They could live off the sale of the French horn for about two more months. Charlie had contacted the buyer, fearing the Australian would demand his money back over the horn’s questionable authenticity. But the buyer had laughed and said he had already sold it on, pocketing a five hundred dollar profit.
“Can he do that, Charlie? Is it legal?” Velveteen had asked.
He recalled staring at her for a minute. Did she not know what he had been doing in Coraloo? To avoid confusion, he simply answered, yes.
A giant wreath with an oversized red bow – leftover decorations from Christmas – hung over the entrance to the Heritage Financial building. Velveteen had insisted their home decorations come down right after New Year’s Day. Charlie paused a moment, remembering the excitement of their first Christmas in Coraloo. In the weeks leading up to it Charlie had been anxious about having enough money to buy gifts for Velveteen and Gideon. In past years he had not spared any expense, always buying his family one special – and usually very expensive – gift. This year things were different. Charlie had traded a vintage stethoscope – a poorly calculated purchase during his early days of picking – to Roy Blackwell for a bicycle. Seemed the constable had a whole shed full of them, which he refurbished in his spare time. Roy had lovingly transformed a worn-looking mountain bike into a one-of-a-kind Pirates of the Cosmos original, complete with pirate flag and handlebar ray gun. Charlie had never seen Gideon so excited about a gift, another clear indication that their previous, pretend existence hadn’t been as rewarding as what they now had. Velveteen had made them pancakes – cinnamon with a spiced whipped cream, and they’d spent the morning as a family, just the three of them, knowing that this time next year, there would be four. In the evening they went to the market to see the Blackwells. Clover had called ahead to warn Velveteen not to eat the plum pudding. Apparently the aunts had argued over a few notes on Granny’s recipe, resulting in a beautiful yet boozy laxative bomb with a sprig of holly stuck on top.
Gathering himself, Charlie opened the door and stepped onto the marble floor. The building moved with hurried employees, racing from destination to destination. It smelled of bleach and pine-scented wood cleaners.
Charlie walked up to the circular desk in the center of the lobby. He didn’t recognize the receptionist – she must be new. “Good morning. I have an appointment with Robert Walsh?”
“Name?” The girl could have easily been one of the Blackwell children with her red hair flowing down in ringlets to her shoulders. He wanted to ask if she knew them.
“Charlie –”
“One moment. Heritage Financial, how may I direct your call?” The girl rolled her eyes, sighed, and rolled her eyes again. “One moment, please.” She then looked at Charlie as if he were forgetting to do something. “Your name?”
“Oh, Charlie. Charlie Price.”
It might as well have been the first day of middle school all over again. He was nervous, uncomfortable, and even though he had spent most of his adult life walking in and out of this very building, he was the new kid.
“Take the elevator to the top floor.”
“Does he know I’m coming?”
“Um, yes. One moment. Heritage Financial, how may I… No ma’am…”
Charlie didn’t wait for her call to end. He proceeded to the elevator, boarded with five other suits – three women and two men he had never seen before – and waited for the elevator to carry him to the top. His mind wandered back to Coraloo, to Gideon, and to Velveteen. He paid no attention to the other employees coming and going as the peaceful commerce taking place at Coraloo captivated his memory. What were the vendors doing since their eviction from Coraloo? He had taken for granted he would always see them and had never said goodbye.
“Are you getting off?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
A woman with black hair twisted into a braided bun on the back of her head held the door open for him. “This is the last stop, or you’re going back to the lobby, unless you’ve just been along for the ride.”
Charlie glanced up at the woman, and then glanced again at what he thought was a birthmark in the shape of a star on the bridge of her nose. “Ipunistat?”
“Excuse me?”
Charlie rubbed his eyes and took a second look at the woman. He had seen the birth of the Blackwell patriarch to the native princess played out in front of him over a dozen times and the star was imprinted on his memory.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no this is my stop.” He glanced back at the woman, but the elevator door had shut. Get it together, Charlie. He inhaled deeply as he walked onto the executive floor of Heritage Financial.
He stepped up to a man who he assumed was sitting behind the desk. But he was standing, though he must have been a good two feet shorter than Charlie. “A pygmy,” Charlie mumbled.
The man furrowed his brow, but thankfully had not caught Charlie’s utterance. “Name?”
“Charlie Price. I’m here to see Robert Walsh.”
“Have a seat.” The man motioned for Charlie to sit in a small waiting area to the left where one other person sat reading through a magazine with the picture of a pirate on the front.
Charlie’s throat constricted. He loosened his tie for fear of suffocation. He watched the man in front of him flip through the pages. The vintage wall clock ticked away the seconds. Charlie checked his watch; he was early. Images of Velveteen in the Toft house scurried through his brain, as he envisioned her baking under the stained-glass bumblebee – which she had come to claim as her favorite item in the home – swinging over her head casting shadows across the room.
