Angel Fire, Valmore Daniels [rosie project txt] 📗

and embarrassed at the same time. How could someone who had such little regard for the law seek a career in law enforcement? I guess some people got off on that kind of power. Suddenly it made sense that Barry’s father, a bully by nature like his son, would be drawn to that line of work.

In conclusion, Uncle Edward said, “It took a lot of control for me to keep from killing him that night.” Then he looked at me fiercely, as if the words bore a particular significance.

Sometimes I can be pretty slow on the uptake, and there had been more drama over the past week than I had experienced in the previous ten years. My mind was flooded with conflicting thoughts, questions, emotions and indecision. Somehow, though, I cut through all that and replayed Uncle Edward’s last words through my mind.

Control?

My eyes widened. Did he suspect the truth?

Uncle Edward said, “I’m not a fool, though everyone treats me like one. Sometimes you can learn more by keeping your mouth shut and your ears open.”

“Uncle Edward…?”

Dropping his voice, he said, “I heard folks talking down at the barber shop yesterday when I went in for a trim. I heard the accusations about Barry when he came to the motel. I overheard you and Martha talking last night about bursting glasses and chairs too hot to sit in. I also recognized that journal you tried to hide in the kitchen when we came home just now.

“But that’s not everything I know.”

I could barely believe my ears. Did everyone know my secret? Was this why Uncle Edward was opening up to me now; he knew it was not me who killed his sister—my parents? Did he know it was an accident? That the power controlled me? Did he believe me now?

“Come with me,” he said, standing and setting a brisk pace over the hill he had been walking toward originally. I followed, and when we reached the crest, he pointed to Circle Lake, the small body of water in the distance where I had played as a child.

“One day, when I was very young, I saw my grandmother come over this rise by herself. Your great-grandmother. I trailed her at a distance, curious, as young boys can be.

“I wanted to block what I saw that day from my memory. I didn’t want to believe it. It was a mirage. A fancy of a child’s imagination.”

It was obvious what he wanted to say was of great importance. His jaw was set and his eyes stared out over the lake as if remembering.

“What did you see?” I asked. At first I had no idea what he was talking about, but as my thoughts raced back to Beatrice’s last journal entry, my mind made the connection.

Uncle Edward spoke in a hushed whisper. “I saw my grandmother set the lake on fire.”

Fire?

Beatrice’s last journal entry was years before Uncle Edward had been born. He had witnessed her use the power again years later. It occurred to me that she had used the power more often that I had assumed. She had somehow mastered the fire. How? ‘I embraced the flame,’ Beatrice had written.

I stared at Uncle Edward, searching his face for more clues. All I saw was the fear in his eyes as he remembered.

“The steam rose like a thundercloud,” he said and shook his head, as if he could still not believe what he saw after all these years.

He continued, “I ran home before she saw me. I have never been more frightened in all my life. For years, I pretended it was all in my imagination. When you—when my sister died in that fire…”

Uncle Edward said no more, and turned on his heel and left me at my crossroads, to decide for myself which direction to take.

 

Chapter Nineteen

Control.

Wherever I turned, that word took center stage in my every action and thought. It was all about control. Some people thought control was nothing more than an illusion, a comfortable blanket in which to wrap oneself and pretend the world was not an unpiloted freight train hell bent for disaster.

Control could be had, but it came at a very steep price.

I knew, deep in my heart, if I did not grab the reins of this horror inside me, it would control me instead.

When Uncle Edward turned back in the direction of the motel, I headed the opposite way.

To the lake.

She set the lake on fire, Uncle Edward had said.

How?

I embraced the flame, great-grandmother Beatrice had written in her journal.

To gain control, she had to give herself over to it.

Was that the secret to controlling this thing? Did you first have to surrender to it?

It was time for me to make a stand; just I had with Barry and his father.

I walked purposefully toward the bank of Circle Lake. There was no one around as far as I could see. When I arrived at the edge of the water, I held my arms out as if in surrender. I willed the flame to come out, and if I lit up like a candle, at least I could throw myself in the water.

But nothing happened.

I cursed and then tried a new tactic.

I focused all my thoughts on the water and I imagined it boiling. I imagined it was gasoline and I was the tinder, and I visualized the explosion.

A bird chirped in the distance. Wind whistled through the long grass.

With a sigh, I sat down on the rocky beach, picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. It landed with a splash, but the lake did not give me any indication of what was wrong.

Why wouldn’t the fire come when summoned?

A thought came to me. The only time I was consumed by the power of the flame was when I was very angry or very frightened. At the moment, I was neither. A little frustrated perhaps, but otherwise calm.

