Hobbies don’t make money. But a glimpse wouldn’t hurt, just a peek at the myriad unseen adventures and dramas enclosed in battered leather bindings, wrinkled and worn from countless hands, like his own, eagerly clutching them with childlike fervor. It would be torture to step inside, knowing he had wiser ways to spend his money and his time.
Only a year ago, the words on the pages of fiction had flung him into the lives of other people’s misfortunes. He read through their pain, laughed at their victories, and held closely to the moment when the protagonist made it safely to the other side of the plot line.
Not today. Now they were living sell to sell, barely scraping by. He paid the bills, but there was rarely extra. And when they did have extra, they felt guilty spending it. Even with a new drive, if he were to tell the truth, he did not feel he would ever find his happy ending.
Charlie turned to walk away but bumped straight into a boy who in appearance was about Gideon’s age. His faded t-shirt and tattered blue jeans brought out the blue in his gray eyes, and his fiery red air was slightly disheveled, as if the boy had intentionally wanted it to be that way.
“Excuse me, sir.” The boy passed through the entrance, easily, free of the hold of life’s Roonings. The carefree child walked past the neatly organized rows of vintage books to the back of the store.
Charlie’s eye caught a glint of light, a reflection off a case, and a flash of blue – cobalt blue. He knew the cover, had searched for it, and had paid his former finder handsomely to locate the highly valued rare first edition. It could have been his, had the timing been different. The cover was the screen saver on his laptop, but he had never held it. And here it was: the coveted Kipling.
The lure of the Kipling pulled him through the door. He inhaled the familiar scent of aged parchment and old leather. He ran his hand along the spines – many of which were familiar. Some were similar to ones he owned and had chosen not to sell, despite their value. His personal collection was carefully boxed, wrapped in acid free paper, and would remain there until, if ever, he had a place to put them. Here, he had stepped into his element, a piece of his past that was hidden deep within him. For a moment time stopped, as memories of Saturday morning trips downtown with Gideon flooded his mind.
He stepped closer, the Kipling in sight. At one time the book had absorbed his attention. He simply had to own it, to claim it belonged to him. It would be the highlight of his collection, until he found something new to purchase. But this book – it was more than a piece of literature; it was a part of him, a part of his childhood that had molded and shaped him into the man he had become.
“Are we selling books, Dad?”
Charlie whipped around, nearly dropping the flute. Gideon stood in front of him with a smidgeon of brown goo stuck to the corner of his mouth. Charlie suddenly felt as if he had been caught doing something immoral.
Gideon waved his hand in front of his father’s face. “Hello! Earth to Dad!”
Charlie blinked. The hustle and bustle of the Coraloo outside the walls of the bookshop snapped him back to reality. He turned back around, wondering if it had been a dream, but the book was still there.
“Dad, are you all right?”
“Yah…” Charlie leaned in to his son, the strong smell of sweet liquor hovering in his general vicinity. “Have you been drinking?”
Gideon stared blankly at his dad.
“Never mind.” Charlie shook his head. Did he just ask his ten-year-old son if he had been drinking? He changed the subject. “They have the first edition.”
“Hey, it’s you!” The redheaded boy slapped Gideon so hard on the back that Gideon nearly toppled into a shelf of local authors. “This is the shop I was telling you about. It’s been in the family for thirty-three years. Well, longer than that really. The factory closed down in the late seventies and sat empty for four years. Papa had to run out the hooligans. He fixed it up and started selling off all the old equipment. They added the stores in ’95, but they were no account until –”
“Nice to meet you. May I see the Kipling?” Charlie’s mind was on the Kipling and far from the history of the Coraloo.
“It’s not for sale.” The voice emerged from behind a shelf of historical fiction. A man, a grown-up version of the redhead, extended his hand to Charlie. “Stephen Blackwell, fourth generation. This is my son, Danger. The others are around here somewhere.”
“Charlie Price, and this is Gideon. We’re new in town.”
