by Ka Newborrn
They buried the cigar box beyond the apple trees at the base of the oaks. Calvin marked the grave with a red scarf tied to a stick.
At nightfall, brightly-colored clusters of trick-or-treaters began to swagger through the neighborhood streets, swinging hollow plastic pumpkins and paper sacks from their arms and shrieking with laughter. Russell peeked out from the maze and across the neighboring yard and chuckled at the sight of a boxy Etch-a-Sketch with holes for eyes wandering awkwardly down the road.
He grasped Calvin’s head in a playful headlock.
“There’s still time for you to go out if you’d like.”
Calvin wiped his nose. “Isn’t Auntie Alice coming out of her room today?"
“She’s resting.”
“She rests a lot.”
“She's Superwoman. She's got some powerful batteries to recharge. Let’s get your costume ready. I’ll get a bag for your candy.”
“I don’t want to go trick or treating.” Calvin stared at his feet.
“Well, what would you like to do?”
Suddenly feeling very shy, Calvin averted his eyes. “Play castle.”
Russell smiled and enveloped his son in a powerful hug.
They donned long velvet capes and covered their shoulders with Aunt Alice’s ancient fox head stoles. They crowned each other with tagboard crowns decorated with gold glitter and plastic gemstones. When the doorbell interrupted them, Russell met the delivery person from Pamper Dee’s restaurant in the foyer and traded a wad of cash for a large paper bag.
In the kitchen, Russell plated their turkey drumstick dinners and threw away the foam containers. Then he stood on a footstool to retrieve a pair of silver goblets from the top shelf of the butler’s pantry. He filled one with Zinfandel and the other with grape juice.
Waxy tapers flickered in the tarnished candelabra at the center of the Henredon table as they gnawed on their drumsticks. When they were finished, Russell refilled their goblets and brought them out to the library along with two smoking pipes: one filled with apple tobacco and the other with caramel sauce.
Calvin sat in a red leather chair and propped his feet up on the matching ottoman. Adjusting his crown, he stared at the vellum lining the walls. Russell lit a pile of sage-laced wood in the fireplace. He tossed the logs with a poker. They snapped as they grew hotter and fragrant.
Outside the leaded glass window, the red scarf was perfectly still in the distant shade of oaks. Calvin shivered and pulled the fox stole closer to his shoulders. Draining the last of the grape juice from his goblet he stared at the sky diamonds winking through the blackness and told his father that the wood was haunted.
Turning his head away, Russell felt into the pocket of his cape and inserted a pair of plastic fangs into his mouth. Eerily backlit by the candles, he slowly revealed his face to his son and grinned. Calvin gasped with simultaneous fear and delight. He continued to suck on his caramel pipe.
Russell stood up from his chair and paused at the seemingly infinite wall of leather bound books. He carefully removed a burgundy-hued volume trimmed with black and gold. He settled back into the chair beside his son, nestled his cape closely around his shoulders, poised his pipe and opened the book to the table of contents. “And now,” he began, “for your reading pleasure, I give you The End of the Story by Clark Ashton Smith.”
Calvin nestled in the chair and allowed his imagination to transport him back to the haunted wood. Old-world spirits and vampires bade their tribute to the night, consuming everything in their path with a bloodthirsty vengeance. The oaks were alive with the fire of death, the earth of centuries, and the water of mourning.
Outside the window, Calvin traced the red scarf with his eyes as it shifted lightly in the night wind. “Honor our family crypt,” he reasoned softly.
“What did you say?” Russell asked, placing the book down.
The persistent hooting of an owl rose out of the silence. It flew to the closed window and screamed at Russell and Calvin. Stretching its body to full wingspan, it hurled itself against the amber glass, then flew to the lip of the wood. It circled the hummingbird’s grave, perched upon it and quieted down.
“What in the world?” Russell was alarmed. He closed the book.
“It’s the keeper, Daddy,” Calvin explained calmly. He put his finger on a stray dribble of caramel that dripped onto the red leather upholstery, licked it clean and felt for his crown. “It knows the family crypt’s out there. He's come to keep it safe.”
