Long Black Curl

by Alex Bledsoe

  Suddenly he grabbed her throat with his bandaged hand.

  She met the old man’s angry, spiteful gaze. His grip was feeble, even on her thin neck, and she knew she was in no danger. He wasn’t even able to cut off her wind. She began to sing softly,

  The Gypsies came to our lord’s house,

  And oh! but they sang bonny,

  They sang so sweet and so complete

  That down came our fair lady;

  When she came tripping down the stair,

  With all her maids before her,

  As soon as they saw her lovely face,

  They cast their glamour on her.

  As her voice rose in volume and intensity, his hand fell away. Something changed in the room. Power was shifting, and the words of the song were telling a story completely unrelated to the fate of Johnny Faa and his highborn lady.

  At last Mandalay finished, holding the last note in a pure, high voice that rang like a bell, or a choir. As it faded, Rockhouse’s eyes closed and he let out a long, final sigh.

  The room was silent for a long time, except for the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. At last the garage door opened and Bliss stuck in her head. “Can I come back in?”

  “Yes,” Mandalay said.

  Bliss had seen plenty of corpses in her time, and had no trouble recognizing one from across the room. “Is he dead?” she asked, already certain of the answer.

  “As dead as he ever could be,” Mandalay said. There was a cold determination in her voice that came not from the twelve-year-old girl, but from all the eons she’d existed before now. “And we’re gonna bury him.”

  Bliss stood beside the girl and looked down at the old man’s slack face. “It’s going to be a completely different world without him in it.”

  “A better one, I hope.”

  “That’ll be up to you.”

  Mandalay said nothing.

  While Bliss went to arrange for a backhoe to dig the grave in the cold ground, Mandalay stayed with Rockhouse’s corpse. She stuffed her hands back in her jeans pockets and regarded the lined, aged face now slack and lifeless on the gurney.

  “Well, old man,” she said, “we’ve had quite the run. You were right, as it turns out; none of us could touch you. You were invincible. It took something you couldn’t have imagined to finally bring you down.”

  Her voice dropped. “But you know what? I fucking hate you still. I hate you for what you did to all my ancestors, for all the women who carried what I carry and wanted to use it. I hate you for all the girls you groped, and humiliated, and molested, and ruined. I hate you for what you did to your own daughter, and I can’t tell you how happy I was when that flatlander sang your dying dirge. If ever someone deserved it, asshole, it was you.”

  She bent and whispered into his lifeless ear. “And I want you to think about all this while you lie in your grave, Rockhouse. While you hear the faint songs of everyone else, and know that you’ll never sing along, that you’ll never walk these hills, that you’ll never fly on the night winds again. I want you to think about the look on all those agonized faces, the cries and begging, the sheer pain you brought to the world out of your own meanness and self-pity. As you rot, I want you to think about it. And I hope you soak the fucking world to its core with your tears.”

  She stood up as Bliss returned. “It’s all arranged. We’ll bury him up on Redford’s Ridge.”

  Mandalay nodded. “Call Reverend Chess and ask him to come say a few Christian words, too. Be sure and tell him it’s a private service, so not to spread the word.”

  Bliss’s eyebrows rose. “Are you serious?”

  “He’s married to Bronwyn. Her daughter … Well, he’s the kind of man who’ll love that girl when she’s born no matter how she was gotten on her mother. He’s a good man, and being involved with this will make him feel accepted.”

  “Then I’ll call Bronwyn.”

  “No. Call him. I want it to come from you.”

  “Why?”

  “So he can refuse. He’d never turn down his wife.”

  “But you said—”

  Mandalay smiled and held up a hand. “Bliss, I know a lot, but not everything. I want something good to come out of this withered bastard’s death, and if it means we find out that Craig Chess really is worthy of helping raise Bronwyn’s daughter—and I think he is, or I wouldn’t suggest this—then I think we should take the chance. The worst thing that can happen is that he says no.”

  “How bad would that really be?”

