Reborn (15 page)

I accepted his offer warily.

He seemed to catch on to my suspicion. “Oh, you were expecting Dave? He’s my brother. He had these made for you. I’m just delivering for him.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“There’s been a change in the work order.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“There was an accident at the industrial site down on the waterfront, so you’ll be working with me at a place I’m painting, just outside the city. Hey, it’s better than construction.” He grinned, adding to his laugh lines.

“Painting sounds good.” At least I’d learned that skill at Melba’s.

He opened up a folded piece of paper. “I just need you to sign this with your new name.”

I have a new name?
I lifted the flap on the envelope and pulled out a card.
Georgia Driver’s License
was printed across the top, above my picture. The same picture Melba had taken of me about a week ago. So, I was to be called Shane Black. DOB April 10, 1985.

“Everything okay?” Justin asked after a few moments of silence passed, while I took in my new identification.

I looked up from the card.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. I have something for you.” From a zippered pouch on the duffle bag, I pulled out an envelope with the payment inside and handed it to Justin. “You’ll take this to Dave, won’t you?”

“Sure thing.”

Justin walked to the door, but turned back. “I’ll stop by in the morning and catch the bus to work with you. My apartment is just around the block.”

Once Justin left, I went to the washroom to clean up. Melba approved of the beard I started to grow, said it made me look like myself, and not someone from the past. I had to agree. With the dark scruff covering the lower half of my face, I looked nothing like my evil twin… except for the eyes.

After brushing my teeth and straightening out the bedhead look, I put on a clean T-shirt, with my jean jacket over it, and headed across the parking lot to the motel diner.

Tall poles topped with lights stood vigil over the darkness, lighting up the streets in an eternal dusk. The presence of people was everywhere. Was this army enough protection against the evil I left behind? Did I leave it behind, or did it follow me into the city?

barking dog, someone shouting in the neighborhood, and increasing traffic woke me early. I lay in bed in the gray light of early morning, imagining myself back at Melba’s, where the only morning noises were the sounds of birds chirping and, sometimes, the wind.

A dusty glow bloomed over the room, and the outside noise grew louder. I got up and took a shower in water that smelled like the rusty bolt I’d changed on the wheelbarrow. Once dressed, I set to work making my first lunch from the supply of groceries Melba brought with her—two peanut butter sandwiches, four homemade cookies, two apples, and a bottle of water.

Justin met me at the bus stop outside the motel, with a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. He gave me a quick once-over, then a nod of approval at my attire. In fact, we’d dressed almost the same, in jeans, shirt over T-shirt, and work boots.

“How’s Shane Black this morning?” He winked.

It took me a moment to clue in to the fact that I had a new identification.

“Oh, great. Thanks,” I said lifting the coffee to my lips. Although the hot liquid was too sweet for my taste, my throat accepted the beverage I’d grown accustomed to.

The public transit system fascinated me in some ways. Like the magnitude of space inside a bus, compared to Melba’s Toyota, and all the seats, nearly filled with an assortment of people when we got on. Sitting next to the window, I had a clear view of the buildings and parks, as the bus stopped frequently to pick up people and drop off others.

At one stop, two young women got on, both dressed in tight jeans and thin cotton tops, one pink, one white. They each carried a large bag on their small shoulders. My first thought was, I wondered if they knew Desiree. They dressed like her and looked to be about her age.

During the drive, I watched them interact, wishing they’d sat closer. When they stood to get off, the blonde dropped her bag in the aisle, spilling some of its contents. Without hesitating, I jumped up and began picking up her items—the ones that scattered away from her and slid under the seats. When I gathered up everything I saw, I handed her a shiny purple tube, a pen, and a set of keys.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling, exposing a tiny sparkling jewel on one tooth.

She threw a handful of coins in the bag and some papers, then grabbed the pole. The keys I handed her dangled from her hand. On a white circle, I saw the words
Savannah State University
and a picture of a tiger. A smidgeon of hope burst inside my chest. My gaze flicked to hers, but she turned and rushed toward the front where her friend waited for her by the open door. In seconds, she was gone.

“Do you always come to the rescue of damsels in distress?” Justin teased when I got back to my seat.

“You don’t?” I asked.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong”—he held up his hands in front of him—”it’s a great way to pick up chicks.”

I didn’t understand his lingo. “I was just helping.”

His grin widened, “Okay. If you say so.” He ended the conversation with a wink.

By the time I took my last sip of coffee, we reached the city limits and our stop. On my way toward the front exit, I saw a small card on the floor of the aisle and picked it up. The front had a shoe print on it, and under that were the words,
The Fox Den
. On the back, the word
shifts
had been handwritten in blue ink. A list of dates and times followed underneath. Beside today’s date was the time, 7:00 p.m. I kept it and got off.

Justin saw me studying the item as we walked across the street. “Oh, hey,” he said, grinning. “She gave you an invitation.”

“No. It fell out of her bag with the other stuff, and she missed it. I picked it up on my way off the bus.”

