Rendezvous on Lot 39 - Part 2: Spilling the Salt [Fiction]
When is an old wives' tale not just an old wives' tale? And how do you go about telling the difference when all you really want to do is protect your family?
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Part 2
Spilling the salt
6
Viktor was sitting in the back of an Uber on his way to Hartsfield-Jackson airport. The driver’s name was Gaston. He had a thick accent that reminded Viktor of his father. Gaston was not like the Bosnians who had come to the South en masse during the 1990s. An ID on his windshield visor said he was from the Cameroons.
“Okay if I keep playing radio?” Gaston asked. “I’m trying to learn English more better.” Viktor detested talk radio but said, “No problem.”
Gaston drove east on Cherokee Lane past the old Stephens place. And perhaps because the Uber driver was Black, Viktor remembered the night the neighborhood men, led by Officer Don and the fat real estate man, met with his father on The Lot.
Three families had owned the old Stephens place since then. Although the city of Atlanta was now about 50 percent Black, the Indian Trail subdivision, which included Cherokee Lane, had remained white.
“Because I am husband, and it’s up to me to keep this family safe. That’s why!”
“But Stefan, it’s wrong. How can you, knowing what we have been through? Knowing what we’ve seen.”
“I don’t want to, Lina. But I am thinking about you and the children.”
“If you do this, you will be just like the Germans during the occupation. And the Russians afterwards. Don’t you see that?”
“This is different, Galina. Why can’t you see that? We cannot run from everything all our lives. Sooner or later, we have to find a way to fit in.”
“Don’t do this, Stefan, please. You are spilling the salt. It will only bring us bad luck”
“Spilling the salt? Now you are talking like the old grandmothers in Prague. Is that why we came to America? For more superstition?
“I’m not talking about superstition, Stefan. I’m talking about life. Things come back.”
It was at that moment that Viktor began to throw up. The unripe berries spilled from his mouth along with everything else he had eaten that day. Coughing and retching, he doubled over then dropped to his knees. Unaware that he’d been eavesdropping, both parents ceased talking. His mother ran to his side and led him to the bathroom.
Now years later, as his Uber passed the old Stephens house on its way to the airport, he remembered that moment of conflict from his childhood. He remembered walking past the Stephens place on his way to school the next day. Looking at the bare windows and the For Sale sign out front. A short branch blackened on one end lay in the driveway.
His parents never spoke of that night again. Even now, Viktor did not know if his father had gone with Officer Don, Coach Bob, the fat real estate man, and the others to “speak” to the Nigras who had not listened to reason when they had the chance.
7
A few months after the Black family left, the sky grew dark. Wind and rain from Hurricane Audrey stretched across Georgia, dashing peaches to the ground, leveling entire cornfields, rattling power lines, and sending Cherokee Lane into darkness.