A Rustling In Liegen
In confronting his slaveholding ancestry, a man’s search for understanding descends into confusion and violence.
4:15 p.m.
The Baldridge family alit upon American shores in 1792. After several weeks traveling up the Hudson – and a brief stop in Sleepy Hollow – Daniel and Elizabeth purchased a small tract of fertile land in upstate New York. There, among the surrounding forest and tangled switchgrass, Mr. Baldridge, an architect and gentleman farmer, gallantly raised an elegant three-story homestead.
Such is the story etched onto a patinaed bronze plaque at the entrance of the Baldridge House & Slave Quarters in Liegen, New York – a house museum founded by Dhyey Baldridge, a seventh-generation Baldridge scion.
“The group is around 30 people, ma’am,” Dhyey tells a nervous patron.
The impatient crowd rustles like leaves under a rake, “OK, but do you think that’s too many for me? I get overstimulated quite easily.”
“It’s up to you, ma’am.”
“Is there any chance we can stop if I get overwhelmed?”
Mark taps Luke’s shoulder.
“Are you listening to this woman? She’s frickin nuts.”
“What you on about?”
“This old lady.”
He shouldn’t have tapped him. This Brit gives asshole. He’s dressed like a little girl. Those pink shorts, and even worse, those tight rubber bracelets, seriously, they must be cutting off his circulation.
“You interested in slavery?”
“Nah, mate, it’s my day off.”
“From what?”
“I work at the camp a few miles from here, Camp Featherhead.”
“You a masochist?
“The fuck does that mean?”
Ah, a small vocabulary, too.
“Honestly, mate, I just didn’t fancy going to Applebee’s and getting off with some ex-camper.”
“I see,” Mark says, trying to kill his line of questioning before the conversation death spirals.
Luke, though, keeps going. “Not tryna impregnate some uni girl and have their fuckin Jew mom give it the big un – make me pay maintenance or something.”
The whole American adventure, hawked in glossy brochures and on dated websites, had never been Luke’s dream. More of a last resort than a calling. Stars and Stripes USA takes advantage of the working class – tossers like him. They promise all this rubbish about camp, America, and money. It’s all bullshit.
“Attention! Attention!” Dhyey projects. “Welcome to the Baldridge House and Slave Quarters…”
The center-hall colonial is grand but not sprawling. It is made of timber and painted white. The first floor is a tribute to the Baldridge family. Animatronics, restored rooms, artifacts, and video boards introduce Daniel and Elizabeth, and conclude with the museum’s founding. The second and third floors recount the story of four enslaved people: Tamar, Isaac, Grace, and John, each drawing extensively from Tamar’s “miracle diary.”
Luke nudges Mark.
“These bots are mad, aren’t they?”
“How so?”
“I mean, just look at her,” Luke nods toward Grace. The animatronic’s breasts, die-cast and improbably large, glint under the museum’s natural lighting. “You can almost feel her. She’s well fit, kinda sexy, isn’t she?”
“Dude, have some respect.”
“I’m just taking the piss, relax.”
“I have a question!” a bearded man shouts from the back of the room.
“Yes?” Dhyey replies.
Luke grins: “We’re allowed to smile, yeah?”
Mark ignores him.
Luke reaches for his pocket.
“Shrooms – you want some?”
This motherfucker brought shrooms to a slave museum?
“No, I don’t want some. What the hell?”
“My first question,” the bearded man shouts, “How’d you get the name Dhyey?”
“It’s the name my parents gave me, sir.”
“But isn’t that a Brown name? You don’t look Brown to me?”
“Names are names, sir.”
“Are you gonna give your kids Brown names, too?”
“Should I take one?” Luke laughs.
“Hell no.”
“Fuck it,” he says, swallowing the fungus whole.
This race-traitor can’t be fucking serious: “I think you’re full of it – I know the slaves weren’t treated as badly as you say they were, not here up North, no shot!”
“Sir, you are welcome to talk to me after, but–”
“Stop! Stop! Stop! I’m overstimulated!” the lady weeps.
