Breaking the Chain

by C. D. Ledbetter

  I've traced our family tree back to the early 1500s, and have found four women who were blessed with unique abilities. As far as I can tell, one of them was a healer, another had an uncanny affinity with wild animals, the third foretold disasters, and the last could see bits and pieces of the past. Because of their unique abilities, life wasn't easy for any of them, especially the last two.

  I, too, possess a unique talent, but mine is questionable at best, and seldom appears. For whatever reason, I sometimes know when certain stocks are going to do well. Don't ask me how, because I can't explain it. I just get this "feeling" about a specific stock. Given my financial background, some people might call this business acumen or coincidence, but I believe it to be a gift. Unfortunately, it doesn't work on anything else, and rarely occurs. Even though I work hard at making financial decisions, my greatest portfolio gains were the result of trusting intuitions which ran against conventional wisdom--without fail. I have, however, upon occasion, managed to greatly improve my portfolio by knowing when to translate my intuition into the purchase of certain stocks, and when not to.

  I believe that you also have a unique gift. It would appear that you possess the ability to locate objects from the past. You're what's known as a "retriever." As a child, you were always finding things others had lost, both large and small. Your mother believed this talent to be the work of the devil, and punished you every time you used it. Because of this, you ignored your talent and lost control over it.

  I'm not sure why it suddenly reappeared, but I suspect it has something to do with Jack. Perhaps he works as a catalyst for you, helping you to amplify your ability. Or, maybe he has a talent of his own; I don't know. I just know that, from what I've observed, your talent works best when he's around.

  That's all I have to say for now; I'm so exhausted. Unique abilities are like everything else in life--you either use them, or you lose them.

  Elizavon

  An uneasy silence hung between them after Mary finished reading the letter. Jack waited a few moments, trying to gauge her reaction, but her expression was unreadable. When she remained silent, he walked over to the liquor cabinet.

  "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink," he said. "Want one?"

  "Yeah. Whatever you're having will do."

  He opened a bottle of whiskey and poured several shots into their glasses. Handing one to her, he kept the other.

  "Thanks." She took a few sips, then placed her drink on the side table. "So," she said lightly, "what do you think about the letter?"

  He chose his words carefully. "Well, at least it didn't say anything terrible about your parents. And, it could explain why you found the necklace at the old hotel. That's assuming, of course, you believe what your aunt said about the women in your family. Maybe you can find things that were lost or hidden. I mean, people have all sorts of gifts. Some are great pianists, singers, dancers, and then there are the savants, people with serious disabilities who, nevertheless, can do complex mathematics without even knowing how. Why couldn't someone have the ability to locate lost objects?"

  "I don't know. I just wish Aunt Elizavon would've told me about this before she died. I have so many questions I want to ask." A sigh escaped her lips as she re-read the letter, then folded the pages and inserted them back into the envelope. "Now it's too late."

  He squeezed her fingers reassuringly. "There's still another letter. Maybe that will answer some of your questions."

  She glanced up. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about the other one. Maybe you're right. Maybe it will."

  He passed the letter to her, and was nearly thrown from his seat when the plane lurched unexpectedly.

  Before he could reach for the headset, the intercom buzzed, and Dykes' voice boomed in his ear. "You guys okay?"

  "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

  "Turbulence. You better buckle up, just to be safe." Dykes explained. "I'm not sure how long it will last."

  "Jack, what is it?" Mary asked.

  "You better buckle up, Mary," he ordered in a no-nonsense voice as his glass slipped from his hand.

  "Are--are we going to crash?"

  "No. It's nothing like that. Dykes said we're going through some turbulence; that's all." He checked his seatbelt, then held on to the armrest as the plane lurched again, this time to the left.

  "You okay, baby?" he asked, glancing at his wife.

  "Next time, I want to travel by commercial airlines," she retorted, grim faced.

  "Don't be silly," Jack chided. "It doesn't matter what kind of plane you're in. Turbulence is turbulence. Don't worry; we'll be fine in a few minutes."

