The Witches Of Denmark (16 page)

“I bet right about now Mr. Turner is plotting how he can make the most money off the upstairs floor job your grandfather hired him for, and then not do jack shit to earn it,” said Harris, after he climbed down the ladder to take a short break. I handed him his water. “I’m not one to badmouth anyone, and I told you about Mr. Herbert’s plight with Mr. Turner. But I do believe y’all could end up like Harold Gustafson, which would be a real shame. Y’all are good folk.”

He pointed beyond the northeast corner of our yard, which was impossible to see due to the thick foliage from our yard and the Beauregard’s yard. But I recalled that Julien mentioned the Gustafson name as one of the other Harrys in our neighborhood.

“I haven’t met them yet, but they’re the family from Wisconsin, right?”

“Yep,” he said, grinning. “Mr. Gustafson told me that he and his wife took a chance on good old Harry Turner, and paid him good money to put up some dry wall in their livin’ room last summer. He kept stallin’… leavin’ each day anywhere from 45 minutes to 3 hours into the job, sayin’ his wife, Jolsteen, needed him at home for one thing or another, until finally he left without tellin’ anyone. One of the panhandlers saw the door to their place was left wide open and wandered in the house demandin’ money and liquor, and only left when Betsy Gustafson produced a shotgun instead of her purse. They are still waitin’ for old ‘Horseshit’ Harry to come back and finish the job.”

Good to know
, I thought… or good to be aware of extra trouble, when it wasn’t at all what we needed. And, no I wasn’t fearful of what Harry Turner could do to us. A mere human couldn’t steal anything from a Radu that couldn’t be readily replaced; and he couldn’t physically hurt us bad enough to warrant caution in that regard either.

What I worried about was Grandpa, and what he might do to this miscreant if he pulled a stunt like what happened to the Gustafsons. Or even what Adrian might do, for that matter. Mom’s vision of this frightened asshole being shoved into the body of a mole might come true after all… only instead of Alisia or me, it could be a master sorcerer doing the deed.

Chapter Thirteen

For those wondering if Harry Turner accomplished anything of note before he left at four-thirty that Thursday afternoon, well… Grandpa claims he did.

I beg to differ.

As far as I could tell, Harry managed to remove two short rows of faux marble, ceramic tiles. That’s it. Nothing more.

And, true to his lazy-assed approach that had forever endeared him to the neighborhood, Harry failed to promptly secure plastic tarps around the upstairs gallery. A thin layer of black grout dust covered everything from the brass chandelier to the paintings lining the walls, including the draperies and wainscoting. Mom was completely thrilled, to say the least. Based on her heated aura that was clearly evident to us all, I was willing to bet this could become the deciding moment for lifting the ban on spells inside the house—either to fix Harry’s shit or permanently alter his DNA. If comparing his shabby efforts against the excellent work turned in by Harris Martin in half the time, who in their right mind would keep this carpenter-wanna-be on the job past the first day?

Georghe Radu.

From all appearances, my grandfather had discarded his sound business acumen—a trait that had kept our family straight for centuries—in favor of his desire for dangerous entertainment. Despite Harry’s obvious lack of professionalism and verifiable carpentry skills, Grandpa found this numbskull ‘refreshing’. In fact, he asked Harry to come back the next day with only a friendly “Let’s see if you make a bigger dent in the project tomorrow,” as an admonishment.

Thankfully, Manuel volunteered to hang out at the house and help supervise Harry on Friday, when Mom and Grandma were all too eager to accept an invitation from Sadee Dean and Jennifer Crawford to join them for an antiquing trip to Paducah, Kentucky. In turn, Alisia volunteered to keep our uncle company, which freed up Grandpa, Dad, and me to make a trip to Fort Donelson to show Adrian the battlegrounds.

And, no… we didn’t get to use our broomsticks. But driving with the top down in the Mustang made up for some of it.

“Now, this is something!” Adrian enthused, standing on a small bluff overlooking the Cumberland River. “There are some older fortresses and ramparts scattered throughout Europe, but many have been destroyed over time. Fortunately, America’s fascination with the bloodshed of brother against brother has yet to go out of style. And, now whenever I come for a visit, we can come out here and spend a day or two!”

“Apparently, another skirmish took place not too far from here that is locally famous, where Nathan Bedford Forrest defeated a small Union naval force, ambushing them unexpectedly,” I said, relying on Dad’s advisement that Adrian had become a huge American Civil War buff before he and Manuel returned to Europe after spending nearly two centuries in America. Even though I had spent prior decades having my uncles around, I obviously didn’t know them nearly as well as my parents and grandparents did. I hoped to impress Adrian with what I knew about the war—especially in this area. But I had to be careful to not end up looking like a dumbass.