She falls to the ground, shaking.
“Are you okay?” Dhyey shouts.
“No! I’m not! It’s all too much – stop the noise!”
“Okay, ma’am, we’re gonna get you some help.”
She is breathing heavily, gasping for air with violent, uncontrollable breaths that scrape against the phlegm in her throat. Did his parents breathe like that? Really, is a violent death fast or slow?
6:00 p.m.
“Nice to finally meet you, Dhyey.”
Suson Alphman is finally getting her chance to interview Dhyey at his home, about five miles north of the museum.
“Oh my!” she exclaims, ducking her head as she exits the downpour. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Dhyey’s blue tie and flax linen suit howl against his olive skin. “I mean, thank you for writing the story,” he says.
Suson grew up on the fringes of Liegen – a very White town – as one of the only biracial, let alone Black kids, within a 15-mile radius of her high school. She was only 16 when Dhyey, then an ambitious entrepreneur, sold his chain of hokey 1950s diners to bid on the old Baldridge property.
“Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll pour you some wine, and then we can get started. Does that sound good?”
The room smells faintly of old wood and almond oil polish. Suson glances around. Dreary, dark oak paneling is everywhere. Stuffy portraits flank the entryway, and American landscape paintings, evocative of Cole and Church, envelop the living room. Near one window, a vintage record player sits atop a low cabinet crowded with old LPs. It’s the most she’s ever seen.
“You want red or white?”
Suson removes her backpack and sits on the corduroy sofa in the living room, twirling her hair into hesitant curls. She straightens it most mornings, coaxing it, section by section, the way an origamist folds and refolds a slip of paper.
“Um…either is fine,” she replies.
In the kitchen, Dhyey grabs a bottle of red wine from a small, built-in wine fridge under the countertop. Ah, yes, California cabernet! He removes the bottle and glances at the wall clock. Nothing registers. 6:04 means nothing – he just wants to get through the evening.
“I’m sorry, I spilled some,” he laughs, entering the living room. “You’ll just have to lick it off the glass.”
Suson peers down at her feet, then shifts her weight from one side to the other. She gives a small, nervous laugh and takes a careful sip from her glass. “It’s… it’s an honor being here. I must say, your museum taught me a lot as a kid.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dhyey declares. “You didn’t mention that on the phone.” He lowers himself onto the ochre wing chair across from Suson, careful not to spill his drink. He smiles: “How so?”
“Honestly,” she hesitates, “when I was younger, whenever someone talked about slavery, I only thought about cotton fields down South, or sugar plantations somewhere in the Caribbean – I never realized it happened here.”
“That’s a common misconception; it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know, but I mean, I’m Black, you know, I should be better, as a Black person.”
She is Black? He didn’t notice. Her skin looks, at best, copper or teak. It is warm like his own.
“Well, I’m glad we did that for you.”
“Me too.”
They sit in silence. Dhyey grins: “Do you know how your family came to the States?”
“I’m not quite sure. My mom’s side came here in the 1960s – I know that.”
“Ah, I see.”
Their dialogue winds and unwinds, word by word, with the deliberate patience of someone stretching out a stubborn coil.
“So, Dhyey,” Suson starts, her voice flattening with the gentle authority of an interviewer returning to her list, “I must ask, where does your name come from?”
“You wanna guess?”
“No, no, I shouldn’t. I don’t want to assume anything, you know?”
Dhyey points to the painted portraits above the fireplace. “Those are my parents, Phyllis and Seymour Baldridge – God bless them – they died decades ago.”
“I’m so sorry. That must have been hard.”
Dhyey, for all his practiced grace, is not really hearing Suson so much as waiting for his turn to respond: “These portraits. They arrived unexpectedly on the day they passed, three months before they were due. No warning, no notice – nothing. It’s like God left me a little piece of them.”
“Oh my god…I’m so–”
“My father did a lot of business in India. They were traveling to Chennai – their prop plane took a nosedive – and that was that. Can you imagine?”
