Blackwood Farm (32 page)

“As it was, we hired an elderly woman who all but worshiped Pops for the handyman favors he'd done for her over the years, and she did just fine.

“Next morning when the procession set out for St. Mary's Assumption Church in New Orleans, the church in which Sweetheart and Pops had been married, people everywhere on the sidewalks of Ruby River City stopped out of respect.

“There was an old workman in a straw hat up on a ladder fixing something on the side of his house, and he stopped and took off his hat and held it to his chest as we passed. That single gesture will remain in my mind forever.

“Then to the Requiem Mass in St. Mary's there came another horde, many of them the country people who'd been at the wake, and hundreds of them being Sweetheart's side of the family, the New Orleans Mardi Gras crowd, and the procession had more cars than I could count when it went to the Metairie Cemetery to leave Pops' coffin with all the appropriate prayers at the open chapel vault.

“The sun was pounding down on us out there, in spite of the few lovely oaks that gave a little shade, but mercifully Fr. Kevin Mayfair was brief, and everything that he said, both at the church and at the cemetery, was heartfelt and fresh. I think when I heard him speak of it I believed again in eternal life, and I felt my panic was a sin against God, a sin of atheism.

“Optimism was a virtue; and the despair, the terror I often felt—it was a sin. As for the ghosts I saw, maybe that was somehow a gift from God. Maybe there would be a use for it.

“As for the mysterious stranger, he would be apprehended. Or he would move on, away from Sugar Devil Island to some other out-of-the-way place.

“I know how melodramatic that sounds, but I didn't fully understand my panic, and I don't now.

“Of course, Goblin was at the funeral—just as he had been at Sweetheart's funeral—he knelt beside me in church and he stood right at my side when others would permit, but I came to realize something as we stood before the little family mortuary chapel.

“What I came to understand was that Goblin's face was becoming more and more reflective of complex emotions. He had always made faces of sorts, but in general he looked blank and amazed. Only now, this was changing.

“What I remember from the funeral was that he seemed to have the face of a distinct character, a mingled confusion and wonder and a sharp attention to others present, his eyes roaming the crowd and frequently settling on Fr. Kevin Mayfair.

“Watching Goblin's eyes move, watching him take the measure of the crypt, all this had a hypnotic fascination for me. And when he looked back at me, to see that I watched, he smiled in a rather sad and sophisticated fashion.

“That's what it was—a sophisticated fashion. And when had Goblin ever seemed more than a clown? Out there in the Metairie Cemetery he didn't look like a clown at all, and he seemed also rather detached from me and my emotions.

“I didn't think too much more about it.

“But before we leave the funeral, let me dwell on Fr. Kevin Mayfair. Fr. Kevin Mayfair was superb. He was an inspiration. He looked too young to be a priest, as I've more or less already noted, and on that day he didn't look any older.

“And for the first time I noticed how really handsome he was. I felt awakened to his red hair and green eyes and his good build. I'd say he's six feet tall about. And his manner of speaking was utterly convincing. That he believed Pops had gone to Heaven was beyond doubt.

“And a young priest that strong—well, it's an inspiration. I felt drawn to him, I felt I could go to Confession to him and tell him some of the things that were wrong with me.

“After the funeral we returned to Blackwood Manor for a huge reception to which dozens of the country folk came. The buffets overflowed with casserole dishes of food which the neighbors had brought, and fabulous dishes which Big Ramona and Jasmine had cooked up, and the two paying guests we had on the premises were honored to be asked to join in with us.

“Big Ramona's two sons, who had gone out into the world, as we always said—George, a dentist in Shreveport, and Yancy, a lawyer in New Orleans—were there with their wives, lending us all a hand with the food. And there were some half dozen or more of the black cousins there too.

“The security guards were everywhere, unobtrusively eyeing anyone or everyone and conferring with me repeatedly as to the ‘mysterious stranger,' but I saw no one whom I could connect to that being.

“Repeatedly throughout the long ordeal Aunt Queen broke down and sobbed and said that nobody should have to bury a great-nephew and she didn't know why she had lived so long. I'd never seen her so broken. She made me think of a lily trod underfoot.

“At one point it seemed that everybody was talking about Patsy's absence but I was probably imagining it. I had just said too many times that Patsy couldn't possibly make it, and each time I found myself saying it I felt myself disliking Patsy a little more.

“As for the confession of her being HIV, I didn't know whether or not I believed her.

“At last the long funeral day was over.

“The paying guests checked out early, insisting that they were more than happy to do it and wanted to go off to gamble at the casinos on the Gulf Coast anyway.

