Angel Fire by Valmore Daniels (electric book reader .TXT) 📖

mock-disapproval, she pinched the skin on my slender waist and winked at me.

“Yep, nothing a good home-cooked meal can’t cure.”

I smiled so hard I thought I would cry.

Giving me a nod, Aunt Martha left with as much excitement and energy as when she entered.

She called back over her shoulder. “Give me half an hour and I’ll have a feast fit for a queen ready for you.”

“Oh, Aunt Martha, don’t trouble yourself,” I said.

My words fell on deaf ears; she was already gone, a whirlwind of a woman.

Uncle Edward grumbled as he stepped out from behind the counter and lifted my duffel bag.

“Well, come on, then.” Clearly, he was not pleased with the turn of events.

He didn’t say a word as he led me out of the office and down the long walkway. When we arrived at my room, he dropped my bag on the ground and pressed the key into my palm, never once looking me in the eye.

Without fanfare, or so much as curse, he spun on his heel and strode back to the office.

I stared at his back and chewed my lip. Aunt Martha and Uncle Edward were polar opposites in almost every way, and they always would be.

Kyra, one of my cellmates, often said, “You can never go home again.” I’d also heard her say, “There’s no place like home.” I guess she was right on both accounts.

For the first time in ten years, and despite the obvious friction from Uncle Edward, I felt there might be a glimmer of hope that I could find some acceptance here; perhaps, if I was very lucky, I might even find some measure of forgiveness, if not from others, then maybe from myself.

I unlocked the door to my motel room, my new home, and stepped inside.

 

Chapter Four

Separated by an alley barely wide enough to squeeze through, the small one-bedroom bungalow directly behind the Lazy Z served as the Johnsons’ permanent home.

Back in the day, the small dwelling was occupied by a foreman when the motel was little more than a large barracks for seasonal farm workers. Over the years, it had been converted to a cozy bungalow.

Tiny and cramped by most standards, my aunt and uncle had lived there since they inherited the motel from Uncle Edward’s parents over two decades before. Uncle Edward and Aunt Martha were never able to have children, so the two of them had no need of anything larger.

The inside was cluttered with old rickety furniture Aunt Martha swore was antique. Assorted knick-knacks decorated every available flat surface, and piles of books and magazines were stacked in every corner. At one point early in her life, Aunt Martha had fancied herself a painter and produced dozens of ghastly landscapes, still lifes, and other questionable works of art no one in their right mind would ever buy; she had them all framed and hung throughout the house, blind to anyone else’s opinion or taste.

The kitchen, obviously the central hub of activity in the house, had a large table overflowing with a buffet: corn on the cob, potato salad, pickles, bread and a large ham with all the fixings.

I popped a dill pickle in my mouth while I filled my plate with one of everything.

Uncle Edward glowered, and I felt a flush of embarrassment.

I gently bit down on the pickle. The crunch was horrendously loud. Silently cursing, I finished chewing and sat down on the chair. All eyes watched me until I finally swallowed and offered a guilty smile.

“Sorry.”

I folded my hands together as Aunt Martha recited the blessing.

“Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord, amen; and thank you for returning our niece to us after so many years. Amen.”

I replied “Amen” with Uncle Edward, and hesitated only a moment before scooping up a forkful of potato salad, the mayonnaise smearing the corner of my lips. In between mouthfuls, I flashed a grateful smile to my aunt.

“Can’t tell you how great this is, Aunt Martha. Haven’t had real food in years.”

I barely finished chewing what was in my mouth before pushing in a still steaming hot bread roll. I grunted with pleasure as the sweet bread melted on my tongue.

“Make sure you get some of that homemade apple sauce.” Aunt Martha was in her element. I could have kissed her for the feast she’d created for me.

Not everyone was in a celebratory mood. Uncle Edward hadn’t touched his plate.

“Was it a prison, or a stable?” He sounded like he’d just swallowed a cup of vinegar.

“Edward!” Aunt Martha said.

Trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks, I quickly finished chewing and swallowed. “Sorry. I guess I’m going to have to get used to civilization again.”

“Pish-posh. You just help yourself, dear.” Aunt Martha glared at her husband. “We’re just glad you’re here. Aren’t we, Edward?”

Uncle Edward slapped his fork on the table. “You’re glad she’s here? What an act! When’s the last time you went down there for a visit?”

Aunt Martha blanched. “I may not have gone there, but I phoned every week and I sent a care package every single month.”

She then stared down at her lap and rubbed her hands together nervously. When she looked up at me, her eyes were misted over.

“I hope you aren’t too upset,” she said to me. “I couldn’t abide that place; seeing you in there. I would have visited more, but with all the work here…” She shot daggers at Uncle Edward. “She’s your sister’s child, and you treat her like a disease.”

