The Ancestors

by Brandon Massey

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to move, they thought. Mama was always afraid someone would come burn their whole house down with everyone inside, not just the barn. It had happened to a family in Quincy just a month ago. Besides, Papa was always in a bad mood after a day’s dealings with McCormack, and Mama was worried Papa might say something to get them all killed. Papa did have a mouth on him.

  Maybe, in fact, the barn burning down was something like Rev. Crutcher had said in church on Sunday, about how ad-ver-si-ty is a blessing in disguise.

  The secret weighed heavier with each passing moment.

  But the Timmons boys carried it. They were stronger than anyone could have imagined.

  “So . . . you heard a dog . . . and then a little boy?” Grandma said.

  After a half-dozen repetitions, she finally had it right. At dinner, Davie had told the whole story, even admitting that Neema had been up with him. He’d started with the sniffing dog at his door and ended at the library. Mabel Trawley’s information made his story seem that much more worth telling, so he had left nothing out.

  “Right,” Davie said. “A dog and a little boy.”

  “The boy said, ‘Run! Follow me,’” Neema added.

  “Pass the meat loaf,” Grandpa Walter said. He was usually quick to play along, but not this time. Maybe his arthritis was hurting, Davie thought. He had noticed that because of pain, Grandpa Walter laughed less and less.

  Dad, though, was suddenly so interested that he was resting his cheek on his elbow as he listened. His elbow was planted beside his plate on the table. No elbows on the table, Grandma always said, but she was probably so glad to see Dad talking for a change that she kept quiet.

  “But slave-catchers with dogs were before their time,” Dad said. “Those boys, I mean.”

  “You think tracking dogs went away after slave times?” Grandma said. “The point is, maybe we can find an argument to stop the construction in all this, since those Timmons boys were never found. There weren’t any children’s bones at that first dig. I’ll need to talk to that librarian myself.”

  Davie knew that Grandma couldn’t care less about ghosts—she was just happy to have new ammunition in her anti-construction arsenal. Grandma reminded Davie of the mother in Mary Poppins, Mrs. Banks, who only truly came to life when she talked about her protests.

  Davie noticed that both Dad and Grandma had red plastic cups instead of regular water glasses. A quick glance over, and Davie saw foam in his father’s cup. He smelled it then: Both Grandma and Dad were drinking beer. Davie had never even heard of, much less seen, his grandmother drinking beer—but Dad drank a lot of beer between projects. He drank more than Mom knew, because Dad took his bottles out for recycling late at night. Davie had seen him do it once and hadn’t understood why until they were sitting at the dinner table a year later. Dad was used to hiding his drinking. It was a habit.

  The mashed potatoes in Davie’s mouth suddenly tasted like paste. He missed his mother so much he wanted to cry, maybe because he was thinking about the three missing boys. He only had a very tiny idea of what being lost from his parents might feel like, and already he could tell it might be a feeling that never got better.

  “Tell me again what you saw out back,” Dad said. “In the woods.”

  Dad’s eyes were dancing like they had at the library, and Davie didn’t like those eyes. Dad didn’t believe in ghosts either; he was just trying to lose himself in something else. Davie felt like he was wearing X-ray glasses and could see down to his father’s bones.

  “I saw three boys burying a dog,” Davie said. “There was a deep hole. Really deep.”

  Dad snapped his fingers. “Stop right there. Look at that image like a filmmaker would. You’re looking at it too literally—it’s a symbol. If these are ghosts, their appearance doesn’t have to be some kind of literal recreation of an event from their lives. It might be more like a dream instead. That deep hole is a visual symbol for you. A message.”

  Grandma grinned, her eyes sparking. “Evidence in a town mystery buried right smack in the middle of Lot Sixty-five!” she said, giggling with glee. “You wait till I call Alice and tell her! What are those fat cat lawyers gonna say when we roll poor old Miss Timmons up in her wheelchair? Bet they won’t be throwing up any more models after that.”

  “Who’s Miss Timmons?” Davie said.

