Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 97951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“My grandmother told me a story one day. She talked about old medicine, concoctions, remedies from the doulas and Black nurses back in the old days. Some of those medicines helped a woman end a pregnancy. Wasn’t approved by no FDA, and wasn’t sittin’ on no pharmacy shelf either, but they worked. Medicines for a bad back and stomach ulcers, too. Some of ’em were love spells, if you believe in that sort of thing. They had everything, she said, from homemade ointments to make a ninety-year-old man’s dick hard, to stuff that would make you think you were floatin’ in outer space, feelin’ all fuzzy and good on the inside, and it didn’t fuck up your mind and give you sores like this shit that folks are smoking and shooting into their veins today.
“A far-out drug made of nothin’ more than fermented grapes, seeds, a dash of snake spit, and a bit of this and that for flavor. Some of those remedies made you stay up all night. Some of them made you sleep all day. Some made you lose your inhibitions. Some made you forget everything you didn’t want to think about. Others made you aggressive… or horny. Some just brought out the real you. She said many times they actually worked because she’d taken her share of them to know. People just had to realize what they were doin’, who to get the right stuff from, and how to take the correct amount.”
“This is all very interesting, baby, and if I were in a better mood I wouldn’t mind the discussion, but what does this have to do with my grandfather needin’ to go to Hell without dragging my father down there with him?”
“Well,” she leaned in and stroked his hair, tucking a thick cluster of silky black loose waves behind his ear. “Baby, you can hardly catch an old demon with new solutions. You have to trap them in their own depravities. The new shit, like thumb drives, robots, and fancy technology ain’t always the answer. Sometimes you gotta open an old ass, creaky crypt to really get to them dusty bones and make them dance. Hell is almost as old as time. Lucifer, the fallen angel, don’t dance to new melodies. He waltzes to the sounds of angels playin’ harps. It’s time to make some music,” she whispered in his ear, then told him more. So much more, and soon she felt his face against her own, tightening with a smile…
Grandpa’s house used to be her refuge. The last time she’d been there, she’d left with a new gold Bible, the pages thick and gold-lined as well, and a big, beautiful white box full of apple turnovers and cherry tarts that Grandpa had ordered from his favorite bakery: Baked Brothers Co. Grandpa had been good to her from the moment she’d entered the world. His paternal love, soothing attention, protection, and support were like sweet white sprinkles on a freshly baked sugar cookie. Now, that cookie was stale, dry, hard and crumbling to pieces.
The love remained, yet was fading fast. What a difference the ugly truth makes. Silva sat in Grandpa’s grand dining room, her mind filled with fantastical ideas, memories, grief and so much more, resolved to do as Lennox said. Act normal. It had been difficult faking it until she made it, as Mama used to say. After all, she’d never been a great actress, often forgetting her lines in the school plays, but she had played one role well. That of pretending to not be disheartened by life’s gut punches. Just like when she was forced to hide her disappointment after having experienced her third miscarriage the prior year. It was rather strange that Lennox had reached out to her on the anniversary of losing her daughter. It had almost seemed like God had stepped in to mend a fence, where another had been broken.
However, Grandpa had arrived with a good word when she’d experienced her last loss. Being the family man that he was, he’d presented her with flowers. He then leaned in close as she lay in the hospital bed, the sheets soaked with her and her husband’s tears. She’d been wearing a thick, bloody pad, which only served as a stark reminder of what once was, along with the tremendous emotional pain. He’d told her that one day, God would grant her wish. ‘Don’t give up. God grants babies in the most surprising ways. Miracles happen every day.’ Then, he’d given her a loving kiss on the forehead.
…As a grandmother would. Or so many would think. Grandpa, however, played both parts. She never thought about how odd that had been until that moment. He had a treasure trove of ex-wives, the majority of them still above ground, all grandmothers who were in their adult children’s lives, but not one had stepped foot in that house in recent years. Perhaps Grandpa had told them not to? Perhaps they vowed not to…