  Mandalay’s expression hardened. “Well … it means we couldn’t let him stick around.”

  Bliss said nothing. The thought of what that meant—and of forcing headstrong and obstinate Bronwyn to choose between her people and her husband—was something she couldn’t really devote a lot of thought to at the moment. “Excuse me, then. I’ll go call him. I suppose it’s okay to explain all this to Bronwyn if he says yes?”

  Mandalay nodded.

  When she was alone with Rockhouse again, Mandalay said, “See, old man? Not only can’t you do any more damage, you will actually be helping us do good. That must gall you no end.” She softly sang the last line of his dying dirge, just as the flatlander had done the year before to destroy Rockhouse’s hold on power: “You can do no harm while ye be here.” Then she kissed him on his forehead.

  9

  Reflecting the power dynamic in their relationship, Bo-Kate fell asleep almost immediately after they made love, an arm draped affectionately—or possessively, he wasn’t sure which—across Nigel’s chest. She snored lightly, and the gentle tang of her sweat filled his nostrils.

  He stared up at the canopy over the bed. He was wide awake, the aftereffects of their typically terrific sex shooting through him like the heroin he’d tried once as a teen. He’d been able to walk away from that; Bo-Kate, though, was far more addictive. And, he mulled, much worse for him in the long run.

  He hadn’t noticed the canopy’s design before, but it seemed to be some sort of forest scene; with the drapes drawn and no digital clock or other electronic devices to provide any ambient light, he couldn’t quite make out the details in the darkness. If it echoed the decor of the rest of the room, it was probably something princess-y, possibly with unicorns and knights in shining armor. Then again, given what she’d told him about the Tufa, perhaps it showed fairies frolicking in the woods, cavorting with young men and leading them in dances that would while away years from their lives.

  Eventually, he accepted that sleep would not come. The image of those severed fingers in a baggy, like some cannibal child’s after-school snack, was just too nightmarish. He carefully slid out from beneath Bo-Kate’s arm, then waited until he was sure he hadn’t awakened her. He got up, pulled on his trousers and shirt, and slipped into the hall looking for the bathroom.

  The house was eerily quiet; after so many years living in cities, Nigel had forgotten how quiet the country could be. No traffic noises, airplanes overhead, or trains passing nearby marred the night. Since it was winter, there weren’t even chirping crickets. Just the ever-present wind, at the moment blowing so softly that it, too, might be asleep.

  Then a long, low cry rang out. He recognized it as the hoot of an owl, probably in one of the trees right outside. As he stood there in the dark, it seemed to him like the sound of a lost soul looking for redemption. What was that Carole King line? Like a fallen angel when rising time is near.

  He almost yelped aloud as a door opened and a shaft of light cut into the hallway. Tain stepped out and closed the door until only a sliver of illumination remained.

  She wore a thin cotton robe tied loosely—very loosely—at the waist, and nothing else. If the robe gapped any wider, she might as well have been naked, but she made no move to close it when she saw him. If anything, she stood provocatively, enhancing its effect, and the indirect lighting cast shadows that accented every flawless curve. Certainly her smile revealed no shame.

  “Well, if it ain’t the executive assi
stant,” she said quietly, and tossed her dark hair behind her shoulders. There was a throaty rumble in her voice, like a growl or a purr.

  “Indeed. I’m looking for the loo.”

  “The what?”

  “The facilities. The bathroom.”

  “You probably want to put your boots on, too, then. It’s outside.”

  “Outside? As in, outside the house?”

  “Yep. Go down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Can’t miss it. There’s a crescent moon carved into the door.”

  “Am I to believe you people actually use an outhouse?”

  “We do.”

  “I thought that was a cliché, like going barefoot and having bad teeth.”

  Tain raised one foot, which caused her robe to slide back and reveal the full expanse of one smooth leg. “I don’t wear shoes unless I’m going to town for something. And even then only when I have to stop at the Catamount Corner, because otherwise Miss Peggy will yell at me.” She lowered her leg. “And as I recall, you English got your share of bad teeth, too.”

