Long Black Curl

by Alex Bledsoe

  Bronwyn suddenly winced and leaned against the wall. At Bliss’s concerned look, she said, “The baby’s learning to clog dance, I think. I just don’t know how she got hard-sole shoes in there.” She took several deep breaths, then said, “Where’s Mandalay?”

  “On her way.”

  “Someone should be with her. Protecting her. I’m too fucking big around right now to be much protection.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Are you saying that because you’re sure, or because you want it to be true?”

  Bliss turned in surprise. There was a bite to Bronwyn’s words that she hadn’t heard before. “What are you so angry about?”

  “You mean besides Marshall being dead, Rockhouse being dead, and your house burning to the ground?”

  “Is it because you can’t take a more active hand in all this?”

  “That does piss me off,” she admitted.

  Bliss put her hand on Bronwyn’s belly. “What you’re doing is just as important. Maybe even more so. She’s the future.”

  “I know that. I’m just aggravated that the future is taking so long to get her ass out here.”

  Darwin left Peggy and joined the other two women. “I’ve got what I need. You’ll sign that it was heart attack, natural causes, right?”

  Bliss nodded. It didn’t matter what the actual cause was on the paperwork; the important thing was to fill it out and file it in such a way that no one thought to come around snooping. The Tufa had mastered the skill of avoiding official notice.

  “Then I’ll be heading out.” He looked back at the body, and at Peggy crying beside it. “That’s a damn shame, all right. Marshall was a good fella.”

  “He was,” Bliss agreed.

  Darwin put on his coat and broad-brimmed hat before he stepped out into the cold evening. He held the door for two more women, both First Daughters. They nodded at Bliss and Bronwyn, but said nothing.

  Bronwyn said softly, “So have you seen Jeff since he got back?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “Then how do we know he’s even here?”

  “I’ve seen him,” Peggy said, her voice ragged. They hadn’t realized she was listening. “He came by this afternoon. I was probably talking to him when Marshall…” She trailed off and began to cry again.

  “At least he’s here, then,” Bronwyn said.

  “What do you think he’ll do?” Bliss asked.

  “I hope he’ll walk up to her and put a bullet in her head. Someone should, and I wish to God I was in a condition to do it myself.”

  “That’s not the way to handle it,” Mandalay said.

  They turned. She stood right behind them, bundled in her winter coat, with the fur-lined hood around her face. She pushed it back and added, “We still need to find out how she was able to come back without being pardoned. And any justice she faces, needs to come from someone in the right position to dispense it.”

  “You saying I’m not the right one?” Bronwyn said. “It’s my fucking job.”

  “But it’s not the job we need done right now.” She said it with the certainty that was usually comforting, but now just pissed Bronwyn off more.

  “And what do we need done, then? Wait until—”

  “We wait until Jeff Powell does what he can do. If he fails, then perhaps your solution will be best. But until then, we leave it to him.”

  “Have you even met him?” Bronwyn challenged. Then she winced as the baby kicked her again.

  “I don’t think you should let yourself get so upset,” Mandalay said.

  “You might have a point,” Bronwyn said through gritted teeth.

  “Are you all right?” Bliss asked.

  “I think the little shit cracked a rib,” Bronwyn said. Her face grew red from pain.

  Bliss and Mandalay helped her sit in one of the lobby’s overstuffed chairs. After a few moments, the pain subsided, and her color returned to normal. Other First Daughters arrived, milling about the lobby, allowing Peggy her time alone with Marshall.

  Then Peggy began to sing, an ancient song that used the same tune as “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  Marlbrook the Prince of Commanders

  Is gone to war in Flanders,

  His fame is like Alexander’s,

  But when will he ever come home?

  Bronwyn and Bliss exchanged a look. The song was lighthearted and rollicking, a silly song even though it was about death and loss.

  Mandalay walked into the café and stood beside Peggy, her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. They sang together:

  Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or

  Perhaps he may come at Easter,

  I swear he had better make haste or

  We fear he may never come home.

  The other First Daughters joined them, draping their coats over chair backs or tossing them atop tables. They gathered around Marshall, and all joined in.

  For Trinity Feast is over,

  And has brought no news from Dover,

  And Easter is passed moreover,

  And Malbrook still delays.

  Bliss helped Bronwyn stand at the back of the little group, and they joined the others. Many were smiling, and some chuckled as they sang,

  Milady in her watch-tower

  Spends many a pensive hour,

  Not knowing why or how her

  Dear lord from England stays.

  Now the group grew more somber.

  While sitting quite forlorn in

  That tower, she spies returning

  A page clad in deep mourning,

  With fainting steps and slow.

  In the break between stanzas, someone sniffled. A few voices quavered with emotion.

  Oh, page, I pray, come faster!

  What news do you bring of your master?

  I fear there is some disaster,

  Your looks are so full of woe.

  As the song detailed the end of Malbrook, the singing grew serious, and a few voices dropped out to cry. Bronwyn had to sit in one of the chairs, still wincing at the pain in her side, Mandalay continued to rest her hand on Peggy’s shoulder, giving her the strength of her presence and the full weight of generations of Tufa women who’d lost lovers.

