Black Cat Weekly #87

Chapter 6-1

byOn the twelfth chime of the grandfather clock in the hallway outside her bedroom door, Charlotte gave up trying to sleep. She flipped on the light and paced the floor, her thoughts going twenty different directions. I can’t believe I miss my job. Teaching was a thorn in her side.

Working with spoiled, bratty kids was the last thing she wanted to do with her life, but it seemed like a solid career choice. Until now. Since COVID-19 spread throughout the world, public places, including schools, closed. There was e-learning, but it wasn’t the same and at the end of the day, with all that was going on, she was too keyed up to sleep at night.

When the lockdown was put into place, she, her sister Anne, and their brother Branwell returned home, to quarantine with their father. Emily, her other sister, permanently lived at home with her dog, acting as their father’s caretaker. The five of them under one roof should have been an idyllic arrangement, a throwback to their childhood. Father was a minister, a true pillar of the community, and their house, the parsonage, belonged to the church.

If the congregation knew what went on behind closed doors… Charlotte jerked at the sound of a man’s shout, which came from the direction of the neighbors north of them. The words, “Why’d you have to kill him?” bled through the parsonage’s thick walls.

She rolled her eyes. Their neighbors were meth heads. For years there had been shady deals done in broad daylight, attempted murder, s****l assaults, child and animal a***e, violence, threats, vandalism, lewd behavior, trespassing, and plenty of peculiar things screamed. This latest garbled question didn’t faze her. The police were more than aware of what went on. Once in a blue moon they’d conduct a raid, and someone would be arrested. Then the person would be released the next day to pick up where they left off.

However, on hearing pounding on the backdoor of the parsonage and Keeper’s fierce protective snarls, her heart raced. Someone would have had to scale the six-foot privacy fence erected around their backyard. Branwell. When Branwell was a boy, he climbed the fence like a monkey to sneak in and out of the yard.

Charlotte took her time walking to getting high or drunk at this hour. He never gave any thought to her or the rest of the family. A deadly virus was raging outside the safety of their home, and he came and went as he pleased, spending most of his time with the meth heads next door. She jerked open the door and Branwell was shaking from head to toe, the front of his blood-soaked shirt and jeans clinging to his wiry body. “I think I killed someone, Charlotte.”

He pitched forward and face planted on the floor.

Too small to lift him by herself, Charlotte fetched Emily and Anne. Keeper protested loudly, whining when he was forced to stay in Emily’s bedroom. To her relief, Father slept through the commotion. Their menagerie of cats and dogs stirred but remained in the upstairs bedrooms.

Between the two, Emily and Anne hoisted Branwell up and carried him down to the basement. Growing up, the basement had been their playroom and their secret lair, always a place to go where no one else was permitted. Now, it would be Branwell’s hiding place, until they could figure out what could be done.

Charlotte trailed after, turned on the basement light, then dragged out the old hide-a-bed in the couch. Her sisters dropped him onto the musty mattress, causing the dust to fly. Branwell let out a pained moan. The stench of alcohol filled the air, and it wasn’t just from his breath. Charlotte sniffed…the red stains on him smelled of liquor. Whoever the blood belonged to, had been drinking.

“Branwell, what happened?” Emily leaned over and smacked his cheek to rouse him. The slap had no effect. “Branwell?”

“He’s too high or too drunk right now.” Charlotte shook her head.

“Dear God, is he hurt?” Anne covered her mouth and her pale blue eyes glistened.

“No. He climbed the fence and was on the porch saying he killed someone.”

They stared at her, stunned by her explanation. Despite the shout she heard outside, despite what he said, despite his appearance, the reality of it all hadn’t hit her. Until now.

Branwell killed someone. He must have. No one could have that much involved. Being a drunk and an addict wasn’t bad enough, her brother had to commit murder.

“I heard noise next door.” Anne then pressed a finger to her lips. “Are those police sirens?”

“I think so.” Emily said. The wail of the siren intensified as the police cars neared.

“Branwell, what did you do now?” Charlotte muttered under her breath, her gaze falling upon him.

He snored, blissfully unaware of the trouble he was in. Rage mounted within Charlotte.

He caused pain and embarrassment wherever he went, and they were always left to clean up his messes. This time was no different.

Emily laid out a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her father. She sat beside him while he prayed and watched him as he ate. Breakfast was only one of her many responsibilities. The care of Father fell to her—a man of independent nature, he bristled under her hovering, but in his current condition, he relied upon her for everything. Cataracts had developed over both of his eyes, and he was rendered blind. Due to COVID-19, his cataract surgery had been postponed. He maneuvered around the parsonage, knowing the place by heart.

Still, she had to keep an eye on him. Meals, laundry, cleaning, errands, and the animals also fell to her.

Keeper, her faithful Mastiff, whimpered. He was pacified when she tossed him a piece of bacon.