“Absolutely not, just horrible.”
He turns to face Suson. “It was nominative determinism. You know what that means? Dhyey is Hindi for aim. My father was a driven guy – a businessman, a banker, a writer; he could have been a musician for all I know. He was ambitious. He wanted me to be, too.”
He refrains from telling Suson about Avani, his dad’s Indian mistress. She, too, died suddenly, or so he was told. Apparently, she had always loved the name Dhyey; it was a family name or something.
“So are your parents both White, then?” Suson asks.
“I suppose so…as I said, my dad spent a lot of time in India, so that must have been where they got the Hindi. But, I’ve never taken a DNA test or anything, so I suppose they could be a mix of things, too.”
“Can I write that down?”
“Uh, sure, why not, I guess.”
5:20 p.m.
Mark and Luke are in the parking lot. The clouds are puffy and purple, like swollen bruises.
“All good, dude?”
“I’m chillin, mate.”
Luke slouches over the curb; his face droops; and his forearms hang limp over his crotch.
“You need something?”
“The clouds look mental tonight,” he finally says, squinting upward.
“You want water? I have some in my car.”
Luke swats him away.
“Nah, Mark, I’m sweet – just ridin’ the buzz.”
“You need a lift?”
“I’m catching the bus. Goes right past Featherhead. Fuckin’ magic, that.”
“You’re not doing that. I’m giving you a ride, c’mon.”
***
Mark’s white Volvo reeks of damp leather and nicotine. Luke runs his fingers along the edge of the passenger seat, feeling the gnarled seam where the upholstery peels back.
“Bangin setup, mate.”
The engine moans like an old dog.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Mark asks.
“Manchester. Wretched place, that.”
“What brings you out here, then?”
“Don’t get me started.”
“No, I’m serious – what brings you out here?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Just tell me, man.”
Luke glances out the window. It’s proper gorgeous. Where he sees stars, neon signs flicker above shuttered takeaways and empty mattress stores.
“I’m a bricklayer – been doing it for years now. Started right after failing my GCSEs. Pay’s never been too good. But I was living with my girlfriend. We split rent. Stuff like that, you know.” He watches the syrupy rain distort the streetlights. “Slag slept around.”
“Oh fuck…”
“Yeah, you know, some people’ll do anythin’ to save somethin’ that’s proper fucked. That’s just not me.”
Long before he had signed the dotted line and agreed to spend seven weeks of his life wasting away in the American wilderness, he’d already given up on the idea of anything permanent back home. What was the point? Kate with her two jobs – one ringing up groceries and the other as a “teacher’s aide.” That second one was bullshit (she made it sound noble, too). She was really doing porn – stripping down for pervy cucks on the internet. He got the fuck outta there.
Ka-thunk
Mark tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“Fuck. Big pothole – sorry.”
His knuckles whiten as they sit in silence.
“Can we stop somewhere, yeah? I’m bloody starving,” Luke says, rubbing his stomach with exaggerated misery.
5:50 p.m.
It’s an original 1950s diner. The inside is harshly bright – black and white checkered linoleum floor, silver barstools, even a faded jukebox – the whole nine. It’s a dump.
“This place is a classic,” Mark says.
A hostess in a blue dress and white apron leans over the podium, chewing her gum with performative gusto. “Just the two of you, yeah?”
“Just the two, thank you.”
The table is sticky. The vinyl booth squeaks as they slide in.
“You’re good to eat?” Mark asks.
“I’m built like a fuckin’ lorry, mate. You know I gotta top up the tank.”
Luke taps Mark’s shoulder. “Look at this fuckin twink, yeah.”
The server is wearing a green sweater. It spells out “DARTMOUTH” in blocky, felt lettering. “Welcome to Splish Splash. My name is Jake.” The “DA” and “TH” peek out from under his apron: “I’ll be your server for today. Can I get you started with anything, maybe some drinks?”
