“What do you want?” John’s voice trembled. “What are you doin’ here?”
“Who is she?” Grace asked. Without waiting for an answer, she demanded, “Why don’t you just leave?”
“It’s her, I told you. She’s the other one, look at her.” He whispered. “See the resemblance.”
“Yes, Grace, sweet Grace, don’t you recognize me?” She chuckled. “Don’t you think even after all of my expensive surgery that I look like your beloved, David?”
John dropped his wife’s hand. With determined steps, he started across the porch.
The woman, still standing by the car, pulled a dull black object from her purse.
John Jones froze as if hypnotized. She pointed the handgun at his face. “That’s far enough for the moment, Rev,” she said threateningly.
“What do you want with us?” Grace asked in a shrill voice.
“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. I have a real surprise for you two. Before we go, there’s somethin’ I want. You get it for me, Rev,” she commanded. “I believe it’s locked in your desk, a big yellow envelope. You know the one.”
The color drained from his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said weakly.
“Your face says you do. You’re a horrible liar. Be quick, and I won’t hurt Grace. Bring me the envelope, unopened.”
The Reverend returned in a very few minutes. Grace read the blue hand printed words: PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL, OPEN ONLY IN THE CASE OF MY DEATH. What is it,” she whispered.
The other woman laughed a deep, guttural laugh. “Isn’t that always the way. The bastards never tell us helpless females anything. This, doll, is some of our history. Something I want back.”
Recently weakened adhesive easily released the flap. She extracted four items: two crisp, never-seen-the-light-of-day birth certificates; a tattered, faded black and white photograph, two halves married by tape; and a large brass medallion. In the photo, a tall, handsome young man leaned against an old Harley-Davidson. “My history, finally, I get back some of my history.” She said with an awkward, melancholy voice. She held the birth certificates, compared the words, and shook her head. She held the photograph closer and studied the motorcycle, and then rubbed the medallion between her thumb and forefinger. She sighed a burdened sigh.
Her demeanor shifted, “Walk together slowly,” Star demanded. “Get in my beautiful car. It’s a symbol, you know, my ticket to a better life. A life I made for myself without you or your influence. I bet, when you sent my mother and me away with your little fucking money, you thought you had seen the last of me. After all these years, I’ve come to show you what you did to me. I’m here to exact my justice.
“Now, Rev, me and the Mrs. are going to ride in the back. I know you see as well as anyone. You’ll be our chauffeur, now, you old bastard, get in the fucking car.” She adroitly placed her stiletto in the small of his back and kicked him toward the open car door. The point of her heel ripped through his shirt and dug into tender flesh. She made a rapid pirouette, and recovered with the grace of a ballerina.
“Play nice, get in the car. We are goin’ on the ride of our lives.”
*****
Star relaxed in the back seat and exuberantly pressed the barrel of the forty-caliber Glock against the Reverend’s neck.
The late afternoon, early November sun hung low in the sky. The dramatic cityscape of downtown St. Louis cast overlapping shadows. The Gateway Arch, in its labyrinth of tiny, symmetrical machined patterns on stainless steel, trapped diminishing yellowish-orange rays of sunlight as they danced their final ballet of the day. The landmark cast its rapidly stretching, elliptical shadow upon the muddy surface of the Mississippi.
People streamed on and off the national park grounds like army ants. The last tour of the day exited the subterranean museum en-mass. On the waterfront, people queued up to board The President casino. A few hundred yards further downstream, families surrounded outdoor tables aboard a floating McDonald’s restaurant.
Upstream from the Arch, an ancient decaying bridge cast an equipment-cluttered shadow across the broad expanse of water. Brownish-green moss clung to aging stone legs, which arched up from the river’s surface supporting what were once multiple levels of traffic. Star admired the bridge. Exactly like Deacon’s dream, she thought pleased with her own cleverness. Great lengths of rusting barges, compacted end-to-end and laden with coal, advanced north against the strong current.
