Chapter 8

Zeke rummaged through the refrigerator and found deli sliced turkey, spiced mustard, a tomato, curly leaf lettuce, and red onion. Next to the fridge, a wooden roll-top bread box held a loaf of wheat bread. Moments later, he placed his masterpiece sandwich on a plate and sat on a barstool to eat. As he lifted the sandwich to his mouth, he pulled the manila envelope from the mortician and tore it open with his finger like a letter opener. The contents slid out on the table. There was an old, small book and the familiar stationery from Luther.

What the heck is this? He lifted the book. The edge of a canary-yellow tab stuck out. He slid a fingernail between the pages and flipped the delicate book open. The title read, “The Coyote and the Porcupine.”

“Okay?” He lifted the stationery, and began to read, My Dearest Nephew Ezekiel Jabez Clay— Rriinngg. He jumped and knocked over his Dr. Pepper. The house phone. Scrambling to set the can upright, he picked up the phone. Who would be calling? Red letters scrolled across the caller ID, “Carlile, Rivers...”

“Oh, Clifford.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Zeke. Man, sorry I’ve been really swamped.”

“No problem.” He wiped his napkin through the spilled soda.

“Listen, I’m not sure what’s wrong with the TV, but I could come out there after work, if you want.”

“Oh, man. That’s asking too much.”

“No, really, I don’t mind. I’ve been out there a lot lately. It’s no big deal. Besides, I probably can figure out what’s wrong if I see the equipment. Over the phone, I’m not sure.”

“Sure, I understand that,” Zeke agreed. “Well okay then, do you eat steak?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, there are some in the freezer and a grill out back. I figured I’d grill steaks and you could get the TV working. Deal?”

“Deal. I’ll be there around seven.”

“Oka...” Zeke started to say but he heard a dial tone. “All righty then.”

He returned to his lunch and papers. Once again, his uncle’s elaborate penmanship amazed him. This one might have been scratched with a quill and ink.

My Dearest Nephew Ezekiel Jabez Clay, In his mind, he heard James Earl Jones’ voice.

As the saying goes, if you are reading this, I am probably dead. How sad I am that I never met you in person. However, things come to an end. My life is one of them. You, dear nephew, have the opportunity to complete what I could not.

Enclosed is a book of Indian stories. I have bookmarked the appropriate page. It is not merely for your entertainment. It is to help you understand. This curse was brought upon this family by an injustice against the native people.

It seems, much to my chagrin, God righteously blessed them and cursed the arrogance of the white man. Specifically, my adopted father, William Ezekiel Clayton, Sr. He was your grandfather, several times removed.

Confused? I empathize. I have had the privilege of many years to comprehend the burdens placed upon you by the order of your birth. Yet, I have given you one week to learn of your potential in this matter and act upon it. You are the son who has been blessed with the gifts to break this generational curse. Only you can do this. I have prayed for your success often and trust God and you to fulfill these unsolicited obligations.

There are people whom I have entrusted to help you and others who have their own agenda in this matter and you need to be wary. Trust the small voice inside you. He will guide you.

This curse began and will end with the well. Find it and you will find your destiny.

For now, I leave you with this: 1 Chronicles 4:10 Yours Faithfully, Luther A. L. Clayton Zeke stared at the letter.

No joke. This man had been serious. Perhaps eccentric. It could be Luther was insane or suffering from a delusional dementia. Somehow, in his final days, or months, or years, Luther managed to create a web to entrap Zeke into this delusion. Hadn’t he heard of cases where family members were sucked into a patient’s delusions and found themselves doing things they would never ordinarily do? Like rob a bank.

Then again, his uncle was not asking him to rob a bank. No. This man was merely asking him to break a curse. No problem.

Because he, Ezekiel Jabez Clay, was the one—he looked back at Luther’s exact words—blessed with the gifts to break this generational curse.

“Riiight.”

Heaviness crushed his chest like when he swam to the bottom of the pool’s deep end. Was it his imagination or was the air pressing in on him? Did the lights really flicker? He placed his hand on his chest and concentrated on breathing. Sucked into the delusion. As the sensation subsided, he shook his head and pushed the sandwich aside. His gaze fell on the book. He opened it to the yellow tab.

The coyote wandered the plains, cold and hungry. He came to the porcupine and said, “Brother Porcupine, I am cold and I am hungry. Will you give me some food?”

The Porcupine— A series of chimes rang, first low, then high, the last in the middle, like the NBC jingle. What was that? He turned around and stared at the entry doors.

A small-statured silhouette shadowed the glazed sidelight of the front door, and moved toward the center. It appeared again on the other side. The only person he knew who was as vertically challenged as the silhouette he spied was Ms. Rivers. He rose and crossed the expansive living room. Before touching the door handle, he glanced at the black panel. A blinking red light. He pulled the door open.

“Oh.” Twyla Rivers jumped to the middle of the doors and looked up into Zeke’s face. “Good afternoon, Mr. Clay.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Rivers,” Zeke echoed the salutation. A curious sensation twisted in his abdomen. “What? How can I help you?”

“Please forgive me, I had a meeting in town and...” Leaning to one side, she glanced past his elbow.