  She mopped the rest of her whiskey from her pants. "What if it doesn't stop? What do we do then? Crash?"

  36

  The slight thunk of the thick envelope as it landed on her lap awakened Justine from a light doze. She glanced down to the envelope lying across her knees. "What in the world...?"

  "That's for you," Sadie announced from the doorway. "It's my will and my burial policy." As she spoke, she hobbled toward the chair on Justine's left.

  "Why are you giving this to me?"

  "Don't be stupid. Why'd you think I'm giving it to you?" Sadie spat out. "I seen last night that everything's gonna happen soon." Grasping the arm of the chair with one hand, she collapsed onto the metal seat, then used the tip of her ebony cane to push the envelope further up Justine's lap. "Go on, open it. I don't got much, but what I got, I'm leaving to you. There ought to be enough money to see me buried, with a little left over." Tears misted the elderly black woman's eyes and dribbled down the grooves in her wrinkled cheeks. "You all the family I got left, Justine. You been like a sister to me; I'm gonna miss you."

  "Don't talk like that, Sadie. You're not going to die. I won't let you," Justine cried, leaping from her chair to hug her long-time friend. Tears flowed down her cheeks as Sadie sobbed against her.

  When she could cry no more, Sadie pushed away. "We need to talk about this, Justine, whether you want to or not. It's important. I want to be buried next to my Zachariah." She grabbed Justine's arm in a vise-like grip. "Promise me, Justine. Promise me you'll do that."

  Sobbing, Justine nodded.

  "Say it. It don't count lessen you say it."

  "I...I promise you'll be buried next to Zachariah, Sadie. You have my word."

  Sadie released her and settled back in her chair, her dark eyes glittering. "That's good enough for me." She glanced at the tears still flowing down Justine's cheeks. "Ain't no use fretting, Justine. What's gonna happen will; ain't nothing we can do to change that. My old bones is tired and I'll be glad for some rest. The good Lord will take care of me; don't you worry. I done made my peace with God. It's you I'm worried about," she said, patting Justine's hand. "I don't want you to fret none for me. When this is over, you ought to go home to your son. Your life'll be fine."

  The only sound on the porch was the creaking of the chairs as the two old women rocked back and forth, their feet rising and falling with the swaying of the chairs. "I like sitting in rocking chairs," Sadie announced, breaking the companionable silence. "Reminds me of when I was little. Every afternoon my mama would sit on the porch in a rocker, singing hymns while she shelled butter beans out of a burlap sack. I didn't know it then, but them was some of the happiest times of my life." She began to hum, then broke into bits and pieces of old hymns, her voice cracking as she struggled to hit the high notes. Eventually the singing stopped, and she rose from her chair.

  "I almost forgot something," she said, hobbling to the doorway. "Stay there. I'll be right back." She reappeared a few moments later, clasping a thin envelope in one arthritic-ridden hand. "I want you to hold this for Mary," she said in a quiet tone. "Don't give it to her until after I'm gone, and don't ask no questions about it, neither, 'cause I ain't gonna tell you nothing. Just give it to her after I'm gone. Okay?"

  Justine laid the envelope carefully on top of the other. "All right, Sadie. I'll keep it for her."

&nb
sp; "Good." Sadie's metal rocker creaked and groaned as she struggled to her feet and shuffled once more into the hallway. "Now, I gots to get ready. Lotsa' things to do, Justine. Important things." She waited for a few moments, then cracked her cane across a nearby table. "Didn't you hear me? Don't sit there blubbering. You gotta get up. You and me got things needing to be taken care of. Last night the spirits done showed me the brown man. I seen his face and I know what he means to do. If we gonna save Mary, we gotta work quick."

  Justine stopped mid-step. "You know who he is? Tell me. Tell me who. And what do you mean by saving Mary?"

  Sadie shook her head. "Best you don't know. If he thought you knew what he was up to, he'd kill you for sure."

  "But--but," Justine stuttered. "You can't be serious." She grabbed Sadie's shoulder. "You have to tell me, Sadie. I have a right to know."