At her age—so everyone at church reminded her—she ought to have a career. She tried to no avail. Lady of Leisure, Domestic Diva, and Stay-at-Home-daughter were only some of the titles given to her over the years. Her disinterest in the outside world, her unease around people in general, her singular fascinations, were a recipe for failure. Charlotte struggled, and Branwell was a lost cause. Only Anne made a go, claiming a small corner of the world. But really, they were a bunch of thirty-something millennials… Failures to Launch. Father never said it, but she often wondered if they disappointed him.

“The neighbors were busy last night.” Father observed, chewing a bite of toast. “Did Branwell come home?” Out of habit, his eyes turned to her, but thankfully they didn’t detect her guilt.

“I haven’t seen him.” Emily bit the inside of her cheek.

Branwell was still in the basement, sleeping off his high and last night’s events.

Considering the noise and police traffic, she assumed Father would be aware of what transpired. But he remained none the wiser, and that was certainly for the best.

Anne and Charlotte went out for a “power walk.” That was the excuse she was going to give if Father asked. In reality, they were going to try to get to the bottom of Branwell’s latest scrape.

Emily studied her father and, straining her ears, she detected that his breathing sounded raspy. “Are you feeling all right?” She pressed her palm against his brow, which was cool as a cucumber. “You sound congested.”

Her thoughts immediately went to COVID-19. They took all the precautions. With the church closed, he didn’t risk his health by socializing with the congregation. Other than the necessary errands, the five of them quarantined together. Well, except for Branwell. But the rest of them practiced social distancing; when they did encounter people on errands, they remained six feet apart; wore masks securely over their noses and mouths. The promise the experts originally made, that the pandemic would be over in a matter of two weeks, rang hollow. Butthey had to find hope where they could.

“It’s my seasonal allergies.” Father harrumphed, shaking his head. Though his sight was diminished, his overall health and appearance were good. His color was pink, his white hair shone beneath the lights on the ceiling fan, and his lips formed into a congenial smile. He still wore his customary suit, which had been his habit since he entered the ministry. “I haven’t been anywhere to catch it. You worry too much. I hope this is over soon; I miss my congregation.”

“This too shall pass, as you always say.” Emily recited, nodding in agreement. Nothing would suit her more than for things to return to normal.

“Your mother was the one who said it first. She knew best.” Father sighed, bearing more than a note of melancholy.

Mother died twenty-nine years ago, shortly after giving birth to Anne. Over the years, many of the single women at church vied for his attention. However, he remained true to Mother’s memory. He was in love with her as much now as when he met her three decades earlier.

Father polished off his meal and went upstairs to his study, to work on his next sermon.

Writing wasn’t possible, but from memory alone he selected a Scripture and would mentally construct a message. He couldn’t preach in public, but with her help, he could record his sermon and upload it to f*******: for the congregation to listen to.

Emily waited until she heard the study door click shut before hustling down to the basement to check on her brother. Keeper grunted when the door was shut in his face, and she heard him plop down on the hardwood floor. He’d wait faithfully until she returned. The smell of dampness from the spring rains that leaked in, mixing with the metallic scent of blood soured her stomach.

Branwell groaned when she flipped on the light. She grimaced, the sight of him in those soiled clothes unnerved her. Did he do it? She gulped and inched closer. Did he kill someone? Charlotte was convinced that he was guilty. He was selfish and troubled and lost, but for her it was hard to imagine her brother was capable of such a thing.

“f**k, what happened?” He sat up on the hide-a-bed, then crushed the heel of his hand to his brow. “What the hell?”

Emily winced at his use of the F word. Branwell dropped F-bombs carelessly, especially in front of their devoutly Christian father. He never gave a second thought to the older gentleman and how it made him uncomfortable.

“Shut up, you fool.” She swatted him on the shoulder. “You don’t remember? You came home last night like this, saying you killed someone.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you?”

The color drained from Branwell’s face. Even his freckles disappeared. “That’s not funny. How could you say that?” He glanced down at his clothing and whimpered, “Emily…”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I was with Joe Leland and John Brown, hanging out.”

Emily shot him a knowing look. “Getting high or drunk, or both.”

There was no reason to use euphemisms, Father wasn’t around. For the older man’s sake, whenever Branwell was getting a fix or strung out, they’d say their brother was sick. Their father was in denial. Foolish, rambunctious, naïve… The older man viewed Branwell as a naughty boy who needed structure and discipline. Not a man in his early thirties who couldn’t—wouldn’t—hold down a job, who was an addict, and even had an affair with one of the deacon’s wives.

“It’s a blur.” Branwell said, interrupting her observations. “I think I held a knife at one point, but I don’t remember stabbing anyone.” He held up his hands. The blood was dried, embedded in his nails, knuckles, and lines in his palms. “It looks bad, I know.”