The air swam hazily around me. To breathe in was to take a gulp of liquid warmth. It was so moist it felt as though I had lotion all over my body and I immeadiately began to perspire.
Bienvenue a la maison, ma cherie Marceline.
I was driving down a sun parched road, winding its' way through soggy marshlands. Adrian lay sleeping next to me. He looked so beautiful when he slept. He had a rennaisance look about him when he was awake, but oh how he looked like DaVincis work when he slept.
I knew this road so well, like the veins on the back of my hand. Left, right, right, left, and I was there. Inside that three bedroom, one story, tiny little house, way back in the trees, lived my mother and my grandmother. The ouside was painted pale beige with brown trim. There was a small herb garden and a larger vegetable patch. Out back there was a path that led to the edge of the water that sometimes flooded and sometimes was nothing more than a stinking mud patch. The house stood in an opening of sunlight; a vision in gold and green all around it. I looked at it and I saw myself; a light skinned little imp playing with frogs and other small creatures I found. I saw a seventeen year old girl taking a blind date to prom, a sallow young man, cousin of a friend, who refused to dance with her and sat drinking soda all night. I shook Adrian awake and he looked at my grandmother's house lazily.
"This house is much better." he yawned.
I opened the door with my key and the moment I did, my mother was upon me, hugging me, kissing my hair and exclaiming in a mixture of french and english. She still looked as she always did, almost exactly like I'd probably look when I got older, but a shade darker, her lips a little fuller, her salt and pepper hair a little more unruly. It came as a shock to see more wrinkles creasing her jawline, more than I'd ever seen before. Her hands beginning to show the tendons from age. We were within an inch of each others heights, and she looked at me with great pride.
"Oh, you got more a those damned tattoos!" she said, but she was smiling.
"Whasay?" My grandmother called from the living room, which also served as a dining room. "That childs' got more writin' on her? Oh Lord, Jesus." But when she came to me, she too was smiling, showing her perfectly white teeth. Her hair was stark white with only a little black remaining, her face was no longer hard but a mass of wrinkles, like a rumpled blanket, but her dark eyes shown just as brightly. Perched on her nose was a pair of half moon spectacles, attached to a long chain that went about her neck.
I hugged her with an unpleasent feeling around my middle. I hadn't been home in more than two years, and I despised that I'd come to drag out the past that must have pained them greatly.
"This is my friend Adrian."
My grandmother and mother's disposition shifted so quickly it was the same as turning a light off.
"Well let me cook y'all somethin to eat." My grandmother shuffled into the kitchen, her brow furrowed.
"Why don't you sit down and watch some TV while I help in the kitchen. Content que tu as de retour, ma cherie Marceline." My mother looked at me meaningfully.
"What did she say?" Adrian asked me in hushed tones as we sat down in the living room, with it's dark wood paneled walls and the plastic covered couch. I smiled, for that couch had been covered when I was a child.
"She said she's glad I'm back."
"When will you talk to your grandmother?"
"Later...I..just can't show up and say hey were you raped by the son of one of the richest men in America?"
We sat in the living room with it's thin green carpet that went all through the house, staring at the fuzzy discolored Panasonic television that had seen me romping around the room with my Barbie dolls, sometimes with another girl who lived down the road, who had moved away long ago. Her name was Sarah. I smiled, thinking of her, with her sandy blonde hair and remembering how she'd always worn pretty ruffled dresses. It felt good to remember those innocent days, laced only with a little nostalgia, for I realized at that moment that because those times existed, and as long as I remembered them, they never ended. Not really.
"Wanna see my old room?" I asked, not playfully, or suggestively but only because I knew Adrian would be intrigued to see where I grew up.
"Sure," he said.
I led him down the short, small hallway to the middle door with The Cure poster on it.
"Nice," he said, making a rare attempt at teasing me.
"Shut up." I said, smiling, because it felt like old times for a moment.
