Petry’s were the last to leave.

  “Great party, Theodore. Thank you so much for having us.” Boris reached and shook Bachman’s giant hand as the Dean and Martha stood next to each other on the stoop with the door wide open.

  Theodore? When did they start being on a first name basis?

  “Our pleasure. I hope you can see how delighted we all are in having you with us.” Martha wrapped her arm around Bachman’s waist, resting her head on his massive shoulder.

  “We must get together again.” Neville mimicked Martha, wrapping her own arm around Boris. Fanning her face with her free hand.

  “Certainly,” said Martha, smiling coy as a fox.

  “Before you go, we got you a gift, Neville. Just a little something from us to you.” Bachman reached into his pocket and procured a small elegantly wrapped black box with pearl white ribbon.

  “For me? Oh, you two shouldn’t have.” Neville took the gift slowly. Unsure.

  “Nonsense. Trust me, we’re the ones getting the better end of the deal. Good things are coming for Baelo University. Good things.” Below Bachman’s neatly combed walrus mustache, an equally perfect set of large white teeth caught a bit of the porch light as he grinned, ear to ear. There was warmth in his demeanor, but there was something else as well. Something about his towering presence that made Neville clutch the perfectly wrapped box to her chest.

  “I’m flattered you think so. I hope I—we—do not disappoint.” Boris shuffled his feet, glancing between Neville and Bachman, giving the same slant smile he did whenever complimented on articles or papers from peers. A look of pride with a dash of mild embarrassment.

  “I have no doubt you will.” Bachman draped his tree trunk arm across his and wife’s shoulder, breathing the words in a low grumbling hush.

  The Petrys waved goodbye and climbed into their Cadillac. Boris held the door for Neville. She said a silent prayer of thanks he was sober enough to drive. Feeling her face flush, her head spinning, she knew her own sobriety was definitely in question. As he shifted into gear, she eyed the wrapped black box in her lap.

  Nearing Jotham proper, Boris asked “You going to open it?” Gazing over at her and back to the road.

  Was there nervousness in his gaze?

  Why would he be?

  Neville fumbled with the box. “Um. Yeah.” She hesitated. “We can open it later, right? Maybe in the morning? I’m feeling woozy all of a sudden.”

  “Or you can open it now.” Boris watched the road, speaking very matter-o
f-factly.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m curious is all.”

  “Curious?”

  Doing his best Brad Pitt impression. “Come on, what’s in the box?” He smiled, playfully, but still with that undertone of seriousness he only had when something else was going on in his big brain.

  He’s probably feeling more hammered than she’d previously thought, trying to keep on the road. Not get pulled over. Sure. That’s it. That’s gotta be it.

  “Okay. Okay. Cool your jets, buddy.” Neville nudged him with her elbow.

  Boris mocked being hurt, pulling his arm back like some wounded animal.

  “Ouch, lady!” he moaned.

  Neville giggled. God, even her laugh sounded drunk. Slowly she pulled away the white ribbon until of the thread lay in her lap. With her fingernail she cut away at the seam of black wrapping. Popping the top, the lid came off easily, exposing the contents inside.

  “What is it?” Boris glanced over.

  Neville pulled a long gold chained necklace out from the box. Holding it out in front of her, she inspected the jewel attached at the epicenter. Jewel? No. It looks like a…like a rock. Yes. A black shiny rock. But it’s not shiny. It’s dull. Non reflective. Strange, ain’t it?

  “It’s beautiful,” Neville said, holding it out slightly for Boris to see. Beautiful…right.

  “Very nice. What is that, some kind of stone?” Boris asked.

  “I think so. Made of mineral or something.”

  “That’s neat.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “You should put it on.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know, in some cultures, a black stone is a covenant symbol.”

  “That so.” Neville latched the necklace around her neck.

  “Mostly in South-Eastern Asian cultures. Ritualistic purposes.”

  Neville pretended to snore loudly.

  “Whatever, you know you love hearing this stuff.” Boris laughed.