“Yes, the battle of Paris,” said Adrian, shooting me a look of admiration. “They say it is the only instance in history where a land-based army soundly defeated a naval operation. However, the battle that happened here at Fort Donelson is what changed the course of the Civil War in favor of the north…. Since when did you become interested in the local history of this region, Sebastian?”

“It’s more Gabriel’s cup of tea,” said Grandpa, leaping up to the top of a hill behind us that appeared to be roughly twenty feet above where the rest of us stood. My father’s face suddenly turned ashen while I looked around nervously. Thankfully, it appeared that just the four of us occupied this section of the fort grounds. “But, Sebastian has been learning more about it since we moved to Denmark.”

“Ahhh… well, it can become an addicting subject, Sebastian,” Adrian advised, laughing quietly in response to Dad’s reaction about Grandpa’s leap. “Gabriel used to dismiss the American Civil War out of hand, until he learned about the various battles, military strategies, and tactics that were among the most brilliant the world had ever seen up until that time. As I mentioned, the battle that took place here was what many believe changed the course of the war. If nothing else, the Union victory propelled General Ulysses S. Grant into the spotlight he never left….”

His voice trailed off as he gazed toward the other side of the Cumberland, as if he could picture Blue and Gray clad soldiers clashing in hand-to-hand combat. Meanwhile, a small group of sightseers moved into the area to our left. Grandpa would have to climb down from his hillside perch like a normal middle-aged person, or face Dad’s ire.

“Has that knowledge helped in the war against the Mateis?” I asked Adrian, who whirled around to face me. Certainly, he wasn’t expecting that question. Even Dad regarded me with a surprised look, although not as pronounced as Adrian’s. “I saw how you kicked their asses the other day. Not only was it impressive, but I could tell Simion and Serghei were shocked anyone could take them down like that.”

“I will be three hundred and thirty-two this October, Sebastian,” he said, after regarding me in silence for nearly a minute. His eyes felt like they were boring into my very core. “I’ve witnessed terrible bloodshed the world over, during the last century alone, that would make battles like what happened here at Fort Donelson seem mundane in comparison. Mankind’s penchant for wickedness can be a terrible thing to witness, and worse to truly understand…. But,
that
knowledge is what made the Mateis fall like broken fronds before me yesterday. Serafim and Cristian have seen firsthand what a warlock such as I can do to another, and when Simion and Serghei picked up their uneasiness, they fell easily.

“It is not a man’s might, or lack thereof, that can fail him, Sebastian,” he continued. “It is the heart, and
only
the heart that decides one’s fate. As a Radu, you were born with the heart of a warrior. Never forget it…. Hell, you should
all
remind yourselves of that fact each and every day.”

He slapped me on the shoulder, and did the same to my father, who offered a wan smile in response. Growing up in his older brother’s shadow had been something tough to live with, as Grandpa had told me long ago. Being the middle kid was the only thing to keep it from becoming excruciating. Otherwise, Dad might’ve given in to the urge to follow Adrian around like a demure pup, sort of like what Manuel has done for the past century.

“Father, have you seen enough of the view, or would you like to stay longer?” Adrian called to Grandpa.

“How about you, my brother?” Dad asked him, while they both gazed up at Grandpa, tap-dancing across the fort walls and cannons above us. “Have you seen enough, Adrian?”

“I’m ready… and it appears we need to get the old man home before anyone notices what he’s doing up there.”

“I heard that!” Grandpa peered impishly over the wall’s edge at us.

But he relented, and impressed me by scrambling down the hill like a schoolboy about to be left behind on a field trip. But at least he didn’t do anything to indicate he was different from any other middle-aged man with an ornery streak.

Dad let me drive us back to Denmark, which was cool. We arrived just before sunset. I expected smooth sailing once we made it through the series of traffic lights guarding the downtown square, and thought we’d reach the graveled drive behind the house in a minute or two. But the town’s only two fire trucks blocked all access to the rear of our property.

“What in the hell?” Dad whispered from the back seat.

“They’re not here for our home… or are they?” asked Grandpa, sitting next to him.

“I don’t know,” said Adrian, who occupied the front passenger seat. “It doesn’t look like it. At least it doesn’t look like they’re trying to put out a fire at your house.”

True. In fact, as we moved through the detour that took us down Old Dominion and past the front of the house, I noticed the hoses remained unwrapped on the trucks, and the firemen walking about had removed their coats. Most were walking toward an area behind the Mays’ stately home. Julien and Meredith were standing with Mom and Grandma outside their gate. Alisia and Manuel stood behind the gate to our place, in the front lawn. ‘Horseshit’ Harry stood with them, wearing a smug look.

“What’s going on, Silvia?” Dad asked, once I pulled over in front of the house. Mom jogged across the road to greet us.