“Nice to meet you. I heard a family had leased the Toft house. It’s cozy.”
“Minuscule would be a better word,” Gideon mumbled.
Stephen Blackwell laughed. “It may be small, but like everything around here, it has quite a story to tell.”
“I’m a fan of stories.” Charlie’s attention drifted somewhere between Mr Blackwell and the Kipling. In his early online explorations of Coraloo, he had read the Blackwells were infamous for their overly exaggerated tales and public portrayals of the family’s bizarre history.
“Then I’ll tell you all about it. Supper it is! Our camper van is out back. You can’t miss it.”
“Ours is the biggest,” Danger interjected.
“Tonight, six o’clock?”
Charlie passed another glance at the book. “Sure. Sounds great.”
“Wait! I’ve got something for you!” Danger Blackwell disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with a stack of yellowing papers held together with a black spiral binding. “It’s our history!”
Gideon shot a hesitant look at his dad. Charlie nodded. Gideon accepted the book.
“Thank you, Danger.” Charlie patted his shy son on the back.
“You’ll read it, won’t you?”
Gideon nodded and followed Charlie back out into the Coraloo. “Dad, you better have Doctor Eyeballs on speed dial.”
“Why is that, son?”
“Mom’s gonna pass out when she hears where you’re taking her to dinner.”
“Oh, and why is that?” He vaguely recalled the Blackwell invitation.
“Dad, we’re eating in a camper van!”
CHAPTER 4
1856
Mungo Blackwell’s father, Mumford Blackwell, unintentionally stepped foot into the camp of the tribal Na-rts. He did not mind the cooler temperatures in this part of the country. In fact, it reminded him of winters back home. Mumford’s parents, hardworking Scotch immigrants, had journeyed far and across the seas during the Highland potato famine, selling hand-cobbled shoes to whoever would pay or trade for them before settling. An explorer at heart and eager to traverse the lands to the west and south of his parents’ new homestead, Mumford – with the blessing of his mother and father – set out into the world, surviving on his family trade.
As one cannot predict such things as a potato famine, one also cannot predict with whom they fall in love, but one look at the native princess and Mumford’s heart was no longer his own. They called her Ipunistat for the mark of the star staining the bridge of her nose. Her hair hung long, plaited ornately down her back, and her smooth skin was darker than any Mumford had seen before. To the shock of the women in the village, who found their guest awkward and too pale, Ipunistat developed a fondness for the redheaded stranger. But a union was not to be; she was already promised to a great warrior of the tribe. However, Ipunistat did not love the warrior – for many reasons, but mostly because his crooked hooked nose dripped a constant stream of clear fluid, running faster than his legs.
Mumford was in love and desperate to spend the rest of his life with Ipunistat. He got down on his knee in front of the chief and pleaded, “I’ll do anything to wed my true love.”
“Anything?” the chief responded.
“Anything.”
The warrior protested, raising his spear to Mumford’s forehead. The tribe shouted and chanted for a challenge. The chief waved, silencing his people, and said one word: “Shoes.”
The challenge had been set to the dismay of the warrior, for everyo
ne was aware the chief’s arthritic feet had brought him great pain for many years. A pair of shoes to ease his discomfort would undoubtedly win the hand of the Na-rt princess.
The betrothed warrior took off toward the East to track a family of shoe-wearing missionaries who had passed through the camp a month prior. Mumford, however, set out on his own in search of the rare heaken beaver, whose skin was known to bring strength, healing, and long life to the wearer. Before sunset he returned, and in his satchel there was a pair of handcrafted heaken beaver sandals.
Mumford placed the banded leather shoes on the feet of the chief. The tribe waited, anticipating the reaction.
The chief stood, wiggled his exposed toes, and cried, “Shoes!” He turned to Mumford. “Anything.”
With eyes only for one anything, Mumford replied, “The Star.”
