The Wishing Well Curse

Chapter One

Zeke Clay squeezed his eyes shut, but sleep would not be forced. He let one restless eye open, then the other. The hands of the alarm clock crept from number to number. He’d seen every hour since two. Morning light, hardly more than a soft glow, was enough to justify getting up. Zeke threw back his homespun quilt and pulled on some jeans. A strange sensation caused goose bumps to chase a shiver as the air touched his bare chest. Was it excitement or dread? Maybe both. He pulled an old duffle bag from his closet, crammed in his clothes and the one thing he would not leave without, his mother’s photo album. He forced the zipper closed on the overstuffed bag.

After he drew in a deep breath, he set his jaw, and scanned his room. What was he forgetting? He snapped his fingers. He should leave a note. At least he owed that to Evan. Zeke licked his dry lips and reached for a pen and paper.

His mom and Evan had had some sort of understanding. It did not include marriage, but did include raising Zeke after she was gone. That had been seven years ago today, minus two weeks. On this cool October morning, he turned eighteen. He would relieve Evan James Clay of his obligation to Charlene Emily Davison by leaving.

Besides, Evan had never fulfilled the role of Dad.

Provider, yes. Dad, no.

Zeke sat on his bed and wrote the letter.

Short and sweet—say goodbye and thank you. It had to be just right. And for God’s sake, it couldn’t hint at any emotional tie. He had none. Other than a co-dependent fear of being alone. He folded the note over and wrote, To Evan.

With the duffle in his right hand and the letter in his left, he walked out to the kitchen. He’d put it near the coffee maker. Evan would find it first thing—

He rounded the kitchen door and jerked to a halt.

Evan stood in the kitchen in his robe and boxers. He pushed the start button on the coffee machine and turned. His eyes darted down to the duffle and back to Zeke’s face. “What are you doing?”

“I...I was leaving this for you.” Zeke lifted the folded paper. A slight tremble betrayed him.

Evan’s brow pushed together as he reached for the note.

Zeke shifted the duffle to his left hand. Steam rose from the coffee pot. It churned and groaned. The smell was pleasant—the wait, agonizing.

“What’s this?” Evan said at last.

“I’m leaving.” Zeke’s jaw muscle bunched. “Mom said I have a destiny. I was thinking it’s time I figure out what that is.”

“Oh really?” The corner of Evan’s mouth twitched. “And just where will you go?”

“I...I don’t know.” His eyes darted to the front door.

“Well, isn’t that a great plan?”

Anger churned in Zeke’s gut. He hadn’t thought this through.

“Well, if you think you’re man enough to strike out on your own…” Evan shrugged as he poured his coffee. He sat down at the small kitchen table, and crossed his legs. “You gotta job lined up?”

“…No.” Zeke stared at his duffle. He hated feeling like this. He hated Evan for making him feel like this. “I’m eighteen, today. I can leave if I want.”

Evan stared at the black liquid in his cup. “Yeah, I guess you can, son.”

Son. Since when does he call me son? His shoulders rounded. The duffle suddenly felt too heavy to carry.

“Look, you’re right.” A forced, steady smile bowed Evan’s mouth. “You’re eighteen. You can leave if you want. But...I’d rather you didn’t. Besides, who’ll take out the trash, if you leave?”

Evan winked.

What? Trash? Is that all I am to him? Free labor? Zeke’s eyes met the man’s. He turned, without saying a word and slammed the door behind him.

His rebuilt, primer-grey ‘67 Impala provided the escape. Dark streams of exhaust marked his route as he aimlessly drove from their west-side post-Vietnam era residential community toward downtown Austin. As he neared the North UT campus, he found where his destiny had led him.

A tattoo shop. Skin2Skin.

Between the shop and the next store front, a homeless man pushed himself up, out of a dirty alcove, and staggered past the tattoo shop’s window sign. It indicated the shop opened at ten. Zeke parallel parked at the curb. Tightness grabbed at his chest. God, how does a man like that stay alive? A shiver slithered down his spine. What would have happened to Zeke, if Evan hadn’t taken him in? An eleven-year-old on the streets like that. He shook his head. His knuckles faded to white as he gripped the steering wheel. Maybe Evan meant it when he called him son? He had helped Zeke rebuild this car. They were family—blood family.

He looked down at the chrome eight-ball stick shift. It wasn’t so bad at his house. At least it was a roof over his head, regular meals on the table. Unlike this guy.

Zeke tore his eyes from the tramp when a scarecrow-framed man with a stringy beard, obviously the shop owner, unlocked the metal overhead gate. After a moment of fumbling with a large ring of keys, he pushed the glass door open.

Zeke locked his car and followed the man into the shop.

“Mornin’.” The man glanced over his shoulder, a lit cigarette in his mouth.

“Mornin’.” Zeke shoved his fingers into his jean pockets. His eyes roved over the tattoo graphics pinned up on the walls.

“Name’s Dan. I’ll be right with ya.” He made a circular sweep of the store, turning on lights, starting a coffee pot, and finally returning to the sales counter at the front.

Sweat formed on Zeke’s brow and he swiped it away. This was something he wanted—needed to do, so why was he so nervous?

“Now,” Dan panted as he lit another cigarette. “How can I help ya, kid?”

“I want a tattoo.” Zeke nodded once.

“Okay...” The guy squinted one eye as smoke wafted past his fluttering eyelash. “How old are ya, kid?”

“I’m eighteen.” Zeke lowered his eyes to the glass cabinet, not really seeing anything.

“Huh, I’ll need proof. Gotta driver’s license?” The man grinned. “So long as it ain’t a fake one.” He snorted a chuckle. The cigarette and smoke bounced with his jocularity. “You know what you want done?”

“Not really...” Zeke scanned the prints again.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for, kid?” The man tapped the glass with a thick, yellow, but neatly manicured, index finger.

“I’m not sure…” Zeke pointed at a cross and crown of thorns. “I like the spiritual feel of that one.”

The man yanked the print off the thumb tack and pulled several pages out of the plastic sleeve. Behind it were variations of the first. One caught Zeke’s eye. A surge of energy shot through him. It was two wicked thorn vines twisted together. The thorns were long and at some points it appeared to penetrate the skin like a straight pin through fabric. It was drawn in blue ink, but where the thorns appeared to puncture the skin was blood red.

Dan wrapped his fingers around Zeke’s bicep. “Yeah, that would look badass wrapped around your arm.”

Perfect. The crown of thorns would honor his mother and annoy Evan. Zeke smiled. “Let’s do it.”

A bell dinged and a woman stepped in. Bleached white, razor-cut hair with contrasting pink bangs followed suit with her tattoo covered arms and neck. Facial piercings and flesh plugs in both ears, she was hard to look at and yet, Zeke couldn’t look away. The ring in her lower lip caused Zeke to lick his own.

As she stopped to kiss the shop owner, she shot a menacing glare at Zeke.

What’s her problem?

Apparently, she saw nothing interesting. She glided over to a row of chairs, and flopped down.

“Okay. Need that ID.” Dan lit another cigarette.

Zeke handed over his driver’s license. Dan paused, pointed at the date of birth, and raised one eyebrow. He photocopied it with the print.

“Okay, I need your signature on this.” He pushed the photocopy toward Zeke. “Anywhere, just need to show this is what ya want.”

Zeke signed the paper. “How much will it cost?”

He turned the original over and pointed at a list of different sizes and the associated costs. “Well, kid, since it’s your birthday, we can do it for that amount.”

“Do me a favor.” Zeke tapped the paper and glanced up at the man. “Write it on my copy.”

The man’s eyebrows rose as he leaned back and rubbed his chin. Then he smiled. “Okay, sure kid.”

Zeke tossed a one hundred dollar bill on the glass counter and waited for his receipt. He shoved it in his back pocket and followed Dan across the store.