“A quiet fell over Blackwood Manor. The armed guards took their positions, but the house and the land seem to swallow them.

“The dusk came on, with the grinding song of the cicadas in the oak trees and the rising of the evening star.

“Aunt Queen lay crying on her bed. Cindy, her nurse, sat beside her holding her hand. Jasmine lay behind her, rubbing her back.

“Big Ramona packed up food into the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“I went upstairs alone. I sat down in my reading chair, there, by the fireplace, and I fell into a doze. The panic was never bad enough to stop a doze. And hard as it had been, I was deliciously tired now and elated to be alone.

“At once, as sleep came down over me, Rebecca was with me and she said in my ear, ‘I know how bad you feel.' Then the scene dissolved and I saw her being dragged by a shadowy figure towards the chains, I saw her lace-up shoe bouncing on the bare floorboards and I heard her scream.

“I woke with a start.

“The computer keys were clicking.

“I stared at the computer desk. The gooseneck lamp was on! I could see my double sitting there—see his back, the back of his head and his shoulders and arms as he worked, and there persisted: the clicking.

“Before I could rise the sound stopped, and he turned, turned as a human couldn't turn, and looked at me over his right shoulder. He wore no grin or mournful expression, only a vaguely startled look.

“As I rose from my chair he vanished.

“The message on the computer screen was long:

“ ‘I know all the words you know, words you type. Pops dead like Lynelle and Sweetheart. Dead, gone, not in the body. Sadness. Spirit gone. Body left. Body washed. Body painted. Body empty. Spirit is life. This life. Life gone. Why does life leave body? People say don't know. I don't know. Quinn sad. Quinn cry. Aunt Queen cry. I am sad. But danger is coming. Danger on island. I see danger. Don't forget. Rebecca is bad. Danger to Quinn. Quinn will leave Goblin.'

“Immediately I typed out the answer. ‘Listen to me,' I said aloud as I wrote. ‘I will never leave you. The only thing that could part us is for me to die, and then, yes, my spirit would leave my body and I would be gone, I don't know where. Now ask yourself again, Where did the spirit of Lynelle go? Where did the spirit of Sweetheart go? Where did the spirit of Pops go?'

“I sat waiting and there was no answer.

“Then the keys before me began to move. He typed out: ‘Where did these spirits come from?'

“I felt a tightening, a keen sense that I had to be careful. I wrote: ‘Bodies are born into the world. Remember when I was a newborn? A baby? Bodies are born into the world with the spirit in them, and when those bodies die the spirit leaves.'

“Silence.

“Then the keys moved again: ‘Where did I come from?'

“I felt a dull fear. It was the panic breaking through, but it was something more as well. I typed out:

“ ‘Don't you know where you came from? Don't you know who you were before you became my Goblin?'

“ ‘No.'

“ ‘You must remember something,' I typed. ‘You must have been somewhere.'

“ ‘Were you somewhere?' he asked. ‘Before you were Quinn?'

“ ‘No. I had my beginnings when I was born,' I wrote. ‘But you are a spirit. Where were you? Were you with somebody else? Why did you come to me?'

“There was a long pause, very long, so long that I almost rose from the desk and moved off, but then the clicking keys came again:

“ ‘I love Quinn,' the writing said. ‘Quinn and Goblin one together.'

“ ‘Yes,' I said out loud. ‘We are, one together.'

“The machine was clicked off. The gooseneck lamp flicked on and off twice and then went dark.

“My heart was pounding. What was happening to Goblin? And how could I confide to anyone in this world about him, what with Pops dead and everything at Blackwood Farm hanging in the balance? To whom could I go to say this spirit is taking on new strength?

“For some period of time I sat there, and then I turned on the machine and asked:

“ ‘Danger, this danger you speak of, is it from the stranger who came into this room?'

“No answer.

“ ‘What did you see when you saw the stranger? What did he look like to you? You must remember that to my eyes he was only a dark shape. Goblin, listen. Tell me.'

“A breeze sifted through the room, something chilling against my cheek—but no answer. He didn't have the strength. He had done enough for one day. Or he didn't want to answer. Whatever the case, there was only the silence now.

“I was no longer sleepy, only tired, and a deep sweet exhaustion swallowed up my grief and my panic. I wanted to fold down into my wing chair by the fireplace and sleep again, safe in the knowledge that there were armed guards around the property and the mysterious stranger couldn't harm me. But I couldn't do that.

“No, Little Lord Tarquin was the man of Blackwood Manor now.