  It didn’t make her cry any less.

  26

  Jeff got out of the truck and sank up to his ankles in the snow. There was always a drift in this spot, and apparently the contours that guided the wind had not changed in all the years he’d been away.

  Plenty of other things had, though. The old Powell home place was mostly gone; the brick chimney remained, and the stone foundation, but the wooden structure had vanished. He wondered if it had simply fallen or been deliberately taken down, but there was no way to tell from the old driveway. He pulled on gloves, wished he’d brought real boots, and trudged through the snow to the remains.

  He tried to see it as it was now, not as it had been, but the memories were too strong and fought their way around any mental barriers he erected to stop them. Here was the corner of the porch where Sandy the old hunting dog liked to hide from the sun; over there was the maple tree with the swing made out of a tractor tire that was too heavy for any of the kids to move on their own. His dad’s old Ford Model 79 flatbed was always parked in the shade right there, and the chickens would shelter under it from the rain.

  Here had been the front door. There was still a two-inch piece of doorjamb protruding up like a hangnail from the rock foundation, and he remembered the way the old hinges squeaked when anyone entered the house. Inside the foundation, the snow covered a layer of accumulated leaves and twigs that crunched as he walked over to the fireplace.

  How many times had his mama called them all to supper from the window beside that hearth? How often had the smell of burning wood led them home from deep in the forest? He put his hand on the old bricks and closed his eyes, letting the memories come, hearing the voices and cacophony of the Powell home come to life around him, the son
gs that they would always sing on cold winter evenings just like this.…

  He forced himself back to the moment. There was no sense in mourning. His parents were long dead, and his siblings had gone to their own respective lives, where they no doubt had children and grandchildren of their own now. Only he remained alone.

  He took out a pocketknife that he’d bought at a convenience store in Nashville and wedged it in around a particular brick. The mortar’s seal was already broken, but the ice that coated it needed to be chipped away before the brick slid out. Once it did, he took off his glove, reached inside and felt around until his fingers snagged the old chain.

  He pulled it out slowly. A girl’s high school class ring hung on it, and he held it up to the light. The words around the birthstone read CLOUD COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL.

  He smiled, put it over his head, and tucked it into his shirt. The icy metal stung against his chest. He put back the brick and picked his way out of the ruins.

  He had almost reached his rental truck when a voice said, “That’s far enough. Who are you?”

  Jeff smiled. “It’s your big brother.”

  He turned. Holden Powell stood beside the fireplace, having emerged from the woods, with a shotgun leveled in Jeff’s direction. He was middle aged, heavy jowled, and unshaven. Unruly gray hair stuck out at odd angles from beneath a wool cap.

  “Good God A’mighty,” Holden said, and lowered the gun. “What the hell you doing here, Jeff?”

  “I done got me some special dispensation,” he said wryly. “They want me to figure out what Bo-Kate’s up to and get her to stop before anybody else dies.”

  “So you done heard about Marshall Goins, then?”

  Jeff caught his breath. “No. What happened?”

  “He’s dead. Everybody figures it was Bo-Kate.”

  “Shit fire,” Jeff sighed. He and Marshall went way back, and once they had contested for Bo-Kate’s affections. Jefferson won; he wondered how different things might have been had he lost. “Guess I’m too late for ol’ Marshall.”

  Holden crunched through the leaves and snow and put one boot on top of the foundation stones. “So how does rootin’ around in our old home place help you deal with Bo-Kate?”

  “Needed a souvenir of old times. Figured it’d still be here.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yeah.” After a moment, he continued, “So … how’s everyone?”

  “Everyone who?”

  “Bascom, Nadine, Milgrom. You.”

  “Bascom’s fine. He’s on disability from hurting his back. Nadine lives over in Asheville; she runs one of them New Age witchy stores, and spends all her free time drumming with the hippies in the park. Milgrom’s still farming.”

  “And you?”

  “Ain’t no news with me. Married Edney Hemphill, we got four kids now. Youngest one’s a sophomore.”

  “Done pretty good for yourself.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both paused, trying to decide if the bonds of family still existed after what had happened. Jeff looked at his younger brother closely. “You ain’t gonna rat me out, are you?”

  “To Bo-Kate? Why would I?”

  “’Cause of what happened.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, I know that. I also know that around here, grudges tend to hang in the air. Especially family grudges.”

  “We’re both grown men now, Jeff. I got a family. If anything happens to me, nobody to take care of them. You got a family?”

  “I have clients. They take more care than families.”

  Holden chuckled. “You always wanted to go somewhere big.”

  “Yeah, well … it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. You gonna keep this to yourself, little brother?”

  “Sure thing, big brother. I’ll even act surprised next time I see you.” And with that, he turned and walked back into the woods.

  Jeff watched him go, remembering the little boy who used to trail after him to the swimming hole. Back then his black hair had been impossible to comb, his little torso had been lean and muscular, and his feet were so black with dirt, he looked like he was wearing shoes until he wiggled his toes. Now he was a heavyset, middle-aged man with graying hair, stubble, and worn-out clothes. Did he remember his big brother with the same vividness, Jeff wondered?