On the west bank of the river just inside barricades, which blocked the entrance to the bridge, two lone motorcycles leaned on kickstands and cast ever-changing shadows on crumbling pavement. Headless helmets hung from handless bars. Rapidly cooling V-Twin engines popped and crackled. No people were visible on the bridge.
*****
Reverend John Jones intentionally drove at a snails’ pace; the woman was agitated. Occasionally, she buried the matte-black steel barrel of the semi-automatic pistol in the back of his neck.
Impatient, she uttered a curse and a threat. “Speed up you old son-of-a-bitch or else. This ain’t a fuckin’ funeral, but it can be.” His perspiration soaked the leather-clad steering wheel.
*****
It had all been a dream for too long. A family’s history recorded in chalk and photographs on the walls of a closed-off room of a rented apartment in Los Angeles. As the time of fruition became imminent, as judgment day drew near, it was surreal, incomprehensible. Star glanced over, unsympathetically, at the older woman. Grace Jones sat totally still, her face covered with her right hand, occasionally issuing a muted sob.
*****
John studied the road ahead. He prayed for a police car. At every intersection, he strained to extend his vision. Silently, he asked God for forgiveness for all his shortcomings, and the strength to protect his wife and son.
*****
Star studied his movements intently. “You can’t fool me, you old bastard. I know what you’re thinkin’. You can forget it. You won’t see any cops. Even if you do, you’re just gonna play it cool. I can do what I have to do with or without you and your old lady. I prefer with because it’ll be a lot more fun, but try somethin’ stupid, and I’ll put a nice hole in Grace’s lovely head. Then I’ll give you one to match. So keep your shit together, and maybe I’ll let you both live.
“Young lady, why are you so bitter?” John asked sincerely. “What has the world done to hurt you so much? Why do you have to punish others just to find relief? Perhaps I can help you if you let me.”
“Bullshit! Bull—fucking—shit! You can’t fucking help me now. You had your chance twenty-nine fucking years ago. Do you think paying my mother to leave was helping? You and I both know you did it for your own benefit, to protect your precious reputation. My bitch mother knew about my father and Grace. She knew all about their special friendship. You should have wanted to help me without a gun to your head. Although, I guess you’re used to this. From what I hear, your precious fucking James David held a gun to your head for the first eighteen years of his miserable, fucking life.
“By the way, what did you discover, old man, during all your hours of following your baby boy in that stupid van? Did you learn that his name—his nickname, is Deacon? It’s a joke. Don’t you see, a cruel joke and you’re the butt. He stands for everything you’re against. Look at you, you miserable bastard, you still love him. You still want to protect him. You make me sick.”
*****
Hidden in the shadow of a construction dumpster, a short distance from the cooling motorcycles, Deacon Jones leaned toward Doc Williams and whispered. “What do you think will happen?”
“Deacon, you know the answer as well as I do.” Doc replied in low tones. “How many times have we heard about a woman with a strong accent? Star is half-Mexican. You and I both know she’s the one. She’s on her way here, right now, and for whatever reason, she’s bringing your parents. Your heart can’t keep denying what your mind knows to be true.”
“Maybe not, but
—what about our connection, it’s so strong? She walks into a room, and I feel a sort of electrical charge. Sometimes it’s a rush of happiness, or a sweep of sadness; later I find out Star’s happy or sad about something. We have the same tastes, the same desires, the same needs… She was made for me. Even Kat knew it the first time they met.
“Tell me, Doc, how can something that feels so good, be bad.” Deacon shook his head. “How can someone so perfect, be responsible for all this?”
“You’re in denial; I get it. I understand how you feel. Let me tell you a story that I’ve never told anyone.
“In high school, before I got Kat to notice me, I dated another girl, Gloria. She’d had a hard life, and I knew it. My parents told me not to see her, but I couldn’t stay away. There was a rumor that she hung out with potheads and smoked dope. I didn’t believe it. I asked her about it anyway, and she told me it wasn’t true.
“One day in the locker room, I heard a guy, one of the heads, bragging about what a great screw she was. I laid into the jerk and ended up suspended for three days. I asked her about it. She denied it and refused to speak to me for a week. I thought I had lost her. One morning she came to my locker, sweet as ever, like nothing had happened.