“I went downstairs to see to Aunt Queen.

“Fr. Kevin Mayfair was in her room, seated by the bed, talking softly to her. He was wearing his severe and spotless clerical black along with his white Roman collar.

“And when I watched him from the door, I knew for the first time that I found both men and women erotically beautiful. Rebecca in the lace-trimmed bed, Goblin in the warm steamy thunderstorm of the shower. Fr. Kevin Mayfair with that dark curly red hair and those green eyes and not a freckle on his pale face. Men and women.

“I went out back and walked way over to the right to the bungalow in which Jasmine, Ramona, Clem and Lolly lived. Jasmine was in her green-painted rocking chair, just rocking and smoking.

“I was in a daze. I tried not to notice Jasmine's breasts in her tight shirt. I tried not to look at the front seam of her jeans. When she turned away from me to exhale I saw the light down the line of her throat to her breasts. Beautiful woman. Aged thirty-five. What were my chances? Like, maybe if I sold her a bill of goods that I doubted my manhood???

“Oh, that was a lovely thought. Wonderfully comforting. And where could we do it? Just go over to the shed, go up the steps and do it in Patsy’s bed? I rolled that dream around for a moment. You don't get HIV from a bed. What if—and then—and so—and I felt the panic when I looked at the dim house—they had forgotten the four o'clock lights.

“ ‘What's going to happen now?' I asked.

“ ‘Come sit with me, little boy lost,' she said. ‘I've been asking myself that very question.' ”

17

“FOR THE NEXT WEEK
I was under lock and key, or armed escort.

“I didn't find out about it until the morning after Pops' funeral, when I tried to leave my room and discovered I had a security guard with me, pledged to go where I would go.

“I didn't too terribly mind, since I alone knew how real the mysterious stranger had been and I didn't want to be shocked by him. But I made a nuisance of myself by warning everyone about the dangers of the island.

“Our investigations proceeded rapidly, and I know that I focused on them to escape the pure horror of Pops' death—the loss of the only man who had ever been my father. We had the reading of his will to attend to, and I was dreadfully concerned that he might have cut out Patsy altogether. If I had been left anything at all I resolved to split it with Patsy or at least to give her some of it.

“Meantime she was still out roaming the South, playing beer joints and small clubs, and Aunt Queen was desperately chasing after her by phone, trying to get her to come back so we could all face what Pops had done, whatever it was.

“Now let me return to the investigation.

“Regarding the mysterious letter, Mayfair Medical's laboratory could find no discernible fingerprints on it and reported that the brand of paper was rare, marketed in Europe and not in the United States, the ink was India ink and that the writing did not indicate any pathology and might have been done by a woman or a man. They noted further that the writer had used a quill pen, pressing down uncommonly hard for such an instrument, implying that the letter writer had been extremely sure of himself.

“In other words, they could tell almost nothing about the letter. And it had been passed on to a true graphologist with our happy permission.

“As to the rest of our concerns, we had better luck.

“Mayfair Medical confirmed in short order that the DNA collected from the residue in the Hermitage matched the DNA in the hair found in Rebecca's trunk. The materials were very old but there had been an abundance of both and the testing had been simple.

“Aunt Queen now felt certain that Rebecca had met her death at Manfred's hands, and that my dreams weren't entirely the work of a diseased mind, if she'd ever had any doubt in the matter.

“I cleaned all those cameos found in Rebecca's trunk and the cameos I'd taken from the island. These I placed in the china cabinet on the first floor with a display card, explaining they were gifts from Manfred Blackwood to a woman with whom he had been passionately in love. I explained the connection between Rebecca's name and the theme of the cameos, and I felt in so doing—in making this display for the public eye—I had done right by Rebecca.

“After long and intense discussion involving Aunt Queen, Jasmine and me (Aunt Queen had been bedridden since the night of Pops' burial), we agreed that we would include in the tour information that the Old Man, Manfred, was believed to have murdered a young woman with whom he was romantically involved, and her remains had only recently been discovered and properly interred.

“As to this interment, I was going to handle it, if and when allowed to do it. A small marble tombstone was ordered with the name Rebecca Stanford carved on it, and the tombstone guys had it delivered in one day. I put it down in the cemetery to wait until I could bring the remains to the spot.

“Meantime, the FBI could find no DNA material from the site which matched the material of any current missing person. Nevertheless, they were deeply courteous about having been called in, and they did confirm that the DNA of several persons was present in the evil morass and that the whole resembled an antiquated but gruesome crime scene.

