Chapter 1
Chapter
Henry Adams, KS
April—the present
Tamar July awakened groggy and disoriented.
Pushing the bedding aside, she sat up and slowly swung her legs over the side of the mattress and leaned forward to draw in a deep breath.
She’d dreamt about her wedding again. The events of that awful day had been haunting her dreams on and off for the last few weeks, and she had no idea why.
Not that she needed a reminder of the occasion.
Her son Malachi was the spitting image of the man who’d sired him, and every time she saw Mal, she saw Joel.
Having always been a believer in signs, she assumed the nightly trips back in time meant something; she just didn’t know what.
She dragged her hands down her sleepy face, pushed her feet into her slippers, and stood.
In the kitchen she started the coffee maker and walked to the patio door to draw open the blinds, but when she took hold of the strings, she hesitated.
For the past few mornings, a large great horned owl had been perched on the shed in the yard.
Owls were nocturnal, so why it had been showing up at her place was anyone’s guess.
She finally went ahead and opened the blinds, and sure enough, there it sat, squatting motionless under the pale pinks and purples of the early dawn sky.
As on each previous occasion, it turned its luminous eyes her way and, after taking a good long look, raised its magnificent wings and flew off.
Owls, like hawks, eagles, and falcons, were raptors, and the Julys believed raptors were tied to their Spirit.
On a dream world visit a few years ago, Tamar encountered her great-grandmother, First Tamar, in the form of a huge harpy eagle.
Present-day Tamar walked back to the coffee maker wondering if the riddles of the owl and the dreams were tied, but of course, she had no answer.
After breakfast, dressed and ready for her day, she left the house and got in her old green truck, Olivia.
The day was sunny and bright, but it was mid-April, so the morning air still held the chill of the retreating winter.
Driving slowly down the thin dirt road that connected to the paved one maintained by the county, she passed the three double-wides the town leased on her land.
The first one housed town pastor Reverend Paula Grant; the second, recent arrival Chef Thornton Webb.
The third was home to the young family of Bobby and Kelly Douglas and their twin toddlers.
Upon reaching the blacktop, Tamar sped up.
For most of her driving life, she and Olivia cruised at seventy miles per hour plus, but after a plethora of speeding tickets and a firm talking-to from Deputy County Sheriff Davida Ransom, Tamar stayed nearer the speed limit of fifty-five.
In her alto voice, she sang Sammy Hagar’s “I Can’t Drive 55.
” Upon approaching the road’s long, racecourse-like curve, she was tempted to put the pedal to the metal, but that was usually where the deputy sheriff’s cruiser sat waiting, so she kept an eye on the speedometer.
And there was the cruiser. Feeling smug at outsmarting the young officer once again, Tamar waved.
Davida smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, and Tamar drove on.
Although she grudgingly agreed with Davida about the dangers of driving like a bat out of hell, it didn’t mean Tamar had to like it, so she pushed Olivia’s speed up a few more notches for the remaining quarter of a mile.
Reaching her destination, she pulled into the semi-full parking lot of the town’s only diner, The Dog and Cow, co-owned by her son Malachi and longtime Henry Adams resident Rochelle “Rocky” Dancer James.
Mal had recently married town owner Bernadine Brown, and although some people in the area couldn’t understand why the newlyweds chose to sometimes live apart, Tamar saw nothing wrong with them wanting to hold on to their separate homes.
She’d want her own space too; not that she planned to marry anyone.
Last night’s dream resurfaced in her memory, and she hastily shoved it aside.
The morning rush hadn’t begun in the diner, since it was still relatively early, so the place wasn’t as packed as it would be in another hour or so.
Sarah Vaughan was on the jukebox, and her familiar voice brought back how much Tamar’s mother loved the great Sarah.
Tamar’s son, Mal, served as host most mornings and upon seeing her smiled and said, “Morning, Tamar. You want to sit, or you ordering to go?” He, like everyone else in town, knew she preferred to be addressed by her first name.
“Morning. Think I’ll sit.”
“Okay. Follow me.”
He escorted her to one of the booths by the windows that looked out onto Main Street. “You want coffee?”
“Please. How are you?”