Gideon would be in school dreaming up ways to persuade Velveteen to homeschool him, and the Blackwells… would of course be at the market – where they were every day. Stephen had expressed concern as January and February were their slowest months, and with the loss of income brought in by the vendors, he feared the market would not make it through the summer. Charlie could not get his head around it: what would Coraloo be without the market? Although he was in no hurry to go picking again, he missed the market, and hadn’t been back in over two weeks. They had attended the tree lighting and partaken in all of the Blackwell festivities, including the mulled wine. The children had re-enacted the year’s final tribute to Mungo in a demonstration that involved Danger shouting, I am your blood, and seconds later five of the Blackwell children, along with Gideon, dumping buckets of water on Danger.
Charlie checked his watch again. He breathed in slowly and then exhaled. He couldn’t sit still any longer. He would have to get used to desk life again – even if it was from the kitchen table – assuming all went well. Charlie stood up and walked to the floor to ceiling window overlooking the street below. He put his hands in his pockets and stared down at the row of food trucks – chicken burgers, wraps, and… He placed his face against the glass, squinted, and tried to read the farthest truck on the end – Kuru’s Curry? He turned his head away and then back again. The truck clearly read “Kale and Corn”.
“They can’t blame you for poor immune systems. Besides, God never intended for us to eat from a truck.” Velveteen’s words rang in his head.
“What about the truffle truck or the cupcake truck on 7th?” he’d said.
“Dessert is always an exception, Charlie.”
On that day, he would have never imagined over a year later he would be waiting to interview for the same position that had been stripped from him. So you’re sacrificing me? The dismissal played over in his mind. No, Son. We’re firing you.
The toes of Charlie’s new brown leather dress shoes peeked out from the hem of his trousers. He liked the shoes – he liked them a lot, in fact – but not where they were standing. Who was he kidding? This wasn’t what he wanted. He saluted the row of trucks, removed his tie, and made his way toward the elevator. Cowards are men that won’t try what has never been done. There had to be another way, and Charlie was going to find it.
Cha
rlie pushed the button on the elevator and watched as the digital number at the top climbed from three, to four, as the elevator shot up toward him. For the first time since The Rooning, he didn’t see himself as a failure. Velveteen was happy, Gideon was happy, he was happy – that’s all that mattered. He would figure out the rest of it.
“Charlie Price?” Charlie turned at the sound of his name. “Mr Walsh will see you now.”
The elevator door opened. Without looking back, Charlie stepped inside.
“Mr Price,” the man at the desk repeated, “Mr Walsh will see you now.”
The elevator doors slowly pushed closer together. Then a familiar voice made his blood run cold. Charlie stuck out his hand to stop the closing doors. On the other side, he could see Robert Walsh shaking the hand of Shug Blackwell.
“Mr Price? Charlie Price?” the man at the desk called again.
Charlie stepped out of the elevator and glared into the cold eyes of Shug Blackwell. “I’m Charlie Price.”
CHAPTER 30
1929 and ½
Mungo Blackwell stepped boldly into the camp of the Na-rts natives, just as his father Mumford had done over seventy years ago. Mungo missed his bride and his thirteen children, but he could not live the remainder of his years as a man cursed with a restless soul. It had been a difficult life for him and for Sarra. After the birth of their firstborn, so many years ago, he had dragged his young family around the world, unintentionally forcing Sarra to give birth to their second child in a cave off the coast of Nova Scotia. It was the second time a child of theirs had not been born in the bed he had made for her. That was when he realized his family needed to be home. Somehow he needed to find contentment at home. And now, following his funeral, it was time to end the curse where it had all begun.
“Halt!” Mungo stopped in front of the dark-skinned man. The man, scantily dressed with the exception of the work boots on his feet, motioned for Mungo to follow.
“I must see your chief,” Mungo said.
The native nodded and motioned for Mungo to follow. The native led Mungo to a triangular tent made of sticks, where inside Mungo found a man, much older than he, lying on a bed of feathers surrounded by five women who were dripping oils from large bowls on his forehead and chest.
“He is leaving us for the after,” the native said to Mungo.
A sense of urgency faced Mungo. He must have the man undo what was done so he could live the remainder of his life in peace.
Mungo leaned over the dying chief.
“What does he trade?” the chief asked.
“I have nothing to trade.”
“Do you have shoes?”
“I do.” Mungo removed the bench-made leather boots from his feet and handed them to one of the women. The woman examined the boot, looked down at her own ladies’ patent leather dress shoe with a Cuban heel, and nodded her approval of the trade. She then tossed the boot over her shoulder to where it landed in a pile of other shoes. Mungo surveyed the camp, contemplating the loin cloths and flimsy wrappings each of the natives wore along with elaborate shoes of one kind or another.
The chief motioned for Mungo to speak.
“Seventy-three years ago you cursed me to wander the earth, to never be satisfied to live in one place. I want you to remove the curse, so I might live in peace with my family.”
“I cannot.”
“But you must!”
“I cannot.”
“You put the curse upon me, so you must remove it. I traveled many miles to find you!”
“I cannot remove what I have not given.”
“You are the chief, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then you must take this curse from me! I need to live! It’s all I have left to do!”
