Carol GoldenEagle - Bone Black

“And do you and your husband know whether you are expecting a girl or a boy?” Father Hector inquires.

“No,” Wren replies. “We decided to wait until our baby is born. Whether a girl or boy, we are blessed. Thank you so much for helping us out on such short notice. Neither my husband nor I go to church on a regular basis, but prayer has always been important to my family, especially to my grandmother.”

“Is your grandmother still with us?” Father Hector asks.

“No, Father. Sadly, she passed several years ago. She is precious in my memory. The baby’s room is sure to be extra special. It’s where my grandma used to keep all her craft supplies when I was a little girl. We spent a lot of time in that room making jewellery or sewing.”

A conversation of small talk doesn’t prepare Wren for Father Hector’s next request, as she signals toward the freeway.

“Well, I am happy to bestow a blessing,” he says, “and thanks for driving. I’d probably get lost driving in the country. Besides, now that I am up in years, my licence has been restricted. I’m not allowed to drive on the highway anymore,” he shares. “It’s good to be asked to keep prayer and faith. Now that I’m retired, I have the time in my day for a special request like this. I wonder,” he says slowly, “if we might stop by my place before we leave the city?”

As the priest takes a sip of coffee from his paper mug, Wren searches for a plausible reason to keep driving out of town and not go anywhere where the two might be seen together. She knows if she stops at the seniors’ home where Father Hector lives, some nosy neighbour will be gawking out the window, a neighbour who may remember her later during questioning.

“I’d like to pick up my prayer book and my rosary,” Father Hector explains.

Wren fidgets ever so slightly and nervously runs her fingers over the pink rosary that hangs from her neck. She tells him she’s hoping he can use Kohkum’s old rosary because it has such meaning to her and has been in the family for decades. She mentions that she has a Bible at her home and that she and her husband have already picked out certain passages that hold special significance to them both.

“Oh, good to hear. Which ones?”

It isn’t amazing that Wren is able to cite Proverb 3:9–10. “Honour the Lord with your wealth, with the fruits of all your crops; then your barns will be filled to overflowing, and your vats will brim over with new wine,” she says.

This particular proverb is one Wren read while waiting in line at the gas station the other day. As is so often the case, customers don’t come into the gas station just to purchase something, they also come to visit, which means polite conversation about grandkids, what’s on the stove for supper tonight and, of course, the weather. It can mean that a quick trip can turn into having to wait around awhile. While she was waiting the other day, Wren picked up one of those community news bulletins which lets everyone know important things like recycling days and so on. Proverb 3:9-10 was printed on the back of the bulletin. Wren liked the message, so she committed it to memory.

She likes to remember phrases and sayings, believing it keeps the mind sharp. For that reason, she’s always enjoyed a good game of Scrabble and other word games that help to expand the vocabulary. Like the word sluggard . It brings Wren a momentary bit of joy as she remembers the last time she and Raven played the game. There was almost a fist fight because Raven thought Wren made up the word sluggard until Wren pulled out the dictionary. “See, there it is!” she yelled, hardly able to stop laughing. “It means ‘habitually lazy person.’” Eleven points!”

“That proverb is one my grandmother used to read to me,” explains Wren.

Wren is convincing and the explanation seems to soften the heart of the old priest, who finally agrees that it is proper to use Kohkum’s old rosary and Bible. There will be no need to make a trip to the seniors’ home after all.

Any anxiety Wren feels at her own impending plan is quickly erased as she glances at her passenger. She notices he’s rubbing his hands together while he looks out the window. It sickens Wren to know what those hands have done. What they still do. She can’t help but think it’s like watching a fly rub its filthy legs together.

Wren tries to ensure the conversation with Father Hector stays amicable during the half-hour drive back to the farmhouse. She talks about the baby and how she’s looking forward to teaching the child how to skate, how to ride a bike, how to swim and how to collect frogs in the stream that runs through the property. As they turn down Wren’s long driveway, Wren announces that she doesn’t see her husband’s truck as expected. Another lie. She feels like she is shaking but hopes she displays no visible signs of discomfort. She invites the padre into her home. The smell of cinnamon and apples still lingers in her kitchen.

The morning sun catches the sparkle of brown sugar granules that garnish the apple crisp she baked earlier this morning. The dessert was set out to cool on the counter. She offers a piece to her guest.

“I have some thick cream as well. That’s how I always eat my crisp,” she says. Her visitor accepts the offer and Wren begins to spoon some of the sweet dish onto a plate.

Father Hector has no way of knowing the dessert has been laced with sleeping pills. Wren ground up four in her mortar and pestle, adding the powder before popping the crisp into the oven. The ingredient was strategically placed in the left-hand corner of the pan. She serves him a generous portion from that corner. As the priest gobbles up the sweetness, he can’t help but comment on Wren’s collection of pottery displayed around the kitchen.

“I love working with clay because it comes from the earth,” Wren explains. “There is something that’s comforting to me about knowing we share our meals using a plate that’s been created from a part of nature.”

“Interesting-looking piece of pottery,” Father Hector remarks, referring to the vase with the bone black finish. Wren looks at it and pictures Billy Vespas burning in the kiln. “It reminds me of an artifact from those historical recreations of the Bible seen in film,” continues Father Hector.

“Ancient Egyptian pottery,” Wren agrees. “It’s something I’ve been experimenting with. Telling stories of hunting and gathering. Death and destruction using petroglyph images. There are clues to the past in each of the crude drawings.” Catching herself becoming distracted by the priest’s conversation, Wren pulls back. “I’m glad you like the pottery design,” she says, thinking of how he, too, will soon be burned and turned into a similar piece. By the time Wren finishes her sentence, old Father Hector has fallen off his stool. His head hits the hardwood floor with a thud and his nose begins to bleed.

“I’ll tell your story, too, you sick fuck. Never again will your filthy hands bring harm. You murderer. You killed my auntie’s spirit. You made my kohkum’s heart sad. You raped those girls,” Wren says to the unconscious man on the floor.

Wren bends over the man’s limp body and checks his pulse. It’s slow, but still there. For now. She checks her image in a nearby mirror, a tile experiment Wren undertook when Lord brought home some leftover materials of broken tile and glass. Maybe it is a lack of sleep or a guilty conscience, but for a split second, Wren feels a sense of terror. Is her mind playing tricks on her? Wren is certain that in the reflection of that mirror, she has seen the face of Lord’s mother, a woman she has never met, only seen in photos. Most notably, the photo of her corpse laying in the coffin. The photo she’s hidden in the upstairs guest bedroom. Suddenly, Wren thinks she hears a whisper. More like a rasp. It’s that same voice she remembers hearing from Scarecrow in her dream the other day.