  “She’s ninety-some years old now,” Grandma said. “She was kin to those boys, a sister born after they died. I think their mama was the only one who survived, and I guess she remarried. How she didn’t lose her mind after her whole family died, I just don’t know. And the geography checks out, doesn’t it, Walt? We’re right near the McCormack land.”

  Grandpa Walter grunted, fascinated by his cornbread. “Half the town’s McCormack.”

  “You know what I mean. The plantation’s still there.”

  “That really really big one?” Neema said. “The really really big white one?”

  “Pass it by every day,” Grandpa Walter said.

  “I know which one,” Dad said. “I see it through my bedroom window.”

  Maybe there had been fairy dust at the library, Davie realized. No one else in his family had cared about the ghosts he’d seen, and now everyone cared except Grandpa Walter. Neema grinned at Davie with rare admiration. She was wondering how he’d done it too.

  Davie’s father nudged his grandfather. “You sure you never saw ghosts, Dad?” Joking.

  “I went through all that,” Grandpa Walter said. “During the day, I watched my father catch hell from folks who couldn’t stand the sight of a black man who wasn’t stooping. At night, it was bumps and creaks. I loathed Graceville. I was glad to be through with all of it.”

  Loathed was a strong word, and Davie hadn’t heard his grandfather say it before. Grandpa Walt had seen ghosts as a child! He just hadn’t liked it.

  But maybe it could be different now.

  “Will you stay up with us and hunt for ghosts, Grandpa Walter?” Davie said. Across the table, Grandma only laughed and shook her head. He’d known better than to ask her, beer or no beer. Ghost-hunting wasn’t Grandma’s style.

  “Please, Grandpa?” Neema said.

  “I’ll stay up,” Dad said instead.

  Grandpa Walter shrugged. That was how it was decided.

  That night, all four of them sat huddled behind the easy chair, not just him and Neema. Davie heard Grandma watching TV in her bedroom, so it didn’t feel like the Golden Hour, not exactly. But with Neema, Dad, and Grandpa Walt with them, Davie figured that whatever beacon he sent out to the ghost world was in overdrive tonight.

  “I didn’t know you felt that way about Graceville, Dad,” Dad said in the quiet.

  “Why do you think I didn’t want to raise you here?” Grandpa said.

  “Why’d you come back, then?”

  “Times are different now,” he said. “Mostly. And your mom wanted to go to the country. Home is home. Even if it doesn’t always feel good, it’s the only home you’ve got. You find a way to make it work.”

  “We’re not talking about that,” Dad said, voice clipped and low.

  “We need to,” Grandpa said.

  Silently, Davie groaned. The real world couldn’t intrude on their hunt! Davie had learned a long time ago that he never heard ghosts if he brought a book, or tried to do Sudoku puzzles. A ghost-hunter’s mind had to be quiet, even on the verge of sleep. That was when they came. So Davie was afraid the spell would be broken. Dad would sigh and say they were being silly, or Grandpa would complain that his knees were aching. Neema might trigger the collapse by purring to Dad that she wanted something to drink. Davie could hear the foundation cracking.

  But miraculously, for five minutes, they were quiet in the dark.

  And then, just like that, the water was back.

  Neema was so startled that she let out a little yelp, which scared Dad enough to jump.

  “The floor’s wet!” Neema shouted. Yes, shouted. (Ghosts, FYI,
do not like shouting.)

  “Shhhhhhh,” Davie whispered, shaking her arm. “You’ll scare it off.”

  “Davie, let go of your sister,” Dad said. “And I don’t feel any water.”

  “Me neither,” Grandpa said. “We were promised ghost water, and I expect ghost water.”

  “You have to be a kid,” Neema and I said together.

  Dad and Grandpa looked at each other, practically winking.

  Even with all of the distractions, Davie’s mind was on the hunt. In a flash, he’d switched on his video camera, and his eyes were armed with Night Vision. Seeing in the dark was like being a superhero. Tiny snakes of light wriggled across the living room floor.

