He pities me!
“Focus.” John held her down with one massive arm.
Struggling against his impossible strength, Luna relented. Unable to protest, feeling herself nearing the end, of burning out what remained of her mind to the torrent of flashes, she focused on the only person she wanted to see.
—Bobby.
The millions of voices soon faded. The countless faces melded into one distinction. It was him, the homeless veteran she had taken in. The broken warrior who kept himself in hiding for fear of hurting those around him. Luna held her breathe, sensing her spasms slow to short sporadic jerks. Breathing deep and exhaling slowly, she narrowed her mind exclusively on his face, on the face of Bobby Weeks. He was…riding a motorcycle, her grandfather’s Fatboy. Beard as scruffy as always. His hair was growing out again. He wore boots and a dark denim jacket and jeans and a motley looking flannel button up. There was no joy in his face. A seriousness that had not existed there before. Guilt in unmeasurable amounts. More than that, anger. It was in his heart. On the forefront of his thoughts. Working its way through his veins and grew out the tips of his fingers. Something had happened…something other than what happened at the house. They came for him…whoever they were, she could not see.
Looking ahead of him, beyond the road as it rolled out from the horizon, Luna could see a school. Ancient as the town itself. Built of stone and brick. Within gathered a crowd dressed in unflattering robes. Chanting words she’d only heard once before, when long ago she’d peered inside Bobby’s mind for the first time. A name. Belonging to beings with desires not of the desires of this place. Desires…hunger. Of desperation. And control. A name as horrifying as the bulbous red of the invertebrates it belonged.
Nashirimah…
Just as strong as the vision came upon her, they whirled away from her sight like water draining down a pipe. Coughing, Luna sat upright, bracing herself with an elongated arm from the ground. John seemed to inch away. Silence sat between them. Chaotic thoughts brought into something tangible.
“What did you see?” John asked.
“Everything.” Luna stood, testing her feet at first, wobbling slightly.
“Then what.” John took another step back, folding his massive arms across his chest. She noticed he was shielding his body, the collar angled up around his neck, doing a poor job at keeping his mangled face from view.
“My…a friend.”
“And.”
“He’s…in trouble, I think.”
“And.”
“I need to go to him.”
“Who is this friend?”
Luna hesitated. “It’s complicated.”
If John could smile it seemed that he had.
“You wouldn’t understand.” Luna turned toward the porch.
“Okay.”
“He’s different.”
“A Rougarou.”
Luna stopped. Turned. “How did…”
“Your grandmother told me.”
“My grandmother?”
“Ronna. Yes.”
“You talked?”
“Often.”
Luna stumbled back and sat flat on the porch steps. “She talked with you? And never mentioned…she talked with you, even after what you did?”
John did not move. He was a stone statue in the yard. Unblinking. Unspeaking.
“What do you know anyhow?” Luna dismissed John with a weak wave, as if wafting away his unpleasant, unwelcome aroma.
“I know enough.”
“Do you.”
“Rougarou are…volatile. You’d do best to stay away from him.”
Luna broke down into a near hysterical laugh.
“You…he’s volatile? Dangerous, you mean. You of all people…”
As Luna looked up from the ground, wiping the tears from her eyes, the sad man was gone.
John had left, as if he were never there at all.
“Dangerous,” Luna whispered. “Then what does that make you?”
Only a sudden chilled wind answered.
Chapter 24
Where Does the Time Go?
Neville
There are moments in life when time seems to drag on, grisly grey steel and iron cogs ticking away slowly to the swing of some monstrous pendulum, ticking, ticking its melancholy torturous centurial song. Painful and horrendous, often. Smelling of stale musky air trapped in the basement belonging to some ancient god dressed in stained white t-shirts and baggy boxer shorts and loafers, forgotten by modernity in wards were like minded forlorn go to die. And there are moments that seem to slip away, as if caught in a storm of each passing breath, every sip of oxygen is a day forever gone, a moment you’ll never get back. The human experience is full of these quandaries. Moments can drag on painfully so, and there are those that whip past, like a drawling in a child’s cartoon flipbook or passing train. From cradle to grave. Today is today, until tomorrow, and tomorrow today will be yesterday, gone forever, unattainably lost to yesteryear. Days. Hours. Clumped together minutes. Seconds. Moments. Flash. Gone. Echoes we call memory. Nothing more than shadows. And as we reach the end, or during those fleeting moments as we sip on our cups of coffee or watch our children play and grow, we wonder, where does the time go.