“Can I have a Coke, like the syrup version. You know, the one where you have to mix it?”
“Sure thing, boss,” he points to Luke: “Anything for you?”
Bloody hell, the what, the syrup version?
“Uh – get me whatever he’s having.”
“Right on, Sally,” Jake laughs. “I’ll be right back.”
Luke leans forward, pinning the plastic list of pancakes, grilled cheese, and battered fish under his elbows. Bobby Darin begins to play over the radio.
“So like, tell me, Mark,” he asks. “You must live here, right?”
“No, I live in San Francisco. I’m from here, though.”
“Visiting family?”
“Sort of, I’m a contractor. You know Serendipity?”
“Nah.”
“Well, they’re in AI; they work with universities, museums, corporations, places like that. I’m doing research, helping them find partners for, you know, interactive stuff.”
“That’s well mint.”
“Yeah, I drove out here a couple of days ago – scouting places. Gonna drive down to the city starting tomorrow.”
Luke peers out the window. He’s sweating balls, and damn, it’s really pouring now.
Seconds later, the Cokes hit the table.
Clank
6:25 p.m.
Dhyey glances back toward Suson. The rain’s pitter-patter has intensified.
“So what’s the story about?”
“I’m profiling the museum.”
He knows that, but what’s interesting?
“Is race your beat?”
His trachea slowly closes.
“Race?”
“Yeah, I mean, racial injustice, slavery, Black Lives Matter, stuff like that.”
She sits puzzled: “I’m certainly interested in race, but it’s not all I do.”
“Yeah, that makes sense, you know, I’m sorry if that came off as rude – I’m just curious.”
“It’s okay, honestly, I want you to feel comfortable – like – I want my piece to reflect you.”
Her words are soothing.
“You know, I was only fifteen when you bought the property – I remember it actually, I covered it in the school paper.”
“Ah, yes, you’re from here.”
Suson nods, drumming her fingers softly against the back of her notebook: “I…I have to ask, and I’m really curious about this, are you…are you haunted by your history?
“The slavery thing, well, it’s hard, but it’s also my job, you know, to talk and communicate the history. I can’t focus inward.”
“I see. But like – to some extent – aren’t you centering yourself, though? Like, why you? Why this story? I guess that’s what I’m curious about?”
“It’s our history, you know.”
“Our?”
“Not as in you, but like, as in America.”
“Got it.”
“I know they were enslavers, but still, it’s my history, broadly speaking, I should have a voice.”
“But–”
“And let me clarify, that doesn’t mean I should control the narrative, it’s just, this history is a part of me, it’s basically who I am.”
“Why start the museum, then? I mean, if you didn’t want to control the narrative…”
“I don’t control the narrative – the history books do – I just interpret them–”
“Who wrote those history books?”
“Well, if you’d just let me–?” Shoot, he didn’t mean to say that. “I’m sorry–”
“No, I’m sorry, I’ll stop interrupting. Please, continue.”
“My point is, just because I come from enslavers, doesn’t mean I center them.”
“Can we talk about that, maybe? Like, what’s your goal with the museum?”
She wants to feel like Baldwin twisting Buckley. But she doesn’t. No one ever does.
“I mean,” he wipes the sweat from his forehead. “My parents were named Phyllis and Seymour – there’s no Dhyey on the Dick Van Dyke Show – is there? I mean, really, who was I supposed to connect with – some hippie on Dick Cavett, or George Harrison with his fuckin sitar? I was a White kid with a Brown name, can you understand that? There was no existing between worlds – I was a part of only one – I knew only one – that of Phyllis and Seymour.”
He looks down into his wine glass: “You know, we listen to rap music; we watch basketball; we wear street clothes. I want people to crawl out of their skin – I want them naked.”
Suson cringes. Her body is curling in on itself, folding smaller and smaller with each new thing Dhyey reveals. She knows there are two types of people in this world. One kind is terribly guarded – they approach interviews with extreme caution, always insisting, “I have to talk to my lawyer,” or, “Let me get back to you,” sometimes a dozen times in a single conversation. The second kind is far too relaxed: “We have a million OSHA violations,” or “I hate my boss.” To be an outstanding reporter, you really have to take advantage of both.