“Finally, a full week after Pops' funeral, with Aunt Queen still in bed and refusing to take any nourishment, which had me and everyone else in near critical hysteria, I set out for Sugar Devil Island at dawn with all of the eight Shed Men coming in small pirogues behind me. We all had our guns—I now carried Pops' thirty-eight—and two security men brought up the rear. Clem was with us too, and Jasmine was at my side, in her skintight jeans, with her thirty-eight pistol, determined to have a front-row seat for everything.

“We brought with us plenty of tools to open the grand gold-and-granite tomb, and I had with me a small ornamental casket—a jewelry case, actually, which had been purchased from a gift shop—into which I meant to place whatever remained of Rebecca. The horrid collecting of her remains had to be done with a small spade. There was no way out of it.

“It was a convivial party, with Allen, the nominal leader of the Shed Men, referring to us as the Pirogue Posse, but beneath my smiles and laughter was an absolute dread as we set out to reclaim the Hermitage.

“What could I do but warn all the men of what was involved? The trespasser had had the gall to come into the house! How much they believed was a matter of conjecture.

“At last, after some forty minutes of pushing and pulling our way through the bog, we came to the bank overgrown with blackberries. There stood the house like a ship that had run aground, the violent thorny wisteria trying desperately to swallow it.

“I went onto the island, cracked open a beer and just watched as the men verified with their own eyes everything or almost everything that had been told to them. Allen and Clem, who had seen it all the first time around, also stood with me until the excitement was over.

“Then I said I would go and collect Rebecca's remains alone. I didn't want anybody trooping up there.

“There was immediate concern for my safety.

“Okay, Jasmine, you have your gun, you come with me,” I said, but I went up first and I had my thirty-eight pistol raised.

“The sun was breaking pretty strong through the open windows of the second story. For a moment I was dazzled and then gradually I made out a living being before me: it was Rebecca, her dress torn off down her arms, her breasts naked, the hook snaring her rib bone as she hung by the hook, her face white, and the blood streaming from her mouth. She blinked her eyes but she couldn't talk. There was too much blood in her mouth.

“ ‘Good God, Rebecca,' I said, and I plunged at the figure, trying to get the hook out of her without hurting her more. She writhed and I could hear her gasping.

“This was absolutely happening. ‘Rebecca, I'm here!' I declared as I tried to lift her.

“Then I heard Jasmine's voice, and I saw Jasmine's face, and the faces of Allen and Clem. We were all on the second floor of the house. I was lying on my back. And the sun was winking again in the cypresses.

“There was no more Rebecca. Only the rusted chains dangling and the dark slop there. I climbed to my feet.

“Jasmine said, ‘Clem, you come here, please, brother, and hold this box while I shovel up what I can of this poor girl. Hold the lid back.'

“I went off down on the island and got sick to my stomach.

“Men were talking, talking about damaging ‘gorgeous' gold plates to open the grave. I said, ‘Do it. I have to know what's inside.'

“I sat on the steps of the house and I drank another beer, realizing that this woman might haunt me forever. What I'd done with the cameos was not enough, and the dreams were not enough, and coming here to do this, to gather her remains, was not enough; what would be enough? I didn't know. I couldn't think. I was sick and drinking too much beer and it was killing hot, and the mosquitoes were biting right through my shirt, and the men kept saying, ‘Granite, solid granite.'

“Finally, at the first narrow side of the rectangular structure that they approached they found an opening beyond the gold plate, and they were able to push it back. It was a heavy door.

“They were all talking at once, groaning and fussing. Flashlights, who had the flashlights, here was a flashlight, well, will you look at that. I'm not opening that.

“ ‘Not opening what?' I said.

“ ‘A coffin.'

“ ‘Well, what the hell did you expect to find in a grave?' I asked. I was wildly stimulated. Ordinary things meant nothing to me.

“ ‘Now you mind your tone, Little Boss,' said Jasmine. She gave me another beer. What was this? Was I a mental patient she wanted to narcoticize? I said I was sorry. The beer was cold and good. I wasn't going to complain about an ice-cold beer.

“ ‘Have you packed up little Miss Stanford in her neat little box?' I asked.

“ ‘You're losing it, Little Boss,' she said. ‘Now mind your manners. Don't talk to Allen and Clem the way you've been talking. You've always been Aunt Queen's gentleman, don't get rough now. Don't let this place make you contrary.'

“ ‘What the hell are you talking about?' I asked.

“She looked up thoughtfully at the Hermitage, and then at me, her face positively exquisite with its cacao skin and large pale eyes, eyes that were green or golden.

