The Death of Mungo Blackwell

by Lauren H Brandenburg

  Stephen crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. “We Blackwells have always valued two things above all: faith and family. I guess I forgot about both for a while. My children were growing and so was my list of clients. I saw other families more than I saw my own. Clover and I were like strangers in our own home – we didn’t feel like the same people anymore. The business world has a way of blurring a man’s focus, if you know what I mean. My marriage, my children – for them I was willing to take the risk.”

  “But how could you possibly have known you’d be happy? That everything was going to work out?”

  “I didn’t. That’s the faith part.”

  Charlie shifted on his feet.

  “You can’t hold on to the past, Charlie. You’ve got to forgive yourself.”

  Charlie crossed his arms and sighed. “So you know my story then. Let me guess, Shug told you?”

  “He may have mentioned it a time or two. We all make mistakes. Yours happened to make headlines. I’ve gone up against the Dudleys a time or two. They had it coming.” Stephen laughed. Charlie didn’t. “Friend, you need to believe in something much bigger than yourself. You have to let go.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in much of anything anymore.”

  “My faith, what I believe in, is a love that changes people. It changed me, brought me back home. I believe it could change you – if you let it. Where do you find faith, Charlie? Who do you have faith in?”

  Charlie collected his purchases and passed another glance at the encased Kipling. “I’ve wondered that myself.”

  CHAPTER 17

  1889

  Mungo Blackwell recognized them instantly; he had heard rumors, but never had he seen them until this moment – a tribe of people who painted their bodies a cloudy white before they feasted on their captives. With long spears pointed directly at Mungo and his bride, the savages, no more than four feet tall, resembled feral children dressed in elaborate costuming. He had been in worse situations, but never with another. He had something new to fight for, someone to protect. He would not allow the cannibal pygmies of the South Seas to turn her into breakfast.

  Mungo surveyed the surroundings, careful not to make eye contact – everyone knows to make eye contact with a pygmy is sudden death. There was nowhere to run out of range of their spears. He had hoped to show his bride, Sarra, the more lovely parts of the islands of the South Seas, but their guide had led them astray. Mungo would deal with him another day.

  The circle of fifty pygmies inched closer – chanting “He-hoi, he-hoi, he-hoi!” – until Mungo could smell the death upon their breath.

  “Mungo, I’m frightened,” his wife whispered.

  “I will protect you, my love,” he whispered back.

  “Hoi!” The pygmies halted. The circle parted. An older member of the tribe stepped forward. Mungo slowly lifted his head to face his captor. The pygmy glared at Mungo and flashed a glance toward his bride. Suddenly, two of the pygmies had his Sarra in their clutches. Mungo was ready. Before they could touch a hair on his beard, he pulled a silver dagger from his satchel and with one spin cut the tips off of every spear. With arms flailing, legs kicking, and deafening war cries clicking from their tongues, the pygmies of the South Seas attacked. Mungo tried to fight them off. But the wiry half-sized natives tackled him to the ground, leaving a streak of blood across his chest. He knocked the mini-warriors off his wounded body, sending them flying in all directions.

  “Where is my bride?” Mungo growled.

  “My bride,” the native grunted, motioning to Sarra, whose hands were bound above her head and tied to a long wooden pole. Mungo glared at the older native, narrowed his eyes, and shook his head.

  Suddenly, a great howl echoed throughout the village. The tribe fell to their knees, trembling, as a fearsome woman wearing Sarra’s slippers, her upper lip sprouting a bushel of wiry hairs, entered the scene. Knowing not what to make of the strange woman, but seeing her need, Mungo slowly reached in his pocket and handed the woman his can of beeswax.

  Mungo waited as the woman fidgeted with the tin can. She thrust it back at Mungo, nudging for him to open it. Mungo twisted the lid, dipped his finger in the buttery goo, and proceeded to twist his mustachio into a hook. There was silence. The woman waved her hand in the air, motioning for the older native to join her – an elder of the tribe, Mungo presumed. The elder proceeded to dip his hand into the goo, removing a glob the size of a walnut. Mungo nodded toward the woman. The woman lifted her chin as the elder smeared the contents of his finger upon her face, securing the unruly hairs to her upper lip. Again there was silence.

