As readers observed from the living room of Cynthia Ann’s home, Angelique had fired a shot that she aimed at a baseball-capped woman she thought was her mother, the bullet instead grazing her Aunt Laura’s shoulder and lodging in the old wood of the front window frame.
“What the fuck Angelique,” was followed by a stream of obscenities and moaning, all ringing in Angelique’s ears after the sound of the shot, as the gun slipped from her hand. Within a moment Cynthia Ann had crossed the small room, grabbed the gun and started shaking Angelique, all the while yelling at Angelique’s mother to shut up and get some towels from the kitchen. For a moment the room seemed too full of women all about the same height moving in slow motion as if the dance had been choreographed.
“Pregnant or not” … “the fuck were you thinking”… “you doing with my gun?” Questions seemed to come from three directions at once at Angelique once Cynthia Ann had pushed her into a straight back cane-bottomed chair from the dining room. “Sit,” was all she had said first.
Towels, warm water in a ceramic bowl, gauze, adhesive tape, a fresh blue denim shirt. Cynthia Ann peeled off Laura’s shirt, made a warm compress from a towel, and put on her glasses to examine the wound.
After the bandaging and Cynthia Ann handing Laura a cheese glass with whiskey for one hand and two Tylenol for the other, Angelique’s mother asked plaintively, “Why would you shoot my sister?”
“I couldn’t see her hair.”
“I thought it was you.” She looked straight at her mother. “You left me. You took my sister and you left me.”
Angelique’s mother turned in a rage to Cynthia Ann. “This is all your fault. All this voodoo stuff you do to people. I know who you are. It’s why people come here. And I know what they come here for. Everybody knows you are the Revenge Queen. You put this idea in her head.”
“Lady,” Cynthia Ann began. Then she shook her head and started again, “Lady, you’ve got a long ways to go.”
“I been a longer ways than you know. And what do I get for it? A kid who wants to kill me.” Her voice became even more shrill. “Kill me!”
“Might do it myself,” Cynthia Ann muttered softly. Angelique smirked.
“I’m gonna call the sheriff right now on both of you.”
“Go ahead, lady. His name is Fitzgerald. He’s my cousin. But in the meantime, get out of here. Get off my property, the both of you. I’ll get her straightened out, but not with you here.”
More of this serial to continue in July!