“She drove an old red Chevy convertible. One night after school, I was on my way home, much later than normal. I saw her car with the top down parked near the end of a deserted street. I was afraid she was broke down or worse. I’m sure you can guess the end of the story. She was givin’ her pusher a blowjob in the back seat in payment for a nickel bag of grass.
“Here’s the real kicker. While we were datin’, she occasionally let me cop a feel, but she’d never do me. She said she was a virgin, which made me want her more. Anyway, when I caught her givin’ the long hair a BJ, I screamed her name. She didn’t even flinch, just kept bobbin’ up and down. Seconds later, she lifted her head, looked me right in the eye, and smiled.
“I’ll never forget that moment for as long as I live, her smilin’, and the guy’s cum running out both sides of her mouth.” Doc shook his head sadly. “God, I loved her.”
In the half-light, Deacon saw tears on Doc’s cheeks. “Jeezus, Doc, I’m sorry.”
“Fortunately, I met Kat, and she taught me about real love. Although, you know, we had some of the same problems. Her dad was a big shot at the University; mine was the janitor. Her parents didn’t approve of us. To them, I was from the wrong side of the tracks. Kat and I loved each other so we stuck it out. In the end, it all worked. I’ve never regretted marrying Kat, not for a moment.
“The sick thing is that I’m still occasionally haunted by the image of my girlfriend. I can close my eyes and see cum on her face. A couple of years ago, someone told me she’d died with AIDS. When I heard that, I cried. To this day, I really don’t understand my feelings for her.
“This feels like the end for you, Deac; I know it does. It’s how I felt that night with Gloria, but it’s not the end. Someday you’ll find the right person. When you do, it’ll be better than you could ever imagine. Trust me.”
“I was so sure Star was the one. It’s hard to think she isn’t. Would you call what you felt for Gloria a connection?”
“I don’t know…” Doc suddenly stopped talking and crouched down. A car was slowly turning onto the bridge. “Let’s get out of sight.” He whispered urgently.
The dusty blue Mercedes rolled to a stop. An empty beer bottle exploded under a tire. Startled by the sound, Doc and Deacon jerked back. From atop a passing tug, a foghorn wailed. The men held their breath; the engine stopped.
The end of a busy day sonata filled the air, a cacophony of sounds from the interstate highway, the city on the west, and the river on the east.
Deacon cautiously drew a switchblade from a leather sheath sewn inside his boot. He squeezed the brass button. With a decisive click, a razor-sharp blade snapped out of a walnut handle and locked open.
Doc, with a sound like the tearing of cloth, opened the Velcro flap of the knife case on his belt. With his thumb, he deftly flipped out the finely honed burnished blade.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, they crouched, still as death, and low to the ground. Buttocks rested on boot heels.
Deacon checked his pocket watch. Five minutes remained until 5:30. He shifted his gaze from the car to the motorcycles. They must be able to see our bikes, he thought. Why are they waiting?
TWENTY
A minute, which seemed like an hour, passed. Deacon flinched, in part from anxiety, the rest due to the lack of feeling in his legs. He wavered and lost his balance. Doc grasped his arm and steadied him.
Without moving Deacon whispered impatiently. “What are we—are they waiting for?”
“Don’t know, five-thirty, maybe. We have to let her make the first move.”
“I can’t stand this.” Deacon tried to move. Doc’s grip on his arm redoubled.
Distant church bells began to chime. Funeral bells, Deacon thought. He tensed, a powerful adrenaline rush flowed through him, and his muscles tightened. It’s time. The muffled, reverberating sound of the last ring died away. The driver’s door opened.
Doc’s squeeze telegraphed his anxiety. We must hold our place.
The driver of the car stepped out. Deacon gasped and let out a nearly inaudible sound, “My father.”
The Reverend remained on the opposite side of the car. His profile, what they could see of his head and upper torso, visibly trembled like dry branches rattling in a fall wind. He stood between the door and its opening. His head hung miserably, forward, and to the right. His shoulders stooped. He nodded as though in agreement with an unseen someone.