  The woman turned to face the natives. The warriors cheered. The elder grinned, exposing two rows of rotting teeth. As if the cosmetic miracle had put a series of festive events in motion, two trays of exotic fruits and a bowl of a very foul smelling meat were presented to Mungo, but he refused to eat a bite until they released his bride. The elder was offended and angered, and demanded in his native tongue that Mungo offer a trade for Sarra. But since the natives had confiscated his satchel and knife, all Mungo had left were the shoes on his feet.

  The trade was accepted. The Blackwell shoes had changed the course of Mungo Blackwell’s life once again. Mungo quickly cut his wife down from her hold and pulled her to his side. He kissed her unashamedly, to the disgust of the natives. But the natives were not done with the travelers quite yet. The woman and the elder insisted Mungo marry them in a ceremony involving a tree trunk and a moldy piece of bread. That night while the tribe slept, with his bride on his arm, Mungo walked out of the village barefoot and ready to go wherever the curse of his grandfather would take them.

  CHAPTER 18

  Velveteen added up all the possible seating options in the living room and kitchen. It would have to do. In the city, their dining room table seated twelve. She had set their small kitchen table with four plates from her collection of china and carefully folded four cloth napkins, which she placed at the center of each plate. A crystal glass stood to the right corner of each setting and stainless steel flatware – she had allowed Charlie to sell their silver-plated set after The Rooning – flanked each plate, with a knife and spoon on the right and salad and dinner fork on the left. She no longer needed Emily Post to tell her how to set a table. Velveteen had set so many tables she could do it blindfolded.

  She mentally did her best to squeeze in the six children around the coffee table; however, Fife was nearly as tall as Stephen, had graduated, was taking online business courses, and at sixteen had a full beard. She could squeeze Fife in with the adults, but that would leave Fie with Danger, the twins, and Gideon. Fie, only a year younger than her brother, would definitely feel out of place. She would leave Fife and apologize for their lack of space.

  Her grandmother’s copy of Debrett’s 480-page handbook on style, form, and manners lay on the counter open to a page on “the eating of ethnic foods”.

  She checked the clock on the stove. Charlie was late. An unopened package for Gideon waited on the table by the door. He had anticipated its arrival before the move to Coraloo. They were both impressed and, truth be told, relieved when Gideon presented them with the money he had earned from selling old toys and asked Charlie to place the order. But Gideon hadn’t mentioned the purchase since before the pre-order. Maybe he was no longer interested in the world of Space Pirates. He was changing; they were all changing in Coraloo.

  The life was what she wanted for Gideon, to replace his fantasy world of space pirates with real friends. She had to admit, even if the Blackwells weren’t her top choice in companions, he was happy – and she no longer had to nod and pretend to understand what he was talking about when he set out to explain how ray guns were powered by star energy.

  “Vee! We’re here!”

  We’re?

  Velveteen tried to talk herself out of her frustration with Charlie. He was supposed to be home – alone – to help with last-minute details.

  “No worries, sweethear
t,” he said sweetly, as if anticipating her irritation. “It’s just Stephen.”

  “Mrs Price, thank you for having us. Clover is walking down with the rest of our clan. Can I help you with anything?”

  The shop owner’s genteel personality and manners were enough to make Emily Post swoon and John Debrett applaud.

  “No thank you. I believe I have it all together.” Velveteen pulled back the oven door, releasing the aroma of the Moroccan chicken recipe she had found in a cookbook. For years her cookbooks served to handsomely decorate the end cap of their kitchen island in the city, but in the past month, she’d found the beautifully covered books to be quite helpful in preparing meals.

  Charlie had suggested pizza, but she wanted to prove she could do more – even if she had to ask Charlie for extra grocery money, uncomfortable as the request made her.