  Jeff went back to his truck, fastened the seat belt, and touched the ring against his chest. He recalled the day they exchanged them, lying naked in the back of his father’s old pickup, the air around them damp and still with the heat of summer and their recent exertions. He’d never felt more certain of anything in his life: He knew he wanted to spend the rest of his existence, and for a Tufa that was saying something, with the girl beside him.

  Now he had to face her again after all these years, all this time—both regular time and Tufa time—and get her to stop what she was doing. He’d never been able to get her to stop anything before—and sometimes, that had been amazing. But now, people were dying.

  Of course, people had died before. That’s what got them banished in the first place.

  * * *

  As they drove back to town through the heavy winter evening, Nigel kept glancing in the rearview mirror. Byron’s huge frame almost filled his field of vision, and the man stared out at the night with the pensive seriousness of someone pondering weighty things. Nigel wasn’t sure what to think of this big man: either he was mental, a modern man who believed he was a vintage rockabilly singer, or he was the real deal, and Nigel’s whole view of the universe had to change.

  And then there was Bo-Kate. He had no idea how to feel about her now. The things she’d done—and done with smiles, and laughter, and joy—appalled and terrified him. And he had no idea what she might do next.

  “Drive past the motel, Nigel, and look for a place to pull over,” she said. “Then kill the lights.”

  The motel parking lot was full of other vehicles, and lights blazed from within the café. People stood on the porch smoking and talking. Nigel thought he heard music as they passed, but it was faint and uncertain.

  They topped a small rise and he pulled off the road onto a wide section of the shoulder. He turned off the lights and turned to Bo-Kate. “Now what?”

  “We do a little hiking,” she said cheerily. She turned to Byron. “Your leg up to it?”

  “My leg is fine,” he growled. “What will this accomplish, though?”

  “Well, we’re going to meet another old friend of yours, someone I think you’ll be glad to clear the air with, just like you did with Marshall.”

  Bo-Kate led them through the forest. If there was a trail or path, Nigel couldn’t see it, and instead followed Byron’s broad back. They went down into a gully, then up the other side until they found themselves on a hillside, looking down on the Catamount Corner from the back. They couldn’t see into any of the ground-floor windows, but they heard the music clearly now: plaintive, aching tunes of love and loss. Nigel’s eyes started to burn with sympathy, and only the cold kept him from crying.

  If Bo-Kate noticed, she didn’t let on. “Watch the edge of the woods below,” she said. “That’s where he’ll come out.”

  “Where who will come out?” Nigel asked.

  “You’ll see,” Bo-Kate said almost gleefully.

  They sat in the cold night for what seemed like hours but, according to Nigel’s cell phone, was only about thirty minutes. By the time Bo-Kate said, “There!” and pointed, Nigel’s feet were numb.

  A shambling, zombielike figure emerged from the woods. It paused to look around and listen to the music coming from inside. Then it shuffled over to a back door and picked up what, at this distance, appeared to be a plate of food that had been left there.

  Without a word, Byron started down the hill at a trot, using the trees as supports. He moved with surprising stealth for a man so big, and with a bad leg. “What’s he going to do?” Nigel asked softly.

  Before she could answer, Byron reached the other man an
d, with no preliminaries, laid him out with a wild roundhouse punch to the head. The plate flew into the motel’s brick wall and shattered.

  “They’ll hear it,” Nigel said.

  “Not over the music,” Bo-Kate said with certainty.

  Byron pulled the man to his feet and punched him again. The other man attempted to crawl away, but Byron stood over him and kicked him in the side with his good foot.

  “Are you going to let him kill him, too?” Nigel asked.

  “No,” Bo-Kate said as if it were the most casual thing in the world, “but I want the big guy to work off some steam.”

  “Who is he, Bo-Kate? I mean, I know who he apparently thinks he is, but that can’t be, can it?”

  “What was one of the first things I told you about the Tufa, Nigel?”

  “That time doesn’t work the same for everybody.”

  “Exactly. Believe it or not, that is Byron Harley, the real one, the one who supposedly died in a plane crash sixty years ago. To him, those sixty years passed in a single night.”

  “But, Bo-Kate, that … that isn’t possible.”

  She grinned. He was beginning to hate that smile. “It is here, my little Brit.”

  They watched Byron pummel the other man for a few more minutes; then Bo-Kate led Nigel down the slope. When they reached the others, Byron was breathing heavily, and the other man groaned and held his ribs.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Bo-Kate said.

  “Just getting warmed up,” Byron growled. “This son of a bitch owes me a life.”

  “You’re not cashing that check today,” she said. “He’s actually very important to the Tufa community, and we need him alive.”

  She knelt beside him. In the glow from the motel’s security lights, Nigel saw that he was an old man, with ragged whiskers and a dirt-smeared face. His clothes were oft-repaired rags, and his boots were held together with duct tape.

  “Well, if it isn’t the scariest man in Cloud County,” she said. “Not so scary now, are you, Eli?”

  The sin eater said nothing. He groaned deep in his throat.

  “Oh, you’ll be fine, old man. Just some bruises and cuts. Nothing you can’t sweat out. Now, I want you to listen to me very closely. Are you listening?”