Kindred (22 page)

It’s a bit gruesome as the blood wells and he wipes it away with an automatic gesture, the disposable towel growing bloody as the tattooed skin grows more and more colorful.

This tattoo is of the Confederate flag, a pretty design until you stop and think what it stands for. And then you wonder what the hell is wrong with people.

When Emmett finishes, our Rebel friend, wearing a faded T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, goes over to the mirror and inspects his new tattoo. As Emmett cleans up his station, the man gives a low whistle of approval.

“You like it?” Emmett asks.

“It’s just like I pictured it. You’re a freaking artist.”

Emmett nods slightly at the praise. He’s drawn the flag flapping, the familiar
X
of stars nearly obscured and the ends
tattered, as if it’s been buffeted by a stiff wind for a long time. There are two ways to read this tattoo: either with pride that the flag is still there or with relief that it’s fading away. It’s clear how the redneck interprets it: he looks at his triceps with gleeful delight. I wonder what Emmett was thinking as he inked it. He never struck me as a bigot. Only a businessman who does what people ask for.

Rebel pays and leaves and Emmett turns his full attention to me.

“You look like shit,” he says. “Everything okay?”

I think about that for a moment.

When I don’t answer, he says, “I guess not.”

I chew on a nail, trying to decide what to say.

Emmett takes a look at his calendar and, after rubbing a hand across his bald head, shrugs, almost to himself.

“This calls for a drink,” he says. He leans over the counter and grabs his keys and wallet. “Come on, my treat.”

“The shop …,” I say halfheartedly.

“It’s quiet today.”

“You always say that,” I remind him.

He smiles. “They’re all quiet,” he says, and holds out a hand for me to take. I look at his intimidating tats, his kind eyes, and then place my hand in his.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

Emmett doesn’t drive into town like I expected him to. We cruise past Main Street and onto the hilly, scenic roads of the countryside. There’s something relaxing about the rolling green hills, dotted with grazing horses and cows. It’s even nicer riding in his clean car than it was in the back of the
truck. The windows are strategically down to let in the early summer breeze, and I actually calm down from last night’s upheaval.

We’re halfway to Nashville when he turns into an unfamiliar state park and pulls into an overlook parking lot. We’re the only car there.

“I thought we were going for a drink,” I say.

He fishes around under the seat until he finds what he’s looking for and, with a flourish, produces a half-empty water bottle. “A drink,” he says, and hands it to me. It’s warm from being in the car so long.

“Gross. How long has this been in here?”

“Less than a couple of weeks,” he assures me. “Nothing but the best for you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

We share a smile, the mood lighter than it was at the shop.

“Want to take a look?” he asks, pointing at the view over the low stone wall that we’re parked against.

I nod and we get out. There’s a soft breeze that feels like a caress, and the beautiful view stretches out from here to forever. Everything looks like a miniature set: tiny houses and farms; cute, diminutive trees and little roads that wind between hills—a perfect little Pleasantville. There’s just the very start of summer flowers: a few precocious black-eyed Susans and purple echinacea standing out amidst all the green.

“Doesn’t even seem real,” Emmett says, echoing my thoughts. I can tell he comes here often. Nothing seems real from up here, not even my problems. The dichotomy of this
ethereal loveliness and the ugliness of people is almost too great to comprehend. I don’t know how God can stand it.

We sit down on the stone wall, legs dangling over the ledge, the ground at least a hundred feet beneath us and sloping down sharply to a valley far below.

After about a minute of silence, Emmett turns to me and cocks an eyebrow.

I still haven’t decided how much to tell him, and to stall for time, I automatically take a sip from the bottle. The water tastes like plastic, and I spit it out with a cry of disgust.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” I say, wiping my mouth.

“I can’t believe you did that either,” he says gravely, but fighting a smile. “I would never drink something that nasty.”

I punch at his shoulder, but gently. I don’t want him to topple over the edge.

With the mood light again, I smile at him, and then, because it seems he won’t mind, I lean against his side until I’m cradled against him. He feels solid, and I know it was silly to worry about knocking him off the wall. I have the feeling he could stay there for years, like a statue, if he wanted to.