  “It’s all shimmery, like in moonlight,” Davie said.

  Neema wrestled over his shoulder. “Let me see.”

  Neema had pointed out that she hadn’t been allowed to look through the Night Vision even once the previous night, so he gave her the camera. He pointed the lens toward the coffee table; the light hitting the glass-top table made it easier to see the water underneath.

  “Whoa,” Neema said.

  “Before, we heard splashing,” I whispered to Dad and Grandpa. “I don’t hear any splashing yet. We need to be still and listen.”

  “Yessir, yessir,” Grandpa said, and saluted.

  So, they sat. While they waited, the water felt deeper. And colder. Neema and Davie rose to their feet because the floor felt so wet. Dad and Grandpa watched with fascination while Davie and his sister shook invisible droplets of water from their fingers, patted down wet clothes. Both Dad and Grandpa looked like they could hardly keep a straight face.

  Then, Davie heard barking.

  It was distant, but very distinct. And getting closer. Moving fast.

  “The dog . . .” Neema said.

  “It’s coming,” Davie said.

  The barking didn’t sound friendly. It was jabbering, persistent. Angry.

  “Is it a good dog or a bad dog?” Dad said.

  Davie’s hands shook as he reached into his ghost kit for his doggy biscuits, wishing he had a better plan.

  “Wait a minute,” Dad said. “You did put that biscuit in my bed, Davie.”

  “No I didn’t,” Davie said.

  “The ghost did it,” Neema said.

  “That’s not funny, Davie. Playing games is one thing, but I when I ask you a question, I expect a truthful answer.”

  “Relax, Darryl,” Grandpa said, sounding tired. “Let’s be ghost-hunters.”

  Most ghosts run off lickety split when there’s too much talking. Davie had read countless stories about it on the ghost-hunter message boards on the Internet. But all in all, that angry dog scared him enough that maybe he hoped the dog would turn and run the other way. Maybe he wished the dog would do just that.

  But the barking was louder. The dog was still coming.

  Davie thought he’d been snapped into the dog’s jaws when his father grabbed his arm and yanked him closer. It almost hurt. Maybe it did, a little. Dad’s breath smelled like beer. “Davie, you promise me you had nothing to do with that doggy biscuit getting into my bed. You swear it wasn’t you.”

  “Dad, I swear. It wasn’t me.”

  “Me neither, Daddy,” Neema said, although of course Dad would never get mad at her.

  It was too dark for Davie to see his father’s face, and Davie decided that using the Night Vision on Dad would get his camera broken. A painful instinct told him to expect a blow, maybe a slap. His father had never slapped him before, but there was always a first time. Dad was breathing fast, as if he had been running.

  “You still hear a dog barking?” Dad said.

  “Yessir,” Davie said. He always called Dad “sir” if he was in trouble.

  “And you and Neema feel water on the floor? Both of you?”

  “Actually,” Neema said, “it’s up to my ankles.”

  “Shhhhh,” I said.

  Splashing!

  Davie heard the chaotic sound of feet splashing in the water in uneven patterns, staggering. A boy shrieked like Davie had never heard anyone shriek, much less a child. The shriek wiped the grin off of Neema’s face. It was the kind of shriek it was best to hear from a distance, because it might tear a hole in you up close.

  But the shrieking was getting louder. Crying children were getting closer, splashing and stumbling. The three boys.

  Davie’s knees stopped working. His legs could barely support him.

  “I’m scared,” Neema said. She was crying too, joining their chorus.

  When Grandpa turned the lights on, all the noises went away.

  Grandma called a family meeting at breakfast. After she heard Neema’s crying the night before, she was in a bad mood about the whole ghost business. Neema had been too scared to sleep in the room full of dolls, so she had slept with Daddy. While the eggs and bacon got cold, Grandma spent the morning telling everyone she thought it was foolish for two grown men to be feeding a children’s fantasy about ghosts chased by a dog. And she had some choice words for Davie, too: He was too old—too old, she kept saying—to behave that way. He was supposed to be an example to Neema, and he needed to start acting his age.