  “True enough.”

  Tain smiled, showing her own perfect, even teeth. “Well, we ain’t got to worry about that. You won’t find a Tufa with bad teeth unless something’s knocked ’em out.” She tossed her hair again. “So you still going to the outhouse?”

  “I suppose so, if that’s the only available option. You are aware this is the twenty-first century?”

  “Pipes freeze in the winter no matter what year it is. And time don’t work the same for everybody. Ain’t Bo-Kate explained that to you?”

  “She mentioned that. I assumed it was a metaphor.”

  “What’s that? Is that like Campho-Phenique?”

  “Not quite.”

  Tain came closer. Her breasts swayed beneath the robe, thoroughly distracting him. “You know, ain’t never been a nigger in this house before.”

  “And if you insist on using that word, there likely won’t be again for a very long time.” It took all his resolve to keep his gaze above her neck.

  “What word should I use? Handsome? Studly?” She put a hand lightly on his chest. “Fine as frog’s hair?”

  He laughed. “That last might not be that good, either, although I appreciate the sentiment.” He removed her hand. A gust of winter wind howled outside, and he said, “Aren’t you cold in something so … flimsy?”

  “I don’t get cold.” She ran a finger along the edge of the robe’s lapel.

  “Ever?”

  “Hardly ever. I been told I run pretty … hot. Are you cold?”

  “It’s a bit brisk.”

  He could see her nipples through the thin fabric. She lowered her chin and looked up at him, “You know, Bo-Kate ain’t the only … accommodating woman in this house.” She lightly bit her lip, all at once demure and compliant. “Be awful bad manners to leave a guest cold on a winter’s night.”

  Despite having just trysted with Bo-Kate, Nigel found himself ready again. There was a tingle in the very air, a kind of erotic ozone that he’d felt with certain women before; and those women had been among the most exciting experiences of his life. But with them, the charge had been faint, and subtle. With Tain, it was almost like a lightning strike.

  It wouldn’t do to jump into bed with the cousin Bo-Kate clearly didn’t get along with, though. He tried not to think about untying the belt on that robe and said, “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think it would be very appropriate. Bo-Kate is very clear about which lines one should not cross.”

  “Has Bo-Kate already wrung you out?”

  “Pithy, but accurate.”

  “Well, I bet I could get that motor started again.”

  “Again, probably accurate, but not appropriate.”

  Her little smile was as carnal as some women’s orgasm face. “She ain’t never gonna know unless you tell her. And I promise, you won’t regret it. It’ll be a memory to keep you warm on the next cold night like this.”

  “You’re certainly warming me up right now,” he admitted. “But I’d know what we did, and I fear I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror.”

  Tain’s grin widened. “Ain’t you the prize. Did Bo-Kate tell you the story about why she ain’t been back here in so long?”

  “I believe it involved a young man from a family of whom her parents did not approve.”

  Tain laughed. “Well, that’s true enough. But that ain’t near the whole story.” Then she raised her chin, closed her eyes, and sang in a soft, pure contralto:

  About eight o’clock, boys, our dogs they throwed off

  Beneath the Widow’s Tree, and that was the spot

  They tried all the bushes but nothing they found

  But a poor murdered woman laid on the cold ground.

  Then she looked back at him. “She ever sang that song to you?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “You need to ask her ’bout that.” Then Tain’s eyes narrowed. “Wait … I bet she ain’t really told you nothin’ ’bout nothin’, has she?”

  “I don’t feel it’s my place to say.”

  “Ain’t you the gentleman. Lots of white boys could learn a thing or two from you, you know that?”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “Well, before you get too tangled up in whatever she’s got in mind, you need to ask her ’bout Jeff.”

  “Ah, yes, the infamous old boyfriend she used to sneak out to see. What about him?”