Dan jerked a linen curtain around a metal rod, exposing a chair and a plastic wrapped metal tray.

The screech of the curtain rings reverberated through Zeke’s teeth. He bit down hard and squeezed his eyes closed.

“Give me a minute to set up.” Dan muttered.

The coffee maker groaned a final time. Zeke asked, “Mind if I get a cup?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dan squinted through the perpetual stream of smoke. “Get me one, too. I take it black. Like my women, black and bitter.”

He snorted a laugh, but shot a look toward the woman.

She did not look black or amused. She flipped pages of a tattoo trade magazine with little interest.

Zeke poured two coffees and walked back to the inking station. As Dan prepared for the rite of passage, an odd feeling formed in Zeke’s gut. He focused on sipping from the Styrofoam cup, and tried to hide the tremble in his hands.

Dan shoved on blue latex gloves and uncovered the tray of instruments. He pulled everything else out of the rolling side table and arranged it next to the tray.

As he inserted a five inch needle in the tattoo gun, Zeke drew a deep breath.

Dan smiled and reached out for the coffee. “Thanks.”

Zeke stared at the needle gun and swallowed. The room dipped to his right and his knees went soft.

“You better sit down.” Dan chuckled.

Zeke obeyed.

Dan took an artist’s pen, traced the drawing and motioned for Zeke to move to the vinyl padded chair.

He slipped over. Sweat beaded on his forehead and above his lip. “How…how much does it hurt?”

Dan lifted his arms demonstrating how many tattoos he had. “It’s not so bad really.”

Zeke closed his eyes and rolled his tongue over his dry bottom lip.

Dan touched his skin with an alcohol square.

Zeke jumped and sucked in air.

Dan jumped back, too. He smiled as he returned to wiping Zeke’s skin with the antiseptic. He rubbed a generous amount of a clear gel around Zeke’s bicep and transferred the print. He lifted the paper slowly and examined the arm—front and back, up and down—like a mannequin being positioned. Dan replaced the gloves with two more, interlaced blue fingers, and said, “Okay, you ready?”

With eyes closed and head back, Zeke nodded.

The tool began to buzz.

Zeke set his jaw.

A scalpel stabbed deep into Zeke’s arm and began carving the skin off his bone. His eyes shot open. His head snapped up, and he glared at his arm.

Dan was tracing the design with the tattoo gun and glanced up at Zeke. A half smile rose on his mouth. He wiped excess ink and blood away with a folded paper towel, and tapped cigarette ash onto an incense boat.

Zeke dropped his head back on the head rest. “You lied.”

“Yeah—sorry.” Dan chuckled.

*

Zeke endured an hour of the buzzing and slicing sensation. Finally, he surrendered to the pain and began to pray. I’m doing this for you, mom, and your Jesus. Can’t you help me out a little? Please?

He focused on his breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out…

“All done,” Dan announced.

“Now the red, right?” Zeke looked at the clock. What seemed like fifteen minutes had been two hours. Had he fallen asleep?

“Nope, all done,” Dan said.

Hmm. Whattayaknow?

“You held up good, for a kid.”

Zeke forced a weak smile.

Dan dressed the arm with gauze and handed him an instruction sheet on how to care for the tattoo. “No shower ’til tomorrow mornin’. Better if you give it twenty-four hours.”

Zeke nodded.

“It’ll ooze blood some, but that’s normal.”

Zeke walked out of the shop, light headed. He glanced at the dirty man leaning against the dirty building, and walked over to hand him a couple of dollars. He’d just spent all that money on skin art, the least he could do was help a homeless guy out a little. Unlike this guy, Zeke knew he could go back home. He’d have consequences to face, but he had endured this inking. He could endure living with Evan a little longer.

Chapter Two

Three and a half years later.

Books crowded the shelves in Zeke’s academic advisor’s office. Three walls held framed degrees against the eggshell paint. But he knew that from memory. He was too busy staring at stains in the decades-worn carpet on this visit.

“Zeke, you’ve got to get your head back in the game.” Mr. William Gerthworth leaned away from his desk, his elbows rested on his knees. Concern filled his face.

“I know.” Zeke swallowed, trying to get rid of the dry feeling in his mouth.

Mr. Gerthworth sat back and interlaced his fingers over his round middle. “Son, I know your dad’s passing has been hard on you, but it seems like since you turned twenty-one—”

Heat flushed Zeke’s face. “No, No. I’m okay about that. It’s just—I’ve been working doubles.”

The professor lifted some papers from his heavily littered desk. “You haven’t attended all of your clinicals this semester, either. It’s almost spring break, and I’m afraid you are just too far behind to catch up. It’s such a shame, too. Your GPA was superior, and this would have been your last semester.”

Zeke’s heart sunk.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. And this is really all I can do at this time.”

Zeke’s eyebrows lifted with hope. He sat up straighter.

“I’m going to suggest you drop out this semester.”

“Oh.” His shoulders rounded.

“But,” Mr. Gerthworth held up his hand, “I’m going to personally recommend you be accepted back next spring. You will be able to finish this last semester and graduate with your Emergency Medical Technician certification next May.”

Zeke pursed his lips. He’d screwed up, big time. Angela should be happy, though. Now he could spend more time with her, instead of studying all the time—when he wasn’t working. But if he didn’t work double shifts, how did she expect him to bring in enough money to support them? They fought about it all the time. All he wanted was for her to be happy. But now, it had cost him his education. In a few months, he would have had a decent paying job as an EMT. He could have provided much better for her. Maybe even ask her to marry him.

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes.

“Zeke?”

“Okay. Thank you Mr. Gerthworth.”

“Well, good luck to you, son.”

Son? Zeke stepped out of the small office.

“I’ll see you next spring, all right?” Gerthworth leaned out the door.

“Sure,” Zeke said, although he doubted the Professor heard him.

He crossed the campus to the Registrar’s Office and dropped all his classes. Sure, he could take the summer and fall semesters off, start back in spring. Okay. Work at Bob’s in the meantime. Pick up extra shifts. Angela would have to understand.

Oh, God. He’d failed out in his last semester. Who was he kidding? As long as he was trying to please Angela, he’d never finish college.

He threw his full backpack in a fifty-five gallon trash barrel at the edge of the parking lot. He yanked his 2001 Suzuki Swift’s door open and threw himself into the seat. The transmission protested and ground as he shoved the stick-shift into reverse, and peeled out. It took all he had to resist the urge to give the school the ol’ one-finger salute.

He drove east toward IH-35. With a right turn and a left jog onto the ramp, he accelerated with the traffic. He was heading south, toward Town Lake. It was actually the Colorado River. Within the city limits of Austin, it was referred to as Town Lake.

Just a quick run, and then he’d go home to tell Angela he’d screwed up. An involuntary cringe drew his shoulders up close to his ears. He exhaled as long as he could push air.

The exit sign came into view and he signaled to turn right. The parking lot for Town Lake Hike and Bike Park was a sharp right after the exit ramp.

A couple sat on the ground at the tree line, oblivious to the world around them. Runners, dog-walkers, bicyclists all paraded past them without turning to gawk at the public display. Zeke sat on the tailgate under the opened hatch of his Suzuki and changed into his running shoes. His cargo shorts and t-shirt were fine for the run, but he emptied his pockets and dropped the items in his gym bag. All he kept was the key fob.

He slammed the hatch closed and locked the car. Bending over to touch his toes, he warmed up, and then jogged toward the H&B trail. He could go to the right, over the bridge, or left, into the woods. He preferred the woods. He nodded at an elderly woman walking her dachshund.

Mr. Gerthworth’s words drifted into his mind. You’ve got to get your head back in the game…Only had one semester to go…Would have graduated this May. He shook his head. This wasn’t helping.

Zeke glanced over at the couple getting pretty hot and heavy on a blanket, as he ran by. Get a room.