Before the warrior returned, Mumford had married the native princess. For nine months he lived with the tribe as son-in-law to the chief. At the end of nine months, when the moon waned, Ipunistat began her three-day labor, gave birth to a son, and died.
The chief blamed the traveler and cursed the child, proclaiming the child’s soul discontented and condemning him to roam the earth in search of peace. Mumford fled the country with his newborn son, hoping to rid his child from the curse. But the chief had been right: the child, Mungo Blackwell, was never content to be in one place too long.
On one occasion, Mungo Blackwell walked into the woods and did not stop walking until he found himself enslaved by a caravan of traveling gypsies – with whom he and his father lived for five months until Mumford had paid for his son in shoes. Mumford told people it was because Mungo had grown up without a mother that he wandered so, but in his heart, Mumford knew the truth: Mungo Blackwell was cursed.
So Mumford and Mungo traversed the far corners of the earth for eleven years, searching for the contentment his son would never find. Mumford taught his son to make shoes from the hides of whatever they could kill – pigs, cows, wildebeests – and trade them for shelter and food. Before long, father and son became famous for the craftsmanship of their shoes and were sought out by sheiks and kings. But once again the moon waned, and Mumford was struck by misfortune. The coughs began, followed by the night sweats and fever. Mumford Blackwell died measuring the foot of a Middle Eastern dancer, leaving Mungo to journey alone in search of his stolen contentment.
CHAPTER 5
Gideon was right: Velveteen nearly fainted when Charlie explained they would be dining with the Blackwells in a camper van.
“Are you sure he said camper van? Really, a camper van? Like a motor home, Charlie? And they live in it?”
Charlie nodded. Gideon stifled his laughter with the palm of his hand.
Standing among a pile of torn wall covering with her brown hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, Velveteen wiped wallpaper paste off her face with her forearm. “And what does one wear to such an event, Charlie? I mean seriously. They have that big market, and they want us to eat in a van?”
In the short time Charlie and Gideon were at the market, she had scraped away every inch of the dahlias, exposing the soft gray walls they had seen on the realtor’s website.
“You did a good job on the walls. They look nice.”
Velveteen gazed at her progress. “Thank you. They will need some paint, eventually, but it’s better than losing my eyesight every time I walk into the living room.” She turned around sharply and pointed a finger at her husband. “You’re changing the subject, Charlie! That’s not fair!”
“I imagine we’ll eat outside. It’ll be fun!”
“Break out the ponchos! The Prices are coming to dinner!” Velveteen wrapped a large piece of the former wall covering around her body. “How does this look, Charlie?”
“If you wear it, I’ll stop asking you to go to the market.”
“Tempting… but I would rather go naked.”
Gideon’s face twisted into a look of disgust. “Gross! I’m going to my room.”
“You would eat naked in a camper van?” Charlie asked.
Sitting bare bottomed anywhere, thinking about who or what might have sat there before was a disturbing thought. “As long as you are there, I’ll eat anywhere, Charlie Price… even in a camper van, but I’m wearing a dress. Now, do you really like the walls or were you trying to seduce me into eating with those people without me knowing it?”
“Are you saying that in order to seduce you all I have to do is compliment the walls?”
“Yes.”
Two hours later, and a quick drive up the hill – Charlie suggested they walk, but Velveteen reminded him she was wearing heels – the Price family stared at the rolling homes in front of them. The long row of camper vans – short, colorful trailers once pulled behind some other vehicle and long, larger ones revealing their lengthy stay by the amount of grass growing up around the wheels – formed the Blackwell compound. Gideon was especially fond of the one painted like a rooster. An orchard of apple and lime trees, rows of suspended grape vines, and a large garden filled the space behind the campers.
The camper vans were ablaze with light fixtures crafted of everything from glass fizzy drink bottles and aluminum cans to plastic flowerpots turned upside-down, and embedded with colorful translucent beads. A scattering of Blackwells sat outside whittling away at their wares, while others sat by small fire pits as children and dogs entertained one another behind their backs. An unorchestrated mix of guitar, banjo, and possibly an accordion – Charlie wasn’t sure – hung over the scene. It was like a kaleidoscopic circus, welcoming the Prices to the Blackwell show.