Neville looked at herself in the tall bedroom mirror. It was becoming rather customary as her stomach grew. She turned to the left, touching tenderly on her round swollen belly, thoughts and wonderings of how so much time could have passed in what felt like a short moment ago she’d first discovered her pregnancy. It felt like yesterday, she had first broke the news to Boris. The pink lines and the later confirmation from her now full time obstetrician and gynecologist, Doctor Jennifer Taylor, a family friend of the Bachman’s.
Lightening flashed outside the window and thunder boomed, rattling the glass chasing soon after. The storm she’d been watching since this morning had finally reached town. The once bright late-morning sky was now darkening with black clouds as if the sun was being eclipsed by some sinister omen.
Not much longer now, she thought, sighing with little to no happiness in her breath. Neville imagined she ought to be more excited. This was their first child. The start of their family. She should be overjoyed, right? Packing and repacking her overnight bag for the inevitable hospital stay. Folding and redressing the baby’s cradle and the onesies in the drawers. Boiling the pacifiers and nipples for the bottles and rechecking the beast pump. Are there enough sacks, tubes, batteries? Shouldn’t she be deciding if she was going to go cloth or use regular diapers? Deciding if she was going to go ahead and get that second bouncer so that she could have one for the nursery and one for the living room downstairs. Wrapping the Indian looking sling she bought on Etsy and placing one of Boris’ large textbooks to test the weight or perhaps she could borrow the neighbor’s small dog to see if the wrap would securely hold the child. There was so much left to do, yet somehow she did not desire any of the whimsical details of newly gained motherhood. And how could she, with those dreams, those horrible dreams?
The dreams, nightmares more like, came and went randomly. In way, they seemed to be increasing as the pregnancy developed. Neville could never recall much of them, just glimpses of places she’d never been. People in ceremonial-looking robes and chanting words she’d never heard before. And a pain, deep inside her. A growing piercing cramp, almost like contractions, or so she thought. And Boris was there, pale faced and concerned. Nervous. But doing nothing to help her. They were just dreams, she understood, but it did not help matters how distant he had become over the last several months. As her belly grew and grew, he became increasingly absent. Always staying at work late. Or going to department meetings, always over the Bachman’s. Never inviting her along, though she didn’t mind. The Bachman’s were nice enough, especially Martha, but they were odd nevertheless. Odd ducks, as her mother would have called them, if she were here.
Neville sighed again in the mirror, groping her hands over her ballooned stomach. Over where Ethel Mae
slept waiting for her day to come into the world. Ethel was the baby’s name. A girl, or so Doctor Taylor had said. She’d picked the name Ethel hoping it would jar Boris awake. To stop spending so much time at work. To come home. Ethel, not only the name of some historically famous person he knew, but also the name of Boris’ grandmother who came to the States fleeing the growing repressive Soviet Union. Does he not want the baby?
Ethel gave a kick, a spasm deep inside, a feeling that had once brought sheer joy to her face, now only reminded Neville of her dreams, and dread. It was awful to think such a thing, she knew. Only a few months ago, she was shopping happily with one of the professor wife’s, giddy and rightfully so. Picking out baby clothes and talking of all the many things they would do together as a family, parks and swings and dance classes and tumbling and maybe when the baby was old enough they could find playdate groups. Feeling the dread as she did felt horribly ridiculous. What could be wrong? The baby, according to Doctor Taylor, was doing fine. The mother too. So what then? What could be the cause of these twisted gnawing emotions? Was Boris having an affair? Was that it? They say pregnant mother’s gain a sort of telepathy, like an antenna picking up the emotional vibes, E.S.P. Hog wash, her mother would say, but still. He hardly ever touched her anymore. And when he did, his touch felt cold, distant, upset by something he wasn’t telling her. She’d ask and always his response would come from smiling eyes and lips that seem to quiver with her name and the name of their unborn child.