“I’m sorry,” Dhyey says. Suson hovers nearby like a persistent gnat, refusing to be swatted away: “Can we start over?”
Damn, seriously? She hears her mentor’s voice: “Don’t let him change the subject.” Even so, she backs off, “Please do.”
Dhyey downs his drink, nearly dropping his glass: “I mean, foremost, I want people to know about Northern slavery. What challenges did winter present? What clothes did enslaved people wear? How were they treated? I mean, I really want to educate people.”
“That makes sense.”
“When my parents died, it was kinda like – if I don’t dig up this history, who will?”
“Did your parents feel shame?”
“I don’t know – they never talked about it. I do know that they liked the historical significance. They wanted ‘Baldridge’ to mean something, to be a legacy.”
She searches his face, waiting for more, but he’s preoccupied, lost somewhere.
5:55 p.m.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Jake says. “Are you guys talking about the Baldridge House?”
“Yeah mate, what’s up?”
“The guy’s my godfather.”
Mark looks up, “No way, the Dhyey guy?
“Yeah, Dhyey.”
“Proper geezer, that one,” Luke adds.
He bumps Mark’s shoulder. “Mark’s thinking of investing.”
“Yo, really?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m doing some research for a company I’m working with.”
“Ah, I see. I mean, were you impressed – like – how serious are you?”
“I don’t know, man. It’s such a contentious topic, you know, I’m not sure it’s worth all the effort. I mean, a lady literally collapsed on our tour.”
“Well, like, you certainly can’t rule it out yet – I mean – it’s a really well-run museum.”
“There’s just a lot of risk, you know. And I want to do it tastefully.”
“I’ll tell you – it’s a well-oiled machine over there. My father helped make the animatronics – you know the slaves – he was the electrical engineer.”
“Those were bangin, mate.”
“Thanks, man–”
“I mean, I can’t even reach him – their website is down,” Mark says.
“Dude, I can put you in touch with him – it’ll be easy.”
It’s gotta be easy, right? He’s his godfather – the museum has followed him everywhere. There was never a Sal’s or Tony’s on the back of Jake’s baseball uniform. No, only a BALDRIDGE HOUSE & SLAVE QUARTERS.
“I was there all the time as a kid. No guided tour – nothing – I had the run of the place. Gosh, it was a helluva time.”
“You couldn’t touch anything, though, right?” Mark asks.
“I mean, I wasn’t supposed to, but let’s be real, my fingerprints are all over that place.”
Mark swirls his Coke. He can’t tell if Jake’s apathetic or nostalgic: “And you never felt upset…?”
“About what?”
“The slavery?”
“Ah – I see. Can I take a seat?”
“Course, mate.” Luke scoots over, opening space in the booth. The plastic seat is slick and cold – even Jake can feel the tacky residue of old milkshakes, a film laid down by decades of drunk teenage boys and their girlfriends.
Jake turns to Luke, “How was your experience?”
“You what, mate?”
“You know, how was the museum? Did you feel sad or guilty?”
“Fuck – I don’t know. I reckon I felt a mix of both, sort of? I don’t really know.”
Jake smiles: “That’s the thing, Mark, encounter or confrontation?”
Mark laughs: “What?”
“I mean, does Dhyey want us to just look at history or, like, actually talk about it? You know, look at me, I’m White, but I’m also Italian. My grandfather wasn’t White exactly – we were new to the party. Yet, every time I walk into the museum, I can’t help but feel guilty. Slavery isn’t my history, you know, it’s stupid.”
“Y’all are fucking mental,” Luke laughs.
“I’m serious. The museum is my history – a place I grew up in – but I can’t enjoy it – I’m not supposed to. So, you know, I just live with it – try not to care too much.”
Mark sips his drink, “The museum made you ask the question, though, right? I mean, that’s its job.”
