Read Online The Committee by Terry E. Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry E. Hill
Ads: Link
hand to the other on her dining-room table. A photograph of Planning Commission Chair John Spalding sat in a silver tray along with a document containing his original signature. Next to the tray was the unlit black candle.
Gillette came from a long line of practitioners. Her great-great-great-grandmother on her motherâs side, Juliette Dupree, was said to have been the colored mistress of Jean-Luc Fantoché, the governor of Louisiana in 1852, and credited with getting him elected for two terms despite his blatant incompetence. Juliette Dupree made available to the governor the substantial benefits of her powers and allowed him into her bed only because he was sympathetic to the plight of Negros.
The candle flickering on the table in front of Gillette contained remnants of wax from the same candle that burned in Julietteâs parlor in the French Quarter so many years ago. The black wax had been lit and protected by generations of Dupree women. Cruel plantation owners met sudden and inexplicable deaths, infertile woman gave birth, wandering husbands returned to their wives, and countless fortunes built on the backs and graves of slaves were lost overnight . . . All under the illuminating light of this black candle.
The only light in the room came from the dancing flame. Louie paced anxiously from side to side on the wooden perch in his cage. The occasional car driving past the house could be heard through the wood-shuttered windows.
Gillette closed her eyes and gently pushed the baseball across the table toward the candle. It rolled over the picture of John Spalding and the document containing his signature. When it tapped the candle, the flame suddenly flared, sending sparks and a white plume of smoke into the air. Louie released a loud âSquawk!â and doubled his pace at the sight of fiery display. âSquawk, squawk!â he continued until the fire slowly subsided and resumed its gentle dance atop the black candle.
Gillette opened her eyes and gently tapped the table three times with her open palms. The billowy fabric of her floral caftan dangled around her wrists as she continued patting in intervals of three, her eyes fixed on the flame and the fire consumed her senses. All she could see, hear, taste, smell, or feel was the yellow and blue blaze twinkling in the reflection in her eyes.
She lifted the baseball to the flame and waited patiently for the fire to consume the famous signature and yellowing leather. Soon, the black wool yarn beneath the leather began to crackle and pop in her hand. She placed the burning orb onto the silver tray and watched as it grew to a ball of fire.
She then reached for the photograph. John Spaldingâs ruddy cheeks and questioning eyes seemed to anticipate what was to come as she moved his face closer to the flame. Gillette lifted the bottom corner of the picture to the tip of the flame. Johnâs face was quickly engulfed in the fire. Gillette placed it back onto the tray and removed the document containing his signature. She did the same with the paper. Johnâs signature was soon lying on the tray burning with the picture and baseball.
The flickering flames caused Louieâs shadow to dance on the wall. The black candle went dark when the baseball, paper, and photograph were fully consumed. The room was now pitch-black except for the last of the orange embers on the silver tray. The only sounds in the room were Gilletteâs labored breathing and Louieâs claws scratching against the wood perch as he paced from side to side. Her job was done. John Spaldingâs fate was now sealed by the flame.
âIt is, and so I let it be,â were her final words.
Â
Â
The morning headline in the Los Angeles Times rushed across the city like a flood.
PLANNING COMMISSION CHAIR DIES IN FIERY AUTO CRASH
John Spalding, forty-three, died at the scene of a crash on Wilshire Boulevard near Beverly Hills, the Los Angeles Coronerâs Office
Gillette came from a long line of practitioners. Her great-great-great-grandmother on her motherâs side, Juliette Dupree, was said to have been the colored mistress of Jean-Luc Fantoché, the governor of Louisiana in 1852, and credited with getting him elected for two terms despite his blatant incompetence. Juliette Dupree made available to the governor the substantial benefits of her powers and allowed him into her bed only because he was sympathetic to the plight of Negros.
The candle flickering on the table in front of Gillette contained remnants of wax from the same candle that burned in Julietteâs parlor in the French Quarter so many years ago. The black wax had been lit and protected by generations of Dupree women. Cruel plantation owners met sudden and inexplicable deaths, infertile woman gave birth, wandering husbands returned to their wives, and countless fortunes built on the backs and graves of slaves were lost overnight . . . All under the illuminating light of this black candle.
The only light in the room came from the dancing flame. Louie paced anxiously from side to side on the wooden perch in his cage. The occasional car driving past the house could be heard through the wood-shuttered windows.
Gillette closed her eyes and gently pushed the baseball across the table toward the candle. It rolled over the picture of John Spalding and the document containing his signature. When it tapped the candle, the flame suddenly flared, sending sparks and a white plume of smoke into the air. Louie released a loud âSquawk!â and doubled his pace at the sight of fiery display. âSquawk, squawk!â he continued until the fire slowly subsided and resumed its gentle dance atop the black candle.
Gillette opened her eyes and gently tapped the table three times with her open palms. The billowy fabric of her floral caftan dangled around her wrists as she continued patting in intervals of three, her eyes fixed on the flame and the fire consumed her senses. All she could see, hear, taste, smell, or feel was the yellow and blue blaze twinkling in the reflection in her eyes.
She lifted the baseball to the flame and waited patiently for the fire to consume the famous signature and yellowing leather. Soon, the black wool yarn beneath the leather began to crackle and pop in her hand. She placed the burning orb onto the silver tray and watched as it grew to a ball of fire.
She then reached for the photograph. John Spaldingâs ruddy cheeks and questioning eyes seemed to anticipate what was to come as she moved his face closer to the flame. Gillette lifted the bottom corner of the picture to the tip of the flame. Johnâs face was quickly engulfed in the fire. Gillette placed it back onto the tray and removed the document containing his signature. She did the same with the paper. Johnâs signature was soon lying on the tray burning with the picture and baseball.
The flickering flames caused Louieâs shadow to dance on the wall. The black candle went dark when the baseball, paper, and photograph were fully consumed. The room was now pitch-black except for the last of the orange embers on the silver tray. The only sounds in the room were Gilletteâs labored breathing and Louieâs claws scratching against the wood perch as he paced from side to side. Her job was done. John Spaldingâs fate was now sealed by the flame.
âIt is, and so I let it be,â were her final words.
Â
Â
The morning headline in the Los Angeles Times rushed across the city like a flood.
PLANNING COMMISSION CHAIR DIES IN FIERY AUTO CRASH
John Spalding, forty-three, died at the scene of a crash on Wilshire Boulevard near Beverly Hills, the Los Angeles Coronerâs Office
Similar Books