He made a visual sweep of the bridge pausing at the dumpster then continuing past Doc and Deacon. They held their places, frozen.
The final threads of the setting sun illuminated the Reverend’s face. When his visual search reached the motorcycles, he stopped and stared hard, his lips moved.
Deacon stiffened, straining to hear. The distance was too great, and the ambient noise of the city and the river too loud. He heard nothing.
Doc whispered. “I don’t think he saw us, just the bikes.”
The Reverend, his stance unnaturally rigid, began to sway in non-concentric circles as though his equilibrium was ebbing away.
Deacon blinked repeatedly. The adrenaline in his system began to dissipate. He fought to maintain consciousness. A voice screamed inside his head. Is my other personality trying to take over? He resisted; the bridge spun around him.
The Reverend cowered. The rear driver’s-side door opened. Long dark-brown hair came into view, a woman. She exited abruptly and kept her back to Doc and Deacon.
Behind the brunette, Deacon’s mother came stumbling into view. She landed on her hands and knees at the rear of the car. Mrs. Jones covered her face as though to protect herself from an impending blow. Nothing happened. She lowered her hands to her lap and sat among the debris wearing the countenance of a beaten prisoner. Slowly, methodically, she struggled to her feet and shuffled to her husband’s side. Together they backed away from the car, three equal steps, and then froze, arms linked together.
An intense obsession, a barrage of anger, disappointment, and rage enveloped Deacon like a chemical injected directly into his cerebellum. He sensed something about to happen; his heart pounded. A cavalcade of excitement, nervousness, anxiety, and a strange sense of fulfillment plunged through him.
He whispered. “It’s not her. That’s not Star.”
Doc answered in hushed tones. “Don’t move. I’m not so sure.”
The brunette took one step toward her captives. She spread her long legs in a haughty stance. The muscles in her calves formed strong lines, sculpted by high-heels. She tilted her head back and began to speak. Her words swelled to an urgent shout. “Soy Estrella.” She exclaimed in perfect Spanish. “Mi mama me llamo así, por ser la Estrellita de su vida. Hoy, soy la Reina de sus vidas. Voy a decidir sus destinos.”
Deacon heard her clearly.
She can’t be Star, he thought, trying to convince himself. She never learned her mother’s native language.
With hardly a hesitation, she began again, louder, her voice somehow changed. Gone were the melodic cant, and distinctly cut syllables characteristic of Spanish. In their stead was the pragmatic, measured-delivery of English. A paralyzing chill swept over Deacon. He recognized this voice.
“James David, Deacon, JD, or whoever the fuck you think you are, we can’t see you, but I know you can hear me. Unfortunately, you didn’t choose to follow your heritage. You should have learned the language of your people. If you had, you would have understood what I just said. Since you did not, I’ll translate…”
“I am Star. My mother named me so because I was the little star of her life.” With each word, the rapidity of her delivery increased. She slipped away on a tangent, and added a personal commentary. “Estrella and Bridget are here too, but they can’t come out.” She resumed the translation. “This is my party. Today, I am the queen of your lives. I will decide your destinies.” Her mounting diatribe reached a crescendo, ending with a sweeping flourish of bronze arms, long red nails, and a deadly weapon.
Star paused, “Today is a special day for us. I have planned it for a very long time.” She raised her voice a few octaves. “Deacon, are you getting all of this? I said it’s a special day; we’re going to celebrate our heritage, your heritage. Your friend, Doc, moved up my timetable a little. Tomorrow was to be our day, the Day of the Dead, el Día de los Muertos. It’s okay, today will work. The Aztecs called this date the Day of the Innocents, el Día de los Inocentes. The cool part is our ancestors believed that life is a dream from which we are awakened by death. Several people are going to be rudely awakened before this night’s over. Too bad you don’t have the guts to come forward and face me.” She said cruelly. “Don’t you have enough feeling for these poor people, whom you call parents, to defend them?”
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