  Velveteen had imagined herself standing alongside Melba when she added the dried apricots and chili flakes to her cart at the supermarket in the next town over. She had to ask the grocer multiple times to assist her in locating such items as cumin seed and chickpeas. In the city, she only shopped for the basics – going to the grocery store was more of a social event where the local gossip was passed over the thumping of melons and the smelling for ripe fruit. Velveteen had never known the difference between a good thump or a bad thump. It was all pretend, a game of charades over who had the healthiest cart of groceries and who would dare purchase the over-processed treats for their wee ones. Most of the ladies had their housekeepers do the real shopping. Since Velveteen had a secret affinity for sweets, she had been known to place a few choice leafy greens at the top of her cart to cover any contraband chocolate that might have found its way into her weekly shop.

  She checked her time on the clock once again. The chicken was done. The potatoes were in the warmer, and the Brussels sprouts – she checked the pan… perfectly caramelized – she had read about that online. Charlie and Stephen sat in the seats she had set for the children. She tried to remind herself men don’t care about things like straightened toss pillows. There was a knock at the door.

  The next hours hinted at moments from their past – entertaining guests, warm scents filling the rooms, and an array of conversation jumping in organized clusters from one family to the next. But unlike the pretentious dinners she had hosted for the acquaintances, this was not pretend. For once she had prepared the meal from scratch, and she soaked up the compliments, which were directly aimed at her ability, not passing phrasing actually meant for a hired chef or socially revered catering company. And the guests were so pleasant that at one point she forget her role as hostess, lost in honest laughter and friendship.

  Danger was the only one who wouldn’t eat the Brussels sprouts – he claimed he was allergic, but Clover said he wasn’t and made him choke down at least one. There was a moment of drama and over-exaggerated gagging, then a confession. Not only was Danger not allergic, but he liked them.

  Fife didn’t mind sitting on the couch with his younger siblings, but once he had finished his meal, he asked to be excused to return to their camper van. Fie took her book to the Prices’ garden, and Danger, Gideon, and the twins ran off to rehearse.

  “You should have seen it, Vee! Not only signed, but inscribed!”

  “Where on earth did you find it Stephen?” Velveteen asked, calm and proud of the dinner event she had successfully pulled off.

  “I actually came across it at an auction we frequent in the city. Strangest thing, come to think of it: I could have sworn I saw you the other day.”

  “Could have been. She made a trip a few weeks ago.” Charlie had not wanted her to go. He had insisted they could get their medical records transferred without leaving home.

  “Velveteen, it says right here we can make the switch online.”

  “I’d rather do it in person, Charlie. Who knows what could happen if our records fall into the wrong hands! I can handle this.”

  “What could possibly happen?”

  “Well, identity theft.”

  “Identity theft?”

  “What if some who-knows-who gets Gideon’s information? Then we’ll have some yahoo running around claiming he’s Gideon Price. Then the who-knows-who robs a bank – or worse, kidnaps the president! Then forever everyone will think our Gideon is a bank-robbing kidnapper! He’ll never go to college, Charlie! His life will be forever changed because of the Internet!”

  Charlie listened and tried not to laugh. She had to be hiding something. “If you want to take a trip to the city, just tell me.”

  “It’s not anything to discuss, Charlie. A quick trip there and back. We agreed that I’d handle the affairs of the home.”

  “We could all go, as a family.” Family. The word hung in his mind. They hadn’t acted much like a family lately. Velveteen was quieter than usual and Gideon was off playing pirates.

  “You don’t want to go back.”

  The conversation started down a path Charlie was not ready to travel. Going to the city wasn’t a hop in a cab. He hadn’t been back since The Rooning. For Charlie it was a taboo place… like returning to the scene of a murder.

  “Must have been someone else. Was it Monday I made the trip, Clover?” Stephen asked.

  Charlie passed a glance to his wife.

  Velveteen’s face tightened. She forced a laugh. “Still wrapping a few things up… I feel like I will never be fully moved in.”