“Apparently nothing,” she said. “From what a local reporter who lives down the road from us told Meredith and Julien, a ‘crack head’ mom forgot about a whole chicken she was roasting in her oven. It caught fire, and the fire department was able to get here and put out the flames before it caused any damage to the house—or any of the important structures nearby.”

I suddenly realized the place she was talking about was the home of the little girl who haunted the neighborhood, Twyla Tidwell. I might not be a religious person per se, but I offered up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that she was unharmed—if in fact, I had the location right.

“Good thing the fire department is just two blocks away,” drawled Julien, walking over to us. He paused to light up a panatela, and didn’t continue until he had a moment to enjoy it. “Marsha Tidwell and her meth-buddies decided to get an earlier start than usual, I guess. All three ladies were passed out on the back porch when the fire marshal found them…. It’s a damned miracle that they and Marsha’s kids didn’t get hurt.”

“So, what happens to drug addicts like them?” I asked, drawing looks from everyone, including Adrian. He wore a slight smile in response to my question, as did Julien.

“Well, it depends,” he said. “Marsha is quite familiar with both Denmark’s court system and our little jail. Since she continues to pull the same bullshit, I’d reckon she’ll get the usual hand slap and then be back home with her drug pals by Monday.”

“Oh.”

It’s all I could say. The last five minutes had told me more about why our extended neighborhood was a slumland—as Serghei had referred to all of it when he came by for a hostile visit last weekend—than at any point previously. Laws and a correctional system without teeth are frigging useless.

“Maybe it’s time to get the neighborhood association going again, that you and Meredith told Gabe and me about recently,” said Mom. “I bet we could get almost everyone that lives along Old Dominion and Chaffin’s Bend, as well as the other streets near the school.”

“Maybe, indeed,” said Julien. Although his eyes were shaded by mirrored sunglasses, I could tell he was looking beyond our car to the front lawn where his nemesis stood between my sis and uncle. “Tonight might be a good night to talk about it. Harrison mentioned his bluegrass buddies will be joining him on the front porch… it’s like having your own private band in your yard. That’s how Sadee describes it, and I happen to agree with her on that point. Y’all are welcome to join us out on our front porch tonight, if you’d like. I’ll make sure we’ve got plenty of spirits to keep the evening light and festive.”

“Sounds delightful,” said Grandpa. “And, you’ll get a chance to meet Manuel, my other son, who has enjoyed your writing. He once wanted to be an author, until Adrian talked him into moving back to Europe with him.”

“Ha! He came of his own volition,” countered Adrian, who winked at me before going on. “I, too, have read some of your work, Mr. Mays. Although, I must admit that I enjoyed
The Seven Sins of Scarlet Thompson
quite a bit more than
Zombie Nights
.”

“Hmmm… I am beginning to think that I should’ve fought my agent tooth and nail not to go forward with the zombie book, in hindsight,” said Julien, laughing. “I am honored that you tried another book of mine after reading the first one.”

“I did, and will be glad to try another someday,” said Adrian. “I rarely read these days, having to take care of… family business affairs.”

“I understand.” Julien nodded.

Maybe you do… but likely you don’t
, I thought to myself. Despite my admiration for Julien, I doubted anyone could fully appreciate the workings of a secretive warlock and witch clan. Hell, I still didn’t, even with more than a century’s head start.

Since I was technically blocking traffic on our narrow street, I followed the detour to reach our driveway, and dropped off my precious warlock cargo near the back door. Harrison and his musician pals were already warming up by the time we sat down for dinner. I could sense that the ‘adults’ shifted things into high gear to finish so they could party it up with Meredith and Julien across the street. No doubt others would be coming, too, like the Deans and maybe even the Crawfords, too.

“We’ll be back in a few hours…
maybe!”
said Mom, after they finished dinner. “You sure you kids don’t want to come along?”

“Maybe later,” said Alisia. “I’ll hang out with Bas for a while… we might listen from the upstairs porch.”

“I think I’ll chill out tonight,” I said, thinking of the online tournament I had signed up for last week. It was scheduled to start in about an hour. “Like Alisa said, I can listen with her from upstairs, and whenever she decides to join everyone else will be fine with me.”

“Are you sure, son?” Dad looked worried.

“I’m fine, Dad. Really I am.”

“Call us if you need anything, okay?” said Grandma. “Bas, you know what I mean… you don’t need a phone.”

“I know,” I said, feeling self-conscious. I’m unable to read another person’s thoughts, but I had known that my grandmother could do that sort of thing since the early years of my youth. Then came Mom, when I found out she could do the same thing a few years after I knew Grandma could do it. But I sure as hell had no plans of ever communicating like that with my sister. “You guys have fun.”

