“You should be.” The darkness in his voice was more pronounced than before. Maybe he was right, but I didn’t feel that way.
At least not any longer.
I’d never liked being in cemeteries, especially in New Orleans. Maybe a grassy knoll would be better where tombstones weren’t the size of rooms.
As I walked with Alexander through the catacombs, he seemed at peace. For the first time since he’d kidnapped me, there was a distinct awkwardness between us that was different. The gruff man who’d had something to say to me every time I pushed back against him was suddenly silent.
In his silence was a story needing to be told. Maybe initially I’d hoped for an admittance of his guilt to make everything easier.
Including hating him.
Now I wasn’t entirely certain what I was hoping for. Maybe a reason to believe he was telling the truth. But I’d never be able to call him innocent. He was guilty of dozens of crimes. Of that, I was positive. I doubted he’d tell me stories about what he’d done, but I sensed he carried their deaths around with him as if eagerly positioning links on a heavy chain that would ultimately weigh enough to drag him to hell and keep him there.
Yet there was no guilt, no level of remorse because that wasn’t anything he’d been taught. Nor had it been instilled in him as a child. Quite the opposite.
In a few seconds, I realized why I’d been brought here with him. He’d taken me to his family tomb. Almost instantly, I could tell it went back several generations.
He nodded toward the monolith, encouraging me to explore.
As soon as I stepped inside the well of the mausoleum, I felt overwhelmed by knowing how many of his ancestors were buried here.
There were dozens of names etched in a tablet. “Your family.”
“Yes. My family goes back generations. My grandmother insists she can feel the presence of several of them.”
I shuddered from the thought. “She sees ghosts.”
His laugh was strangely scintillating for what we were doing. “My grandmother is as close to being a witch that you’ll ever meet.”
His words caught me off guard and I laughed. “You have a fascinating family.”
“You have no idea.”
“Why is it important for me to see?”
“Because if you don’t believe my family reveres life, then I hoped you’d understand that we do understand and mourn death. We are just like everyone else. We celebrate. We suffer. We face tragedy and family illness. We learn to deal with mistakes and decisions made. We thrive when we’re together. We suffer more when we act on our own. Our family has been here for generations, my ancestors proud of their heritage, building a base for us that allowed for wealth and prosperity yet couldn’t control the grim reaper. No one can do that.”
Why did it seem as if he was trying to convince himself that it was acceptable to live? Or maybe to free himself of the chains keeping him prisoner?
As he walked closer, so did I, noticing his father’s name first and foremost. “You’re superstitious.”
“We are steeped in the ways of darkness. At least according to my grandmother, a very wise if not somewhat devilishly powerful woman who you don’t want to cross.”
I moved even closer, taking the time to feel a sense of myself. I’d never been one to believe in the stories I’d heard about New Orleans, ghosts roaming the quiet darkness in search of heaven. Yet I could understand the intense draw to a place so many held in high reverence.
Just like I witnessed in Alexander. He was so powerful, so lost in a sea of darkness that had shaped him into the man who stood before me. Nothing about him was casual from his attire to his demeanor. He was always tense, feeling every scrap of emotionplayed out in his mind, but incapable of expressing his feelings in a way anyone but he could understand.
There was so much anger inside, so many demons that it seemed as if this place provided him a strange moment of comfort, a relief from running his ruthless empire.
If only for a few minutes.
My family wasn’t steeped in some huge legacy or history. There’d been no brothers or sisters to rely on or talk to when growing up. Just the three of us. Perhaps he didn’t know how lucky he was. He watched me intently as he always did when I traced several of the names, even whispering them to no one. Maybe to the ghosts tickling the light breeze.
Or to my conscience, which resented the realization that I enjoyed spending time with him. Whoever he was underneath the temper and the violent chaos that had created the glass house he lived in, I couldn’t seem to free myself from the connection.
“You loved your father very much.” My words somehow echoed in the dense space.
“Don’t we always love our fathers?”
