Four and Twenty Blackbirds

"Yes. Cowardly."



"But why did he attack you?"



The kitchen door opened again and Harry carried in the main course of rice and grilled chicken. I set the salad fork across the remains of the greens and reached for the next piece of silver in line. Harry was either a fabulous cook or he knew one, for everything was fantastic. I'll never say he topped Lulu, but he gave her a run for her money.



"I hope he didn't hurt you," I said, taking a bite and allowing Eliza time to elaborate.



She shook her head. "No. He just made me mad. Got his hands up around my throat before Harry heard the commotion and came to help me."



I tipped my head toward the kitchen door. "Harry's quite a useful guy. You should give him a raise."



"Listen to you—talking money at the table. Not sure why I'm surprised; I know who raised you."



Rather than get us both riled by defending myself, I tried to drag the conversation back to the most obvious topic. She was playing nice, for her, anyway. She might let something slip if I played my own cards right. "That's neither here nor there. But what did you—I mean, what I meant to ask is, what happened to make Malachi come after you?"



She took another bite and her own sweet time replying. "He was asking after some book. He wanted some old book and he thought I had it, and I don't. I guess God was wrong on that one."



"God?"



"You know. He thinks it's God what tells him to pull those stunts he does. But if it were God, He wouldn't be wrong. So it's not Him."



"That's sound enough reasoning." God might not be his official copilot, but that didn't mean Malachi wasn't hearing voices. No one knew that better than I did. I went ahead and feigned ignorance. "What sort of book was he looking for? A Bible or something?"



"No, not—well, yes. Something like that. More like a journal." She jammed another mouthful of roll between her gums and started lying as she chewed. "I don't know, really. I don't know what he thinks I've got here." She swallowed and spoke more plainly. "But he's wrong. He could turn the place upside down for all I care, and he wouldn't find a thing like what he was hoping for. I told him so, too, but he didn't listen."



When supper was through, we folded our napkins and left them on our plates. I followed her into the "sitting room"—a cozier version of the parlor—where she asked if I cared for a drink.



This time I declined, but she pressed the issue so I admitted that despite our previous imbibing of spirits, hard liquor was not my first choice of beverages.



"What do you take, then?"



"Not much of anything," I admitted, "except the occasional glass of wine."



Her eyes perked. "Red or white?"



"Red, if you have it."



She clapped her hands together and actually smiled. "Honey, I've got a whole cellar full, though I don't think there's anything drinkable up here, since I don't ever take much myself. I hear it's good for your heart, but at my age there's only so much care you can be bothered to take, and I'd rather have the gin. Let's go down to the cellar and see what we can find. Harry!" she hollered, and he materialized at her side. "Go on, get us a light. We're going downstairs."



"But, ma'am, I—"



"You'd rather we go down there in the dark? Is that it?"



"No, ma'am. Of course not. I'll be back in a moment."



Harry's obvious reluctance was clue enough that Eliza might have more than sharing spirits on her mind. "You really don't have to go to all this trouble just for my nightcap. It's getting late, I should turn in anyway. Don't make him do that."



"Balderdash. It's nothing. We have a wonderful collection downstairs, and no one ever drinks a drop of it."



Harry returned with two long black flashlights that could have been siblings to the one in my trunk. Eliza and I each accepted one and tested the buttons.



Harry behaved obediently, but he was clearly displeased. "Would you care for me to accompany you?"



"We won't be down there long," Eliza said offhandedly, or at least trying to sound like it.



"Then perhaps I'll join you."



She paused, but decided against arguing. "Suit yourself."



He tagged behind as we prematurely clicked the flashlights on and started down the hall. Eliza took the opportunity to give me a running commentary on the history and particulars of the ancestral family home.



"This house was built by my grandfather, Frank Wilcox, in 1804. He made his money on cotton and indigo, and he retired here with his family. My mother was his only daughter, and when she and my father married, my father joined her here. I was born in this house, and Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll die here too.



"During the War Between the States, it was all nearly burned except that my father was a Freemason, and the Yankee general spared the place. He said he couldn't burn a brother's house, which was dandy except that it wasn't outside his morals to burn a brother's barn and steal his horses. But the house survived, and us with it. We always do. Except now, I guess. Once I'm gone, and Malachi's gone . . . well, we're the end of this line."