Wait. He looked again. Angela? Zeke’s heart slammed against his chest. He stopped dead in his tracks. A jogger ran into him. “Umph.”

“Watch it, man.” The guy darted around Zeke.

“Sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper. He stepped off the trail and up to the enamored couple. “Uh, what’s going on?”

Angela’s head jerked up. She scrambled off her companion. “Zeke, I—what are you doing here?”

The man glared at Zeke. His red swollen lips curled into a slight smile. He leaned forward to touch Angela’s back.

She brushed his hand off and stood up, buttoning her blouse. “Zeke. I’m sorry. I—”

Zeke glanced at the dude, then back at her. “You’re sorry? Sorry for what, Angela? What exactly is this?”

“I think you know what this is,” she said with a small voice. Tears filled her eyes. “I—I was going to tell you tonight.”

“Tell me what?” He swallowed hard and glanced around at the people slowing down behind him. What a spectacle they had become.

“I—I’m leaving you Zeke.” Her chin rose slightly.

He knew that look. She was faking the bravado, but she meant what she said.

“This is John. John Martin.” She gestured toward him.

Zeke glared at the man.

The guy tipped his head back as a gesture of “hey.”

“You think I give a rat’s—” Zeke closed his mouth and eyes. “I don’t care what his name is. How could you do this?”

He rolled up on the balls of his feet and clinched his fist. He didn’t care who heard him shouting.

“I…” Black mascara streaked her usually perfect face. She looked like a Munch painting. “I don’t love you anymore.”

Seriously? He pressed his back teeth together, and fought like hell to control his own need for tears. He’d screwed up his college education trying to make her happy, and she wasn’t in love with him anymore? What a B—He let the word go. His mother had never allowed him to say it. He wouldn’t start because of one stupid girl.

A security officer on a bicycle stopped behind Zeke. “Is there a problem here?”

Angela collapsed on the blanket and buried her face in her hands. John touched her back and whispered something in her ear.

Zeke turned to the officer. “Not any more, there’s not.”

He strode to his car. His jaw hurt. When had he clenched it down so tight? He clicked the key fob and leapt into the driver’s seat. How could he have been so blind? What did John Martin have, that—He shook his head and pressed his incisors together, forcing the tears to stop. He pushed the hatch release. His keys were in the gym bag. Once again he entered the swift moving traffic of IH-35, south, away from the river, and toward their Highland Park apartment.

He turned onto Martin Luther King, Jr. Highway and flew through two intersections.

Whoop-whoop, a siren blared behind him.

His eyes darted to the rearview mirror. Red and blue lights pulsed on top of a white pickup. He glanced at his speedometer. Super. He pulled over to the shoulder.

“What next?” he whispered. Obviously, God hated him right now.

Twenty minutes later, he pitched the pink speeding ticket on the dash—60 in a 45 mile zone. Great.

*

Okay. Think, Clay. He yanked the old duffle bag from the top of the closet, and threw it on the bed with a stream of curse words. Jerking out the only dresser drawer to his name, he turned it upside down over the bag. He shook the drawer for good measure. Underwear, socks, keepsakes, and lint spilled haphazardly into, and over, the sides of the bag. He threw the excess back into the pile and cursed as the zipper resisted—he pushed down the bulk and yanked the zipper closed.

How could Angela be so thoughtless? Ungrateful? Selfish?

He shoved his clothes from the closet into thirty gallon trash bags, hangers and all. Next went his shoes, belts, photo album and books. It took five bags. He tossed them toward the front door. A plastic laundry basket on the washing machine could hold his things from the top of the dresser. Anything he left, Angela and John Martin could have. As he thought that name, he scrunched his nose and mouth like he smelled a stink bug.

The image of them in the park filled his mind. He and she had been like that once. He heaved a sigh and lifted as many sacks as he could carry. What went wrong?

Back down MLK Blvd, he glanced at his meager possessions spilling into the floorboard. Had his life been such scraps? Everything he owned now limited his view in two directions. How legal was it to drive with this much junk in your car? But, what choice did he have? He needed to get to work. He had plenty of time. So long as nothing else happened.

*

Zeke lit the four sets of grills at Bob’s Hoof and Claw. The blue flames rose with a hiss. He grabbed the metal brush and bent to scrub the grates.

“What did that grill do to you?” Jeremiah said from behind him.

“What—oh yeah, I—might be thinking of something else,” Zeke said.

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

“Angela broke up with me, that’s all.” Zeke shrugged and continued scrubbing the grates.

“Ah, man.” Jeremiah touched his shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah, it’s all right.” He turned the flame control up to the grilling temperature.

Jeremiah followed him into the cooler. “So, where ya staying now?”

Zeke reached for the tub of onions but stopped and looked his friend full in the face. “I have no idea.”

“You’re welcome to couch surf at my folks’ place. Man, it’s your ol’ place any way.” Jeremiah flushed. He reached for the onions, brought the tub down, and pushed it into Zeke’s hands.

Dad’s house. Jeremiah’s parents had bought it after Evan’s fatal heart attack. Zeke and Angela had already blown through the money from the sale. What had they spent it on? The furniture and big screen TV he’d left at the apartment. His gut tightened. That’s another thing he’d blown, his meager inheritance from his dad. “Naw, I appreciate it, ’Miah, but I’ll be all right.”

“Sure, but know it’s fine if you want. Any time, day or night. You’ve still got a key?”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Zeke said, as heat filled his cheeks. He should have given them his key months ago. For some reason, he never got around to going back to that house.

With a nod, Jeremiah smiled.

“Okay, thanks.” Zeke glanced up. “Really.”

“Sure, so tell me what hap—”

“Zeke!” Bobby hollered from the waitresses’ station.

Zeke jumped. “Yeah, Boss.”

He pushed away from the metal shelves and set the onion tub down. Suddenly, Jeremiah wouldn’t meet his eyes. Strange.

“Need to talk to ya before your shift. Meet me in the office in five,” Bobby said without looking up from the bills he counted and placed in the cash register.

“Sure.” Zeke pressed his eyebrows together and returned to prep the onions.

*

“Zeke, I’m gonna give it to ya straight. Business has been slow. The managers agree we don’t need two cooks. Jeremiah’s my brother’s boy, so...” Bobby’s eyes darted all over the office, finally landing on Zeke.

Oh God, no! Not this. Not now.

“So...what? You’re moving me to another shift?” Zeke hoped he was right, yet knew he was not.

“No, son, we’re letting you go.” Bobby stared into Zeke’s face. His jaw twitched.

Son! Why is everybody calling me son today? “Okay. So...can I finish my shift tonight and clock out? Or what?”

“Sure, finish tonight and we’ll finalize your time card. Should have a check cut for you by the end of your shift.” Bobby swiveled in his chair and dismissed Zeke without saying such.

He slowly walked back to the prep table in a trance. What was he going to do? He cut all the vegetables and filled the ice troughs. Orders started coming in so he and Jeremiah began slapping steaks, chicken breasts, and lobster tails on the open-flame grills. Neither spoke or made eye contact. He worked on auto-pilot. His mind was far away.

God, could I talk to my mom? He shook his head. What a silly thing to ask. God truly hated him and certainly was not going to allow a phone call to heaven. After the day he’d had, he sure wished it was possible. Just this once. She always knew what to say to make him feel better. Even though she’d been gone for eleven years, he still longed to hear her voice when things were rough. Today had been worse than rough.

“Zeke.” Angela quietly called over the grill window.

He focused on her face through the rising flames and smoke. An angel behind flames, how appropriate. She had cleaned her face, but still looked pale. Her black hair was swept back in a sloppy pony tail, and she wore a sweatshirt and jeans.

“What Angela?” He flipped a steak and lifted the corner of another. No ready yet. He lowered it back to the grill exactly on the grate so the grill marks would not be changed.

“I have something for you. It looks important.” Angela looked around.