  “It was just some fun that went too far,” Grandpa Walter said.

  But that didn’t satisfy Grandma. Dad tried next, telling her it was a valuable exercise in imagination, and how working through the scenario would help them understand the region’s history—in fact, he said, the whole history of black America. Dad made it sound like something boring from a classroom, but that was Dad.

  “It helps them process their history in terms they’ll relate to,” Dad finished.

  Grandma gave him a dirty look.

  Davie sighed, raising his hand. “Grandma . . .” he said. “If we don’t listen to them, nobody else can. We can follow their voices. Maybe even find out if they died out back where I saw them with the dog. If their bones get dug up, you can stop the builders.”

  “Get an injunction . . .” Grandpa Walt cooed. He blew on his coffee to cool it.

  But Grandma didn’t fall for it right away. Not this time. “It’s not good for Neema!”

  “I won’t cry this time,” Neema said. “Davie told me to remember we’re not hearing real screaming. It’s old, so it’s not really there. And they’re not hurting anymore.”

  Well, that last part wasn’t exactly true, Davie thought. If the three boys weren’t hurting, they wouldn’t be trying so hard to be heard. But Neema didn’t need to have that spelled out. Like all ghosts, they just wanted their story known.

  Grandma stared from face to face, shaking her head. “Everyone in this house has lost their doggone mind. That includes me.”

  And so it was decided. Again.

  That night, Grandma made special ghost packs for everyone—extra flashlights, including the powerful hurricane flashlight that could light up the night like a spotlight. Packages of cheese and crackers. (“In case you’re up late and get hungry.”) Bengay for Grandpa. (“You know how your joints get, Walt.”) Even boots and raincoats! (“Real water or not, I don’t want you all getting wet.”) For good measure, she handed Dad a shovel. (“Just in case you can get the digging started . . .”) Then she wished them luck and went to her bedroom to watch TV, closing her door tight so Lifetime wouldn’t be too loud.

  That night, Davie felt more like a ghost soldier than a mere ghost-hunter. He had better supplies and reinforcements! And now that all of them knew what to expect, they wouldn’t be surprised by the shrieking. The pain might not bother them so much.

  He hoped not, anyway.

  That night, the ghosts made them wait.

  The excitement Davie had felt all day—really, every day since he’d first heard the dog sniffing at his door—burned into exhaustion. By nine o’clock, an hour after their vigil began, his eyelids were heavy and he was bothered by the hot raincoat. He felt a little silly wearing a raincoat inside the house. In the quiet, it was hard to remember the past few nights a
t all.

  “Daddy?” Neema said in the hush.

  “What’s that, Pumpkin?”

  Davie hoped they would keep their voices low.

  “Are you and Mommy mad at each other?”

  As scary as the barking and shrieking had been, Davie was more afraid to hear his father tell Neema a lie. Or worse, to tell her the truth.

  “We shouldn’t be talking now,” Davie whispered.

  “No, let’s talk,” Dad said. “It’s all right.”

  But then Dad paused so long that Davie thought he’d changed his mind. After a few seconds, Dad took a deep breath. “Your mom and I love you very much . . .”

  Oh crap, here it goes, Davie thought, his heart pounding. His hands trembled like they had when the ghost dog ran toward them with that angry bark. “And we love each other very much. God knows that’s true. But Mommy misses her family in Ghana—her mother is sick—and she wants to live closer to them. But I have a job where I can’t just pack up and move. I work in Hollywood. So right now we’re having a disagreement about where we’re going to live. And where you’re going to live.”

  It didn’t sound as terrible as it had seemed when Dad was crying at the kitchen table. It didn’t even sound like a divorce, not for sure.

  Neema squirmed, moving to her father’s lap. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the bookshelf behind the big recliner. Their lucky spot.

  “You mean . . . we can’t all live together?” Neema said.

  “Maybe not right now.”

  “But . . .” Neema fought to put it all together. “. . . where would we live? Me and Davie?”