“A bunch of bad news came in all together,” I say, as if picking up in the middle of a conversation. “Sometimes it all seems to come at once and it’s too much, you know? More than I can fix.”

“Like what?” he asks, a reporter wanting specifics.

“My meds aren’t working like they should. I have a meeting tomorrow to discuss my options,” I say, disgust dripping from my voice. “Frank’s not happy with all the work I’m
missing. If I give him the gory details, he’ll get off my back, but I don’t want to become the Friday feature. That man lives on gossip, grits and biscuits.”

“Sounds like a country music song.”

I snort.

I’m skirting the big problem, but even here, in this idyllic setting, it’s hard to find the words. “And then, you remember my pet project, Jason the jerk?”

He nods.

“It’s bad.” I pause. “I found something of his, and I’m very concerned he’s going to do something …” My voice trails off. Somewhere, hidden in some tree, a bird trills.

Emmett waits for me to continue. When I don’t, he prods me: “And by ‘something,’ I assume you mean something bad.”

I nod.

“Something very bad?”

I nod again.

“Something like robbing a bank?”

“Worse, if you can believe it. And …” I rub a hand across my face hard, thinking quickly how much I should and shouldn’t reveal. “It’s complicated. My brother’s hanging out with him, and somehow they’re egging each other on. And even though Mo thinks it’s just a game—at least I think he thinks that—I have a very bad feeling that Jason’s taking this seriously.”

“You’ve talked to Mo?”

I nod silently.

“Didn’t do much good, huh?”

“Clearly. I’ve been up all night, and I don’t know what to do.”

He sighs. “Well then, you need to go to the police with what you’ve found, Miriam.”

He sees the look on my face.

“It’s not like I think it’s a great option. But it’s your only one if you really think this thing, this disaster, is actually going to happen. If you don’t get them involved and then this comes to pass, you’ll always blame yourself.”

“But I—I’m supposed to
help
Jason.” I’m nearly crying with frustration and fear.

“Maybe stopping him is the best you can do for him.” Emmett’s voice is implacable, and not the least bit sympathetic. I don’t know if that is because he’s indifferent to Jason’s plight or because he’s lost patience with my one-track mind.

I want to tell him more. I want to tell him everything. He’s so unflappable and practical. He would have good advice, assuming he believed me and didn’t try to commit me to the nearest insane asylum for delusions of grandeur. At least they don’t burn crazy heretics these days. Just dope ’em up and lock ’em down.

But I don’t tell him. It’s no use. It’s too big a stretch of the imagination to think he could believe me, but even if he did, it would put him in a terrible position. This is Prometheus’s burden. I can’t set it down; I can’t pass it on.

So I nod and say I’ll think about it.

Emmett glances at me sharply, something dull in my tone
probably tipping him off that I’ve given up on getting through to him.

He looks a bit grim and then nods, almost to himself.

“You hungry?” he asks.

I make a face. “Nothing much agrees with me lately.”

“I know a great place,” he says gently. “Give it a try.”

We go to a little French café in the artsy section of Nashville near Vanderbilt University, and Emmett orders us chicken soup and a crusty baguette. I’m charmed by this part of town, which I haven’t been to before. It’s full of students and weird boutiques selling handmade clothes for too much money. The soup stays down, and with so many cafés around, there are plenty of public restrooms, a fact that helps me enjoy myself as we stroll. I’ve learned never to let myself get too far away from a potty safe house.

On the drive back to town, we pass a church billboard proclaiming
HE DOESN’T PROMISE AN EASY RIDE, ONLY A SAFE LANDING
.

I close my eyes and spend the rest of the ride in silent darkness.

I feel Emmett’s hand on my leg a little above the knee, on the skin exposed by my shorts. The warm weight is comforting. Without opening my eyes, I place my hand over his. He turns his hand and curls his fingers around mine. He doesn’t squeeze or press my fingers. He just holds my hand, and I hold his until we make it back to town.

W
HEN
M
O COMES HOME THAT EVENING
, I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he’s expecting another fight. I don’t want to fight, but I know he’s my only chance to succeed with Jason.