Inside was a twin bed and a box spring, on the floor, because a bed frame would have taken up too much space, and my mother couldn'tve afforded one anyway. But I'd made up for it by purchasing colorful purple plaid sheets and a black mesh canopy to hang from the ceiling on a hook with the money I made working at a local movie theater. Every available wall space was covered with band posters, movie posters, pictures of celebrities I'd photocopied at the library, and since my mother encouraged my creativity I'd painted stars and moons and little twisting designs all over every space that wasn't covered, ending with a sunburst over my bed. I'd developed a liking for asian culture when I was sixteen and had bought small trinkets that rested on every surface: two cheap plastic imperial lion bookends, a little tibetan teapot and cups with no handles, incense burners, a blunt decorative katana, and a tiny red jade buddha, with his wide smile and enormous belly. It wasn't surprising; my mother had even more asian items in her room, because she was a buddhist.
Adrian stared around, smiling faintly at this or that. He picked up a book that was resting on my dresser, reading the title.
"Little dark, don't you think?" he said, holding it up.
The book was called, GHOST STORIES, all in capital letters, which wasn't exactly dark perse. I think it was the picture on the tattered cover that made him say that. It depicted a black cloaked and hooded figure, rising from a misty cemetary, with skeleton hands folded in front, and nothing but a pair of red dots glowing from under the hood.
"It was my fathers'." I said, my voice tight.
My mother at first did not want me to keep the book, because I'd sneak away to the closet and look at it and cry, still too little to read the words. She'd catch me and scream that he was never coming back! I'd shout back that she'd yelled at him too much and made him run away!
Eventually, when I'd accepted the fact that he was gone, she let me have it. I'd read it a dozen times, and it sparked my interest in the paranormal, something my mother destested, but was careful not to let me know it. Not careful enough, but I appriciated the effort.
I took the book from Adrian, and flipped it open to a certain page, where I pulled out the two photographs I kept there.
One was a polaroid of my father and mother, standing beside a sleek black little car, dressed to go out for the evening. They were in front of a townhouse in the city; it was my father's parents house. My mother stood, beautiful, still young looking, with her hair fluffed out around her cafe au lait face, wearing a strapless black fluted dress hugging her curves, and silky black gloves that reached her elbows...my father stood with his arm around her, his other arm holding his black suit jacket over his shoulder casually. He leaned with ease, his head ducked down a little bit, with his toffee gold skin glowing with youth in the late afternoon light. His face was devastatingly handsome, his lips full and sensuous, a ciggarette hanging out of his mouth, with high lean cheekbones, that I'd been so fortunate as to inherit. His blue black hair waved back smoothly and his dark brown eyes were alight with mischeif and a certain sureness that showed in the photograph.
The other was a picture taken with a disposable camera, showing my father sitting on a beige couch in a plain white tee shirt, looking thinner than in the first photograph, but with a tiny light golden skinned body on his lap asleep. Me. About two years old, snoozing peacefully, her ears already pierced where two tiny golden studs perched under a mop of wavy black hair. This was my favorite of the two.
I showed them to Adrian, who looked at me with understanding.
"That sure is a cute kid." He said, handing the pictures back to me.
"Les'enfants, diner!" called a voice from the kitchen.
During our dinner of shrimp and crawdad gumbo, my mother and grandmother mostly questioned Adrian about his life, sensing of course that he and I were more than friends. It was obvious, he being the only man I ever brought home; not even Eric had had that dubious pleasure. Through my families questioning, I learned things that I'd never heard before. All I knew really was that he was from Bangor, Maine and had been raised by his grandmother and great grandmother.
His parents were young, only in high school when he was born on September 24th 1974. Year of the Tiger, my mother commented. They'd been driving home from a movie date a year later when a drunk driver plowed through a red light, smashing them head on. They'd both been fatally injured. His father had died in the hospital and his mother had died en route. His grandmother brought him up from then on. They'd lived in her house, a rustic colonial in the misty pine forest.
He'd been educated at the University of Maine, majoring in philosophy and abnormal psychology; from there he'd moved to Boston and spent a few months, but settled in Salem where he'd been hired by the Institute for his zeal for the subject matter and his apparent psychic abilities. His MRI had shown an unusually large amount of brain activity. I was amazed he was so candid about all this, I'd known him for almost a year and he'd never been so open.
