Nila's Babies

by Jac Simensen

  “I’d be happy to have a look at your documents. Property law is my specialty. I can help you with the documents—that is, as long as there aren’t any questions that might involve a conflict of interest.”

  Devon swiveled to face Gordon. “I’m sure that’ll never happen. We’re going to be the best of neighbors, and the best of friends. I’ll make sure of it.”

  ~*~

  Nila had just finished a glass of wine when she heard the twins begin to fuss. She interrupted her conversation with Clarisse and Devon and set the empty glass on the bar. “Excuse me; I think the girls are awake.”

  Devon slid down from the barstool. “I’ll go check on them,” she said.

  Nila was already moving toward the dining room. “No, no… you stay with your guests.” Nila was almost to the dining-room door, when she heard a sneeze. She slid open the door and found Hattie bent over the double stroller. As the light from the sunroom spilled into the darkened room, Nila saw that Hattie was pulling Janna’s fluffy sock back onto her foot. The sock back in place, Hattie started brushing Janna’s dress with her hand.

  “Dust fallin’ down from that ol’ lamp—that’s what’s makin’ her sneeze.” Hattie gestured to the large chandelier that hung above. “Don’t wanna get your pretty party dress all dusty,” she said to Janna. “I’m gonna have to get up there on a ladder tomorrow and wipe that old thing down. Painters shoulda cleaned it up, but they didn’t.”

  Julie joined Janna in sneezing. Nila bent down and lifted Janna from the stroller. Julie reached out toward Nila and began to fuss. “I, too,” Julie said. “I, too.”

  “Can you bring Julie into the barroom?” Nila asked. “Everyone’s been wanting to meet the two of them.”

  Hattie nodded. “Sure thing,” she said as she moved a small vial from her left hand into the cleavage of her jumpsuit and then lifted Julie from the stroller. “C’mon, honey—your admirers are waitin’,” she said to Julie with a grin.

  22

  Hubert Rawlings was dressed in a dark-blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, and regimental tie. His jet-black hair was graying at the sides, adding a statesman-like finish to his trim, five-eleven frame. He stood facing the ornate marble fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. Although it was June, a decorative gas fire danced among the artificial, glowing coals in the antique fire grate. With the exception of the gas fire, and the electric lights and lamps, the structure of the library was little changed from its mid-nineteenth-century origins. The built-in bookcases were filled with hundreds of mostly leather-bound volumes—books that were regularly dusted but never read. The awkward Victorian furniture that came with the house had long ago been replaced with more graceful—but historically incorrect—antique Georgian mahogany tables, chairs, an upholstered settee, and a large desk. Colorful Persian carpets covered the floor. Only the Ghanaian flag in a stand next to the desk, and the portrait of His Excellency, the president, which hung over the fireplace, indicated that the library was now part of the Ghanaian High Commission.

  Hubert was uncomfortable. Beads of sweat had begun to collect along his lightly starched collar, and he repeatedly clasped and unclasped his hands. Although he’d planned for weeks what he would say, the precise words still eluded him. True to her nature, Morowa had prodded him to tell the unedited story from beginning to end, but he knew that wasn’t a possibility—it would take courage to fully own up to the mistakes and failings of his life, and he was a coward. Juba, Hubert’s mother, had dominated every aspect of his life. She had driven away Hubert’s blonde, English wife and his two young daughters and then guided him through the process of securing a Ghanaian divorce on the fabricated grounds of abandonment. She had hastily arranged Hubert’s second marriage to Morowa, her cousin’s beautiful young daughter, and then bitterly sulked each time Morowa produced a male child instead of the female she needed to preserve her family’s ancient lineage. When, after bearing five healthy sons, Morowa announced that she was physically incapable of any further pregnancies, Juba had gone into a prolonged, deep depression that had only ended with a fatal stroke.

  Although Hubert’s mother had been dead for two months, here he was in England, still carrying out her commands, still acquiescing to her iron will.

