as she had done every other time, settled her eyes on me, smiled, and said, âYour aura is oh my God!â
The assistant rushed to Mamaâs side. After a flurry of whispering, an ascendancy of larks, the assistant turned to the assembled.
âYouâll all need to leave now, except that boy. He will to come talk with Mama. Thank you for having us; itâs been a wonderful night.â She instantly began ushering people out.
Obviously Iâd done something wrong. Maybe Mama knew I held her tricks in contempt. I stood, looking down, while everyone else filed out, glaring at me.
Mama beckoned; I approached.
âHave a seat. You got an aura could knock down a horse.â
âIs that bad?â
âItâs not good or bad, just the way it is.â
âAre you mad at me?â I wondered.
âNo. I got news. Sometime between now and Christmas youâll most likely die. Ice or cold water is what I see. Thatâs it.â
She stood. The assistant rushed to her and was helping her to the door before I found my voice.
âExcuse me?â
âI tell you this as a warning; maybe itâll help.â She didnât turn around. âIf not, they wonât find your body till next spring.â
I left Antioch at the end of August, forgot most of what I learned there.
That winter a group of friends was crossing Clear Lake, near my house, and it cracked underneath us. Seven drowned. I survived because at the last minute I hesitated closer to the bank than the others, yelled at Skid to stay behind me, a premonition or a memory. I still fell through the ice, submerged. Skid pulled me out, pushed the water out of my lungs. I started breathing seven minutes laterâa minute for every dead friendâand stayed in the hospital for a week. My mother didnât visit once, but the seven who drowned stood around me every day, close to my bed. Sometimes they told me to get better; sometimes they invited me to come away. It was a difficult decision.
Voices on the stereo mixed with childhood memories, ancient deceptions, nameless guilts, waking nightmares, old words that ought to have been buried but would not die. I turned up the volume.
A half an hour later Andrews called down, âKind of loud, isnât it?â
The record was blasting; bass made books next to the speakers jump and twitch.
âAndrews,â I answered, âIâve been thinking.â
âOh God.â His voice was muffled from his room, but I could hear the tone.
âAbout this perspective shift.â
âWhat about it?â He appeared at the top of the stairs in his robe, drying his hair.
âWhat if the events of Thursday night didnât transpire the way we think they did, the way Skid outlined?â
He stopped rubbing his hair, his voice weary. âIn what way?â
I turned the stereo down. âWhat if Harding Pinhurst wasnât the victim?â
Four
âChrist, heâs the dead one,â Andrews insisted incredulously, lumbering down the stairs. âOf course he was the victim!â
âWe donât know heâs the only one dead.â I lifted the needle, turned off the stereo. âTruevineâs missing; no one knows where Able is.â
âBut in this case the definition of victim ââ
âYou know,â I said, âa hot shower does sound good. I hope you didnât use all the water.â
An expletive exploded from Andrews that made the house creak. He returned to his room.
âWhy couldnât you look at it another way?â I said, climbing the stairs after him. âHarding was angry enough to attack Able, Able defended himself, Harding fell down the hill, hit his head, Able panicked, now the Deveroes are out for blood, so Ableâs the victim.â
âYouâd panic, too,â he shouted from his room, âif the Deveroe boys were after you!â
âThey saved my life last year on the
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