My mother was fascinated and probed him about his experiences, while my grandmother frowned and looked mistrustful. But that wasn't out of the ordinary. She mistrusted most white people, and I felt a sliver of guilt for knowing the reason. Finally they got around to asking us what we were up to at the Institute.
We looked at each other, and Adrian smiled encouragingly. Go on, his eyes said. Let her know what's coming.
"Well," I said, swallowing my food nervously. "We just got off a case in Virginia. Big old mansion, name of Foxworth Hall."
I'd said it casually enough, but the couple across the ways' expressions shifted yet again; my grandmother, who'd been staring at me with her wrinkled dark brown skin drawn together in a scrutinizing frown, was now wide eyed, her white eyebrows lifted up, almost as if she were afraid. My mother had taken a lightning fast glance at her mother then lowered her eyes to her bowl, appearing now to study her food closely.
"That's interesting." she said lightly, too lightly.
She opened her mouth to say something else, probably to change the subject but my grandmother held up her gnarled brown hand, which was enough to make my mother pinch her lips shut. My formidable grandmother patted her sagging lips with her napkin, then she leaned across the table, those deep soulful endless brown eyes riveted on me. In a low gritty voice she said,
"Cette maison a brule a la terre."
I stared at her. Then I answered in a shaking voice,
"Il a ete refait."
Why couldn't my voice be stronger? Her eyes widened even more. She looked furious.
"Non! Mensonges!"
She threw her napkin on the table and went to her bedroom. My mother looked at me sadly, her blue eyes imploring mine, Why did you have to mention that name?
I put Adrian on the pull out in the living room and I went to put on my nightclothes; a tee shirt and sweatpants. At 11:30 I stalked to my grandmother's room at the end of the hall, my heart heavy.
I knocked on her door softly, opening it when I heard the familiar, "Entre." She was sitting in her rocking chair, which had once sat in the living room. The very one she'd been in when I'd first asked about my mother's blue eyes. And mine. She was watching her late shows as she always had, on her small television. Normally, she'd wave me in and go right on watching her show, but that night, she picked up the remote, or, "the box", as she called it and snapped the TV off, glowering at me. I came into the room and closed the door gently.
"Mamaw, I have to tell you something."
I sat on the floor in front of her, and I proceeded to recount my tale of Foxworth Hall. The curse, Joel, everything. She listened intently, her eyes staying hard, that look of concentration kniting her brows together. When I was finished, I said to her, with tears in my voice,
"I left to ask you, Mamaw, is it true?"
Her dark eyes melded with mine for a few moments, then all of a sudden they became shiny and she buried her face in her hands as tears began to slide down her cheeks, and she shook violently, though not a sound escaped her.
My stomach filled with lead, I'd never, ever seen her cry; it was true.
She seemed to compose herself, wiped her tears away, and called,
"Claudia!"
She pronounced my mother's name, Clowdia.
My mother appeared at the door in an instant as if she were standing outside the entire time.
"Oui Maman."
"Venir ici." my grandmother whispered, extending her hand.
My mother came to kneel on the shabby green carpet with me, and my grandmother caught both of our hands in hers, and I couldn't help but think of Chris and Cathy, listening to their mother tell them the story of how she'd fallen in love with her half uncle, secretly her half brother. My grandmother began to speak in french, though we understood every word.
"A long long time ago, I was a singer. It was 1941 and I knew I was something special. My hips swelled out and my hair was long and soft. I have indian blood in me, you see? My lips were full and bloomed out from my face like rose petals and I painted em bright red to make the point! Oh but don't mistake me, I was a good christian girl. But I was in the habit of sneaking away to sing late at night at The Papillon Fille, the butterfly girl. Much the same as you, daughter, sneaking away to meet those boys in the middle of the night, it's a wonder you didn't get pregnant. Oh well, just wasn't your time. But oh, it was such fun singing at that joint. The jazz, the dancing, the revelry; people fighting, and cussing and flirting and falling down drunk! Well one night a stranger came into the spot, the likes of which we colored folk had never seen set foot in the joint who wasn't a cop looking for a handout. He was handsome, I give him that. But you can bet we stopped on the spot when he walked in. He asked to be allowed to play on the piano. Old Jean the owner of the place and the pianist hisself told him to go on to New Orleans and play that swing the whites loved so much. But that young man said, he's a traveller and had been listening outside for hours and just wanted to play some of that sweet stuff, sung by an angel he said."