  There was a soft knock on the massive mahogany door. Hubert turned to face the door as it opened and Helen Morticum’s unsmiling face appeared. “Mr. Rawlings, Ms. Trumble has arrived. Shall I show her in?”

  Hubert nodded and swallowed hard. “Thank you, Ms. Morticum,” he said, his voice louder than necessary. “Please do.”

  Helen stepped into the library, holding the door open. “Ms. Trumble, please come in,” she said.

  Carrie Trumble came through the doorway and then stopped. She looked briefly around the room at the furnishings and carpets and then fixed her gaze on Hubert. She was dressed in a gray pantsuit worn over a frilled, ivory-colored blouse. Her blonde hair was done up in a businesslike bun.

  Helen Morticum gestured toward the upholstered couch. “Please take a seat, Ms. Trumble,” she said. “There are pots of coffee and tea on the side table and I’ll bring in some biscuits if you wish.”

  Carrie shook her head. “Not for me, thank you.”

  “No, thank you,” Hubert said.

  Helen nodded. “I’ll be at the desk just outside the door if there is anything you need—Mr. Rawlings, Ms. Trumble.” She closed the heavy door behind her.

  The two stood staring at each other for several seconds, as if they were each trying to avoid being the first to speak.

  Hubert lost. “Thank you for coming, Carrie, and at such short notice.” He gestured toward the couch. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Carrie remained standing. “Hubert, I suggest we skip the polite conversation and get straight to the point of this meeting. Why am I here, and what do you want of me?”

  Hubert was taken aback by her directness. “Please, won’t you sit down?” he asked.

  “After all these years, you appear out of nowhere and expect me to sit and have a civil conversation? I don’t think so. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in my life, or in the welfare of my girls, and I don’t expect you to begin now.”

  Hubert lowered his head. “Carrie, you have every right to despise me. We both know that I am a coward and a weakling, and that I abandoned you and our children. It would be unthinkable for me to ask for forgiveness. I ask nothing from you. I am here only because there are things I must discuss with you about our daughter Nila’s relationship with Juba, my mother, and about the provisions in my mother’s will for Nila’s benefit. Please, won’t you sit down? I promise this will be a short, businesslike meeting.”

  Carrie stepped to the white upholstered settee and settled tentatively on the edge. “As you wish. Your mother’s death was recent?”

  Hubert sat down across from the settee in an uncomfortable-looking mahogany armchair. “Last month; it was a stroke. She was paralyzed for three days and never recovered consciousness.”

  “I imagine she thought she’d live forever. She certainly acted that way.”

  “After my father’s death, Juba was never comfortable with life. She died a bitter, unloved woman. Only now can I truthfully say that although I never loved her, I felt sorry for her. She did, however, anticipate her death and left a most specific will—a will that includes Naki.” Hubert lowered his head. “Please forgive me; I meant to say, a will that includes Nila. Morowa always refers to Nila by her tribal name and I must admit that I think of her that way as well.”

  Carrie was about to say, “Oh? I’m surprised that you think of her at all!” but decided to keep her sarcasm to herself. Instead, she asked, “How is the lovely Morowa?”

  “Morowa is well, and sends her best wishes.”

  “I always liked Morowa. Your mother made a good choice for you.”

  Hubert stared at the floor. “Yes, she did.”

  “I understand that you have four boys?”

  “Five; Peter is the you
ngest. He was born two years ago.”

  Carrie leaned back on the settee and crossed her legs. “So, you wanted to tell me about Juba’s will—Juba’s will, and Nila.”

  Hubert looked directly into Carrie’s eyes. “Specifically, my mother left Nila four valuable pieces of jewelry: one orange-colored diamond ring, two diamond pendants, and a necklace. I’ve had the jewels appraised here in London, and the combined value is close to a quarter of a million pounds. Since the exceptional quality of stones, caret sizes, cuts, and antique settings are unique and irreplaceable, the insurance value would be considerably higher—as much as double that estimate.”

