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I wonder as I wander . . .

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Legacy II

08.15.06 (12:37 am) [edit]

I looked around as much as I could move to see what direction the sound was coming from and wasn’t until I looked into the direction of the attic window with the moon shining on it that I realized it was coming from there. The situation was frightening already but the soft cry I heard took my mind off my problems and made me focus on the attic window. Whom was that baby crying? Why did I never see it in the house? Terror escalated when the tiny voice shifted direction and whispered behind the tree. I squirmed against the ropes that held me and the shrieks that left my mouth joined the baby’s cries and eerie duet evolved in the moonlight. When the ropes loosened and my five-year-old mind knew the baby crying was too young to unfasten them so who was the unseen person freeing me? The ropes fell limp and so did I. My limbs are numb. I landed face forward in my own waste. Cold hands that lifted me up. “How’d you get loose?” grandmother said with honest surprise. “She’s just foul turn on the hose Agnes”, she turned to Aunt Brandy who complied. Despite the coldness of the water it cleansed away the horror of the entire day and jolted my muscle back to sense of normalcy. “My grandmother asked again while stripping the filthy gown from my wet body and my reply was “Who was the baby crying in the attic?” You thought the cold water hit them as they all became prone with eyes darting back and forth across each other’s face like fire flies. “Ain’t no baby in the attic sugar,” Aunt Brandi saw sounding sugary. “Yeah it is. I heard it cry.” The three women shared a silent moment then my grandmother yank me close, got in my face and said, “There ain’t no baby.” Those words snapped me out of memory and I was shocked when I realized the hellish events of the night made my hour long drive to the manor seem like minute. The ancient wisteria lining the drive held their secrets as I approached the house and the real secret keepers, my aunt sat perched on the porch in their rockers. I knew those evil old crowns would have more to say after the reading of the will. They’ll used their ancient tactics of verbally double team me but they’ll find I’m no longer a frightened five year old. “You know this ain’t over,” Aunt Brandi hissed. “Not by a long shot.” her twin echoed. “No it isn’t and I know you two hags will spend your dying days fighting me over this house and grandmother’s money and when your high priced lawyer informs you that her will was impenetrable you'll squandered your inheritances fighting a loosing battle. Please go take your creaking evil butts off my porch and go talk about me at your cottage.” I always marvel at their synchronicity so when their jaws dropped at the same time as their left hand clutched their pearls it was almost beautiful.” I know they wanted to cuss me out but the Haberdasher women held their trump card against those clutched pearls and a sly smile worked it way onto their faces. “We’ll talk real soon,” Aunt Brandi said in her sugary sweet voice. “Real soon,” Aunt Agnes repeated. They slowly moved from the porch never taking their eyes of me as they’d roved back to their lair strategizing how they’d get my inheritance. I cautiously pulled out the key and opened the door to a place I hadn’t set foot in for ten years. I stood on the polished mahogany floor of the foyer and soon memories of me at various ages scurried past from every angle. No matter the age the sense of unhappiness overshadowed every thought. The weight of each agonizing moment spent with my grandmother and aunts, and them treating me like a mix breed mistake not worthy of love . . . and the hardest part of the grief felt was the loss of my grandmother. As cruel as she was she was the only parental figure I had. I dropped my bag and felt the heaviness pull me to the floor where I cried for a long time. After the needed cry I got up and surveyed how all the furniture covered in white sheets looked like the grand old homes in the movies. I went around the house pulling sheets from table chairs, even paintings and soon the rooms where restored to their pristine condition. I sat on the couch trying to figure out why my grandmother would leave the money and this house to me? I was struggling unemployed writer a week ago so it will take some time to get used to playing “lady of the manor.”’ I’m not going to let my aunts’ protest stop me from going ahead with changing the five bed room house into something more suited to my tastes. I decided to explore the house, inspecting each room to asses their needs. Starting at the top the decision to check the attic was an uneasy one. The old stairs creaked louder each time I got near the door and the classic horror moment was in full effect. Grandmother never answered my question about the crying baby in the attic but that night I heard her try tiptoeing up these same stairs and now I hold the skeleton key she used that night to open the door and I’d bet that no one had been up there since then. My hand turned the lock and I push my fear back with the twist of the knob. A warm breeze escaped as I made the last dusty steps into the massive room. Everything was covered pulled back the sheets and was pleasantly surprised by the potpourri of objects I’d never saw all the time I’d lived in the house. Stacks of records old, beautifully carved dark wooden furniture, innumerable books and a pile of photo albums. I opened the one on the top and there was my grandmother dressed for church and looking like an adorably happy, child. There’s an identical photograph of me sitting on the baby grand and I never realized how much we resembled. There were photographs of my twin aunts as babies with one sneering and the other in classic scowl. I see that their evil started early. Aside from a few people I didn’t recognize the majority of the people but I saw we all were related. She never spoke much about our family so I was shocked by all the new faces especially the ones that looked white but seem to have some features of black people peeking threw. “Who were these people and how are they connected to the white side of my family?” When my parents died in the bus accident I saw my maternal grandmother a few times but my grandmother said they were bad influences and they disappeared from my life. Despite my obvious mulatto features my grandmother refused to acknowledge anything other than the side of me that connected me to my dead white father. Looks like I have a family mystery to solve. I moved on from the album and moved on to the massive wooden trunk that sat under the same window I heard the baby crying from all those years ago. The hair on my neck stood up with that thought and I moved tentatively over to the trunk. I sense something strange but I couldn’t tell why? It was hard at first to open the top so I took a nearby fireplace poker and pried it open. The smell had an unrecognizable foul undertone but also a hint of eucalyptus and Brilliantine. “What in the hell?” I said to myself. There was a pristine satin cloth followed by another and with each reveal the smell got worse but my curiosity had the better of me. After pulling away fifty of these small satin cloths a beautiful shiny wooden box appeared with the inside of the trunk exposing a satin down cushion where the box rested. My chest tighten. I saw that this box had a tiny skeleton lock and looking on the key chain where I got the door key was a tiny gold key I hadn’t noticed at first. Logically I put it in but sensed that opened that box would change my like forever. The goose bumps rose and the need to pee suddenly hit but I had to know. OH MY GOD!! (To be continued . . .)