“What is it?”

“Can you come around here? Just for a minute?”

He glanced over at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah shrugged. “I’ve got this, go ahead.”

Zeke nodded and hung his tongs on the grill bar. He waved for Angela to follow him to the back of the kitchen.

She complied.

He opened the dry goods pantry and held the door for her.

She hesitated, but stepped in.

He followed her and pulled the door, but didn’t close it.

“Okay, what is it Angela?”

“This came for you.” She held up a small, wrinkled yellow rectangle of paper. “It looked important.”

He stared at an odd-shaped stain on the paper. Was that coffee grounds? “Important, huh?”

She shifted her weight. Her eyes filled with tears, but refused to make contact with his. She shrugged.

“So, how come it looks like you just dug it out of the trash?” He grabbed the paper from her. “Certified mail, huh? Who is this? Carlile…Rivers…and...Tyler, L. L. C.—a law firm?”

The mascara marked the trail of yet another tear.

He felt cold inside. He shoved the paper into his front pocket. “Well, thanks for bringing it over.”

“I did throw it away. Please, forgive me. I realized I couldn’t do it. I had to bring it to you. To see you. Talk to you. Oh Zeke, I’ve made a horrible mistake.” She choked on a sob.

He stared at her shaking shoulders, her trembling hands over her face. “I need to get back to work,” he said flatly.

“I’ll tell John it’s over. I want you back, Zeke.” She reached out to him.

He stepped back.

She stopped crying and stared at him. She sniffed, and wiped her cheeks with the side of her hand. “Let’s talk tonight after you get off work, okay?”

“Well, now, see, that’s the problem.” He exposed his teeth, but it wasn’t a smile. “After this shift, I’m no longer employed.”

Her eyes widened along with her mouth. “Wha—”

“Yeah, and I quit school today, too.” He took another step away and pushed the pantry door open with his backside. “So, Angela, you sure you want me back? Huh? You really sure about that? Are you sure what you want?”

He was screaming.

Bobby stomped into the back room, a puzzled look on his face.

Zeke pulled his apron off and tossed it toward Bobby.

“You know, Boss, I think I’ll just call it a night, okay? Don’t even worry about my time card...I’m not supportin’ her anymore.” He jammed a thumb over his shoulder, toward Angela. “This steak house can keep its money.”

He stomped past the night manager and his ex-girlfriend. The back door slammed behind him. The last place he wanted to go was Jeremiah’s. He’d sleep in his car before he’d sleep in his father’s house, on somebody else’s furniture. Somewhere in those trash bags he had the quilt his mom had made.

He’d be fine. For now.

Chapter Three

Zeke merged onto Hwy 71 East. He needed to find a truck stop and settle in for the night. He stared at the sedan in front of him. Suddenly, the car fish-tailed, it spun a full three-sixty and crossed two lanes. He slowed his car and eased over to the shoulder. As the sedan careened into the soft shoulder it began to flip end over end and skid on its side through the grass and weeds. It slid into a water-filled ditch and rolled over onto its top as it disappeared into the black, murky water.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Zeke shouted as he jumped from his car.

Circular waves radiated from where the car had landed. He blinked against the acrid stench at the water’s edge and waited. Where was the driver? No bubbles. Nobody broke the surface. Nothing.

“OH MY GOD!” He had to go in that God-awful water. He had to help. He wasn’t licensed. He wasn’t legally obligated and yet—he was. He gingerly stepped into the water. His Doc Martens were fine for greasy floors. Not so great in slimy mud. He slipped and fell backward. Black mud oozed between his fingers as he fought for purchase. When he tried to stand up, he slid down to his thighs. Putrid water soaked into his clothes and splashed up toward his face. Nothing in clinicals had ever smelled this bad. Maneuvering himself best he could toward the center of the ditch, he reached for the car. When his hand touched metal, he took a deep breath and sunk underwater.

Submerged in the green-black water, he could not see. It was disorienting. He found a door handle and pulled it open. Reaching inside, he felt the steering wheel. He concentrated on finding the driver. When his hand reached a potential body, he dug into whatever material he could and pulled with all his might. Something held it tightly in place. The seat belt.

Zeke’s lungs felt ready to burst. He pushed back away from the car and rose to the surface. After he sucked in a deep breath, he returned to the open door. With his fingers, he found the seatbelt latch, and pushed and squeezed until it finally released. Once again, he dug fingers into a shirt and pulled with all his might. This time the guy came with him. The bottom of his shoes slipped against the slimy ditch wall. He fell back against the sedan.

Oh, Jesus. Please help me. He shoved himself away from the car. Somehow his shoes took hold and he pulled the limp body along with him. One step at a time, he dragged himself and the guy until they were both on the grass.

The man lay motionless. Zeke scanned the darkening highway. No cars. No headlights. He pressed two fingers on the guy’s carotid artery. No pulse. He put his ear on the guy’s chest. No heartbeat. And he definitely wasn’t breathing.

“I’ve only done this on Sim-Sam—but I know what I’m doing.” He intertwined his fingers, one hand over the other, and started pumping the chest while counting. “One-one thousand, Two-one thousand, Three-one thousand, Four-one thousand…”

Dusk faded to night. Where was everybody? Why wasn’t somebody coming? “God, please, help me.”

Why he was even saying that at all? Desperate times, desperate measures. Nonetheless, he kept counting and hoping.

Shimmering lights appeared on the horizon. He squinted and prayed they’d stop.

The car stopped a few feet from the Suzuki. The driver jumped out and ran up to Zeke. “Oh my God. Did you call 911?”

“No, I’ve been here.”

“I’ll call now.” The man pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. “Oh, no. There’s no signal. I’ll go back toward Austin until I get a signal.”

“No, don’t leave...” Zeke started, but thought better of it, “No, you’re right. Go ahead. Thank you.”

“Sure,” the man called over his shoulder as he ran back to his car. His tires threw gravel when he made the U-turn.

Zeke kept counting and pumping the victim’s heart. His hands were going numb, but he kept pumping and counting. His headlights cast harsh shadows across the man’s face. He alternately glanced at his patient and down the ever darker highway. How long would it take the emergency vehicle?

One thing kept nagging him. His patient looked familiar. Who was he?

Stop it! Count.

“One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three...” A rock bore into his knee so he repositioned. Pump—one thousand. Pump—one thousand.

“Ow. One thousand.” A vise-grip cramp locked down on his calf. He tried to extend his leg but still pump the chest. Oh, good grief. This looked so much easier on TV.

In the distance a siren wailed its approach.

“Thank God—one thousand.” He sighed. “It’s about time—one thousand. Keep pumping—one thousand. Hurry up—one thousand.”

He gritted his teeth and kept pumping until the emergency crew pushed him off the man’s chest.

“What happened?” a female paramedic asked while the other two worked on the limp man’s body.

“I…I don’t know. This guy lost control and fishtailed—”

Zeke squatted next to the rescue team, answering the rapid-fire questions from the paramedic. She asked, “Do you know him?”

He didn’t know what to say. The guy looked familiar?

“I—No.” He looked past the medic to glimpse the man’s face.

“How long ago did this happen?” Her questions continued although she had turned her attentions to the victim and the team working on him.

“I don’t know. Maybe thirty minutes? What time is it?” He patted his pants pocket. Empty. Where was his phone? He rocked forward to get up.

“Are you hurt?” She glanced back at him.

“No.”

“Were you in the car with him?”

“No, that’s my car, there.” Zeke pointed as he stood up. His driver’s door stood open. His phone was on the floor board. He picked it up and activated the window. 8:27. He glanced back at the EMT team.

Three blue-suited medics encircled the man’s body. A neck brace had been put in place. He lay on a board. Defibrillator wires were attached to his exposed chest.

“Clear,” one of the medics announced.

The man’s body arched upward as electric current riveted through his chest. Zeke cringed.

