“If I get arrested, you will be left alone,” I tell her. “We need to be strategic.”
“You’re right,” she says at long last.
I lean in and kiss the spot between her brows.
“Good. Come. Breakfast and then I have a surprise for you.”
Mrs. Pym has already left the tray laden with fresh fruits and a bowl of oatmeal on my desk. I waste no time pulling Lenora into my lap and dragging the tray over.
“There’s only one bowl,” she states.
“I’m not hungry. No, you eat,” I scold when her eyebrows furrow.
Her lips purse, but she obediently does as she’s told. I watch her finish every bite before nudging her to her feet and capturing her fingers.
Usher House was built with something in mind that, over time, got forgotten. It started as a manor, simple with clean lines and a direct purpose to showcase the Usher fortune.
Every new generation expanded on it. Built layers to leave behind a part of themselves.
My contribution was Lenora. Her grace and beauty. Her green thumb that filled the halls and rooms with life and color. Evenin the winter, she managed to bring to life armloads of neatly trimmed flowers from the greenhouse.
Without them, we pass the dreary corridor from my office to the family chapel that extends from the house. An addition crafted from boards cut from trees grown in the family cemetery where my wife and children rest. Where my brother and his wife rest. My parents. Their parents. Every Usher since the beginning. Someday, where Lenora and I will call home.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“To see your surprise.”
It took time to pull off. A lot of greased palms and favors. That’s the thing about money. It’s never how much a thing costs, but who is willing to corrupt their morals for it. Everyone has a price, something they want, a problem only you and your resources can fix for them.
Being an Usher isn’t simply being a name. It’s being power.
And it’s the fruits of that power that sit waiting before the eyes of God, a holy sacrament.
Worn carpet and the faint hint of rot guide our feet through miles of forgotten passages. Silence follows, a faithful dog at our heels. I can’t remember a time when this side of the estate was disturbed. I never cared for religion. Neither did my parents. Perhaps, it’s been that long since these halls have seen life.
Lenora stays at my side, small and curious. Her hand is nestled in mine, so trusting.
I know we are close by the disturbance of dust on the floor. The open doors of the chapel beckoning us in.
It’s here I hold my breath. I let Lenora slip past over the threshold. Bare feet leaving carpet for wood untouched by care in too long. Dirt and debris litter the way, cling to the undersides of the four benches in two straight lines facing the altar. The polished cross carved by hand by a great grandfather I nevermet. The symbolism of hard work and God every Usher must strive to balance.
I believe I have.
My gift is an example of that.
God and power.
“Are those…?”
Lenora sprints the final five feet to the hand carved boxes. The gleaming wood with gold trim and secure fastens. Both raised on stone dais, lifted before the Holy symbol of divinity.
My boys.
Home.
Where they belong.
Even if it’s merely the vessels that once contained them.