Grunting, Neville ruffled her short sandy brown hair. She’d had it cut, on a whim, the day after her first appointment with Doctor Taylor. Patty, one of the hairdressers in Jotham’s only salon, asked if she were sure. Your hair is so beautifully long, the hairdresser mentioned. I don’t care, I want something new, she’d said in response.
Turning away from the mirror, Neville began to cry miserable unsatisfied tears.
Where was Boris now?
Midday.
School.
Where else?
He was always at school.
On the second floor, heading to the stairs, she peeked inside the baby’s room, pondering briefly if she should rewash the blankets. She told herself it was ridiculous, all of this was so stupid, and not just the rewashing of the baby’s blankets. Boris was just nervous, is all. Taking over as head of the history department. New in town. New life. First child. They weren’t college grads anymore. They’re were parents, or would soon be. Neville touched her stomach, resting her hand of her plump belly, exhaling and breathing in deep. And the dreams, she wagered, were nothing more than symptoms of her pregnancy. All expecting mothers dreamed strange dreams. She was no different.
Waddling over to the staircase, Neville took the steps one at a time. Easing herself down to the landing below.
Jeez, she thought, I’m a hideous blimp. A big fat whale.
In the kitchen, she put on the kettle and ignited the gas stove. Picking up the tin box Martha had given her, some kind of herbal tea to help the baby and settle her own nerves, Neville sniffed the contents within. She jerked back, holding her breath.
“God, this stuff stinks.” An image of unchanged litter boxes or months old unwashed gym socks came to mind as she lowered the gift back to the counter.
Waiting for the water to boil, Neville shuffled into the living room, watching the rain come down hard from the front window. The pelts pinged against the glass as if there were small chunks of ice or hail in the wind. Any colder and it just might produce some ice or snow, giving this miserable winter weather a white wonderland coating. But the holidays had passed, and this was late winter. No luck of snow this time of year. Not in Texas at least.
Hope Boris drives safe on his way home; when he comes home.
—Boris.
Spring semester started back in January. Everything promised by Theodore Bachman was given. Department head. Writing his own classes. Praise from his colleagues. And the students seemed to love him. Someone new, Neville imagined. Someone young and hip, as they say. And Boris certainly had his own unique style, with his bow ties and thick bottle cap glasses and slacks and denim dress shirts. He never talked much about his classes, which was certainly uncharacteristic of him. She snuck a glance from time to time just to keep up with what he was teaching. Most of what she saw in his briefcase seemed rather ordinary. Nothing posh or uncomfortable nor were there articles in which most of the rural south would find offence. She’d imagined he would have jumped at the chance to write a class on race relations or something in that ball park, something dealing with his specialty, his doctoral work, especially considering all the many rejections he’d been given at Ole Miss. No. None of that. His classes were absolutely mundane. Survey courses, mostly. Borderline boorish.
Boorish Boris.
She chuckled.
Maybe it was the baby. Maybe Boris was playing it safe. Not wanting to set any bridges on fire or cause any issue with the staff and the natural flow of the school. Not wanting to run any risk of being asked to resign, not when they’re just settling and getting ready to start a family. Not with a baby on the way.
Oh silly of me, she thought.
Boris having an affair!
He’s just overworked, trying to impress, trying to provide for our family.
The door to his study creaked open just then, caught on the flow of air trapped in the house, perhaps. Or some unseen current or shift as the storm passed over. Lightening crashed again, blazing the windows in dazzling white. Thunder followed overtop. Booming and rattling the frames.
Just a breeze, she thought, refusing to take her eyes off the room.