  “Monday?” Charlie pulled out his phone, checking his calendar. “That’s grocery day, right?”

  Velveteen changed the subject. “Dessert! Who would like dessert?”

  “Let me help.” Charlie stood, dirty plate in hand.

  “No… No, thanks, Charlie. I can handle it. It’s just a simple bread pudding.” She didn’t want him to be worried about her whereabouts, but now was definitely not the time to have the conversation. It could wait.

  Clover gathered the empty plates and sat them on the kitchen counter. “I haven’t had bread pudding since I was a girl!”

  “It’s simple, really.” Simple was an overstatement. The recipe had used such delicate words as “brisk” and “whisk” – in truth, there was really no simple about it. Velveteen thought she might die waiting to see if the pudding would firm up. And then there was the sauce.

  Velveteen carefully poured the pungent liqueur topping over each ramekin. Serving the dessert, she was Melba entertaining her unbeknownst prince. But it was obvious that Charlie was unnerved by the revelation of her quick trip to the city. Velveteen avoided eye contact with her husband and pushed aside the dread of having to tell him why she was really in the city the day she had tried to dodge Stephen Blackwell.

  “Granny said you had been spending some time with her in the kitchen.” Stephen said, licking his lips and then spooning in another bite.

  “Granny Blackwell does seem to add a kick of bourbon to everything, doesn’t she?” Charlie shook his head, acknowledging the sweet potency of the bourbon sauce. “I thought Gideon had been drinking the first time I brought him to the market.”

  “Ha ha, very funny. Yes, I have been spending some time with Granny before the book club. She knows a lot… about food and things.”

  “She ought to,” Stephen said. “Her father was chef de cuisine at a hotel in France. She was practically raised in that hotel. It’s where she met Granddad. There was quite a romance between those two.”

  Velveteen couldn’t imagine Granny living any life other than that of a Blackwell, especially not as the daughter of a renowned chef.

  Suddenly, the children came running into the house. “Can we show you?” Gideon asked, out of breath and covered in sweat.

  “Show us what?” Velveteen wiped her hands on the embroidered towel and took a seat beside her husband.

  “The scene! We have a new one!” Danger interjected, addressing his father.

  “Let’s see it!” Stephen said, as he leaned back in his chair.

  “A scene? Like the ones they do at the
market?” After three weeks of consecutive market visits for Granny’s book club, Velveteen had come to know the lingo and ways of Coraloo.

  “Mom, you have to be quiet,” Gideon admonished.

  “Oh, so sorry.”

  The parents giggled at the sincerity of the children and watched in silence as they took their positions on the makeshift stage of their living room.

  “Mungo! They’re back!” Fie gasped, draping the back of her hand across her forehead and pretending to swoon.

  “Stay away from the windows! I’ll hang the Toft up if they step a foot closer to our land!” Danger shouted.

  Fie clutched her stomach. “Mungo, the baby!”

  “I’ll deliver it when I return.”

  “Your house is mine, Blackwell!” Gideon shouted, jumping up on the coffee table and pointing a stick at Danger. “This is Toft land!” Finella stood behind him, arms crossed and eyes glaring – this wasn’t their first performance.

  “No, you lopsided mongrel! I bought this land and built the house with my bare hands.”

  Velveteen was fascinated and so intrigued she completely overlooked the fact that Gideon had his foot in a plate of leftover Moroccan chicken she had forgotten in her tidying up.

  “Mungo!” Fie called, now lying flat on her back with her knees propped up. “The baby!”

  “Then we will fight for it!” Gideon shouted, jumping off the table, smearing sauce on the floor. He thrust his imaginary sword at Danger.

  “This sword,” Danger said, holding the imaginary sword in his left hand and twisting the tip of his imaginary mustachio with the other, “was given to me by the pirate king of the mid-Atlantic. Never a man lived that faced its blade.”

  “Mungoooooo!” Fie yelled.

  Velveteen watched, bouncing her leg with her chin cupped in her hands.