Legacy

08.14.06 (3:43 pm) [edit]

“And I bequeath my estate and money in the account at First Reserve Bank to my granddaughter, Zion. My grand aunts gasped so loudly they almost sucked out all the air in the lawyer’s office. As Aunt Agnes mouth hung open her twin Brandy became the spokeswoman for the unholy duo. “Surely there’s been a mistake? That can’t be the end!” Mr. Foster looked stoically over his glasses and said “I’m afraid so Ms. Haberdasher. Before you offer a challenge I can assure you your sister was of sound mind and body when she had me drew up the will.” The conversation volleyed back and forth with the sisters trying to verbally double team Mr. Foster but you could see why he earns the big bucks. Every point they made he countered with lawyer speak. I sat immobilized by the surreal moment and though only to snap my head back and forth between the argument. My aunts finally backed down and strode to the door in a huff never acknowledging my presence. Before she left Aunt Agnes finally spoke up when “This is FAR from over.” Aunt “B” shook her head in agreement and mounted their brooms and went like the witches they’ve always been. Mr. Foster assured me that the will was iron clad and though those two will try to fight it my inheritance was safe. I left his office and drove into the direction of Zeb’s Manor feeling as if I was in a very warped dream. I know you don’t know what I’m talking about so I’ve give you an abbreviated biography. My name is Zion Michaels. I’m a unemployed, first time novelist who just inherited a fortune and a large manor home from on five acres of land from my grandmother, Matilda Michaels, one of the meanest bitches to ever walk upright. Before you go all righteous on me about calling my generous grandmother a bitch I need to tell you more. I’m the product of Jake Michael’s, composer and his live in jazz singing girlfriend, Dominique Samuelson. They died in a bus accident that I was the only survivor of and when my mother’s mother died from the shock of losing her child I was given to my father’s mother . . . My white grandmother. I often wondered if she would have loved me if I wasn’t half black. Nonetheless she got custody of me and the where the real story begins... The miracle of my surviving the bus accident that decapitated my mother and snapped my father’s neck meant nothing to her. I was the only remnant of her beloved only child and she took me in though it meant harboring a “little half breed.” This was my nickname behind closed doors when she though I couldn’t hear her conversations with my aunts. They also helped raise me. Aunt Agnes and Brandy were her younger, twin, spinster sisters who lived together in a cottage on the manor grounds. After my grandfather Zebulon Michael’s died and left grandmother his vast fortune she had her sisters moved on to the property so she could have live in minions. From the first time I was conscience of my existence until my grandmother took her last breath the love she felt for me was trapped under layers of emotions I never could decipher. What made the love of these three women so insidious was how they’d always made derogatory comments about my mix parentage. “Come here nana’s little Tragic Mulatto.” This was her pet name for me. She made sure I had the best of everything because she “Didn’t want the circumstance of my birth me a hindrance.” I remember my Aunt Brandy bought me a beautiful doll with a porcelain head. The doll had on West African clothing with head wrap. Considering all my other dolls I thought she looked so odd but her facial beauty and colorful clothing and I named her “Dommie” after my mother. The rule was to keep her hidden from my other aunt and grandmother. I’d secretly pull her out and pretend Dommie was my mother. She heard my fears, dreams, secrets, and pain. Dommie remained safe for two years then one a day I was talking to her about my sadness when my grandmother barged