Russell opened the book again and continued to read. He paused briefly and observed his son carefully. For a moment he thought he was looking into the eyes of a perfect stranger, but the sound of Aunt Alice calling roused him from the reverie.
PARADISE, OHIO
1979
Jana
Inextricably trapped between a windshield and a moving wiper blade, an autumn leaf fought against its demise with a resounding crunch. Jana observed the tragedy through the passenger window proscenium as the cab veered westbound along the interstate towards the Pennsylvania border, entered Ohio and exited onto a rural stretch of road.
Elaborate gardens marked the entrance to a secluded, gated estate. The cab maneuvered through a tall iron gate and up a lengthy driveway before coming to a full stop at a rambling, three-story Georgian mansion. Stepping out of the vehicle, the driver opened the passenger door for Jana and lifted her suitcase out of the trunk.
A group of women dressed in thick, woolly sweaters sat on marble benches outside the garden entrance. They sipped hot beverages from porcelain cups and busied themselves with pointing out stars in the night sky. The wind tousled their hair gently, and the papery skin around their eyes crinkled as they laughed freely and easily.
She thanked the driver and thrust a wad of cash into his hand. Smoothing her hair down with her fingers, she gripped the suitcase handle in her left hand and walked towards the women with a careful smile on her face.
A woman in her mid-sixties with ample hips and earnest green eyes extended her hand. Her eyes squinted slightly. “Jana?”
She cleared her throat awkwardly.
“Yes. Hello."
“I'm Norah. We spoke over the phone last week. I’m so glad to finally meet you, sister. Welcome to the Visionary Women in Christ Retreat.”
“Glad to meet you, too, Norah. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier.”
Norah smiled and patted Jana's shoulder. “Stop apologizing. Nothing gets going until tomorrow anyway. Are you tired from the drive? The kitchen’s still open. Why don’t you bring your suitcase to your room and go down to the dining room to get something to eat?”
Jana clung to her careful smile. With suitcase firmly in hand she waved goodbye to the group and walked up a cobblestoned path toward a pair of transomed doors.
A tall woman with olive skin and high cheekbones opened the doors for her, grasped the suitcase without smiling and strode through the foyer with giant strides. Jana practically ran to keep up as they ascended a bifurcated staircase with an intricately carved balustrade. When they reached the top, the woman stopped at the fourth door to the right and held out a large key. “This is to be your room," she said in an Eastern European accent.
She turned the key in the lock and stepped into the doorway. The stately room was decorated with antique Chippendale furniture: a mahogany poster bed with a blue velvet bedspread, a bureau, and a corner chair. Jana approached the massive bed and ran a fingertip along the velvet. In the adjoining bathroom, an oversized, clawfoot tub was flanked by yellowing, hexagonal floor tiles.
She opened the suitcase and removed a small bag of toiletries. Working quickly, she scrubbed her face with water and pulled a comb through her hair before heading downstairs in search of the dining room.
✽✽✽
Three women were seated together at an extended banquet table. Above their heads, an Adam style chandelier dangled from a high, crown moulded ceiling. Despite the height of the ceiling, the chandelier hung far too low fo
r Jana's immediate comfort. She swallowed her trepidation and walked over to join the group.
The tall woman approached her and laid a napkin across her lap.
“Can I bring you anything to drink?” she asked.
Jana smiled as brightly as she could. “Chardonnay, please. Thank you.”
“Are you to join us for dinner? We’re to have roast chicken.”
“That sounds lovely. Thank you.”
The first woman to speak stared at her matted curls. “Your hair. It's so, uh, different!” Feeling like an animal pelt, Jana balled her napkin with her fists.
“Is this your first retreat?” The second woman asked. Jana nodded politely.
The tall woman returned to the table with a glass of white wine and a bowl of mushroom soup on a silver platter. She placed them in front of Jana.
“Where are you from?” The third woman inquired.
“Philadelphia. I’m Jana North.” She played with her soup and tried to appear friendly.
