Page 15 of Blood Queen

I used to sit and watch Papa’s Tai Chi routine in silent awe. His face and frame so relaxed for that forty-minute period that he looked like a different man. Before he taught me the martial art, it looked peaceful to me.

I wander next to Papa. He nods and pauses so I can join him. The water-like flowing movements of Tai Chi and the crisp mountain air sedate me and fill me up with that child-like peace I used to feel simply watching him.

These are the best kind of mornings. By the time we finish our slow and steady movements, my stomach is growling, and the sun has begun to heat the Earth.

Papa decides today is too hot to do much of anything, and I agree with him. It’s sweltering outside and even worse in the cabin.

Papa is tinkering around behind the house with the rainwater collection tank and I’m lying on a blanket in the shade of the barn with a book. What I really want is to go swimming.

Maybe see Truman again. Maybe this time I can talk to him more, ask some questions. Make a real friend. Maybe I can tell Papa that I’m craving a treat and could I pretty please head into town to grab us something for later.

From my spot in the barn, I hear sticks and leaves crunching and snapping under footfalls. At least two people approaching. I dog ear my page in the book and listen harder.

I can recall only three times we’ve had visitors over the years.

All of them were hikers who’d lost the trail.

The first time, Papa greeted them with a rifle. At nine years old, I’d had to muscle past him and show a wonky, gap-toothed smile as big and wide as I knew how, to get them to talk.

Apparently, most people don’t respond well to guns pointed at them. The second and third time, Papa left the gun inside but stuck right by my side while I directed them back to the trails, safely away from our property.

The people approaching are wheezing and bickering. I’m too hot to get up, so I stay where I am a little longer. They sound outof breath. I want to laugh, the trail isn’t that steep or hard to the house.

One calls out, “Toni, where the hell are ya?” I roll to my side and peek my head around the bale of hay blocking my view.

Threemen.

All in black suits. All greasy and slick-looking standing between the barn and the cabin. I don’t know who Toni is but they keep calling out the name. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. These are not hikers. One fans his suit coat in and out, trying to cool off. Their fancy shoes are dusty and dingy from the walk.

The fattest of the three puts his hands on his knees, half bent over and pants. Clearly the walk from town was on the cusp of too much for him. Again, Toni is called out. Again, it is met with silence.

I don’t dare move. Papa is only around the corner from them, just barely out of sight. I know he hears them. There’s no way he doesn’t. What is he doing?

The chickens begin to cluck as one of the men turns, facing the barn entrance, and takes three steps in my direction. I scurry silently backward, deeper into the small barn.

“Stop.” The voice is Papa’s. It’s authoritative and menacing. I shiver at his tone. A tone I’m not familiar with.

“Toni. You look alright, man. It’s been a while,” one of the men says.

“Not long enough,” Papa says.

The fat man lights a cigar, then wipes sweat from his forehead. Papa looks tough in his white ribbed tank top with a wrench in his fist. His muscles are extra pronounced as the shirt clings to him with sweat.

I think these men must be extra stupid for coming here. Papa’s gun is just a couple feet to the left against the house.

“Where’s the girl, Tony?”

“I don’t know what girl you’re talking about.” Papa’s voice drips with sarcasm.

“Enough bullshit!” The middle man shouts as he steps toward Papa. “You disgraced the family, and you disgracedhers. The war you caused ends now. Give me the girl.”

Papa looks at the middle man and cocks his head. His eyes narrow. “You always were a shit brother Sal,” he says.

My heart races in my chest. I’m sure someone out there can hear it. It’s that loud. What is Papa talking about and who the hell is Toni? Is that man related to Papa?

The fat one pipes up. “I’ll search the house.”

Papa doesn’t move. Of course, Papa knows I’m not in there so what does it matter if that fat, sweaty man goes in. The middle one, Sal, and Papa glare at each other the way wolves snarl and growl when protecting their own.

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