The Good House Read online

  Corey took his mother’s hand. “I’m going to return Papa Legba’s word now,” he said.

  Mom squeezed his hand, and she felt the heat of her ring against his skin. Still holding his mother’s hand, Corey wrote the letters one after the other, using the key in Gramma Marie’s papers. About midway through, he heard a sound in the woods that made him look up toward the trail. It was a soft sound, but it was enough to get his attention.

  Becka was standing at the edge of the trail. Her expression looked sad, lost, and Corey suddenly realized shehad to be mentally unstable. Becka wouldn’t come any closer with Mom here, he thought, and that was fine with him. He had been thinking about Becka almost nonstop since the night he had met her, when she came shrieking out of the woods—and now he didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel love, lust, or excitement; only a little pity. Gazing at Becka, the truth of Sean’s warnings resonated: He should keep away from her. He’d known that all along, but his ears hadn’t been able to hear it.

  If Mom saw Becka standing there, she didn’t say anything. The next time Corey looked up at the trail, Becka was gone.

  Corey wrote the last letters of Papa Legba’s word. He blinked, staring at the word on the parchment, awestruck by its power. As the wood on the fire crackled, Corey took a deep breath and spoke the word as clearly as he could, saying it loudly so he would never have to say it again.

  “Papa Legba, please accept your stolen word,” he said. “Please help us banish thebaka.”

  His hand tightened against his mother’s, and hers clung back. The air around them seemed to vibrate. Somethingwas happening, he realized.

  They couldn’t enjoy the ceremony long. Bo Cryer showed up cursing and laughing, although he stopped cursing when he saw Mom with them. After Mom told him this was private property, Bo reluctantly answered her questions about what paintball was and why he and his friends were playing in the middle of the night. Satisfied that nobody would get hurt, she said they could stay on the land as long as he gave them privacy at The Spot.

  Bo looked nervous the whole time, probably thinking Corey would tell his mother what had happened with Sheba at Pizza Jack’s, but since Bo was respectful toward her, Corey let it go. He even heard himself wish Bo good night, and Bo gave him a puzzled glance as he walked away, mumbling good night in return. Corey never gave Beaumont Cryer another thought.

  He had bigger thoughts to occupy him now.

  Before he went to bed that night, Corey Toussaint Hill wrote a poem about what he’d felt when he returned the stolen word to Papa Legba, when he felt the gates open to receive his prayers.

  Souls fly,he wrote.

  Night woods dance.

  Thirty-Six

  JULY4, 2001

  ANGELATOUSSAINT’SFourth of July party began well enough, but no one would remember that because of the way it would end. That’s what everyone would talk about later. The way it ended.

  Tariq Hill was to blame. At eight-thirty, when Rhonda Somebody from Portland, June McEwan, Rick Leahy, and Laney Keane had already made their apologies and headed home, Tariq came downstairs with a bag full of CDs. “I’m sorry to break this to ya’ll—but if this is a party, white folks or no white folks, there’s about to be some dancing,” he announced.

  Groans and cheers competed in the living room, along gender lines. The women wanted to dance. The men, with the exception of Art Brunell, did not. When Tariq put on his Kool & the Gang CD and the brassy fanfare of “Celebration” blared out, the question was settled: Dancing had its own volition. As furniture was cleared to make a dance floor in the living room, Rob Graybold pushed himself as far as he could against the wall, despite Melanie tugging on his arm.

  “Angela, talk to him,” Melanie said. “Make him dance!”

  Angela gazed at Rob’s face, which had grown ruddy after a few beers. She had never been close to Rob, but she felt a rush of warmth for him, glad to see him relaxed. She didn’t have the heart to embarrass a man who gave so much of himself trying to be a guardian for others. “I don’t know what to say, sweetie,” she told Melanie. “That’s up to the sheriff.”

  “Thank you,Angie,” Rob said, relieved, giving her a half-bow.

  Myles emerged from the French doors behind the Graybolds, and Angela was impressed anew with his stylish shirt, hugging his shoulders and the lines of his chest. There was a time this man would have done anything in the world for her, she remembered. She missed those days.

  Myles wasn’t looking in her direction, though. Instead, he held out his palm to Melanie. “Dancing sounds good to me. May I?”

  Whatever pinch of jealousy Angela felt couldn’t compare to the spark in Rob’s eyes. “Never you mind that, Twinkletoes.I’ll dance with my wife,” Rob Graybold said. He grabbed Melanie’s hand, pulling her toward the crowd at the center of the floor. Melanie mouthedthank you at Myles over her shoulder, grinning. She bobbed to the beat while Rob shifted stoically from side to side, his eyes never far from Myles.

  “Celebration” was too much party pop and not enough funk for Angela, but she figured it was a good enough warmup before they started laying out the heavier stuff. The next track on this CD was “Jungle Boogie,” and she’d show these folks something whenthat came on. Tariq grabbed her and pulled her close, swinging his hips midway between slow dancing and real dancing. He’d surprised her, and she felt awkward. Dancing with Tariq in front of everyone felt like a lie.