The first woman nibbled at her chicken. “I’m Sandy Biecker, and this is Amy Gentry,” she said, gesturing towards the second woman. “We’re from Nashville. Spiree Roundtree is from Wyoming.”
"Thermopolis, Wyoming." The third woman clarified. She was about eighteen with glossy, black hair and held a classical guitar. Nodding politely at the mention of her name, she gently played a few chords and winked at Jana. “You know how the train is supposed to come faster when you light a cigarette? Well, maybe the food will come faster if I…”
As if on cue, the tall woman reappeared and placed a plate of raw vegetables in front of Spiree. Sandy and Amy giggled. Spiree raised her eyebrows and set the guitar aside.
Amy dabbed her lips with her napkin, folded it neatly to the right side of her plate and turned towards Jana. “Are you Born Again?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you new to Christ?” Sandy prodded.
Jana raised a hand to the back of her head and scratched. “I, I uh, have been meaning to get back to it for a while. But I’m not sure.”
Sandy smiled over her cup of coffee. “Well, you certainly came to the right place. Trust Him and you'll never be lost again.”
“He is the way,” Amy murmured.
“Find him,” Spiree said. She crunched on a slice of bell pepper.
Amy reached into the pocket of her denim jacket for her wallet. She handed Jana a picture of a girl with short dark hair and Amy’s doelike eyes. “This is Pearl. She’s fourteen. She wants to be a comedian when she grows up."
Amy flipped to a slightly older boy wearing a cowboy hat. “This is Gil. He’s sixteen years old and blesses us every day with his steel guitar playing. He wants to be the next Chet Atkins.”
Jana smiled at the pictures and passed them back to Amy. “They’re adorable.” She assessed Amy’s youthful appearance. “You don’t look old enough to have teenagers.”
Sandy tossed her spiky wedge haircut and sighed. “Spiree and I are still single and looking."
Spiree rolled her eyes. “I'm only eighteen, babe. Remember?”
“That's right. How could I ever forget?"
“And I don’t seek from external sources. My fulfillment comes from within.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “Oh, you and your silly hippie brouhaha. Squawk all you want now, Spiree Roundtree. You’ll be singing a different tune when you’re twenty-eight and your biological clock is ticking.”
Amy tucked her billfold back into her pocket and looked at Jana. “Do you have any family?"
Jana opened her wallet to pass Calvin's photo in Amy's direction, but Sandy intercepted with her thumb and forefinger. She inspected the snapshot. “Oh!” Her shock-widened eyes rivaled the circumference of dinnerware plates.
“What a handsome little fella!” Sandy paused for an awkward moment and cleared her throat. “Is he adopted?”
Jana kept her smile carefully in place and urged a photo of Russell towards Sandy. “This is my husband at Thanksgiving last year.”
“Oh!” Sandy repeated. She stared at the picture of Russell and took in every inch of his blackness. Her eyes widened even more. She passed the photos to Amy. Amy looked at them thoughtfully.
“Your son and husband are beautiful." Amy continued to study Calvin's face. “And your son has the eyes of an artist. I’ll bet his pendulum swings wide.” Amy passed the photos to Spiree.
Sandy cleared her throat one last time. “You bet! Just like those nice Blind Boys of Alabama who gave that gospel concert in Knoxville for those starving black children in Africa.” She paused. “I just love those starving black children in Africa!” She smiled broadly at Jana. Amy winced, rolled her eyes, and stole a carrot stick from Spiree’s plate.
Spiree stared at the photos intently before passing them back to Jana. “He looks like Jimi Hendrix. Does he play any instruments?”
Jana laughed. “Not yet. Maybe I’ll pay for lessons when my hearing starts to go.”
The tall woman returned. She set a plate with half a roasted chicken and parsnips in front of Jana and a French press in front of Spiree. Spiree refilled her cup and watched Jana devour her meal. “I predict,” she said, “that your son will turn out just like Jimi Hendrix.” She paused uncomfortably. “Well. Not like that. What I mean is he looks like a gifted musician. I can see it in his eyes.”