“We have sinus rhythm,” the husky blond woman announced.

Zeke strained to see past the blue jumpers. The man was alive. Wow! He saved a life. Well, they saved the life. But he did his part so there was something to save. He rubbed his knees.

“You okay?” a short, clean-cut man asked.

“Yeah. I was just on rocks. My knee hurts, but I’m fine.” He waved the guy off. His neck and cheeks grew hot. He had not had the accident, or drowned—or died.

“I have a wallet,” the husky blond announced.

“Gotta name?” a man with salt-and-pepper hair asked, apparently the supervisor.

“Yeah. Just a minute.” She pushed black slime from the plastic window. “Looks like, John Michael Martin, Age: 23. Got DOB and address.” She handed the wallet to the fourth team member who was filling out paperwork on a clip board.

“What?” Zeke approached the clip-board guy. “What’s his name?”

“Looks like, John Michael Martin.”

“John Martin?” Zeke’s eyes bore down into the clip-board guy’s. “John Martin!”

He wiped his hand across the day-old growth of his shaved scalp and whispered. “I knew he looked familiar.”

“Yeah, you know him, or what?” the clip-board guy asked.

“No, but I know who you need to contact.” Zeke lifted his phone and activated the window, touched contacts and “A.” Angela’s name appeared. He turned his phone around and showed clip-board guy. The technician wrote the name and number down.

“And your name, sir?”

“Ezekiel Clay.”

“So, you know this guy.”

“No, not really. My girlfriend...my ex-girlfriend knows...” Zeke swallowed hard. “We have a mutual acquaintance.”

“Oh.” The man’s eyebrows shot up toward his receding hairline.

“I’ve gotta go,” Zeke said. His stomach was rebelling.

“We’ll need a statement,” clip-board guy called after him. “Sir!”

Zeke didn’t respond. All the adrenaline flushed from his body, like a bathtub draining. He needed to sit down. He walked on shaky legs toward his car and flopped down in the driver’s seat. What happened? He actually dove into a nasty, filthy ditch and saved his ex-girlfriend’s new lover from drowning. He glanced back at the accident scene. “Why does God hate me so much?”

The Emergency truck was being readied for transport. Clip-board guy glared at Zeke.

As far as Zeke could determine, nobody really needed him, and he really needed to go. He started the engine, made a U-turn, and drove back to town.

Stench clung to his clothes and his mind. It assaulted every breath he took. Oh, the nausea! He pulled over to the shoulder and had barely opened the door before his stomach violently expelled every disgusting element this day had pounded into him. Wave after wave, his stomach emptied itself. At last, he sat quietly with his elbows propped on his knees and wiped his dirty cheeks. Slowly he put his feet back in the car and refastened his seat belt. He closed his eyes and laid his head against the head rest.

“Pull it together, Clay.” He lifted his phone and activated the window. 9:17

Jeremiah’s the last person he wanted to crash with, but what choice did he have now? He needed a shower and Jeremiah did say anytime, day or night. He had a spare key. He’d leave first thing in the morning and find a more permanent place.

*

Showered, shaved, and towel dried, Zeke pulled his pajama pants from his duffle. He collapsed on Jeremiah’s basement couch, pulled a light cover from the back cushions, and stretched out. Sometime after midnight, Jeremiah came in. Zeke didn’t want to talk. He faked sleep until the real thing took him.

A shard of light sliced across his face and woke him. He looked around. Soft snoring resonated from the closed door. Jeremiah was still asleep.

Zeke padded to the bathroom and cringed from the aroma of his discarded clothes. He picked them up with thumb and index finger and carried them to a storage room. Inside he found a lawn and leaf trash bag and stuffed the ruined clothes inside. A flash of something yellow caught his attention, and he pulled the jeans back out. The certified mail notice was moist but intact. He gently pulled it out of the pocket and tied the top of the black bag. He put on clean jeans and a burnt-orange t-shirt, threw the trash bag in his car, and drove away.

One thing clung to his mind. Where would he sleep tonight?

He had no idea. Breakfast. Can’t waste gas. He started for McDonalds when his eyes landed on the yellow certified mail notice.

“Sure—why not?” He pressed the gas pedal harder.

He parallel parked in front of the Post Office on 17^th street. He stepped up to the counter and presented his notice. An elderly postal worker smiled as he took the notice. After he examined it through horn-rimmed bi-focals, he disappeared behind a peg-board wall.

Zeke stared at the ads lining the back of the sales area, mindlessly reading the information, absorbing nothing. He was numb beyond numb. He had not been this emotionally empty since his mother died. Other people came in and went out. They bought stamps, dropped off boxes. One guy turned in a passport application. Wonder where he’s going?

Zeke waited.

He lifted his phone. 8:11 AM.

Are you kidding me, twenty minutes? He stepped back from the counter and considered the glass door. Not worth this. They’re probably suing me for something I didn’t do anyway, or don’t have. That’s about how his luck was running.

“I’m so sorry it took so long.” The elderly man said breathlessly as he hurried to his designated counter space.

Zeke reached for the manila envelope, signed where Mr. Elderly told him to and walked out of the building. The label read, “Mr. Ezekiel Jabez Clay.”

“That’s me…but who are you?” The return address was a post office box in Pueblo, Colorado.

Sitting in his car, he opened the envelope and poured out the contents. There was a letter from a Carlile, Rivers, and Tyler, LLC, a map of Colorado, a map of Texas, a map of Oklahoma, and a photocopied map of Pueblo with a green X.

He read the letter aloud. “Dear Mr. Clay, You are hereby requested to attend the reading and execution of the Last Will and Testament of Mr. Luther Ahren Lehman Clayton. You have been identified as a surviving descendent of Mr. Clayton and may have reasonable stock in the findings herewith. The reading is scheduled at 2pm Wednesday…”

Zeke glanced at his phone for the date. Tomorrow? He shook his head and scanned the rest. “Overnight accommodations have been arranged…. Please contact… yada yada yada. T.J. Rivers, Attorney at Law.”

He stared at the words. He had never heard of Luther Ahren Lehman Clayton. How could he be a surviving descendent? His heart cramped. This was another time he wished he could call his mother. Is this what his mother would call his destiny? He hadn’t seen a whole lot of positive destiny happening lately.

“Pueblo, Colorado?” Zeke picked up the big map and turned it over. There was a yellow sticky note fixed to the back with detailed directions.

He picked up the photocopy of the town map. “X marks the spot,” he mused. “Pueblo.”

Tomorrow? He looked to his right. The passenger seat and floor board were overflowing with trash bags. Behind him, the bags were piled higher than the back of his seat and topped by the white plastic laundry basket he had crammed in through the hatch. He took a long slow breath. He looked down at the letter, and at his gas gage. It was three-quarters full.

“What’s stopping me?” He slipped everything but the letter back into the large envelope and turned the key until the engine turned over. “Why not go to Colorado? My overnight accommodations have been arranged. That’s more than I can say for here. God only knows where my overnight accommodations are in Austin.”

He dialed the number in the letter. A professional voice answered and gave him directions to the LaQuinta Motel off I-25 and Eagleridge. Zeke informed him—or was it her—that he’d probably arrive late. He was, at best, fourteen hours away. The person assured him the reservation was guaranteed and he could arrive at any hour.

The chipper, professional voice said, “We’ll see you at two o’clock tomorrow, then.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Zeke said. He shook his head as he hung up and drove through McDonald’s drive up. He ordered a large coffee, two bottled waters, and two breakfast sandwiches.

Thank God Angela wasn’t with him. This trip would take twice as long. He grinned a sardonic smile as he cranked up the radio all the way.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day after all.

Chapter Four

Zeke had pulled into the LaQuinta parking lot around ten-thirty in the evening. Despite all the caffeine and junk food, he was exhausted. He stretched and headed for the lobby. The gaunt night manager had been over-the-top polite. Weird. It was as if he’d been informed the infamous Ezekiel Jabez Clay was coming to town—be ready to serve his every need.