  Angela ventured a glance in Myles’s direction, but he was gone. The French doors swung gently, signaling that he had just left the room. Myles’s absence made the music seem less bright.

  Tariq was herhusband . What was wrong with her?

  The Brunell family was a spectacle. Liza had excellent command of her hips, and her gyrations provoked enthusiastic catcalls from her classmates. Not to be outdone, Art attempted a pained version of what might have been the Funky Chicken, thrusting out his chest in occasional synchronicity with the beat. The man clearly wasn’t afraid to make a fool of himself.

  “You better cut that out, Art. You’re losing votes!” Rob called.

  “You’re just jealous, Rob,” Art said. “If stiffness was against the law, we would’ve locked you up back in the eighties.”

  Angela couldn’t help laughing with everyone while Rob’s face turned red.

  Glenn Brunell grabbed his mother’s hands, trying to follow her movements with studious concentration. Mother and son whirled in a slow, private circle of their own. “Hear it, Glenn? One, two, three,four . Do it on the beat,” Liza said. Glenn was spastic, moving to rhythms no one else could hear, but he improved with his mother’s coaching.

  Angela noticed Corey and Sean standing in the foyer entryway, both drinking cans of soda they had brought up from the wine cellar. They’d brought up the fireworks, too; in an hour, it would be dark enough for the show.

  Staring at her son, Angela remembered the surreal adventure she’d had with him the other night. The power of the memory still arrested her. She felt her finger for her ring again. If she hadn’t seen the ring on her finger this morning, she might have thought she’d dreamed that ceremony and the charge she’d felt in the woods the night before last.

  Last night, she’d had the first dream she could remember in ages, about the attic. A blue wall.

  Angela motioned for the boys to come dance, but they shook their heads.

  “Too old-school,” Corey said. “Letme deejay.”

  “Oh, hell, no,” Tariq said. “This is calledmusic, scrubs. You’ll read about it in your history classes one day.” Corey pursed his lips, and both he and Sean waved Tariq off, feigning disgust.

  For an instant, Angela almost felt like she was home.

  The party guests gathered on the deck for the fireworks, since there was a clearing to give the rockets room to fly. Angela watched, delighted, when the first bloom of purple and white light jettisoned overhead, spraying sparks that lit up the property for acres.Beautiful, she thought.

  It was impossible to tell
the children from the adults as Tariq, white-haired Gunnar Michaelsen, Corey, Glenn Brunell, and three young boys fussed over the bag of fireworks, plotting their next explosion. Sean had left early to help keep his horses calm, he said. Art joined the fireworks committee, echoing his son’s argument in favor of noise over plumage. “The Good House is going to give Sacajawea a show tonight,” he said.

  Angela made her way back to the kitchen to pour herself another glass of Pellegrino to enjoy the show with. She was digging into the nearly melted ice bag in the sink when she felt someone standing behind her. The spicy-sweet cologne scent found her nose before she turned around.

  It was Myles. His dark skin looked especially appealing in the kitchen, against her white walls. He seemed to have been behind her for some time, in silence.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” she said, disappointed.

  “I promised Ma’s nurse I’d be home before eleven.”

  Damn. With all the guests, she and Myles hadn’t had time to speak much beyond polite chitchat and family introductions, since Myles had never met Tariq or Corey until tonight. “I’m really sorry Ma Fisher is sick, Myles. I’ll have to come see her. What time is good?”

  “Anytime. She’ll be happy to see you. She asks about you.”

  “Really?” That was surprising, since Myles had told her his mother had Alzheimer’s.

  “You’re hard to forget, doll-baby.”

  Angela felt blood rush to her face. Myles was staring at her with yearning; part brotherhood, but mostly openhearted regard. Again, as always, she didn’t know how to answer that look on his face. Suddenly, she didn’t know what to say either.

  “It was good to see you, Angie. I’m glad you’re doing well,” Myles said in her silence.

  Angela opened her mouth to say thank you, but instead she decided to say what she was thinking. “I may not be doing as well as appearances imply.”

  “I’m sorry,” Myles said. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “Tariq and I are separated.”

  “I…” Embarrassed, Myles checked over his shoulder to make sure no one else was in the kitchen. The party was wholly preoccupied outside. Angie heard a chorus ofooooooooh s as another rocket exploded. “I’d heard that. But I thought…”

  Angela gazed out of the breakfast nook window at the flaring red brightness as the rockets’ sparks fell. She shouldn’t be talking this way to Myles, but she suddenly wanted him toknow her again. Once upon a time, Myles Fisher had been her best friend, and she missed him. “He’s been here a couple weeks, and it’s been good. I was starting to think…maybe.” She shook her head. “But, no. I don’t think so. There’s a reason we’re separated. You can’t keep walking over the same ground. So, wish me luck. I think we’re going to have one of our bad talks tonight.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Myles said. “My ex-wife and I had those.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Three years, right out of grad school. I plead youth and stupidity.”

  “How did you know when it was over?”