  Carrie frowned and shook her head. “Why?” she asked. “After completely ignoring her firstborn grandchild for almost twenty years, why would she leave her such valuable possessions? I don’t understand.”

  Hubert quickly reviewed the mental gymnastics he’d struggled with since he’d read his mother’s will and met with Ringwald. What, exactly, should he tell Carrie and Nila? How could he attempt to account for Juba’s bizarre life and hurtful behavior?

  “Let me try to explain what I can,” he began. “Much of what I will tell you about my mother I only learned after her death. Frankly, I’m still not sure what to believe. You remember that Juba was of the Ashanti?”

  “Yes,” Carrie said.

  “Even though he was fully integrated into Ghanaian society, my father privately regarded the Ashanti, and the other West African tribes, as heathen. Don’t misunderstand me—his opinions had nothing to do with race. The Rawlings have been genuinely color-blind for generations.”

  “And because of your father’s wishes, you were raised Church of England—I remember your stories.”

  “And that’s why I learned so little Ashanti history and lore; my father forbade it. However, I knew that within the Ashanti, my mother’s family was of an ancient, high-caste lineage, the equivalent of royalty. Of course, the oral history of the Ashanti goes back thousands of years—probably as far back as the Greeks or Romans.”

  Carrie smirked. “You’re saying because she believed she was of an ancient, royal lineage—that explains your mother’s self-centered rudeness?”

  “No, not at all. What I’ve recently been told is that Juba believed she had special, magical powers—powers to combat evil forces that walk the earth today, and that these powers had been passed to her through her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother, in an uninterrupted matriarchal line that extends back to the first humans, and the gods who created those first humans.”

  “Voodoo, you mean? Voodoo powers? I think I vaguely remember that the Ashanti practice voodoo.”

  Hubert shook his head. “No, not voodoo—the Ashanti know nothing of voodoo. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Arab slave traders focused heavily on what is now West Africa, and thousands of African tribal peoples, including large numbers of Ashanti, were captured and sold to plantation owners in the New World. Some of these Ashanti women may have possessed ancient powers, or thought they did, and that’s likely the origin of voodoo in the Caribbean and the Americas. Voodoo is a New World invention, not African.”

  “So Juba thought she had inherited special powers from her female ancestors. What’s that got to do with Nila, and with Juba’s diamonds?”

  “You remember my Uncle Ringwald, Juba’s brother?”

  Carrie leaned back. “Your Uncle Ringwald? No, I don’t think so. Was he the farmer who always showed up at your mother’s house on holidays?”

  “Wearing wellington boots?” Hubert asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “That was Ringwald. He managed our teak plantations. After Mother’s death, I visited Ringwald and he explained that Juba believed that she had inherited primeval powers—specifically, powers that enabled her to battle the destructive force of an ancient female monster that attacks children.”

  Carrie laughed. “And you believed that nonsense?”

  Hubert shook his head. “Of course not, but what I believe is of no consequence. It’s what Juba believed that’s pertinent—and, according to Uncle Ringwald, there was no doubt in her mind that she possessed these ancient powers. Further, Juba believed that it was her sacred mission in life to preserve those powers and to pass them on to the next generation—to a daughter, or, failing the birth of a daughter, to her nearest female blood relative.” Hubert intensely focused on Carrie’s eyes. “Since Morowa and I never had a girl child, Juba’s closest female relative would be…”

  “Nila,” Carrie whispered.

  Hubert nodded. “Specifically, in order of strength of her matriarchal line, Juba’s choices would have been: first, the daughter she never had, and then, since Morowa and I are second cousins, the granddaughter Morowa and I never produced, then Nila, and, lastly, Della.”

  “And this is why you dragged me here—to tell some fantastic story that would explain your mother’s obsessive, hurtful behavior? After all these years, do you think I really care why your mother behaved as she did toward me?”

  Hubert shook his head. “No, not at all. I asked to see you because I need your help. I need to know what to do about Nila and the diamonds.”