Probably, Zeke thought about it the next day as he drove to his appointment, Mr. T.J. Rivers had made the arrangements for all the people called to this reading, and instructed the motel to treat them with kid gloves.

“Whatever.” He chuckled.

He glanced at the photocopied map and flipped on his turn signal. At one-forty, Zeke turned into the Pueblo business district. The flurry of vehicles and people made it difficult to find a parking space along the repurposed cobblestone sidewalk.

A period-appropriate black columned post stood at the corner of the intersecting streets. It supported a clock that resembled a giant pocket watch. Black awnings smartly covered every storefront display window and doorframe. The entrance to the law office faced neither intersecting street, but the center of the curve between them both. It was a striking three story building of red brick and a clay tiled roof.

Finally parked, he sprinted up the hot sidewalk. Was he late? A reassuring glance at his phone told him he was not. Two o’clock on the dot.

The interior was exactly what he expected of a law office, leather and polished wood. A well-oiled hardwood floor echoed his every footstep. He had pressed his clothes at the hotel. He did his best to dress nice, but a porcupine in a balloon factory would have been less conspicuous.

“Zeke—Uh, Ezekiel Jabez Clay,” he said to the male receptionist whose gaze had not left him since he entered the doors. “I have an appointment with Mister T.J. Rivers.”

An ear phone protruded from the receptionist’s razor trimmed and gel-shaped hair. Mr. Clifford Valdez, according to his name plate, smiled a strange smile he could not interpret.

“Please be seated.” Clifford gestured toward an upholstered settee. “I’ll let ’em know you’re here. How was your drive?”

Zeke turned back to him. “It was all right. A lot of caffeine and loud music, but it wasn’t too bad.”

Clifford smiled and nodded. A strange trill sounded. He reached under his reception shelf and touched his phone. “Law Office.”

The professional, unisex voice he’d heard yesterday. The phone and other objects on Clifford’s desk were obscured by an opaque panel wrapped around the circular top shelf. It was very...space-age-modern for such a wood-paneled law office.

Despite the fact he had just met Clifford, he liked the guy. This immediate camaraderie was another odd thing to add to his long list of odd things about this whole experience.

The quick pace of heels clicking pulled Zeke’s attention toward an ornately carved wooden banister. A dwarf descended the stairs and made her way toward him. Okay, an extremely short, older lady. More salt than pepper in her hair, cut in a crisp chin-length bob. Her high cheek bones and tight lips reminded him of Edna from the Pixar movie, The Incredibles. Darker complexion, maybe, whiter hair—but similar.

“Mr. Clay, I presume.” The voice was nothing like Edna’s. It was shaky and old.

“Yes.” He stood to accept her extended hand and fought the urge to bend his knees to align himself at her eye level.

Her handshake was firm and quick, with a slight palsy tremor.

His dad judged people by their handshake, and Evan might have been impressed with this lady’s. Even though she was old, and female, and small, her firm grip surprised Zeke.

“It’s so nice to meet you at last,” she said. “I’m Twyla Rivers. Our meeting is upstairs, please follow me.”

Twyla Rivers? T.J. Rivers? Zeke glanced over at Clifford.

The receptionist pressed his lips tight and nodded.

No wonder he smiled so strangely. He shrugged toward Clifford as he passed the round arc-style desk.

Clifford smiled and shrugged back.

Ms. Rivers gracefully climbed the stairs. “Unseasonably warm weather we’re having.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Was she seriously discussing the weather?

“Well, never fear. We could still have snow through May, I assure you.” She led him down the hall to a glass conference room. Neatly stacked bright-red accordion folders, at one end of a highly polished, oval conference table, stood out as a stark contrast against the otherwise monotone room. It looked like one of those black and white commercials where only the two pills being advertised were red. Ten unoccupied chairs sat at attention around the table.

Ms. Rivers paused in front of the folders. “Please have a seat, Mr. Clay.” She gestured toward the chairs. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.” He really wanted some water, but for some reason didn’t feel comfortable asking for it.

“Okay, let’s get started, shall we?” She pulled out the high-back chair and struggled to lift herself into the seat.

His eyebrows drew together as he glanced around.

“Yes, you are the only person attending the reading.” She nodded and waited until he was settled in a chair.

He chose two over from hers, leaving an empty one between them.

“Now, I’m not going to read Luther’s entire will. A lot of it does not pertain to you, precisely. Also, the sections that do pertain to you are dependent upon your decision to accept the inheritance as prescribed by my client.”

Huh? He waited when she paused. To say that she spoke at her own pace would be an understatement. Zeke fought a losing battle with his patience while Ms. Rivers explained who Luther Clayton was and how all this pertained to Zeke. He had never heard of this man. How could he be sure this wasn’t a mistake?

After thirty minutes of a genealogical lecture he found that Luther was the unfortunate, illegitimate son of a German worker on the Clayton estate. When his mother died under dubious circumstances, he was fortunate enough to be adopted by the landowner and his barren wife, William Ezekiel and Emma Clayton.

Zeke glanced at the clock on his phone, under the table, and resisted rolling his eyes. Why didn’t she simply tell him what he was going to inherit? She seemed to relish enunciating “your great-great-great grandfather, William Ezekiel Clayton, Senior” every single time she mentioned him in the laborious lecture.

Ms. Rivers was in the wrong profession; she should have been an anesthesiologist. This entire long, drawn out history lesson was certainly putting him into a coma.

When Rivers explained how William Clayton’s second wife, a Ute Indian slave, would have been christened with an English name in order to marry the landowner, Zeke’s eyes had their way and rolled in their sockets. An enormous sigh escaped his lips.

He tried to correct his actions by sitting up straighter in his chair and focusing on the rambling woman.

As she divulged the account of the Ute slave’s renaming, Zeke sensed terseness in Rivers’ voice. She obviously had an unfavorable opinion about this but was trying to disguise it beneath a professional façade. He filed it away as curious, possibly interesting.

The room went quiet. Zeke shot a startled glance at Mrs. Rivers and realized she had been staring at him for a moment. She shrugged. “It was how things were done back then. But, then, I digress...” Ms. Rivers looked down at the folders and sat still.

No kidding! This was really pushing red on his patience meter. He gritted his teeth and snuck a peek at his phone. God, another thirty minutes had passed.

“Well, any who...” Ms. Rivers puckered her lips. Was that a smile? “The second Mrs. William Clayton gave birth to your great-great-great grandfather, William Ezekiel Clayton, Junior. That’s how it is that you, Ezekiel Jabez Clay, are the last living descendent of Mr. Luther Ahren Lehman Clayton, my client and friend.”

A smug smile settled on her face as she rested her hands upon the red folders.

Did he dare ask a question? “Ms. Rivers, I wonder if there’s been a mistake.”

She placidly stared back at him.

“My name, as you know, is Ezekiel Clay. These men you speak of are Claytons. We can’t be related. I never heard of William Ezekiel Clayton or Luther Aaron Lehman Clayton.”

“Oh, yes, well, my apologies. I should have also explained that to you.”

Oh no! Zeke drew in breath and leaned back in his chair. What have I done?

“You see William Clayton Senior, as we have discussed, beget William Clayton Junior. William Junior beget...” she opened the red folder for the first time and shuffled down into the stack of papers.

He fought to be still, willed his eyes to not rotate in their sockets. He envisioned himself jumping over the table and stabbing the tiny lady with a ball point pen, anything to get this over with.