“No, no, no – don’t get me wrong – Dhyey does a great job, but like, I think he feels the same as me. You know, he lives in a WASPy old cottage a few miles from here – his childhood home. He never got rid of all the crap in there – just added to it. Honestly, I don’t even think he cares. I mean, he keeps his Tupperware next to his crystal-cut wine glasses, and BIC pencils next to his fountain pen. If anyone knows dissonance, he does. He leans into it if anything.”
Jake sees Mark fading: “But like – that’s what would make him a good business partner.”
“How so?”
Jake quiets: “Because of his – you know – dissonance, he isn’t afraid to experiment with certain things. Critics hated the animatronics when my dad installed them. They called the place ‘Slave Disney.’”
“That’s terrible–”
“Don’t be sorry – they’ve probably come around. I’ve seen people – both Black and White – walk in there and have their lives changed – it’s no joke, seriously.”
“I don’t know, man–”
“Just give it a shot – we could go over to Dhyey’s tonight.”
Luke pounds the table. “Hell yeah, Mark, let’s do it. I’ll put a few quid in, too.”
Mark chuckles: “You’ve got nothing, Luke.”
“So what–”
“Listen, you can both come. It will be a – you know – introduction.”
Mark looks at Luke. He can’t send him back to Featherhead on shrooms. “Alright, alright, fine, we’ll go–”
“Hell yeah!” Luke shouts. That’s all he’s ever wanted – someone decent enough to offer a hand without making him beg for it. Mark is pleasant – a decent sort. Luke can follow a bloke like that anywhere, at least as far as a stranger’s door.
“Awesome. I’m really pumped about this,” Jake says. He hesitantly touches the phone holster clipped to his waistband.“Yo, Addy, I’m gonna leave my car here for a few, okay?”
Addy gives a short wave without looking up.
Jake stretches: “Alright, so what’s for dinner tonight then, gentlemen?”
7:45 p.m.
Brrrrrng…Brrrrrng…Brrrrrng.
“Are you gonna answer?”
“They can wait,” Dhyey replies, standing up. “Do you want some more wine?”
“Dhyey, please, there’s much more we need to discuss.”
“Jeez, relax. I’m just getting another drink.”
“Another?”
He laughs: “Another – that’s right.”
Dhyey stumbles into the kitchen and pours himself yet another glass of wine. “What is it anyway?” he shouts.
“What is what?”
“What else do you want to discuss? Like what is it?”
Suson glances at him in the kitchen. He’s relaxed, loose even. She’s practiced this moment a hundred times. “So like, what makes you think it’s all true?”
“What?”
“You know, your family history?”
Dhyey turns to face Suson. What the hell is she talking about? He’s confused: “Suson, have you been to the museum?”
“I know – I know – it seems like a silly question, but I’m serious.”
“Suson, my family history is documented fact.”
“I see, but–”
He enters the living room: “You know what? What kind of music do you like? I have the Beatles, Croce, Costello–”
“Can we focus–”
“Beatles it is!”
He flips through his catalog: “Ah, Meet the Beatles!”
He sets his glass down on the floor and haphazardly lowers the tonearm: “You’ll like this one.”
There were bells on a hill
“But I never heard them ringing! This song’s a cover, you know. One of my favorites – they stole it from The Music Man!”
His motions are not graceful; they conjure, instead, the spectral memory of grace, movements learned imperfectly from stuffy wedding receptions and half-remembered rec room parties long past midnight. She places her head in her hands. It’s getting late – too late for her to stay much longer.
No, I never heard them at all
He points to Suson: “Finish it!
“I don’t know it.”
“Till there was you!”
He lowers the volume: “My sister Miriam loves the original. Frankly, I’ve always preferred the Beatles version. I just adore music, I hope you don’t mind.”
Suson takes a deep breath: “No, not at all.”
Dhyey sighs: “I’m just messing with you.” He raises the volume:
AND WONDERFUL ROSES
“You sure you don’t want wine?”