Here she looked into space, ironically, bitterly remembering Joel's flattery.
"Oh but he was debonair, yes, looking so eager. Jean let him try his hand that old piano, and boy his fingers lit it up! He played so beautiful I just had to open my mouth and sing! The place was quiet while he played and I sang. It aint never been quiet! But us two had em under our spell, but yes! We did. We made magic that night, the both of us, so perfectly matched like rain and the trees. When it was time for me to go, he offered to walk me home, and now I'd heard what white men do to pretty colored gals if given half the chance, but he'd played so beautifully, and I thought God wouldn't give an evil man a gift like that."
I could see it now; my mother began to cry.
"We walked in the moonlight as he told me his name and the rich family he come from up yonder. How his father was a fool and a monster who chased pretty girls while his poor mother only wanted him to love her. And I felt sorry for him, raised with everything, but given no love. Everything needs to be loved, I said. He looked me over, told me I was beautiful, said he knew I had a loving heart. He kissed me, sweet, and tender. And I liked it! Who would have thought rich white man come to love me? He would protect me from the other whites, the hateful ones. He said he was leaving from the port the next day, for Europe! He said, come with me, I will keep you safe. But Europe was dangerous for someone like me. War going over there. So no, I said, I cannot go. He said, then you must leave me with a memory of you. He touched me on my bosom, I slap his hand, with such fear, such fear growing hotter in my shoes. He said, Fine, if you won't give, then I will take!"
She gasped and shuddered, her eyes glistening with tears.
"And he took. Afterward, he left me there, my pretty butterfly dress ruined. No shame in him as he walked away, no regets. I ran home and up the stairs into the attic of the old house, my daddy's house. I take the chalk, I draw the circle on the wood. I use the magic come from Africa. I curse him to never return from the place where hate rules with a fist of iron! I burned that dress in the wood stove. The smoke will burn his lungs for the rest of his days!"
Her eyes were smouldering; hot coals of hatred.
"My menses stopped coming and I was terrified. I worried that I would hate my baby. But you came, and I found out you were innocent, that was God's gift to me. A daughter I could raise to love and never hate. Never be like them. Be open and love everyone. And you were everything I ever wanted you to be."
She cupped my mothers tear soaked face in her hands.
"You grew up strong and healthy, you married, but never had a child. Your husband left you, for a woman he had two children by during your marriage. I thought it was my fault. My fault for cursing your father. Wishing evil upon him, come back on me! Bur your heart healed. You found love again. Strong young man, like a racehorse, bringing his foreign virility to you, like a storm wind through a window. You were thirty five years old; I never thought you'd have children."
She turned her eyes to me, filling them with pride.
"And then here you come. Little bundle of joy. You bawled and bawled and from the moment you came into the world, you fight! Your brave heart gave you the strength to go right up to a gator and poke him with a stick! I knew you would never let a man do to you what was done to me. I saw the resistance in you. Your spirit was so strong. I knew God gave you this strength for a reason. All the while I clipped my tabloids, reading all that my curse had done. Now I find out that my curse was not the curse that burned Foxworth Hall to ashes."
She grabbed my shoulders, hard.
"This curse is more powerful, this hate more deep, Marceline! I fear for you, I fear for your mother! You must stop it, or you'll be dragged down with it! I knew God gave you strength for a reason, this is that reason! You will face this evil and you will defeat it! I will help you, but you must seek someone who knows the gypsy ways. Remember the magic can only be worked by those who believe in it! You got somebody?"
She shook me with the question. Yes. I had somebody. Somebody in the next room. She studied my face.
"But yes, you got somebody." she said gravely.