Stopping at a specific page, she began to read. “William Ezekiel Clayton, III. William the third and Junior had some sort of disagreement resulting in William the third moving to Texas and legally changing his last name to Clay.” She gestured a flat, uplifted palm, toward Zeke. “William Ezekiel Clay then beget Ezekiel Evan Clay, um, your...grandfather. And Ezekiel Clay beget your father Evan James Clay who in turn beget you, Ezekiel Ja—”

“Yes, yes, I know my name.” Zeke sat forward. “Okay, let’s say I am related to this Luther Clayton.”

“Yes?” Ms. Rivers lowered the list of names.

“What am I inheriting, exactly?”

“Well, Mr. Clay, explanations were in order.” Ms. Rivers’ mouth drew into a lopsided “o.”

“Of course, my bad, I mean—my apologies.” He stole a glance at his phone. “Please continue.”

“Well.” She sat back, lowering her chin like a toad billowing its throat to croak a chorus. “All right, then. Luther, your great—”

“Can we just call him my uncle?” he pleaded.

“Yes, all right.” She nodded. “Your uncle stipulated a condition, to which you must agree, in order to receive this inheritance.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“You are to be given one week to think it over. During that time you are to stay in his home. It has been fully stocked with food and technical devices for your physical and mental…entertainment. There is also a well-stocked library if reading is your”—she leaned toward him and grinned—“cup of tea, as it were.”

She glanced at the glass doors. “Clifford, whom you met downstairs, has assured us the equipment is appropriately installed and cool”—stubby fingers traced quote marks in the air—“enough for someone of your...demographic.”

She paused again and stared at Zeke. Was she confirming he understood? Maybe she needed time for her battery to refresh.

“Okay, and so what are these conditions? And what is my inheritance should I decide to accept it?”

“Oh, yes. Well...” She reached into the red folder again and exhumed another printed piece of paper. “Now, you understand, these are Luther Clayton’s exact words. We at Carlile, Rivers, and Tyler have no liability or concern with what Mr. Clayton proposed for these conditions.”

“Yes, yes,” he said with a shoo-fly gesture. “Please tell me the conditions.”

She cleared her throat several times.

Why is she tiptoeing around this? Surely she’s seen it all, heard it all. He waited.

“The condition of this inheritance is—you, Ezekiel Jabez Clay, must, and I quote, seek to break the Clayton Family curse, and”—her voice lilted up a half octave—“find and resolve the loss of,” she cleared her throat, “true love. Unquote.”

Ms. Rivers’ eyes lifted to Zeke’s and stayed there. In a flash, relief washed over her face, and then she resumed her passive expressionless mask. Was she checking for understanding, again, or simply observing his reaction?

He blinked once, twice. His shoulders drooped. “You’re kidding, right? This is a prank, isn’t it? Is Ashton Kutcher going to pop out from under this table? And—and tell me I’ve been Punk’d?”

Ms. Rivers had no humor in her face. In fact, she looked...perturbed.

His smirk slid from his face and he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Clay, I assure you, you are most certainly not being...p-punked,” Moisture squirted across her lip and she drew herself up with a calming, almost meditative, sigh. “These are Luther’s final wishes for his only living descendent, you, Mr. Clay. How you interpret them is up to you.”

“Look, how is this even possible?” he asked. “Wouldn’t my gre...uncle be like...How old was he when he died? Like, two hundred years old? This isn’t possible. Right?”

“Mr. Clay, your uncle died in his one hundred and twentieth year.”

“A HUNDRED and TWENTIETH YEAR?” Spit flew from his mouth. “He was a hundred and twenty years old? Nobody lives to be a hundred and twenty. Who was he, Moses?”

“Mr. Clay. I assure you. Your Uncle lived to be a hundred and twenty years old. I personally served as his attorney for sixty years.”

“What! How old are you, Ms. Rivers? A hundred and eighteen!” His mother would be doing calisthenics in her grave because of his rudeness, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Please Mr. Clay, calm down. I’m merely eighty-two. I have known your Uncle since I started my legal practice, when I was twenty-two. Sixty years. Please, let me get you some water.” Ms. Rivers stepped over to a high gloss wooden wall and pressed the panel. Behind it was a wet bar with shelves of crystal glasses, various alcohol bottles and a sink. She filled a glass with ice and San Pellegrino mineral water. Returning to Zeke’s side of the table, she pushed the crystal into his hands.

The carbonation surprised him, but his mind cleared as the cool liquid passed down his throat. Once the glass was empty, he felt calmer.

“Okay, Ms. Rivers—Twyla.” He swallowed and suppressed the effervescent burp trying to rush up his throat. “What is this ‘Clayton family curse’ I am supposed to break and how am I supposed to break it?”

“Mr. Clay.” Twyla drew herself up and jerked at the hem of her blazer. “I am not at liberty to reveal more to you until after the one week period in which you are to live in his home and make your decision whether or not to accept this inheritance. However, I can give you this…” She reached into the red folder and extracted a manila envelope. “Your uncle left these papers for you to review in order to make a decision. I have no idea what is held within.”

Somehow, he doubted she did not know. “And what is the prize if I decide to accept this inheritance?”

“Excuse me?” Her face went taut with raised eyebrows.

“What is my inheritance, Ms. Rivers?”

She shifted and cleared her throat. “Luther was adamant. The full inheritance will be disclosed to you when you have made your decision, bu—”

“I know that—” He leaned on the table.

“But.” Ms. Rivers glared at him. “What I can tell you now is this. You will inherit the house, the land it sits on, and a trust fund. The full amount of the trust fund and the total value of the land will be disclosed...”

“Yeah, yeah, when I make the decision.” He shook his head.

“That’s correct, Mr. Clay,” Ms. Rivers sighed heavily.

He rubbed his skin-slick head and stared at the table top. “Okay, so all I gotta do is stay in this house for one week and then what? Come back here and let you know my decision?”

“Precisely.” She sat back in her chair.

Where else could he go? No reason to go back to Austin. He had free room and board here for a week. What was it she called it, technical devices for his entertainment? Clifford assured her they were cool. How bad could it be?

Then again, what did he know about breaking a curse?

Another thought occurred to him. “And what happens if I do not accept the inheritance?”

Zeke’s and Ms. Rivers’ eyes locked. Neither flinched. He would wait her out on this one, no matter what.

She cleared her throat. “Well, there is a stipulation in Luther’s Last Will and Testament that addresses this issue, but it is not of consequence to you. If you take the offer, it becomes a moot point and if you do not take the offer it is still a moot point...to you, Mr. Clay.”

What the—? Now who was being rude? His temper rose. He needed to leave it alone. But he also needed to know the effects of his decision.

“Seriously, how am I supposed to break a family curse?”

“The conditions of this inheritance are specific, Mr. Clay. How you interpret them are up to you.”

Well, isn’t that clear as mud? His mother’s favorite wisecrack.

A pinpoint of pain stabbed the center of his forehead. He lifted his chin. “And who will judge whether or not I have fulfilled the condition of the inheritance?”

This was a strategic question on his part.

“At this time, Mr. Clay, I am obligated to accept your decision in one week.”

“Well, Ms. Rivers. What is to stop me from accepting these conditions and never fulfilling them? I could take up residence in the home, spend all the trust fund and die a happy man.”

“I suppose you could, Mr. Clay. However, I think you will find if you accept the conditions of this Will, you will be motivated to fulfill the conditions.”

“What?” He leaned on the table. The pinpoint was growing into a full headache. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Ms. River’s expression changed slightly as she stood and leaned her small stature onto the table. “Off the record, Mr. Clay, and you did not hear this from me.”

She glanced around.

He followed her glances.

“There is a history of...folklore regarding the Clayton family.” Her eyes sparkled. “Legends speak of the curse. The Wishing Well Curse, they call it. Who knows if it really exists? After all, you know how small towns like to talk about long-standing families.”

She paused in her characteristically eternal way and sat back down.

“Yes?” He urged her to continue.

“Well...” she said slowly. “I know it doesn’t make sense and what I’ve heard is purely folklore, local gossip really. Forget I ever said anything, Mr. Clay.”

