𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄, 𝐈𝐈

5. | AS WE TARRY THERE, II

❝...And the melody that he gave me /
within my heart is ringing.❞

●

Night moved in as timidly as a lamb.

Her yard afforded her the sort of privacy that had been absent in the glamour of Manhattan. Diana took advantage, spreading the heavy curtains of the bay window for an outsider's view of a pitch-black, New York winter. Faintly, as her eyes lifted to check for any change in the weather, she thought of her uncle Willy.

Days into their stay in the little town of Bessemer, Uncle Willy had told them of an occult myth relating to windows: stare out of one at night and you'll invite spirits into your home.

"They'll make ya do dastardly things, think dastardly things." His mouth had been slack and full of chewing tobacco, and the acrid, molten stench had permeated her aunt's tiny living room, adding an extra element of horror that shook Diana to the core. That horror had been short-lived, however, as her Aunt Missy had swooped in to deliver a hard punt to his knee—"for trying to put fear in the children just to keep them out the blinds", she had shouted, following up the accusation with an indignant slap to his neck.

Like most warnings that came her way, Uncle Willy's went unheeded. Boldly, Diana stared out into the dark. The glow of the fireplace flared behind her, and the figure of her own body was a slightly obscure silhouette. In the firelight, Michael was tilting, his eyebrow dipping in concentration as he added another photo to the clothesline. She couldn't see the rest of him. There was a black hole where his body was supposed to be, carved into her vision by the flame roaring in the fireplace.

I'd like to see those spirits try.

"This one's really old."

She stood as high as her toes would allow, handing him a photo. Just as he had done with the others, he affixed it to the thick string, leaning back to give it a good look.

Bessemer, Alabama 1965, signed elegantly in the white, bottom border of the old Polaroid. Her aunts and uncles were hugging her at all sides, and she was laughing, high off success, freedom, and a sense of confidence that had been foreign to her until then.

"How old were you?" he asked.

"Your age, give or take a year." She bent over to grab another.

His eyes flickered between her and the photograph, connecting the Diane of then to the Diane of now.

"I've got folks in Alabama, too," Michael said.

"Really? You sure we ain't cousins?"

He laughed. "I sure hope not."

"And why not?" she asked, smiling up at him.

With the black hole no longer clouding her vision, he was on vivid display. She would always be awed by the person he had become. Was it accurate to call him a man? She considered Gene's comment, his insistence that anyone younger than him was no more than a kid.

There was an earnestness to Michael's eyes tonight, an effortlessness to his smile. But then it lowered slightly—how long had she been staring?—and she cast her attention elsewhere, looking toward the fire again.

"How many more do we have left?" he asked.

"Uh..." She studied the photos in her hand. "Ten more to go."

The worst of them had been set in front of the fireplace, too fragile for hanging. She prayed the one of Rhonda and Tracee cradling baby Chudney would be better by the morning.