Crimson Ties

Part One: The Calling

“Bad things never walk alone.” -Chinese Proverb

It’s a gorgeous day for a funeral. The March midday sun shines through a myriad of pillowy clouds, and not a hint of rain challenges the blue skies above the small Episcopalian church. It’s neither hot nor cold, and the wind doesn’t dare rattle the tree limbs heavy with leaves and spring flowers. Freshly polished, expensive cars fill the parking lot and branch out, lining the curbs framing the block. Across the street is a massive old oak, and peering from behind thick boughs sits a murder of crows, calmly observing them from their hiding places. Their shimmering black heads tilt this way and that as they take in the solemn music echoing from the out-of-tune organ, and the conglomeration of tone-deaf singers lining the pews within. The entire town has settled inside the sandstone chapel, all gathering to pay their respects to the woman who lay cold, and tucked neatly into her jet-black coffin.

Amelia Dawn Latham was only forty-eight when cancer took her, but judging by the incessant sniffling coming from the powered and perfumed crowd staring at her casket, opened for viewing, she was well loved and would be missed.

But one of the worshipers stopped missing her years ago and remains dry-eyed, as people take turns standing at the pulpit to express their adoration for the dead humanitarian. Only one sits in stone silence, feeling nothing regarding the loss of Amelia Dawn.

And that person is me.

It’s not that I want to feel nothing for her. I have searched through all of my emotional reserves to find something for her. To push out a tear, maybe, or exhale a shuddering breath but there’s nothing. My emotions lay just as dead inside me as she lays in her eternal bed.

As the people rise and line up to view her, I wait patiently for my turn, wondering if I might experience a pang of grief once I stand next to her corpse, knowing I’ll never speak to her, touch her cheeks, or witness her in life. But once I’m there, peering down into her heavily made-up face, there’s only disappointment that I remain empty still. Amelia is a stranger to me, and I carry guilt for even coming here, standing with all those she held close to her.

All those who grieve for her.

I think I came out of sheer curiosity more than anything. To understand her a little better. After all, it wasn’t until last week, when I received an email, tactfully explaining that my biological mother passed away, and I was to inherit her estate, that I even learned of her name. She’s nobody to me, really, even if I wish it were different.

She must have been beautiful in life, I decide, lacing my fingers before me. She was long and lithe, with long, golden hair framing her angelic face. I look nothing like her, is all I take from this moment. Where she’s golden, I’m dark. Where she’s tanned, I’m pale, and where she’s lean, I’m thick. I wonder if her eyes are at least like mine, blue-green and lifted in the corners but I can’t tell now, for her smoky shadow and sealed lids prevent me from completing my strange assessment of her.

“So, this is how we meet,” I whisper, pausing, uncertain what to expect. She’s dead and will never answer, and I feel the younger man at my left watching me. I can think of a thousand reasons why he would be. For one, I’m talking to a corpse, and for another, I’m donning jeans and a sweater, a complete contrast to the expensive outfits of those surrounding me.

But I’m a college student and grew up a ward of the state. It isn’t like I can afford anything nice. Be glad I even came, I long to shout. Not a lot of orphans would come to pay their final respects to a parent who abandoned them at a mall when they were two years old, leaving them cold and alone.

I’m here, at least, even if I don’t want to be. I’d rather be in my studio apartment studying for the test in history, waiting for my return. Pushing my wire-framed glasses higher on my nose, I turn away from the woman who’d found the wherewithal to discard me, and I follow the line of weeping people down the aisle. Quickly bypassing the preacher who offers me a tentative smile, I make my way to the sidewalk where I can finally breathe again.

I’ve never been fond of crowds, and I hate attention. I’ve worked hard at mastering the art of being invisible and right now, I stand out, like a robin among the doves.

After ordering an Uber from the app on my phone, I work myself further away from the crowd, now billowing out from the church in droves, and spreading across the grass of the churchyard. I refuse to make eye contact with any of them, finding the apple blossoms on a nearby tree interesting as to appear unobtrusive to others. I’ve never enjoyed being rude, and I’m not trying to be, but a conversationalist, I am not.