“ ‘Take after your Aunt Queen,' she said. ‘That's the only point I'm trying to make, and yes, I have the remains of your ghost girlfriend in the casket. God only knows whatever else I have in this casket.'

“ ‘Make love to me when we get home,' I said. ‘I'm no good for ordinary life. You don't see the ghosts I see. You didn't see that girl hanging by the hook. I've been having ghosts. They've been having me. I have to have somebody real. Make love to me when we get home, you and me, all right? Be my chocolate candy. I'm real unsure of my masculinity.'

“ ‘You are?' she shot back. ‘Well, you could have fooled me.'

“Clem stood over me. ‘Quinn, it's an empty coffin. You better come take a look at this for yourself. This is sort of your show, sonny boy.'

“I did. It was made of heavy iron, very ornate, and lightly rusted, with a window in it through which one could see the face of the deceased, I presume, though I'd never seen one like it. It had taken five of them with two crowbars to open it. It was lined with something. I thought it was lead. It was dry and soft to my touch. It was lead.

“And the coffin was in a vault of lead. Yeah, it was lead. And well sealed. Though the vault went down some three feet there was no sign that moisture had ever penetrated it.

“I stepped down into the vault, and for a long time I stood there, inside the mausoleum—in the vault—merely staring at the empty coffin. There was just room to walk around it, which I did.

“I climbed back up and out into the sunshine.

“ ‘Do you know how many of us it took to open that gold door?' Allen asked. ‘What do you make of all this? What's that writing up there? You can read that, can't you, Quinn?'

“I shook my head. ‘Manfred,' I said. ‘Manfred had some plan to be buried out here, and those whom he trusted never fulfilled his dream. And so we have an empty coffin and an empty mausoleum. We have gold plates and an inscription in Latin. Look up there, that's Latin. I wrote that down. Manfred did all this. Manfred had this thing built when he built the Hermitage. Manfred did it all. And so we close it back up.'

“ ‘But what about all this solid gold!' Clem said. ‘You can't just leave all this gold here for people to steal.'

“ ‘Do people still kill each other for gold these days?' I asked. ‘Are any of you going to come back out here to steal this gold? Are we going to have a shoot-out over this gold? Let's go back where we came from. I can only take this place for so long. I don't like that a trespasser came into the house. Let's get out of here.'

“There was one more thing I wanted to check. I went back into the Hermitage.

“I was right!

“On the marble desk there were new books, books on philosophy and history, books on current events, novels. It was all new—a nice slap in the face. Even the candles were new, though the wicks were blackened. Oh, yes, the fearless one, my trespasser, had been here.

“ ‘So what are you going to do next, I wonder?' I said aloud. I flew into a rage. I grabbed up as many of the books as I could and threw them down the front steps of the Hermitage. I went back for the rest and threw them after the first. Then I hurried down the steps and pulled and tossed and kicked them all together.

“I took out my lighter. I set a small paperback volume aflame, and then another and another. It was going on its own now, with all the men just watching as if I was crazy, which I was.

“ ‘His books!' I said. ‘He has no right on this property, and he leaves these books for me to see that he's been here again.'

“ ‘Lord God,' Jasmine said, as the flames rose and the fire crackled. ‘We got a dead girl, a strange building, a bunch of weird books, and a regular tomb of gold with an empty iron coffin in it, and a crazy boy standing here!'

“ ‘Well put,' I said in her ear, ‘and don't forget your promise to me, Milk Chocolate. It's you and me alone tonight.'

“ ‘I never made you any promise!' she said.

“ ‘I told you, I'm unsure of my masculinity,' I whispered. ‘You've got to sacrifice yourself.' I kicked the fire to make it flare again. I hated burning books. I could hardly stand it to see a Merriam-Webster dictionary go up in smoke. But I had to do this.

“One or two more kicks and everything was incinerated. I turned and looked at Jasmine, expecting some wise remark, but all I saw was a sort of dreamy thoughtfulness in her face.

“Then she said:

“ ‘You know, boy, you really have me thinking about it. You should be more kind to a woman my age. You scamp. You think I don't have any feelings like that just 'cause I rocked your cradle?'

“ ‘How kind can I get?' I asked. ‘You think I take up with just anybody?'

“Her expression never changed. She looked fine in her tight jeans. Her Afro was clipped close and the shape of her head and her face was beautiful.

“She lived like a nun. I knew that for a fact. There had been no men at all in her life since her husband died years ago. And her sister, Lolly, had had three husbands.