His office was in the nook of the house, nestled in a quaint space between the living room and dining room, in the shape of a large pie, cut into the building. Widest at the door. Narrow towards the window in the back, where his large mahogany desk sat. Against the walls, he built bookshelves, and filled them with his ever-growing collection. A People’s History of the United States, American History: A Survey, A History of Abolition, a signed hardback copy of 12 Years a Slave, books on Jim Crow and books on the Black Freedom Movement, including Hands on the Freedom Plow, Freedom is A Constant Struggle, a book on those lost collage boys slain by Klansmen called Murder in Mississippi, books on the Greensboro lunch counter sit-ins, and autobiographies on Stokely Carmichael and “I’m sick in tired of being sick and tired” Fannie Lou Hamer, and W.E.B. Du Bois, and John Lewis, the tragic Medgar Evers who was shot in the back while walking up the steps to his house, and James Farmer, and Abernathy, and on MLK. And how could she forget, his prized worn to the roots copy of I’ve Got the Light of Freedom: The Organizing Tradition and the Mississippi Freedom Struggle by the famed sociologist Charles M. Payne. Most, if not all, looked as if they were all collecting dust now. Untouched. Uncharacteristic, so much so, but not altogether unexpected, given if Boris was playing his classes safe, for the time being. Eventually, Neville imagined he’d start up something uncomfortable in the rural south of academia.
Neville jerked back as another flash of lightening coursed throughout the house. The rumble of thunder was deafening. Boris’ office was absent except for his books and desk and memorabilia, old photos and college pins and brass bells from another time. Stepping farther inside, she cradled her large stomach protectively. Tiptoeing almost, she sat behind his desk. Unsure really why. Curiosity more like. On the sides of his large dark brown desk, there were drawers. She opened the first one and found pens and empty envelopes. Feeling the itch, she opened another and found school papers still in need of grading, thesis papers judging by the look of them. Nearly laughing at herself she opened another, but the drawer would not budge.
Locked?
Why would he keep one of his drawers locked?
Again, that pesky curiosity got the better of her.
Neville searched the remaining drawers, half hoping to find a key.
No key.
Fuming on why Boris would lock one of his drawers and where he would keep the ke
y, Neville stared, blinking at the miniature bronze statue of Elvis Presley. The same one she bought him from Christmas nearly five years ago, a reproduction of the massive bronze statue of The King in Memphis. Out of curiosity or perhaps intuition or maybe even some of that strange pregnant E.S.P. she reached over and lifted the statue.
A small oval key sat firmly on the desk.
Quickly, feeling her skin itch all over, heat building and building, flushing her face, Neville fumbled with the key, breathing the stale air from the poorly ventilated office. Unlocking the drawer, she slid it open. Inside she found a large cardboard box, the shape and size of what you’d wrap clothes in for Christmas. Peeking inside the box, she found robes. Dark faded black robes and a piece of jewelry in the shape of a half bowl and a full circle above that. Inside the circle, odd writing or symbols filled the void. Placing this on top of the desk, she looked deeper inside the open drawer. The only other object was a leather bound and aged book. Despite the obvious mildew smell and the foxing around the soft leather binding, the book was in rather good shape. Still, she opened the pages delicately.
Strange.
Why keep robes and a book locked up?
Behind the binding, she could find no copyright date, no editorial stamp, no publication date, no warnings of plagiarism or any such thing. There was only a title and a name.
The Journal of Clay Yerby.
Neville jerked again.
The roaring kettle whistled like some banshee scream.
Taking the book, Neville waddled quickly out the office.
Chapter 25
Goodbye Sad Man
Luna
Throughout the holidays and into the New Year, alone, Luna could feel his presence not far from the cabin in the woods. He was out there, somewhere. The Sad Man was watching her. Why exactly? She couldn’t say. Perhaps her intuition was right and he was a creature filled with regret and now spent his days watching over her as he had watched over her grandmother. Or maybe he was still that malevolent murderer, playing games, biding his time before he finally decided to snap her neck. She didn’t feel the latter to be true, but still. Why didn’t he just come? Sit a spell, as the saying goes? He’d showed when she was having the seizure, the visions of bygone days and future motions flooding over her, uncontrolled her mind had nearly snapped. He came then. Would he come again? Would she even want him too? No. Probably not. Not after what he’d done. And she certainly couldn’t imagine why her grandmother had, apparently.
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