  “She needs to tell you.” All the assurance and sexual arrogance left her. “Look, I done said a lot more than I should have. You do seem like a nice fella, and I don’t want you to get hurt because of it. You have a good night.” She turned, and the motion fully dislodged the belt at her waist. The robe swirled back like a cowboy’s duster, but before he could even glimpse her bare flesh, the door closed, the light went out, and again Nigel was in darkness.

  He stared after her, wondering if he should wake Bo-Kate to enjoy the arousal her cousin had engendered, or simply go back to bed and pull the covers over his head until morning. But now he really did need to pee, so he crept down the hall until he reached the top of the stairs. By then his eyes had adjusted and he was able to see enough to descend to the living room.

  It was chillier downstairs, and he wished he’d brought his coat. He found his boots by the front door and carried them into the kitchen.

  The room smelled of decades of dinners, and breakfasts, and the kind of good, heavy food that poor people the world over cooked to get by. His own mother had made amazing things happen with the simplest and cheapest of ingredients, and he recalled how her kitchen always smelled similar to this.

  But something was missing here, and as he sat at the table and pulled on his boots, he realized what it was: warmth. Not physical warmth, but the warmth of laughter, and teasing, and occasional tears that his mother’s kitchen always held. Here there was no remnant of the joy those meals should have brought to the Wisby family. This was just a room where food was prepared, not a real kitchen. Certainly not, in the broad sense of the word, a hearth.

  If Bo-Kate grew up here, no wonder she kept her feelings guarded and locked away.

  He peered out the kitchen door and, sure enough, saw the little outhouse about fifteen yards away, at the very edge of the backyard. The snow had been trampled flat between it and the house.

  He stepped outside. The cold bit through his clothes to his sweaty skin, and finished off Tain’s effect on his body. The half-full moon cast enough light for him to see. He expected to smell the outhouse, then realized that anything it held would, obviously, be frozen. That made him glad they hadn’t waited until spring to visit.

  When he reached the outhouse, he paused. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the plaintive sound of a lone fiddle. It didn’t come from the Wisby place, but from somewhere beyond the forested hill that rose behind the outhouse. He couldn’t make out the tune, but the feeling it carried was so sad, so lonely, that he choked up and almost wanted
to cry.

  Then the wind picked up, and the song was lost.

  He stepped into the outhouse, did his business quickly, and stepped back outside. A male voice said, “Who the hell are you?”

  He looked around in time to see a big man come down from the trees. He was dressed in camouflage, wore a ski mask, and carried a rifle. He stopped when he got a good look at Nigel.

  “You’re a nigger,” he added.

  Nigel looked at his hand and feigned surprise. “My God, you’re right. And I believe the appropriate term for you is ‘peckerwood,’ if I’m not mistaken.”

  He didn’t blink at the insult. “What are you doing here?”

  Nigel realized who this man must be. “I’m accompanying your sister, Bo-Kate. Are you Canton or Snad?”

  The man smiled. It wasn’t friendly. “Bo-Kate cain’t never come back here. Everybody knows it. Not even if she wanted to, and I cain’t imagine that.” He lowered the gun and held it loosely in both hands, not pointed at Nigel but clearly now a threat. He cocked his head back and looked down his nose. “How about you try again?”

  “That might have been true about your sister once. But I assure you, we arrived this evening, and she is asleep in her old room right now.”

  He thought this over. “And they’re making you sleep in the outhouse,” he said at last. It wasn’t a question, just a statement.

  “No, I used it just before you appeared.” He tried a smile. “I’m Nigel, by the way.”

  “Canton Wisby.” He offered his hand in a big, well-worn glove. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  Nigel nodded at the gun. “And do you always creep about your yard with a gun?”

  “Nah, I was just out in the woods. Never can tell what might slip up on you out there.”

  “Indeed you can’t,” Nigel agreed.

  A light appeared in one of the house’s upstairs windows. Canton stepped back into the outhouse’s moon-cast shadow. He said quietly, “You got good timing, boy. The show’s about to start. Get back here before she sees you.”

  “What show?” Nigel whispered.

  “Just watch. Better’n Cinemax.”