With one hand, Velveteen gripped her husband’s hand so hard he feared his wedding band might become permanently embedded into his finger. In the other, she held a candle – unused, secured in its purple box, and neatly tied-up with a green satin bow. She adored its fragrance, a combination of bergamot and lavender. It had been the signature scent of their home in the city. Since The Rooning, she had determined that ordering candles from France was probably not on her road to simplicity. With only five – now four – cylindrical luminaries remaining in her possession, she rationed their burning to thirty minutes every other week. Regardless of her deficit, according to Shmandervilt’s New Guidebook for the Civilized Lady, it is rude to arrive without a hostess gift.
Charlie knocked on the metal door of the largest camper van – a shiny silver Airstream that made Velveteen think of an elongated toaster. Danger had said to look for the biggest. She hoped Charlie had chosen wisely.
Stephen Blackwell opened the door. “Come on –”
“Out!” a voice shouted from within. “I was talking to you too, Fie!”
Partially frightened and partially relieved, Velveteen grabbed Gideon by the arm, planning to follow the stone road down the hill and back home – heels or no heels.
“Wait!” Stephen called.
Suddenly, a pile of teenagers, including the younger Danger, stumbled over one another to get down the metal steps and out of the narrow exit, followed by a moping girl, holding a book close to her chest. Velveteen watched hesitantly. The sight reminded her of a childhood trip to the Ringling Brother’s Circus where twenty clowns, to the delight of a shocked audience, piled out of a car fitted for four.
“Sorry about the chaos, Price family. The gang was finishing up a project for school. School and sleep, that’s about all we can do in here. Half the time we don’t know where the kids are.”
Velveteen pulled Gideon closer.
“Come on inside.”
Charlie climbed in first, followed by Velveteen and then Gideon. He placed his arm around her waist, pulling her to him ever so slightly. “This is my wife Velveteen, and you’ve already met Gideon.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Stephen leaned over and kissed her casually on the cheek.
Velveteen forced a smile and fought off the temptation to wipe away the awkwardness.
Inside, the recreational vehicle turned permanent living
space was not only much larger than it had appeared from the outside, it was also updated and tastefully decorated. The kitchenette held a small stainless steel stovetop and oven nicer than the one in the Toft house. A miniature oil painting of a boy and girl at the ocean hung in a gilded frame over the sink, and the entire interior was fitted with white board and baton siding. The space was crisp but welcoming.
From behind a slim sliding reclaimed wood door stepped one of the loveliest women Velveteen had ever seen.
“This is my wife, Clover.” Stephen kissed the woman on the cheek and gave her a loving wink. The mother of five’s hair hung in loose strawberry blond ringlets around her face. She wore blue jeans, stylishly ripped at the knee, and a stark white button up shirt.
Velveteen glanced down at the woman’s bare feet and then at her own red high heels. She suddenly wished she had worn her casual, but cute, strappy sandals instead.
The woman leaned over and kissed Velveteen as her husband had done. “You must be Velveteen.”
“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I brought a little something for your –” She was about to say home, then considered saying camper, but neither quite fit. Velveteen had a sudden revelation that a candle was quite possibly the wrong choice for this kind of living quarters. She imagined the flame of the candle igniting the gray striped curtains. The sofa would be the next to go and then the Berber carpet. Before long, the entire circus would be one big bonfire, and who would the Blackwells blame? The conversation played out in her mind: It smelled like bergamot and lavender! I bet it was that Price woman!
Clover stepped in, halting Velveteen’s musings. “That’s kind of you. Please, have a seat.”
Charlie slid into the restaurant-style booth seating; Velveteen followed his lead.
“Danger is outside,” Clover addressed Gideon. “Go on out; have him show you around the camp and introduce you to the others. We’ll eat in a bit.”
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 4