Nor do I have any desire to be. Self-reliance can be a beautiful thing to those who have learned to balance it with a healthy social life. But for people like me, self-reliance is the umbrella which keeps me dry, and often, I wonder if my defensive umbrella is faulty because inside, I’m cold and life laden.

That same murder of crows I’d observed through the windows during the services abruptly take their exits, the sudden resonance of the flock’s whipping wings moving as one as if choreographed startles me, my heart heaving into my throat. Lips parted, I watch as they cover the horizon, turning the blue skies there black, and I wonder what frightened them. In the distance, I’m certain I hear the cry of a rooster echoing its displeasure at something. Over and over, it crows, edging closer, and I’m mesmerized by its call.

Mesmerized and terrified.

And right as I’m about to succumb to the caution my heart pounds into my chest, and seek asylum from the crowing fowl calling from far away, a raspy female voice speaks from behind me, sending me spinning towards her, expecting the worst.

“You’re her, aren’t you? Amelia’s little girl.”

The gaunt, older woman with short spikey brown hair gazes up at me from her wheelchair, her heavily lined eyes doing nothing to soften her ghoulish features. Her gnarled fingers are wrapped around the large tires of her chrome chair and the sunlight reflects off the silver bracelets jingling from her delicate wrists.

I open my mouth to speak, the pressure building inside me to say something for that’s expected, but not a sound escapes my closed throat. It doesn’t matter. She knows I am, for she grabs my hands with hers, and she tugs, her expression one of pleading.

“They cursed you, Allyson. That’s why your mother sent you away. But now that you’re back here, nothing can save you, honey. I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

I blink down at her, wishing one of us would disappear, but before the panic can fully settle in, the movement behind her captures my attention. The young man who stood behind me as I whispered to my dead mother approaches, his gentle gray eyes meeting mine as the soft breeze ruffles his sandy hair.

The woman releases my hands and gives me a final sympathetic glace before wheeling herself away, nodding a quick greeting to the approaching man in the dark suit. I glance around, wondering when the damn Uber will come save me already, but find the streets are still empty and I’m much too nervous to check my phone for ETA.

I don’t know who that woman was, but her parting words bother me and although the approaching man appears nonconfrontational, I still don’t want to talk to him.

But luck would not be on my side today and he stops right before me, offering me a dimpled smile and an outstretched right hand, which I gloomily accept.

“Allyson Wade, I’m Kade Sharp, Mr. Walters’ paralegal. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person rather than via email exchanges. I only wish it was under better circumstances.”

His warm hand envelops mine and I find myself smiling back. It isn’t big and overwhelming like his, but it’s there despite my anxious disposition. There’s something about him. Something sweet and trustworthy. I don’t know why, but I like him. He seems warm. Like hot chocolate on a cold day, or knitted gloves on chilled hands.

“Yes, well, I’m on my way to meet with the lawyer now. Think he’s in his office, or is he here somewhere?”

My attention shifts to the dissipating crowd, searching for him through the onslaught of faces. Ben Walters isn’t someone I have ever met in person before, but I checked him out online and some people look like their careers, him being one of them. He looks like a lawyer. He brandishes gold framed bifocals, combed over silver hair, and still retains his actual teeth despite being at least seventy years old.

But Kade doesn’t fit the bill he claims, for he’s too perfect to be a paralegal. His broad shoulders and fit frame, wholesome looks and confident mannerisms make him resemble an athlete or journalist. I can’t imagine him behind a desk, tapping out legal contracts.

Once Kade releases my hand, I lace my fingers back together before me, the loss of his touch leaving my freed hand naked.

“He’s already left and is waiting at the estate. If you’d like, I can take you. I’m parked right over here.” He waves a hand towards one of the many expensive cars surrounding him, but a small, white SUV parks at the curb and the passenger side window lowers, showing an older woman with a friendly smile stretched across her face.

“Allyson Wade?”

I acknowledge her with a quick nod before flashing Kade an awkward wave. I slip into the vehicle, immediately surrounded by the artificial new car smell, and allow her to steal me away from the chaos of a world I am so not accustomed to. All I want is to go to the airport and fly home, where my life of quiet solitude comforts me.

And as we drive, I remember the sound of the rooster’s cry, its eerie echoes stirring through my mind again, prickling my flesh as I wonder why it disturbed me so much.

It’s a rooster, and nothing more.