  Sadie's eyes narrowed to two black slits. "I ain't gonna tell you, so you might as well shut up." She brushed Justine's fingers away from her shoulder. "Spirits done told me I'm gonna die, but it ain't your time, Justine--as far as I can tell. If I told you who he was, there mightn't be just one death; might be two."

  37

  The small plane's roller coaster ride finally smoothed out, but Mary and Jack waited an additional fifteen minutes before unbuckling their seat belts.

  "Are you sure it's okay?" Mary asked nervously, her fingers still cemented to the belt's now separated straps. "What if it starts up again?"

  Jack rose from his seat and retrieved two sodas from the fridge. "Dykes checked with a pilot running in front of us; we're in the clear. It should be smooth sailing from here on out."

  "Tell my stomach that," she groaned. "I've never been air sick, but I think that's about to change."

  "Just remember, if you throw it up, you clean it up. To quote our captain, 'I don't do barf.'"

  "Thanks a lot, Jack. I really needed you to bring up the finer points of air sickness right now," she griped. "God, I really feel queasy. Are there any crackers in the pantry?"

  "You know, you don't look so good all of a sudden. I'll go check." He reached out and felt her forehead. "Geez, Mary. I thought you were kidding."

  "I wish." She maneuvered her seat into a semi-reclining position while he rummaged through the pantry. A few minutes later she heard a cry of victory, and he reappeared, holding up an unopened box of crackers. Ripping the cloudy plastic, he withdrew a handful and handed them to her.

  "Want me to open your soda? It's ginger ale--should settle your stomach."

  She popped two crackers into her mouth and nodded. "Thanks. I don't know why I feel so queasy; maybe I've got some kind of bug. I wasn't feeling too well yesterday, either."

  "Sorry, babe. I thought you were pulling my leg."

  "It's all right. Once my stomach settles down, I want to take a look at the other letter." She leaned back into her chair and closed her eyes, mentally willing the rolling of her stomach to cease. The sound of running water echoed in the background, and before she could figure out what he was up to, Jack draped a cool washcloth across her forehead.

  "Here, this ought to help you," he murmured in a soft voice, smoothing her hair off her forehead. "Whenever I feel sick, I always put a cold washcloth on my forehead. Don't know why, but it always makes me feel better." He dropped a light kiss on her cheek, then returned to his seat.

  "Thanks for bringing the washcloth and crackers. You know, I suddenly feel kinda tired. I think I'll close my eyes for a few moments. Maybe it will help my stomach settle down."

  "I'll let you know when we get ready to land in Boston."

  The pounding in her head and rolling of her stomach eased off as Mary slipped into the world of sleep-induced oblivion. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to learn that she'd slept for over an hour. "I think I'm beginning to feel almost normal," she announced as she removed the cloth from her forehead.

  Jack eyed her for a few moments, then handed her a fresh soda. "Well, if it's any consolation, you don't look as green as you did earlier."

  She carefully eased her chair into a sitting position and spotted the opened letter on the table next to her. "You know, I've been thinking about what Elizavon wrote," she announced slowly, "and I can't believe my aunt knew what I was going through, and didn't say anything. She knew damn well that when I first started seeing the ghost of Magdalene, I thought I was losing my mind. How could she do that? All she would've had to do was tell me what she wrote in the letter. Just knowing about that would've made a tremendous difference in how I felt. How could she be so cruel?"

  "I don't know, baby. Your aunt was a very complicated woman. Maybe she was guided by some misplaced loyalty to your mother. After all, she did say your mother tried to suppress whatever gift you have. Maybe Elizavon thought she was doing you a favor by not telling you. Have you thought about that?"

  "That doesn't justify her behavior, and you know it," she retorted angrily. "As far as I'm concerned, there was no excuse that would condone her not telling me. She was just being mean and hateful. That's all it was."

  "It's obvious you're in no mood to discuss this rationally. You're feeling hurt and rejected--though I concede you have every right to feel that way. You went through hell last year. We all did. I know; I was there. I agree that there was no excuse for what your aunt did, but there's nothing you can do to change it. You do, however, need to ask yourself one question: Do you want your last memories of your aunt to be bitter ones? Because if you continue down the path you're taking, they will be, and that'll end up eating you alive. I know you're hurt by what she did, but maybe, just maybe, she had a good reason. You need to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least until you've read her other letter. Nobody's perfect."