“Maybe this is a sign. We should check the place out after work. Whadya say?”

“A sign of what?”

“You know… you and blondie.”

“I’m not interested.”

His excitement morphed into disappointment. “But you’ll go tonight, right?”

When I didn’t answer right away, he said. “You gotta eat, and Glyda’s ain’t the best cookin’ in town, if you know what I mean.”

“Maybe.”

In a parking lot across the street, a blue truck waited. Justin crawled into the middle of the front seat and introduced the driver to me as his brother, Dave. The bulk of muscle inside the cab made for a tight fit.

The brothers shared the same blond hair and ice-blue eyes, but Dave looked significantly older than Justin and I did. We drove outside the city limits on a less-busy road that looked familiar. Ten minutes later, a scene came into view that sent chills up my spine.

The truck slowed in front of a hulking mansion, surrounded by giant oaks bearded with moss. The Solomon Brandt Estates sign stuck out at me like a flashing billboard I’d seen in the city.

We pulled into the graveled drive on the north side of the building where Melba had parked. Somehow, the gravel seemed out of place with its Greek revival background—two eras mashed together, crudely. I wanted to ask why we were here, but I had a good idea, once my gaze fell on the scaffolding, that I would be painting the plantation house.

“Here we are,” Dave said pulling the key from the ignition and grabbing his coffee cup off the dash.

Reluctance to get out fastened my fingers to the door handle. I was remembering what had happened the last time my feet hit the gravel. But there was no painful welcome this time, only the memory of it.

“You all right, Shane?” Justin asked as I stood in his way, staring at the kitchen window, afraid the apparition of the slave woman would appear.

I nodded, then stepped aside.

This side of the building had been scraped down since I’d been there last. Dave climbed to the top of the metal framework to paint the fascia board, while Justin slapped white paint on the wood siding. I had window trim and shutter duty. I began at the front corner, removing the long black shutters and placing them on a tarp laid out on the grass. Somewhere in a nearby bush, bees hummed a hypnotic tune as I worked under the shade of a giant column that held up the corner of the receiving balcony. Black speckles accumulated on the backs of my hands as I brushed paint on the shutters, all taller than I was.

The morning wore on uneventfully, except for the work, and by lunchtime, I had the top row of shutters off and one side of each painted glossy black. All morning, I avoided the urge to answer nature’s call. I knew it wouldn’t be appropriate to do so on the grounds, and I didn’t want to set foot inside the house. But I couldn’t hold it any longer, so while Dave and Justin sat back on the grass with their lunch, I walked to the edge of the woods.

When I was just inside the tree line, Justin yelled out, “Hey, don’t piss on Solomon’s grave. The bastard might curse you.”

The two men laughed at the joke, while my heart raced at the possibility. They had no idea how literally I took that statement. Within earshot of the men, I decided I was far enough into the woods to do my business.

As I was about to turn and go back, a slight breeze moved the treetops aside, filtering rays of sunlight through the forest. In the distance, bits of an iron fence appeared between massive tree trunks. Although I wanted to turn back, something compelled me to keep going.

Deep, dark history hung in the air like an oppressive fog, squeezing me from all angles, pulling me forward, until I stood in front of a forgotten cemetery. Creeping vines, still brown from winter, covered the rusted ironwork like long, thin, possessive fingers. A broken gate laid out an invitation I didn’t want, but took. Three gravestones, shaded by a tangle of oak branches laden with a covering of bright green moss, stood in a row, like silent guardians. The first, taller than the other two, was a stone monument set on a granite base, sunk into the ground farther than it was meant to be. I read the name with disdain:
Joseph Seymore Brandt
. For reasons unknown to me, thoughts of hatred welled inside me, and my breath came in heavy spurts. Why did I hate this man so?

But when my gaze fell to the side, upon the next monument, slightly smaller than the first, I unclenched my fists and allowed a small bit of sadness to push away the loathing.
Ruby Eleanor Brandt
. I peeled away chunks of moss, exposing a rose carved into the stone above her name. This grave was tilted toward the next—the one I was most reluctant to look at.

But eventually something overpowered my will, and I found myself standing in front of the grave of the second master of this plantation,
Solomon Charles Brandt
carved into the stone. Although I knew the grave was empty, being here still didn’t sit well with me. A sudden gust of wind turned up a swirl of dead leaves around my feet, carrying with it scents of wisteria from somewhere else on the estate. The familiar odor sparked a vision in my mind.

The scene was of a young boy on his tenth birthday. A man he feared, yet respected, loomed over him. He presented the boy with a white colt. Behind him, the receiving balcony and spiraling lawn bustled with the elite from neighboring plantations. The boy’s joy welled inside me for the gift given to him, as well as his fear of his father as he looked into the man’s cruel eyes and thanked him formally. The colt nudged his muzzle into the boy’s neck in a gesture of acceptance. I felt the boy’s moment of happiness as if it was my own, then the headstone came back into view as a hand grabbed my shoulder. A chill shot through me, leaving a spasm of pain in its wake.