“Not bad. Be right back with your coffee.”
Although Tamar was not one to overtly show affection to her only son, she did love him.
It had been difficult to do so, though, when he came back from Vietnam overwhelmed by nightmares that him made him seek refuge in alcohol.
He’d been sober for decades now, and she was proud of the hard work he’d put in to reclaim himself.
He returned with a pot of coffee and poured her a cup. “What can I get you?”
“The usual, but bring me two strips of bacon instead of three. The little girl who calls herself my doctor wants me to give up bacon altogether, but that’s not going to happen.”
He studied her.
“And don’t look at me that way. Two strips of bacon, Mal.”
“Got it.”
Shaking his head, he set out for the kitchen.
She knew he wasn’t happy with her stance, but she was ninety years old, give or take a few years, and if she wanted bacon, she should be able to have it without folks fussing or giving her looks.
They should be glad she hadn’t ignored the little girl doctor altogether and asked for her usual three strips.
Knowing that getting agitated wouldn’t help her blood pressure, she sipped her coffee and looked out the window at the sunny day.
She also noted the other diners filing in for their breakfast. Thanks to the excellent kitchen staff, the Dog was well known for the quality of its food and drew in people from all over the county: members of law enforcement like Davida Ransom and her boss County Sheriff Will Dalton, and now that the weather had warmed, the construction crews were back competing for booths and tables with the local citizens and people who lived in the neighboring town of Franklin. Everyone ate at the Dog.
“Hey. You want some company?”
She looked up into the familiar ebony face of Bing Shepard. Tamar was the town’s matriarch, and Bing, being the oldest male resident, was the patriarch. “Please, join me. How are you this morning?”
“Not bad for an old World War II vet. How are you?” He took the seat opposite her and put his cane beside him.
“I’ll be better when I stop dreaming about my wedding.”
He stilled. He’d been in attendance that day.
Tamar showed a wry smile. “Yes, that wedding.”
“Not sure how to respond to that.”
“Not sure how to respond to the dreams. Plus, there’s been a great horned owl on my shed the past couple of mornings too.”
The arrival at their booth of the waitress interrupted their conversation. “Morning, Tamar. Mr. Bing, do you want coffee and your regular breakfast order, sir?”
“Yes to both.”
“Okay. Be right back with the coffee. Tamar, your order’s almost ready.”
“Thank you.”
She left them and returned promptly with his coffee, before leaving them alone again. Bing added his usual cream and sugar. “A great horned owl.”
“Yes.”
He took a sip of coffee and eyed her again. “You Julys and your raptors. What’s it mean?”
Tamar shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Disconcerting is all I know.”
“Good Scrabble word, disconcerting.”
“Don’t tell Mal. His head’s already big enough.” Mal was the town’s reigning king of the Scrabble board.
Bing’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I want to say maybe the dreams will eventually stop, but I know that’s too simple.”
“Exactly. Something’s coming. I just wish I knew what.”
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Tamar hoped he was right.
OVER AT THE Henry Adams subdivision, Devon Watkins July was in his bedroom getting dressed for school.
Checking himself out in the mirror, he approved of his choice of the blue, long-sleeved hoodie shirt and jeans, but one thing was missing.
He picked up his hairbrush and after running it over his short-cut hair a couple of times, he gently lifted his James Brown wig from its foam head and put it on.
After adjusting the glossy hairpiece until it was just so, he viewed himself and gave his smiling reflection a thumbs-up.
He looked good, like he knew he would. He did a fancy spin and, facing the mirror again, gave himself an even bigger smile.
He liked wearing the wig because of the dope swagger it gave him.
His mom, Lily, had shown him how to wash it, blow-dry it, and use the curling iron so it stayed perfect.
His brother Amari hated it, as did most of the other kids in town, but he didn’t care.
The haters could skate. The hairdo gave him the identity he craved.
No one in town wanted him to be the preacher.
He couldn’t be Amari. And he didn’t want to be the son of a mentally disabled mom who’d given birth to him after being sexually assaulted.
That part hurt too much to even think about, so he’d rather be the Devon who reminded everyone of James Brown, because people all over the world loved James Brown.