  He laughed. “When I had to get the restraining order.”

  “I hope that’s a joke.”

  “Just barely. She wasn’t very emotionally balanced.”

  Angela nodded. “I know what you mean. Tariq is…” There, she stopped. Talking about Tariq felt disloyal. She didn’t want to make Tariq sound like a monster. He wasn’t.

  “He’s a big man,” Myles said perceptively.

  “Yes. A big man with some anger problems. He’s trying, but that kind of thing…”

  “Goes deep,” Myles said. “I know.”

  Myles nodded toward the butler’s pantry. He was ready to go. She walked with him out of the kitchen into the long, narrow pantry that led to the foyer. The space usually seemed large, but while she and Myles passed through, it felt startlingly intimate. His breath was on her neck.

  “Something has to change,” Angela said as they emerged in the airy foyer and her self-consciousness passed. “I live in L.A. and Tariq lives in Oakland. Corey lives with his father. I get him on holidays and in the summers, and that isn’t working. It isn’t fair to Corey.”

  “No,” Myles said. “It isn’t.”

  She glanced up at him, almost irritated. But that was only Myles being Myles, she remembered. He told the truth. The truth was annoying only if you didn’t want to hear it.

  “Tariq and I have to figure out how to be in the same city, even if we’re not living in the same house,” she said. “One of us has to move.”

  “Do you think Tariq would be willing?”

  “If he won’t, then I’ll have to. Besides, I’m not sure it’s right to pull Corey out of his school and away from his friends. I could swallow my pride, I guess. Maybe this is a good time for a change. I’ve been at the same law firm for ten years, and I’ve been thinking about becoming an agent. The industry needs more good black agents. It’s better to be in L.A., of course, but some clients would take their chances on a Bay Area agent. I could commute for my important lunches. It would just be for a couple of years, until Corey goes to college.”

  Myles’s eyes shone. “I see you’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Actually, I’m making this up as I go. I made this decision…right now.”

  It seemed clear, inevitable. She would have to be closer to Corey. Angela gazed toward the living room, at the piano and all the reminders of Gramma Marie. If she’d been listening to her grandmother’s spirit, she realized, she would have made this decision a long time ago.

  “An agent, huh?” Myles said. “So, you want to create greatness.”

  “Damn right. I have a few greats in mind.”

  “Like who? Anyone I know?”

  “Naomi Price. She’s mostly done daytime, and a couple of TV movies. For now.”

  Myles shrugged. “I know the name, but I’m not seeing a face,” he said.

  Angela smiled. “You will. She’s beautiful.”

  “And she’ll have a beautiful agent. Just like Corey has a beautiful mother.”

  Angela’s ears flamed. “If I can’t be a good mother, beautiful is a nice consolation prize.”

  “Oh, Iknow you’re a good mother. And you’ll be a better mother when you’re closer to your son, sweetheart. Take it from me. If not for e-mail, my stepson and I would be strangers. I finally gave up trying to work around my ex-wife’s power plays, so I rationalized my way out of it. I lived with Diego for three short years when he was very young. His mother re-married. He forgot me. It still hurts. Take your chance with Corey while you have it.”

  “I will. You’re right.” Because she couldn’t make herself stare into Myles’s eyes, Angela glanced toward a clay figurine on the fireplace mantel, riveted by its cowrie shell eyes. She looked at the ring on her finger again.

  “I remember your Gramma Marie wearing that ring,” Myles said.

  Angela felt flushed with memories, both recent and distant. Gazing at her hand, she imagined the ring on Gramma Marie’s finger. “I had the strangest experience with Corey and this ring the other day,” she said. “And the most wonderful experience. I’m still a little spun by it.”

  “What happened?”

  So, she told him. She told him about her conversation with Corey in his bedroom and his sudden confession, returning her ring. She told him about Gramma Marie’s papers and the ceremony at The Spot. She told him about the reappearance of Sean Leahy’s letter. She hadn’t even told Tariq all of the details yet, feeling shy about it, but she didn’t feel shy with Myles.

  “What do you think of all that?” Myles asked when she finished.

  She shook her head. She’d been wondering that since the night it happened. “To be honest, Myles, I don’t know what to think of it. I don’t believe in this kind of thing. But I have to admit, when Corey performed that ceremony, Ifelt …” She realized she didn’t have the words to express it. She’d felt a presence. She’d felt Gramma Marie. She’d felt as if she were stan
ding at a crossroads, just like Gramma Marie’s papers said; between realms. The experience had resonated with her so deeply that she and Corey had agreed not to perform any more spells from Gramma Marie’s papers, not right away. They would learn more aboutvodou first. And her family. She had cousins in Louisiana whose names she didn’t know.

  “Anyway, I was proud of Corey,” Angela went on. “He was so directed, sofocused . I’ve never seen him that way about anything, except maybe the music he writes, or his poems. I’ve been trying to imprint Gramma Marie on him his whole life, and now out of the blue he found this connection to her without me. It’s all so surprising. I can hardly take it in.”