They finished their meals and continued to chat. Sandy lit a cigarette. Jana reached into her purse and discovered that she had left her pack upstairs.
“Shit. I left my cigarettes in the room.”
Sandy took a cigarette from her pack and urged it towards her. Jana thanked her, lit it and inhaled deeply. It was menthol.
Not wanting to appear ungrateful, she raised it back to her lips, hesitated and tapped it against the ashtray at the center of the table. Spiree laughed and produced a hand-rolled cigarette from a small pouch that hung from her neck by a silver cord. "Have one of mine."
Jana shook her head and reluctantly took a second minty puff. “I shouldn't waste it.”
“Take it,” Spiree ordered. “Save it for later, even. I roll my own and blend the leaves myself.”
Jana took the cigarette from Spiree's fingers and tucked it into the zippered pouch at the back of her purse. She glanced at her watch. “It can't be one o’clock already! Really? I’ll see you ladies tomorrow. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
She said goodnight and made her way through the main hallway and up the massive staircase, pausing briefly to peer at the framed photographs of past attendees that hung above the balustrade.
✽✽✽
She sat on the edge of the oversized clawfoot tub and drew a bath. The floor was ice cold against her bare feet. As the bathtub slowly filled with water, a teardrop escaped her womb. It trailed down her thigh and dripped stealthily onto the yellowing tiles.
“That's odd,” she said aloud, putting a finger to the bloodspot. “I’m not due for another week.” She swiped the tile with her finger, dunked her hand into the water, and swirled until it came back clean.
The water gurgled as she eased herself into the steaming tub. She raised her legs and soaped them languorously. In the distant background, a woman's voice rose combatively. A second voice begged for peace and quiet. Mahalia Jackson’s sweet contralto wafted faintly from an indeterminate direction as voices faded away.
She reached for her cigarette pack, and remembered the hand-rolled gift from Spiree at the back of her purse. She pressed it between her lips and groped on the floor around her toiletry bag for a matchbook.
Her fingers grazed the cold metal of the stethoscope instead. She pulled it out of the bag and held it for a moment before securing the earpieces inside her ears and placing the chestpiece to her belly.
An essence breathed softly in the water. It exhaled towards the surface in a halo of concentric ripples and inhaled downward through the drainpipe with a burst of black smoke bubble. Closing her heavy eyelids, Jana slid the chestpiece upwards to the space between her bre
asts and listened closely to the story she kept there.
✽✽✽
JANA: (Exhausted agony) “It hurts!”
LASSE: (Mildly placating, wiping his forehead) “It’s nothing really, just a little cramping.”
JANA: (Wavering in and out of consciousness, weeping, detecting the odor of gin and peanut butter on Lasse’s breath) “It's not supposed to hurt this much!”
LASSE: (Calling to his secretary in the adjoining room) “Hey, Ells? In the bathroom medicine chest there’s morphine and a syringe. Bring it back here, would you?”
ELLS: (From the office) “Alright, Lasse.” (Abandons her typewriter and walks briskly to the bathroom to retrieve the morphine and the syringe. Walks into a back room where Jana is tossing on a creaky cot with blood-soaked hand towels wrapped between her legs. Pushes the bridge of her trifocals up against her nose and looks at the vials) “She's not supposed to lose that much blood! How much blood has she lost?”
LASSE: (Gruffly) “Just give me the fucking drugs, Ells!”
ELLS: (Offended, hands him the morphine and fans her heart with her fingers) “The language that comes out of you!” (Drags over an ancient elementary school pupil’s desk, sits down next to Jana and places her hand on her forehead as she rolls onto her side and continues to whimper. Her concern turns fast to anger) “I may be an old woman, but I’m no fool! She’s burning up with fever! She has an infection! She needs antibiotics!”
LASSE: (Applies a tourniquet to Jana’s right arm and injects the syringe, seemingly unaffected by her pain and trauma) “It's just a little cramping, that’s all.” (Removes the tourniquet from Jana and applies it to his own arm, tightening the rubber with his teeth)