Alisia and I waited to close the front door until they had made it through the front gate. Then, at her urging, we grabbed a chilled bottle of blackberry sangria from the fridge that we had purchased a month ago at the local winery, and headed upstairs. I’m not a bluegrass fan at all… but I must admit that the musicianship going on across the street was quite good. Harrison is quite the banjo player, as I expected he would be. The rest of the guys were just as proficient on their instruments, and I thought the mandolin and fiddle players could surely hold their own with the small fraternity of musicians that make up the famed ‘Nashville Sound’.

I was working on my second glass of sangria when we noticed a familiar girlie bike coming up to our front gate. Before either of us could react, Twyla Tidwell had pulled her small bicycle through the gate, and ridden it up to the front door. I had just reached the top of the stairs when I heard the door open.

“Hey, Twyla!” I called to her, blown away by the kid’s assertiveness. “Be sure to leave your bike outside.”

“I did!” She said excitedly. “Where’s Silvia and Florin?”

“Don’t come up here, okay?” I moved down the stairs and she remained poised to climb near the bottom “I’ll be there in a sec!”

Alisia was right behind me. “What in the hell is going on here?”

“It’s the little girl I told you about.”

“I know her… Mom really likes her.”

“Ahh, so that’s why she felt it’s all right to barge in here.”

“Are you talking about me?” asked Twyla, hands on hips in classic mommy-mode.

“Yep,” I told her. “What brings you here tonight?”

“I already told you. I’m lookin’ for Silvia and Florin.”

“They’re across the street, Twyla,” said Alisia. “They’re at the people’s house who live next door to you. The Mays—”

“I
know
where Meredith lives, silly!” she said, pinching her face like many a five-year-old is wont to do when dealing with adults they consider idiotic. “Bye-bye! I’m gonna go over there now!”

“Hey, Twyla, wait,” I said, thinking about what happened earlier at her house. “I heard you had a visit from the fire department today.”

“Yeah, they took care of the fire in the oven.”

“A fire? I heard it was some burning chicken… Guess that was your dinner, huh?”

“Yeah. But my daddy bought me pizza instead,” she said. “Momma’s in trouble, and she’s mad at me now.”

“How come?” asked Alisia, her tone compassionate.

“Because I dialed nine-nine-one.”

“You mean nine-one-one,” I corrected her, without immediately realizing how lame it was to correct a five-year-old who sounded like a smart-thinking kid.”

“Yeah.”

“That was really brave of you, honey,” said Alisia, walking down the rest of the stairs. She gave her a warm hug. “I’m really proud of you! I would’ve been so scared of seeing a fire in the oven!” She looked at me and gave me a playful wink, not unlike the one I got from Adrian in the car earlier.

“It was scary!” said Twyla, pulling away from my sis. “I walked into the kitchen and saw the chicken was on fire in the oven window. So, I went to look for Momma, and didn’t find her until I went outside on the back porch. She and Melanie, Britney Jean, and Betty Lou were sleepin’ and they wouldn’t stay awake when I nudged them. I went back inside, and the fire was gettin’ bigger. Since nobody was doin’ shit about it, I picked up the phone and dialed nine-nine-one!”

She nodded proudly with her hands on her hips again, and it was damned near impossible not to laugh. Same for Alisia, who was so tickled by what Twyla told us that she had Twyla wait for her at the door, and the two of them left together to join the Mays’ latest shindig across the street. Meanwhile, I returned upstairs to collect my drink and then head to my room for some serious gaming action. A sudden burst of laughter across the street pulled my attention, and I saw a ring of adults surrounding little Twyla as she related the same burning chicken story that had entertained Alisia and me a short while earlier.

I’m not sure why it struck me as being profound. And, I believed in all likelihood that my interpretation of it would fade by the next morning. Yet, for the very first time since we had packed up our stuff and moved from Wheaton, Illinois, I felt a sensation of peace… one that filled me completely.

I didn’t expect it to last. Even as I thought about it while leaving the outside festivities behind me as I closed the balcony door, it was already fading. But for that fleeting moment, I felt an unmistakable sense of belonging and oneness with the big ole ‘white elephant’ and the neighborhood it sits within.

“Twin Magnolias” felt like home.

Chapter Fourteen

Saturday, June 27th. Our thirty-ninth day in Denmark, Tennessee.

I should’ve known from the outset that it was going to be a remarkable day. Most of our Radu clan likes to sleep in late Saturday and Sunday mornings, and this behavior dates back to my first permanent memories as a toddler. But on this particular Saturday, it seemed like my entire family woke up at the crack of dawn. By mid-morning I believed we were headed for what might count as a typical summer weekend in our small southern town. Mom and Grandma left at eight o’clock to go antiquing in Hazel, and by nine, Grandpa was working with Harris Martin to clear away junk and other debris from the barn. Then Dad and my uncles went to Murray around ten-thirty, to pick up rods, reels, and other gear for an afternoon of fishing at Kentucky Lake, where Grandpa planned to ‘drop in’ on them when the day’s barn work was done.