A dragonfly hovered nearby, as if curious about my business.

Perhaps it was a state of mind? I was reluctant to do so, but I tried to recall the night Barry had beat me, and concentrated on how frightened, scared and hurt I was.

My heart beat faster, I grew angry, but my efforts were in vain; I could not summon the flame. Perhaps there had to be an element of danger as well, a tangible threat?

But then, according to her journal, Beatrice had been able to set the lake on fire at will. How?

That was one piece of information I wished she had included.

In a final gesture of frustration, I threw a rock in the lake and, hanging my head in defeat, I gave up and headed back home.

* * *

I half hoped Uncle Edward would be there, and maybe shed some light on my failure. After circling the motel twice with no sign of him either outside or in any of the rooms or office, I made for the house. He wasn’t there either, but I heard my aunt laughing. She wasn’t alone.

When I tentatively poked my head into the kitchen, I was shocked to see Neil at the table.

They both looked up as I entered, smiles on their faces.

“Neil?” I said.

“You didn’t forget our date?”

I had. “Of course not,” I stammered. “But you’re a little early, aren’t you?”

We all glanced at the clock hanging over the door arch. It was nearly six o’clock. Where had the day gone?

“Oh, sorry about that,” I said. “Did you make reservations somewhere? Are we too late? I can’t go like this. I have to get ready.”

“No problem. Your aunt has offered to cook dinner. It’s been more years than I can count since I had anything that wasn’t out of the microwave.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I said to my aunt, mildly embarrassed. There were so many questions I had for each of them, I wasn’t sure I could quell them long enough to make polite conversation through a whole meal. Each of the three knew my secret, but the last thing I wanted was everyone to talk about it together. I needed to work through how I was feeling about having this affliction; but I wasn’t ready to put myself up as the topic of discussion.

“Pish-posh,” Aunt Martha said with a cluck of her tongue. “I already had everything prepared for three; what’s one more? Besides, we all want to get to know your new man better.”

I flushed a deep crimson. New man? “Aunt Martha!”

She winked at Neil, who managed to smile through his own beet red complexion.

“We’re just friends,” I said, and my gut clenched when I thought of Uncle Edward; he wasn’t known to hold back an opinion, right or wrong, and if for whatever reason he and Neil didn’t hit it off, things could get uncomfortable. I needed time to figure out exactly what my relationship was with Uncle Edward, and with Neil, and I wasn’t looking forward to adding any complications to that.

“For now,” Aunt Martha added teasingly. And both Neil and I tried to find something interesting in the direction of our shoes.

* * *

Aunt Martha sent me off to make myself decent (she actually said it that way) and enlisted Neil to help with the last minute details of the meal. I was too excited to stay embarrassed, and broke records showering and getting into a change of clothes.

Dinner was roast with potatoes, carrots and all the extras. I could smell it from my motel room door once I stepped out, and my stomach gurgled in anticipation.

When I arrived, the table was filled to overflowing with the main course as well as buns and butter, glass bowls of green tomato chow, Dijon mustard for the roast, and—to my astonishment—a bottle of red wine. I raised my eyebrows at that, but Aunt Martha said, “I won’t tell if you don’t. What we do in the privacy of our own home is our business. Martin Burke can blow it out his hindquarters.”

Uncle Edward showed up just in time to dig in, and aside from shaking Neil’s hand when I introduced the two, the only words he spoke were to complain about the Cardinals failing to hold on to their fourth quarter lead again. It seemed he had spent the afternoon down at The Trough watching the last of the game and shooting some billiards.

He never met my eye once.

The entire event went much better than I had expected, and I was starting to feel somewhat normal.

When dinner ended, Neil got up and helped with the dishes without being asked, and that gave him quite a few brownie points with Aunt Martha.

Uncle Edward, in his usual gruff way, excused himself from the dinner table. “Gotta go make the rounds, make sure everything’s locked up.”

Feeling like a fifth wheel, I stood and offered to help him, but he waved me back down. “No, don’t bother yourself. I’ll most likely have a long list for you tomorrow anyway.”

With that, he was gone, and I was left trying to help Aunt Martha and Neil until they both shooed me away.

Idly, I wondered what had become of my great-grandmother’s journal, and wandered into the living room to snoop for it. I found the dusty old book next to a photo album on the shelf of my aunt’s curio. Aunt Martha must have put it there.

I glanced into the kitchen so see if Neil was looking in my direction…

But he was occupied, so I took the journal down and re-read that last entry.

Control. It eluded me. Beatrice had