Pursuit Of The Cygnus Thief

Chapter 25 - Chez Parrish

Chapter 25

“Chez Parrish” By Roseyone

     I watched from the passenger side mirror of my father’s truck as John stood up in the flatbed, launched then landed on the sidewalk in front of the Parrishes house. He jammed both hands into his pants pockets then he turned away from the house and took a careful look around the cul-de-sac.

“Say? Does anybody else live around here?” he asked pointing with his chin at the spread of white stucco houses lining the Parrishes street. My father slipped out from behind the wheel and walked around the front the truck. I wanted to tell John the truth but I knew my father would not approve. Instead, I’d have to wait and tell John on the way to Scrub Peak in the morning.

“They used to.” My father replied as he opened the passenger side door of the truck. I stepped out. My father offered no further explanation. He strode over to the bed and reached for the cooler of chilled beer that he’d brought along. Together, the two men hoisted the cooler out of the truck and carried it to the Parrishes front door.

“Kinda reminds me of this place I know. It’s about an hour from Las Vegas,” John said. He turned to glance at the empty houses again but this time his expression was grim.

     Of the seven homes in the Parrishes cul-de-sac six were testaments to Mr. Abel’s predatory will. The land deeds, some with century old provenance, belonged to him. Mr. Abel had gained them through his rapacious lawyers, relentless brutality and the innate paranoia of Assumptions’ citizens. He’d kept his acquisitions in sound repair; the cul-de-sac was ideal Mr. Abel thought, for the private gambling events he sometimes hosted. There’d been talk of leasing the houses to people in the Po’Court once but they were as penniless as they were proud.

Who’d want to live in the Bottom Acres? Them coloreds lived in those houses and a family of them still lives right there. We might be new to shoes but we have pride too. Private well water be damned.

     Mrs. Parrish greeted us at the threshold, my father introduced John, we placed our shoes on the porch near the door and followed her inside. I introduced Mr. Parrish and the Parrish girls before my father could speak. Forced to stifle their irritation toward me by the presence of adults, Melba and Ella delivered anemic hugs, stale Happy Birthday wishes and flimsy smiles. With the introductions made, the men turned their attention to the contents of the beer cooler at their feet. Mrs. Parrish glanced at John one more time then herded her daughters and I into the kitchen to help with dinner. John wasn’t fragile. During the introductions he hadn’t over smiled, his rough New York accent stayed put and there’d been no hint in his eyes or skin that John felt perplexed to find himself suddenly standing in a house full of Negroes.

    The men settled in the livingroom where a massive portrait of Jesus Christ seemed to endorse the antenna crowned television console directly below it. Flanking both television and Christ were two very large wooden crosses, in fact every wall and door in the Parrish home bore numerous rough-hewn folk art crosses and finely honed crucifixes coaxed from wood.

     Mrs. Parrish treated me to a glimpse of the proper birthday cake she’d made in my honor. Chocolate inside and out she assured, nothing fancy but nothing nasty either. She gave my shoulders a pat and said that everything would be all right. She’s gone now. Don’t you hurt yourself by thinking about that one for one minute. There was something more, a chasm between what Mrs. Parrish actually said and what she wanted to say yawned open then that aperture of opportunity quickly shuttered. Like my father Mrs. Parrish was wrong about Matilda, she’d be back in my home soon and I didn’t need Mr. Abel to confirm it.

“What’s the matter with you?” Melba asked the moment we were both in the dining room alone to prepare a buffet service.

“Nothing.”