“I cannot give you what you seek.” The chief choked and coughed. The woman continued to drip oils down his face.
One of the natives placed his hand on Mungo’s back. “You must go.”
“No! I have come too far. I cannot finish my life like this. It is all I have left to do.” The native raised his spear and ushered him back. “Please!” Mungo yelled to the chief, “I’ve seen it! I know! You must speak it away from me! Do you know who I am? I am your blood! I am the son of the star, Ipunistat!”
“Stop!”
Mungo froze and looked into the face of his ancient grandfather.
“I hoped you would return one day, my only male heir.”
Mungo knelt down by the old man’s side. “But you cursed me.”
In his last breaths the old chief laughed. “Are you saying all this time you thought you were cursed because of the angry words of an old man?”
“It is what I was told.”
“Then you, my grandson, cursed yourself.” The chief’s eyes slowly fell closed as he passed from the earth. The women broke into wails. The native dropped his spear. Mungo was left hopeless and defeated.
“You are the chief,” the native said. “He named you.”
“I am not the chief.”
Suddenly Mungo found himself wrapped in an animal hide robe and a crown of feathers set upon his head. His curse wanted him to stay and live among the natives as one of them, but for the first time, his heart told him it was time to go. Mungo removed the crown and the robe and walked sock-footed from the camp.
He walked morning and night without stopping; he would not give in to his urge to roam, to go and seek out his next adventure. He followed the stars across the desert and over the mountains until he reached the ocean’s edge. Upon his arrival, a large storm cloud distorted the horizon line. Mungo watched as the lightning lit the sky, but he did not move. He had come seeking peace and instead he found a storm.
Mungo faced the storm head on. He let the rain wash over him. He fought to stand tall in the wind, but over and over it knocked him down. The thunder echoed in his ears. He begged the mover of the storm to free him of the curse. At that moment a wave swept over him and pulled him into the sea. When he woke, he was lying in the sand on the other side of the ocean.
Mungo wrung the water from his wool socks and stood to his feet. He gazed back on the sea, always moving, never stopping to rest. Ahead of him, several days’ journey from the coast, lay the still green hills of his homeland. He reached in his pocket for his can of beeswax – a little damp, but it would do the trick. He twisted the edges of his mustachio into tiny hooks, placed the tin can back in his pocket, and set his course for home with no desire for anything more than what he had waiting for him.
CHAPTER 31
Charlie Price stood outside the front door of the Toft cottage in the crisp snowy air. He grinned. He had called Velveteen earlier in the day to let her know the interview had taken a turn and was going to last much longer than either of them had expected – four hours longer in fact.
Charlie went over the events of the meeting in his mind. Robert Walsh, without hesitation, had offered him his job back, but Charlie had lifted his chin and said, “Robert, I must decline.”
Charlie turned the doorknob and stepped inside his home. The cushions were fluffed, the mantel dusted, a fire crackled, and one dozen red velvet macarons sat ready to celebrate Charlie’s successful interview at Heritage Financial. It was clear there was no doubt in Velveteen’s mind that Heritage had asked Charlie to once again lead the team of bankers – especially when he told her over the phone the interview was prolonged, and he had news involving her. Gideon sat at the kitchen table doing homework, and Velveteen, in full make-up and heels – she had dressed up for the evening – greeted him with a calm, “Hello, sweetheart.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Swollen, exhausted, and perfectly pregnant!”
Charlie considered asking her to sit down, but decided to tease her first. She had probably gone over all possible scenarios for the last six and a half hours, but he was certain she would never see coming what he was about to tell her. He wandered over to the coffee table and picked up a macaron. She had become quite go
od at baking the colorful treats. The red velvet was his favorite.
He entered the kitchen and leaned over Gideon’s shoulder. “What are you working on?”
“Geography.”
“I’ll come back later when it’s time for literature.”
Gideon offered up a courtesy laugh.
“How was your day at school?”
“Okay. Did you know the number of children who are educated at home by a parent is rising every year? And, homeschooled children are just as likely to attend university as children who are educated in a traditional classroom setting?”
“Talk to your mother.”
“I did.”
“And…”
“She said when the Tofts and the Blackwells learn to get along, then she will consider it.”
“So, it’s a no.”
“It’s a no.”
Charlie leaned over and whispered in Gideon’s ear. “Between us, I have it on good authority there could be a Blackwell–Toft marriage this spring. We may have a truce yet.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see Velveteen straightening the cushions once again and carefully laying the blanket he had gotten her for Christmas over the arm of the sofa before she moved on to lining up her acrylics in neat little rows on a table she had set beside the easel she’d found in the attic. He wondered how long she would last until she asked him about the interview. When she went back and straightened the cushions for the third time, he couldn’t stand it.
“Stop, stop, stop.” He laughed. “I’ll tell you!”
“Charlie Price, you drive me crazy!” She calmly sat down on the sofa, but placed one of the cushions behind her back for extra support. “So, how did it go?”
Charlie sat down beside his wife and took her hands in his. “I have something to tell you.”
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 25