“I’m sure.”
“Listen, I know it’s all true because we have evidence. Lots and lots of evidence.” He returns to the winged chair: “And to be clear, it’s not something I’m proud of – at all.”
“I know, just please–”
“I’m not the first person to try to cleanse the Baldridge name, you know that, right?”
“I think so?”
“William Baldridge?”
“Ah, yes, of course. I do my research–”
“Then you know I’m not a liar, right?”
“I never said you were.”
“William wrote extensively about Tamar, Grace–”
“Yes, yes, I’m aware – just…look at this.”
Suson removes a flimsy blue binder from her bag; it’s filled with about two inches of copied printer paper.
“I went to the Baldridge family archives in Syracuse,” she begins. Dhyey watches her with skeptical eyes, “and I ran across these journals written by Dorothy Baldridge, you know Dorothy, right?”
“Of course I do – she’s second generation – the daughter of Daniel and Elizabeth.”
“I see, well, I found her diaries quite fascinating–”
Dhyey bites his lip: “Why?”
“Well – I mean,” her voice quivers, “she clearly was a Confederate sympathizer–”
“Of course,” Dhyey proclaims, “she came from a family of enslavers for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s not that–”
“What is it then?”
“Her diaries never mentioned enslaved people, only her hate for the Union – her neighbors – stuff like that.”
Dhyey takes a sip: “Okay…and?”
“I think that’s odd–”
“What’s odd about it?
‘TILL THERE WAS YOU
“Can this thing shut the fuck up!?” Dhyey shouts. He paces over and slaps the tonearm off the record, scratching the vinyl.
Suson’s grasp around the binder tightens: “Can you just sit for a second?” she says, her voice barely steady.
“I–”
“It’s odd because she wrote about her daily life so minutely – I mean – I have hundreds of pages here. She wrote about her meals, her dresses, her headaches, how grass made her sneeze – and yet – the people who lived beside her, labored for her family, shared the air and the cold and the hunger – they’re just – they’re just absent.”
Dhyey shakes his head from across the room: “She’s a racist for fuck’s sake – an ingrate. I mean, fuck her, right? I can tell you what it is immediately – she doesn’t want to confront her reality – she’s burying it – a real asshole.
“That’s not it,” Suson takes a deep breath, “look at this page from Tamar’s diary.”
Dhyey walks over and grabs the page. Blue pen, heavy handwriting – Cold rains tonight. Miss Baldridge sick. No bread for us. John worked till candle gone. Grace stitched shawl for baby. March 2nd, 1814.
“Now look at this page.”
Blue pen, heavy handwriting – Simeon paced this morning after breakfast, brooding over Mr. Booth’s latest letter (the man is an insufferable bore & will never improve the fencing). The fields look ruined since the early frost; leaves hang limp as rags. September 18th, 1863.
“Don’t you see, Dhyey, that’s from Dorothy’s diary, it’s the same handwriting!”
“That’s not–”
“Look at the Ts, Dhyey, look at the Ts,” she holds up the two pages, their fibers emerge in the warm lamplight. “I mean, they’re identical.”
Dhyey stares at the pages, the looping Ts, the blue scratchings. His past – what exactly is it, now? Fanfiction – a minstrel show?
“Listen, I care about–”
“Care about what? You think I wanted this? You think I knew? Is this some kind of setup?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Horseshit – you’re probably recording me, too. Is that what’s happening here?”
“Stop it, come on now.”
Dhyey closes his eyes, trying to placate himself. He grips the edge of the table, chasing after some fragile sense of calm. “Just a – just let me call my sister…”
He staggers to his feet. His legs feel heavy – almost boneless. He braces himself against the kitchen counter, taking one forced, shuddering breath before reaching for the landline. His hands tremble as he steadies the cream receiver.
“Hello?”