I’ve made brownies, a pathetic offering that I hope will bring him to the table and keep this talk civil. As he catches the scent of warm chocolate, I see his posture relax just a bit.

“I’ve added peanut butter chips,” I coax.

He rolls his eyes but comes to the kitchen table, sitting down warily.

“Eat,” I say. “They’re still warm.”

So he sits and we eat together. I wait until he has a mouthful of brownies before I start to talk.

“Mo,” I say. “I don’t want to fight.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything, his face set in hard lines incongruous with his full mouth and the dark crumbs on his lips.

“You’re my brother. I love you.”

His face softens at my tone and he reaches out to touch my hand.

“Miriam, sis, you know I love you.” Mo’s eyes are shining; his face, so similar to mine, so familiar, beseeches me to trust him.

“I know you love me, Mo,” I say, because what else can I tell him? He does love me. But that doesn’t mean his love is pure. And it doesn’t mean he hasn’t hurt me.

I always forgive him. For the slights, for the tricks he played on me, for embarrassing me in front of my friends and laughing about me in front of his. Because at the end of the day, we’re twins. I know why he does the things he does. I know him better than anyone else and he knows me. I’ve always felt that if I turned my back on him, he would be lost. Forever.

Then, with blinding clarity, I suddenly realize something I should have seen from the beginning:
the angels carried an image of Mo’s face as well
. I’m stunned it hasn’t occurred to me before. Jason and the students at Warfield aren’t my only mission. I cannot believe I didn’t see that my brother needs me as much as Jason does. The thought has me shaking with excitement. This isn’t just about Jason, that hostile, defensive and surly boy I have nothing in common with. It’s as much about Mo as it is about Jason. I feel a surge of energy and resolve at
the thought. I may have fumbled with Tabitha. I might fail with Jason. But not with Mo. I will not let the devil have him. Because he’s mine.

“Mo,” I say, gathering my racing thoughts, struggling to control my voice. “This is important. This is more important than anything we’ve ever done. You know that.”

I try to see if I’m getting through to him.

“This isn’t a game.” My voice cracks. “It’s the angels and the devil fighting over this.”
Over you
, I want to say but I don’t. “How can you help Satan? How can you do that? It’s a choice you make; it’s not fate. And if you can’t bring yourself to defy him completely, then please just don’t
help
him.”

“At least I’m talking to the man in charge; you’re just dealing with some underlings,” he taunts.

“That’s because God is greater than the devil,” I shoot back. “He can delegate this; Satan can’t.” Mo’s face changes again, closes to me. In my sudden excitement, I haven’t planned my strategy very well.

“Screw you!” he says. “How do you know that I’m on the devil’s side?” I see the mulish, bitter look on his face. “Why do you assume that you’re on God’s side? You’re blind. It’s your arrogance and your pride. It’s so typical. Little sister, you’re in over your head.”

“I’m trying to stop a
killing,
” I say. “How can you possibly think doing anything else is right?” I can’t pull back, not now that I understand the bigger picture. I know it’s the wrong thing to do, but I just can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “I’ve had more visits,” I babble quickly. “Angels and visions. This is real. This is important.”

Mo clenches his teeth and I see a muscle twitching on the side of his jaw. This isn’t going the way I want, I think in sudden panic.

“Mo, please.” I reach out my hand and he smacks it away. We both look shocked for a moment. My hand is red and stinging. I clutch it to my chest. He looks unhappy and scared, but before I can say anything, he pushes his chair back, scraping it loudly, and walks away.

“You’re my brother!” I shout after him. “Come back!”

But his steps never falter and he doesn’t look back.

T
HE NEXT DAY
I
HAVE MY APPOINTMENT
with Dr. Messa, and I arrive in the waiting room heavy with a dull sense of dread.

The nurse who calls me in recognizes me and says hi with the warm friendliness reserved for repeat customers, a category I’m not pleased to be part of.

After a twenty-minute wait in the examination room, where I grow more and more cold and scared, Dr. Messa walks in with a professional smile on his face. We shake hands, his warm and dry, mine damp and frozen. Then he sits down on a small rolling stool and flips through my file. The smile fades as he scans the notes, and he sets the file down on the narrow counter next to him and gravely makes eye contact.