I put my hand on her arm. “I don’t care that you didn’t visit, Aunt Martha. Besides, I didn’t want anyone to see me there anyway. Your packages were more than enough for me.”

Aunt Martha turned back to me and wiped a tear from her eye. She forced a smile and shook her head.

“But that’s all yesterday.” She reached out and took my hand. “Today we have our niece back. She’s family, and she’s here to stay.” She gave a single nod as if that would seal the deal.

“No!” Uncle Edward pushed his chair back so hard, it tipped over and crashed against the tile floor with a resounding crack. He stood straight as a rod, face flushed with anger.

Aunt Martha said, “Edward!”

He stopped her before she could protest further. “I sat there in the courtroom day after day. I heard every word of testimony.”

“Edward, no!” Aunt Martha barked.

He slapped his hand down on the table like a judge pounding his gavel against the sound block to restore order to the court, then pointed a finger at me.

“You never gave them a good explanation. You never told anyone what really happened. That’s why they sent you away. No, they couldn’t prove murder, but they could prove manslaughter.”

I launched myself to my feet. Rage washed over me like hot lava. I felt trapped.

“It was an accident,” I said. “It was an accident!”

I balled my hands into fists by my sides.

Uncle Edward scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, so you keep saying. But those jurors didn’t have a doubt in their minds, and you know what? I don’t either.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My last living blood relation hated me and thought I had murdered my own mother and father. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. I wanted to scream at Uncle Edward, but I bit down hard on my tongue instead.

Uncle Edward took a step toward me, and I tensed.

A faint wisp of smoke curled out from between my clenched fingers. I could feel the heat swelling inside like the first spark of a dark, deadly furnace.

“Edward!” Aunt Martha half gasped, half screamed.

“It’s true. Tell me I’m wrong,” Uncle Edward demanded. “Oh, you may not have meant to kill them, but you certainly meant to kill someone. Tell me I’m wrong!”

I tried not to pay attention to him, tried to block out all external sensation. I closed my eyes in concentration.

My eyes can see.

My tongue can taste.

My mouth can smile.

Uncle Edward’s eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting a field mouse.

“You’re the one who started the fire.”

His fingers curled like talons.

My lungs can breathe.

My heart can beat.

I willed myself to sit back down. I clenched my fists as the wisps of smoke grew fainter.

“You burned your own parents alive.”

My stomach can digest.

Aunt Martha finally found her voice. “Edward! That is truly enough!”

My legs can walk.

“Yes,” he said, taking a single step back, “it is.” And with that he stalked out of the room.

My body is calm.

Aunt Martha got out of her chair and came over to me. With tears in her eyes, she wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

“It’s all right, honey. I’m going to take care of you now. You’ll see. We’re family, you know. Good or bad. Right or wrong. We’re all we’ve got.”

Pain lanced down my fingers, and I forced my hands to open. Flecks of black ash fell from my palms.

If Aunt Martha heard my next words, she gave no indication; she simply held me tight as I completed my mantra:

I am in control.

 

Chapter Five

My house burned out of control.

Like a panicked hive of ants, firefighters rushed to and from the building, trying to contain the damage. Half a dozen hoses fired heavy streams of water at the blaze, but they were no match for the inferno. It was a lost cause. Their efforts were in vain.

My face was streaked with soot and tears, and I barely comprehended what was going on. My parents were still trapped inside the house.

And I knew, as certainly as I knew my name, it was all my fault.

“Mom! Dad!”

* * *

…My cries echoed in my thoughts long after I woke from the nightmare.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror in my panties and a white T-shirt. Steam from the shower fogged the mirror and blurred my reflection. Absently, I wiped my hand across its surface to wipe away the condensation. Haunted eyes stared back at me as a tear slowly wound its way down my cheek.

I hated myself.

That close! I had come that close to losing control again yesterday. Why couldn’t I control myself? I had done so well the last few years; now I was slipping.

I stared at the palms of my hands. Not a mark on them. They appeared innocent and harmless, but they were filled with fiery hatred and destruction.

I drew my hand across my cheek, wiping away the tears.

Then I slapped the mirror. “What’s wrong with you?”

What was this affliction inside of me? Why did I have it? How could I get rid of it? If not for the mantra—my salvation—I would have absolutely no control over when and where it would strike.

I thrust a hand behind the shower curtain to test the temperature of the water, and then reached down to pull my T-shirt off when I heard a loud knock at the door. I turned the shower off and grabbed a bathrobe.

“Just a minute!” I called out as I wrapped the belt around my waist and tied it in a quick knot. I opened the door and smiled.

“Oh, hello, Aunt Martha.”

My aunt did not look me in the eye. I could tell she was more than a little embarrassed.

I stepped out onto the wooden boardwalk and waited patiently until she screwed up enough courage to tell me what was on her mind.

“I, uh, want