  "What she did was mean and hateful."

  He shrugged his shoulders, knowing it was useless to belabor the point any further. Damn Elizavon and her hateful personality! Anger for the way she had treated Mary surged through Jack, and he clenched his fists in frustration. Forcing the knot in his stomach to unfurl, he slowly calmed down, promising himself that once they were back at the hotel he'd kiss away Mary's tears, hold her close, and help her find a way off the emotional roller coaster she'd been on for the past two weeks. Once she did that, she was bound to see reason and they could work on figuring out what to do next. If that meant burning Elizavon's second letter, so be it. If not, he'd hold her close while she read the damn thing--then they'd burn it.

  Unfortunately, that wasn't something he could do right now, since they were approaching the runway. He consoled himself with the knowledge that God was the ultimate judge in all things, and if by some miracle Elizavon found herself in his presence, she'd have one hell of a lot of explaining to do.

  As the plane rolled to a stop, Mary struggled to overcome the urge to burst into tears. What on earth was wrong with her lately? Sure, she'd been through a lot these last two weeks, but that was no reason to take her frustrations out on Jack. He, at least, had her well-being in mind. Feeling suddenly guilty, she reached out and squeezed his fingers, and was glad to feel return pressure. Thank goodness he wasn't furious with her for her outburst!

  The door to the cockpit swung open, and Dykes' lanky frame filled the narrow doorway. "You know, I'm beginning to think one of those local Voodoo people have put a curse on me," he teased. "Seems like every time I fly with one of you two, we either have terrible weather, or something goes wrong with the plane. I never used to have these kinds of problems when I flew with Mrs. Phelps."

  Jack chuckled. "Well, I have to admit this hasn't been the smoothest flight I've ever been on," he agreed, clapping Dykes on the back. "Tell you what. When we get back to the plantation, I'll have Sadie check around to see if anybody's put a hex you."

  "Thanks. I'm not superstitious or anything like that, but, man, something's gotta give with this weather. I've never seen storms as bad as the ones we've been flying through."

  Mary summoned a false smile. "Maybe we're just bad luck for you, Dykes."
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  He shook his head. "Nah, you two are my good luck charms. I can just smell the money that's gonna start rolling in when I get my charter deal set up and start flying folks to and from the plantation. As a matter of fact, I'm almost ready to put in a bid for a plane." He held up a thumb and index finger, barely separated. "Man, I'm that close to getting my dream. All I need is a few extra bucks and I'm there." He paused for a moment, his expression suddenly serious. "All kidding aside, how long you think you'll be needing me? I need to know so I can start getting something else lined up."

  "Probably two more weeks," Mary answered. "I thought Charles was supposed to fill you in on all the details. Hasn't he talked to you yet?"

  Dykes rubbed his chin. "If you mean Elizavon's attorney, yeah, I talked to him all right. But he didn't give me a timetable for how long I'd be working. All he said was I needed to make sure I was available to take you folks around to Elizavon's properties. That's it."

  Mary shook her head in disgust. "I'm sorry, Dykes. Believe it or not, he was supposed to keep you informed. Here's the deal. Since Jack and I are working as a team, we're going to try and finish the inventories of Elizavon's houses this week. That means we'll be working non-stop, following a very tight schedule. Let's see, today's Monday, right? We'll stay here in Boston until Wednesday morning, when you'll fly us to Elizavon's Palm Beach house. We'll stay at the beach house until Friday. Then, on Friday afternoon, we'll all fly back to the plantation. That gives us the weekend to relax, and we can put the final touches on the inventories next week, and take care of any miscellaneous details that crop up. You are, of course, welcome to stay as our guest at the plantation."

  "Sounds fair enough. Would you mind if I used my downtime in between trips to scout out a few jobs? I'd make sure I was available whenever you're ready to leave."