He tilted his head and furrowed his brows. Really? She was finished?

Ms. Rivers flapped her hand. The fire doused in her eyes. “Luther was very specific, the information I have given you is all that can be revealed until after the one week period in which you are to live in his home and make your decision.”

Does her script ever change? He shook his head. For some reason her referring to Luther by his first name irritated him. Then again, everything about this small, brown lady irritated him. He sat back and drew a long breath. Calmness washed over him. What did he have to lose? “Okay, Ms. Rivers. I’ll stay.”

“Good.” Something flashed across her face. Just as quickly, it was replaced by the stoic mask.

Was she disappointed?

“Let’s see...” She reached into the red folder again. This time she pulled out a white business envelope. “You’ll need this.”

He took the envelope. His eyes widened as he read his name, beautifully hand scripted by a calligrapher’s pen. Master Ezekiel Jabez Clay. “Who—who wrote this?”

“Your uncle wrote it. He had beautiful penmanship,” Ms. Rivers answered in a subdued voice he could not interpret.

This lady was an enigma. This whole inheritance was an enigma.

He held the envelope up and tore off the end. Then blew it open and turned it upside down. A key slipped out and a folded piece of high-quality stationery. He unfolded the paper. A handsomely penned “C,” a crest of some kind, centered the top of the page of directions.

“What is this?”

“Directions to your home for the next week, Mr. Clay. And that”—she pointed at the key in his left palm—“is the key to the door.”

“Oh.” He swallowed. “Thanks.”

Ms. Rivers stood and Zeke followed her lead.

“It was nice to meet you after all this time, Mr. Clay. We will see you again in one week. Clifford has made an appointment for this same time next Tuesday, if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes of course.” Why wouldn’t it be? Not like he had anything else to do. Well, besides breaking a curse and restoring true love...

“Oh, and one other thing.” Ms. Rivers checked her watch. “We have taken the liberty of making you an appointment with the mortuary.”

“The mortuary?”

“Yes, you see, Luther’s remains are still unclaimed. They will be able to explain better than I, but you need to meet with them as soon as possible.” Ms. Rivers herded him out of the conference room and down the hall.

Clifford had written the appointment time and the mortuary’s address on a note and handed it to Zeke as he approached the receptionist’s desk.

“Thank you, Clifford.” Zeke stuck the post-it on the white envelope.

“No problem, Mr. Clay.”

He cringed. “It’s Zeke, please.”

“Okay, Zeke.” Clifford smiled.

“I appreciate what all you’ve done.”

Clifford nodded.

The appointment was in thirty minutes. He’d go there next and then head out for a look at his new home. He let that thought sink in.

“Oh, and Zeke?” Clifford pulled another post-it from his desk caddy and wrote something. “Here’s the security code.”

“Security code?” He stared at the note being handed to him.

“Twyla!” Clifford glared at her. “You didn’t tell him there’s a security system?”

“Well, no. I’m afraid it slipped my mind. But you did, so there we have it.” Ms. Rivers shrugged and headed for the stairs.

Clifford explained the electronic panel and how to operate it. “Then touch Enter. The red light will indicate the alarm is off. You can reset it the same way. Green means ‘on.’”

“What happens if I don’t”—He glanced toward Twyla’s ascending form—“turn it off?”

“A God-awful siren sounds and you won’t be able to think straight.” Clifford chuckled.

Zeke smiled. Sounded like the man had experienced this siren.

“Security people call the house and ask for the password.” Clifford reached for the sticky note in Zeke’s hand, and wrote something else down.

“There’s the password.” He handed the note back to him.

Zeke’s right eyebrow shot up toward his would-be hairline. “Really? ’Jabez’s prayer’ is the password?”

“I kid you not.” Clifford pointed at the left side of his chest, crossed an X with his pointer finger, and held up his right hand.

“All righty, then,” Zeke said. The enigma builds.

Clifford leaned over his opaque divider with his right hand cupped around his mouth, “Eighty inch big screen and Wii, Dude. Wi-Fi and the whole shebang.”

“Awesome, man. Thanks,” Zeke whispered back and held up his fist. Clifford bumped fists and returned to his ever-ringing phone. Zeke walked out of the law office.

Clifford was an enigma, too.

Chapter Five

Why are all mortuaries the same? They smell the same. They look the same. They feel the same. Zeke hated that smell, hated that feeling, hated being around death. Twice before he sat in the same stiff, formal sofas and waited for the same abnormally soft-speaking personnel to take him to view his dearly departed. His mother, when he was not yet eleven, and his father, when he was not yet twenty-one. Why did everybody leave him right before his birthday?

Now he sat in the parking lot of Ashenbrenner’s Funeral Home with a black marble urn filled with Luther’s remains. No casket. No funeral. No burial. Nothing. Did anyone cry for this man’s death? I’m so sorry, Luther. Everybody deserves someone to grieve for them, someone to—miss them. I never knew you.

He stared at the urn. “What am I supposed to do?” He pursed his lips.

The mortician’s words echoed in his mind. “There are limitations to what you can do with Mr. Clayton’s ashes, should you wish to sprinkle them somewhere. You will need to check with that location. Some places, such as a botanical garden, for instance, no longer allow human remains to be distributed on their grounds.”

A shiver slithered down his spine. He sighed. Let’s take it home and figure out where you belong.

Luther had left an envelope for Zeke with the mortician. Odd. This entire day had been like a scavenger hunt, one by one he gathered clues in order to put them together and figure out the puzzle. Find the prize.

He blew out a long, slow sigh. Soon, he would be home. Well, at Luther Clayton’s home, but home for him for the next week. He could finally relax. Exhaustion, and hunger, saturated his body. How far to the house? He had no idea. Just to be safe, he decided to stop for fast food. He gingerly wedged the urn and the envelope against his belongings in his passenger seat and pulled out of the morbid parking lot.

*

While waiting at the Sonic Drive-in, he pulled the directions from the white envelope. The penmanship was remarkable and distracting. He pulled out the Colorado map T.J. Rivers had sent him.

“Twyla.” He chuckled.

My Dearest Nephew Zeke, the letter began.

A strange idea lifted its head. The words held such affection. Yet, he had no idea any of this even existed thirty hours ago. He let that thought sit in his mind a moment, and then continued reading.

Thank you for coming to my aid. As you are presently in Pueblo, you will want to take Hwy 50, West, to the Copper Gully Road.

He located the same two roads on the map.

Turn left (south) and proceed down this road for fifteen miles. The estate will be to your left (east side of the road). It will be obvious, but in case you need assurance, there is a river-stone mailbox at the road with the family crest embedded on the side of the base. You are familiar with this crest by now. Good luck, dear nephew, and again, thank you for coming. -Luther A.L. Clayton.

A British accent resonated in his head. A family crest dons the river stone mailbox, by George.

Everything in Colorado had been contrary to what he had expected. Shock startled him with each new installment of the treasure hunt. What did this house and its family crested mailbox have in store for his shock meter? Time would tell.

He had less than two hours of daylight, and maybe forty five or sixty miles to go to get to the Clayton Estate. The word seemed fuzzy in his mind.

A roller-blading car hop, in a bright yellow t-shirt tucked into her khaki slacks, slid up to his window.

“Good Afternoon, sir. I’m Brandy. Here’s your order, ’kay. If there’s anything else I can get you, you just let me know.” Her pony-tail bobbed as she spoke and a bright-white smile exposed perfectly straightened teeth.

Zeke received the sack and drink, and paid her.

“Here ya go.” She handed him the change. “Thank you, Sir. Have a wonderful day,” she said in her innocent high school girl pitch and rolled back into the vestibule.

He watched the sway of her khakis as she disappeared behind the glass door. He glanced at the time, shrugged, and pulled his food from the sack.

“Let the enigma continue.” He saluted with four fries held high.