American Gothic

"To Great, Great, Great Grandmother! She'll break the tie!"

A chorus of huzzahs went up. Charles found himself pulled and prodded and hustled along from every direction. They seemed to be taking him outside. "Wait a minute," he said. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"My dear boy: I've grown very fond of you in a short period of time, but you really are about as sharp as a bowling ball." It was Ruthven. He put his arm around Charles' shoulders and was ushering him along at the center of the mob. "That's not how things are done in this family. If we say you're one of us then that's the way things are."

"And if you say I'm not?"

"New blood comes in many forms. But since we have a moment, why don't you tell me, man to man: If you could choose, which of the two of them would you want? Do remember I'm very fond of my nieces, so be careful what you say."

"Well, Devanie and I...she's a very special woman, and we...that is, Lorelei is quite charming and I happen to feel...what I'm trying to say is—"

"See? Lucky it's not up to you. We'd be here all day."

They took him along the old swamp trail, toward the mysterious marker and the family tombs, an eye of dry land, all vine-choked mausoleums and squat headstones with roses and gargoyles carved. The miasma of decay made Charles gag. The live oaks looked like twisted, grasping hands.

When they passed the first mausoleum Charles was not surprised to see movement at its gate: After all, the entire family was coming to the reunion, right? Rusty old gates creaked and faded stone markers moved as gray hands slowly but surely dug out of the mud. The mob grew larger. Then they came to the largest, oldest tomb of all, and Uncle Einar unlocked it with an ancient key from around his neck, and when he went inside everyone (Charles included) hushed and held their breath.

At first it was difficult to recognize the thing he brought out. It was so shrunken and warped that it looked like a bundle of old rags. But soon Charles recognized it for what it was: brown bones, brittle as a bird, wrapped in roll after roll of ancient linen, a shrunken, wizened, skeletal face the only thing left exposed. They called her Great, Great, Great Grandmother, but those Egyptian cerements suggested that she was a thousand times greater than that, the first and greatest of the Family.

Uncle Einar whispered in Oldest Grandmother's ear, in a language no one else in the world spoke anymore, and then he listened for a voice that was less than a whisper in the wind. Nobody else could have understood what was said, but Uncle Einar nodded and reverently laid the ancient bones back in their crypt.

"Great, Great, Great Grandmother says: If this man is going to be One Of Us, fate will have to decide," he announced later.

Everyone began to mutter. Charles sweated. "What does that mean?"

Ruthven shrugged. "Well, the good news is you'll definitely know which one you're marrying soon."

"IS that good news?"

"Your other option is the pie crust. It's going to come down to which of my nieces has the stronger gift. I suspect that's Lorelei, which would be bad for you. She doesn't keep men long."

"What does she do when she's done with them?"

"It takes good soil to grow a garden like that. Not everything she plants in it is a flower or a vine."

Charles gulped.

"Devanie is much more compassionate. On the other hand, she's feeling a little stung by your peccadillo last night. If she gets to have you, could be you wouldn't last the night."

Charles gulped twice.

"Of course, it's not for me to know what's in a woman's heart. Could be you're here to join the Family for good. Although I'd hold off making arrangements for the next reunion just yet."

A great, black cauldron was rolled in. Charles recognized it; when he looked at his reflection in the surface of its roiling brew he saw three women, two old and one young, looking quite pleased. Devanie stood on one side of it, cut a lock of her hair, tied it a complicated knot around a stone, and dropped it into the pot. Lorelei did the same. The air between them practically crackled.

"You're not going to get away with it this time, Lorelei. This time it's my turn."

"Talk is easy, Devanie. Let's see you prove it."

Both stones disappeared into the brew. Aunt Keziah stirred the pot around and around. Eventually, he knew, one stone would float to the surface. Charles leaned over so far that he almost fell in. Devanie grabbed him by one arm, Lorelei by the other.

"Something's coming up!" Aunt Keziah said. A dark shape floated just beneath the surface. "Which is it?" everyone said at once, but it was too early to tell. "You can't rush these things."

Charles looked at Lorelei. "You wouldn't really plant me in the garden, would you?"

She smirked.

He looked at Devanie. "You know I love you, right sugar dumpling? You know I only thought it was a dream."

She raised an eyebrow.

Aunt Keziah thrust her hand into the pot, fishing for the floating stone. Both sisters let Charles go and leaned in close. Aunt Keziah grabbed the shape, pulled it out, and unclenched her fingers one by one...

Charles would be the first to admit that he wasn't a brave man. If pressed, he'd also concede that he wasn't particularly smart. If anything had gotten him to where he was in life (other than just being handsome, which he'd found was often all you really need anyway), it was that he always recognized an opportunity when he saw one. So as soon as Devanie and Lorelei let go, and he was sure every single Family member was looking at the stone and only the stone, he took the best and only opportunity that had presented itself all day:

He ran.

He probably wouldn't make it to the car, he knew. The Family outnumbered him and knew the terrain better. Still, he had a decent start, and he was determined to give it his sporting best. Even as he heard the squawks of surprise and shuffle of pursuing feet, he couldn't help but smile.

If nothing else, he was finally taking an active hand in Family business.