in my room. She looked at Dommie as her face contorted into a frightening mask. Scared was not the word for how I felt and I wet my pants as I stood up. Grandmother never said a word. She snatched my hand before I had a chance to run and silently drugged me to the bathroom. My screams brought my aunt son the scene. Was I tried to resist I could see Aunt Agnes sneering while Aunt Brandy looked pained with index finger held to her lips. Grandmother and I stood in the pristine white bathroom. “Who gave you the doll?” she said this as she turned the cold water faucet only in the tub. Ignoring my sobs she asked again “Who-gave-you-that nigga-doll?” I never spoke I just cried and screamed while the clothes were ripped from my body. She threw me in the tub with such force I became silent and numb as the cold water shocked my senses. This life defining moment taught me the depths of hatred. The door to fear slammed shut as my child’s mind tried trapping the horror of the event with silence. Grandmother pulled out a dirty rag used to clean the bathroom floor and Ajax cleanser and scrubbed my entire body raw including my mouth. She was merciful in that I was allowed to rinse the bitter, metal tasting cleanser before I vomited. She lifted me out of the tub and made me stand shivering, wet, and naked as she went to the door and asked one of her sisters to get a nightgown for me. Grandmother looked back in my direction and I saw some other emotion seeping threw her anger and hatred but she kept it in check. My Aunt Agnes handed her the gown and grandmother closed the door in her face. The towel she used to dry me off felt like sandpaper against my damaged skin. I put on the gown she threw at me, then took her hand as she led me down the long corridor past portraits of dead white relatives who stared down in judgment of this “tragic mulatto” infecting their bloodline. My five-year-old legs barely kept pace but somehow I managed as I passed through the kitchen where Aunt Brandy fried pork chops for the evening supper. Somehow her guilt gave off a stronger aroma than the food. Grandmother marched me out pass the polished pine floor of the sun porch on to the beautifully manicured garden and lawn of the gardens and yard and she didn’t stop until we stood in front of the large palmetto tree in the front yard, “Stay here” she said in her famous calm steady tone. Grandmother disappeared around the side of the house and part of me wanted to take off running. The other knew there’d be no other place for me to go and just like in the bathroom my protector side told me to remain calm and except for the shivering I stood still. I was five years old and I could barely spell bravery less understand what it meant. Grandmother returned with a thick yellow nylon rope, pushed my back against the tree, and proceeded to tie me to it. The panic revisited and I began to cry. She stopped long enough to slap me in the mouth and with a look told me to shut up mouth or things could get worse. The task was finished and she slightly smiled at her handiwork and walked off. As I quietly cried she and the Aunts ate their pork chop dinners on the front porch. This was an aberration because they endured the act for my suffering. After dinner they went inside and left me there. I went to the bathroom on myself several times trying to break free of my bondage but I wasn’t strong enough. Night swallowed the sky and the only distraction from my fatigue, thirst, hunger and were the mosquitoes making a feast of my immobile body. I prayed for death and the response was a baby cries. At first I thought it was the rustling leaves but the distinct cries of a frightened infant faintly rode the breeze. I look around as much as I could move to see what direction the sound was coming from and wasn’t until I looked into the direction of the attic window with the moon shining on it that I realized it was coming from there. (To be continued . . .)