M Sellars - All acts of pleasure

The shop was bustling, just as it was any other time I’d had occasion to fly, so it took a few minutes for my drink to get done. I simply stood away from the crush of people, holding my pastry-filled and logo-adorned bag in one hand, with the thumb of my other hooked through the shoulder strap of my backpack. Eventually, my name was called, and after an aborted attempt or two at reaching the counter, I managed to get my hands on my coffee.

I had kept an eye on my gate and thus far saw no one exiting the jetway, so I figured there was plenty of time before I would be called to board. I exited the shop and found that one of the small cafe tables in front of it was free, so I parked myself there, dropping my carryon to the floor and sitting back. The chair wasn’t any more comfortable than the one I had been sitting in before, but at least it wasn’t connected to anything else, so the only person I could disturb was myself.

I was just pulling the Danish out of the bag when my cell phone started to warble. I dropped the pastry onto a handful of napkins then pulled the device out of my pocket and answered it.

“Rowan Gant.”

“Where the fuck are you?” Ben’s voice hit my ear.

“Actually, I’m at the airport.”

“Why in hell are ya’ at the friggin’ airport?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Well where ya’ goin’?”

“Like I said, you don’t want to know.”

“Dammit, Row, is this somethin’ ta’ do with that Voodoo stuff? Are you doin’ somethin’ stupid like I told ya’ not to?”

“Do I need to say it a third time, Ben?”

“Fuck me.”

“I’d rather not. So, did you just call me to brush up on your suspect interviewing skills, or was there some greater reason?”

He adopted a snide tone. “I dunno, are you sure you wanna know?”

“Hey, you called me.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“So?”

“So I got a piece’a news for ya’. Are ya’ sittin’ down?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Good, ‘cause guess what? We found your goddamned sister-in…half sister-in…aww, hell, whatever-the-fuck-she-is-in-law.”

I instantly sat up straighter in the chair. “You found her? Where?”

“Well, not ‘zactly found. But, we know who she is.”

“Who?”

“Her name’s Annalise Devereaux,” he replied. “I’m lookin’ at ‘er driver’s license photo right this minute. And, Row, you ain’t gonna believe this. She’s the fuckin’ spittin’ image of Firehair.”

“Where is she, Ben?” I pressed.

“Right now, we don’t know, ‘cause of Katrina.”

“What do you mean?”

“The address on ‘er license is in a section of New Orleans that got totally flooded out, so there’s no way to know where she is at the moment. But, obviously we know she survived.”

I sat there staring into space for a moment, feeling my headache creep up another notch.

“Row…” Ben’s voice flooded into my ear. “Hey, Row, you still there?”

“Yeah,” I finally said. “So, Ben, you wanted to know where I’m going?”

“Yeah, I do, but I seem ta’ recall you decided ta’ be an asshole about tellin’ me when I asked.”

“Well, it’s my turn to tell you something you won’t believe. I’ll give you three guesses where I’m going, and the first two don’t count.”

Friday, December 2

3:11 P.M.

St. Louis Cemetery #1

New Orleans, Louisiana

“Do you have any change with you?” the woman asked.

The man dug in his pocket and extracted a handful of coins, spread them out with his index finger, then displayed his palm to her. “This enough?”

“It’s really not as much about the amount as the effort and respect,” she replied, nodding toward the assortment in his hand and then showing him the few she held in her own. “Just let them know you have a gift for them and ask permission to enter.”

The pair was standing on the sidewalk in front of the cemetery gate. The walls surrounding the plots showed their advanced age but were obviously maintained as best they could be. The iron gates were propped open in an eerily inviting manner.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever done this before,” he replied.

“Have you gone into cemeteries before?” she asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then I suspect you’ve offended a few ancestors.”

“Great.”

“Don’t worry about that now. You’ll all get over it,” she told him with a quick shake of her head. “Just do it right this time.”

“Anything special I’m supposed to say?”

“No, just speak from the heart. Tell them you’re bringing a gift and ask permission. It’s not hard. It’s like showing up at a dinner party with a bottle of wine and knocking on the door.”

“And then I just walk in?”

“You’ll know what to do,” she said with a slight smile. “Believe me, if they don’t want you to come in, you’ll know it.”

“Okay,” he replied, an underscore of apprehension in his voice.

He stood at the gates and gathered his thoughts for a moment, then looking in through the opening at the closely arranged rows of tombs, he began to speak.

“Greetings…” he started hesitantly.

He glanced over at the woman for reassurance but saw that she had her eyes closed, and her lips were moving as she silently greeted the spirits herself.

“Greetings,” he began again. He continued speaking aloud though he wasn’t quite sure why. “My name is Rowan, and I’ve come to visit you…for…well, for some very important reasons. I’ve brought you this token…”

Not quite sure how to proceed, he held his hand out, displaying the coins to the unseen spirits.

The day was pleasant with the temperature resting in the upper fifties. The sun was shining, and there’d been no reason for anything more than a light jacket. Even so, a slight chill ran up his spine causing him to shiver. It lasted only a moment then was immediately followed by soothing warmth that enveloped his entire body. His earlier anxiety was instantly replaced by comfort.

Just as Velvet had told him he would, he knew he was welcome.

“Put the coins over here,” she said, placing her own in a receptacle just past the gates.

He followed suit, mimicking her overt motion that made them clatter noisily. He looked to her with a raised eyebrow, and she easily read the unspoken question in his face.

“You want them to hear it,” she explained. “They need to know you are actually leaving the gift you promised.”

He nodded but remained silent.

“Rowan,” she said with a slight smile. “You can talk here. It’s okay. Just keep your voice low.”

“Okay,” he replied. “I just wasn’t sure.”

“Well, you can. Oh, and in case I forget, don’t just walk out the gates. When we leave, we’ll say goodbye, thank them, and then back out.”

“Back out? Like walk backwards?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. You’re the expert.”

The woman looked up and to the right, pointing as she mumbled something to herself. A second later she took his arm and pulled gently.

“The tomb should be this way, near the back.”

They had only been walking for a minute or two, carefully making their way along the narrow paths, when the pain started to intensify. The man stumbled and caught himself as the hard stab drove deep into the base of his skull.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked.

“Something’s wrong,” he replied, reaching up to rub the back of his throbbing head.

“We’re almost there,” she told him. “Are you going to be able to handle this?”

He gave her a slight nod. “I have to.”

They started forward again, rounding the corner of a large, family tomb, the woman in the lead.