For a moment she stooped, and it seemed that the light was too heavy for her old hands. Harry reached out, offering to take it, but she wouldn't let him. She straightened and pointed the light down the lamplit corridor. Her voice regained its vigor. "Well, I'm not gone yet, and neither's he. We're not done yet."



Along the hall we all three trod quietly on the long runner that graced the wooden floors with Oriental themes. Our footsteps made barely a dull patter and they did not echo behind us. I was acutely aware of the quiet immensity of the house, and I felt very small beneath the weight of all the years and bricks. This was my family home too, but I did not imagine I would ever feel welcome. I was subject to Eliza's displeasure, and she was the very incarnation of the house's spirit. So long as she lived, and possibly longer, it would not be happy to have me.



The hall turned and made a dead-end at a door, the Oriental rug stopping just short of the crack at the bottom. Eliza reached into a pocket on her sweater and pulled out a set of keys on a big brass ring. The keys clanked and clattered together as she held them up one by one, comparing them to the hole beneath the doorknob and trying to recall which one fit.



"Really," I said uncertainly, "I appreciate your effort, but this is too much trouble. Please, don't worry about it."



"Nonsense." She tried a long black one that looked more like the key to a gate than a door. It wiggled and scraped, but did not turn. She put it aside and reached for another. "Wine's made for drinking, and it's just collecting dust down there. I'd like to bring up a few bottles anyway, and now's as good a time as any. You got something better to do? No, I didn't think so. I already told you we don't have cable. Here we go. This is the right one, I'm nearly sure of it."



Indeed, the mechanism within the slot creaked and clicked and the door slid back in halting inches. Harry leaned against it and forced it to open completely. He shined his light down the stairs and over the shelves down below as if he were checking for something, sweeping the light for unpleasantness.



"Oh, hell, Harry, there's nothing down there but maybe a rat or two." Eliza stepped past him onto the first stair, then turned to me and lifted her shoulders in an explanatory half shrug. "You do what you can about the rats, but in a place this big you never get them all. As long as I don't see them upstairs, it doesn't cost me any sleep to know they're here."



"Nor should it," I murmured, following her sloping back as it shuffled fearlessly down into the cellar.



Harry brought up the rear, taking care to prop the door open behind us. I liked him better and better all the time. He came down after us, fretting his hands together as if he feared some great calamity.



"Some of this wine is over a hundred years old, I imagine," Eliza continued her narration. "Since my father died, it's just sat here. He was the one who bought it and stashed it here. Every now and again someone will give me another one for some reason, and I just drop them all down here. Sometimes I used to bring them out for holidays and the like, when I had more family around, but mostly the bottles just stay here and turn themselves to vinegar. It's such a shame, it is. I'm glad you mentioned wanting some, I really am. It gives me an excuse to bring some of it up, even if that does mean we've got to go down here for it first."



At the bottom of the stairs, the floor was flat stone and mortar, and the air was at least ten degrees cooler than the warmish upper floors. Four or five rows of wooden racks extended deeper than our flashlights, each shelf lined with black and green bottles gleaming dimly beneath a furry layer of mold and dust.



I rubbed at my nose, trying to shake away a sneeze that was working its way through my sinuses. I held it back, but the uncomfortable trace of a tickle in its wake left my head congested and achy.



Eliza was taking her time, wiping at labels with the back of her hand and crunching her eyelids together, trying to read in the semi-darkness. "Damn it all," she cursed, wiping at her eyes. "I need my glasses. Harry, would you go grab them for me? They're on the nightstand by my bed."



"Ma'am . . . I'd rather not leave you down here—" He glanced at me, hesitating to add "alone." I honestly couldn't tell which one of us he didn't trust—me, or the hundred-year-old biddy squinting at the wine bottles. Either fear would be fair, so I didn't take any offense to it.



"Harry, you get on out of here," she ordered mildly. "I just need my reading glasses. It won't take you a minute. Or do I have to go up all those stairs again and get them myself?"



He groaned a sigh and turned to scale the stairs. "No, ma'am. I'll be back shortly."