  “What sort of help?”

  Hubert rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. “When my mother tattooed Nila, that tattoo was her mark—a mark that signified that Nila was provisionally designated as her successor.”

  Carrie sprang up from the settee. “So that’s why she mutilated Nila? It was some dreadful voodoo rite?”

  Hubert stood as well. “No, not voodoo. An Ashanti tribal practice, not voodoo.”

  Carrie was visibly upset and paced in front of the settee. “Why, in the name of God, didn’t you get us away from your mother’s vile superstitions? How could you let her disfigure your child? What kind of man are you?”

  Hubert sat down hard and lowered his gaze to the floor. “That is the question that never leaves my mind.”

  Carrie moved directly in front of the seated Hubert. “When I returned home from Ghana with the girls, I was furious with you for several years. It was the kind of fury that eats away your heart, fills your mind with poison, and destroys your life. Once, I really loved you, treasured you, bore your children, and expected us to live a contented life together, right through to the end. My fury, my anger, is what sustained me. It became the reason to get up in the morning, to care for my daughters, and go to my office every day. Then, a few years on, Della was sick in bed with a high fever. When the fever broke, Della told me that in her dreams she’d been in a pleasant place, a place where I was happy again—just like I used to be. I hadn’t realized how obvious it was to my girls that anger was destroying me. Later that day, I looked in the mirror and I saw your mother peering out at me, and I realized that she was the one who was destroying me, not you. Della got well and so did I. Hubert, I don’t think about you at all, and I don’t care what kind of man you are. Are we finished here? I need to get back to my office and my life.”

  Hubert continued staring at the floor. “There’s just one more thing,” he said in a flat, emotionless tone. “The last thing I must do to fulfill my mother’s will and free myself of her control—I must deliver the jewels to Nila. Will you help me do that?”

  Carrie returned to the settee. “Nila lives in America now. She’s marrying an American soon.”

  “I see. Where does she live—which state?”

  “She lives in Florida.”

  “Miami?”

  “No, not Miami, but she will be staying at a hotel in Miami for a few days.”

  “Will you tell her about Juba’s jewelry?”

  “If you wish; I can call her cell phone,” Carrie replied.

  Hubert nodded. “If she agrees, will you help us to meet? I can get a flight to Miami right away—either tonight, or tomorrow. I have a diplomatic passport and won’t need a visa.”

  “I’ll tell her about this conversation.”

  Hubert reached into his shirt pocket and produce
d a card. “She can call anytime on this cell number, or at Grosvenor House. I wrote the hotel number on the back. If Nila would rather I call her, you could give me her number in Florida.”

  Carrie stood. “I’ll call her. Then it’ll be up to Nila, won’t it?”

  23

  Gordon raised his voice. “I missed the last thing you said—I must have passed through a cell dead-zone. Say again?”

  “The DNA sample taken from Margaret Cartwright’s corpse before it disappeared matches the DNA found on the liquor store clerk’s throat wounds. The dead clerk up near the border.”

  “What? You’re messin’ with me?”

  “They’re positive about the DNA match,” Deputy McGill repeated. “The sergeant said that the odds of an error would be one in millions. Don’t remember the exact number but it was lotsa millions.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Gordon said, as he exited from the interstate to a rest area and pulled into the first open parking spot. “My God,” he said softly. “This is getting weirder and weirder.”

  “Not to mention disgusting,” the deputy responded. “Also, the Pennsylvania authorities are sticking with the story that Amy Cartwright died from a heart attack and that the trauma to her neck was caused by rats and occurred after death. The body was released to the family and has already been cremated. That case is closed. It appears the Cartwright family has lots of influence, as well as money.”

  “Remember—Nila told us that Maggie attempted to bite her throat, so there’s a pattern here.”

  “Like I said, case closed. Heart attack or not, we’ll never know what really happened to Amy Cartwright,” the deputy replied.

  “And still no trace of the missing corpse?”