In the living room, Suson bows her head and covers her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her memories pester – flickering, unbidden – the girl in U.S. History, so casually cruel: “Is that your real hair?” Dean Whitman, who thought her essay topic was too much, too inflammatory, who suggested something safer, especially for Cornell University. She always wanted something, to be something, a thing she could never quite capture. It hovered on the edge of her being, shifting with each attempt to name it: acceptance, belonging, authority, unfabricated peace. In any case, every time, Liegen has always kept it out of reach.
The phone call ends. Dhyey is on the floor. He should get up, but his knees are cold, his arms are weak, and the wine, once cozy and settled in his stomach, now edges up against the inner lining of his chest. It’s not quite nausea – just a faint, rising sense of velocity.
“Suson!” Dhyey says, stumbling into the living room. “You know–”
“It’s getting late,” she says, picking up her bag.
“Please, just listen to me.”
“I should get going; thank you for having me.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll talk again,” Suson says.
“Just listen–”
“No, I have to drive home–”
Dhyey yanks at her bag: “Please just stay.”
“Let go!”
He yanks again, “Let go of me!” she cries.
His hand slips, then tightens: “Just talk to me–”
“No–”
She falls back onto the coffee table, smashing her head against Dhyey’s wine glass.
8:30 p.m.
“Holy shit. I’m – I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Stay away from me,” Suson cries, swatting at him.
She touches the back of her head – her fingers come away sticky and red. The blood trickles through her hair, forming tiny, glistening rivulets that flow down her scalp and onto the table.
“Jesus. Jesus Christ, I didn’t – I just – please, it was an accident.”
Her breath tugs, sharp, panicked, shallow, each exhale a soft hiss through clenched teeth that electrify her pounding head: “Oh God.”
Dhyey’s hands hover, useless, trembling inches from her shoulder.
“Don’t move!”
He runs into the kitchen. He needs paper towels, napkins, gauze – anything.
The door slams.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! He turns around: she’s gone. Her bag! Her bag! She left her bag! Holy shit, she left her bag! He enters the living room and rummages through the drawer beneath the turntable – pennies, cardstock, rolls of film, his father’s gun – his father’s gun. His mind floods with images: Suson storming into the police station, shoving her way past the front desk – his face all over the news. The room is shrinking. The walls crawl closer. Does anyone even know she’s here?
“Damnit!” Suson whispers. The car door won’t open. She tugs at the handle – once, twice – no luck.
“Yo! What’s going on?” someone calls out.
“Suson! Suson!” Dhyey shouts, stomping through the living room.
He reaches the front door. For a moment, he hesitates, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. He exhales, steadying himself. Then, with a final, paranoid pull, swings the door open.
The night beyond is black and roaring. Where has she gone? “Suson! I’m not trying to hurt you, please, just please, talk to me, please!”
There’s a rustling in the bushes – rssh rssh, rssh rssh. A figure pushes through, snapping twigs and dragging leaves that scrape and sigh against wet skin.
Dhyey places his index finger on the trigger: “Don’t lunge at me now! Don’t!” His breath is thick and ragged in the wet air.
“I see you!” he screams.
BANG
The bullet blasts from the muzzle with a kind of unchecked, sublime velocity. For an instant, it is pure kinetic promise, carving a narrow, burning seam through the rain-soaked air.
“Bloody hell!”
One shot to the clavicle. Luke writhes on the grass in pain.
“Holy shit!” Jake shouts, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Dhyey falls onto the porch steps. He closes his eyes, even tries squinting at it, but his debacle is unmoving – it’s all unmoving. “I’m sorry,” he trembles.
“Luke!” Mark yells, running across the grass.
“I got you, buddy. I got you, just relax.”
“Fuck. I don’t wanna die.”
“Your – you’re not – just stay with me. Just stay.” His words are beautiful in a way that is too intense for Luke to bear.
“Good God,” Dhyey whispers. Nobody can hear him, especially in the rain: “I’m sorry.”
Suson half-stumbles down the long asphalt road, clutching the side of her head as warm blood trickles down her swollen wrist. The thunder cracks; the sky flashes bone-white.