1
1977
My name is Nomed, and I’m a houseguest. I don’t possess a surname because my ancestry is complicated, but my host, Asher Bushcroft, is a simple man. Thirty-six years ago, he invited me to be his houseguest, or maybe I invited myself. Details don’t matter. He’s obedient to those he fears, so he’ll tell our story.
I can be vulnerable, so I’ll share a secret—I’m obsessed with two kids, Daniela Cavanaugh, an American, and Cillian Finn, an Irish-Scott. They’re not related, at least not yet. One can see by the fact that they possess surnames that they’re simple like Asher.
Don’t think me petty. I’m not obsessed with Daniela and Cillian for simple reasons. Neither is popular at school, rich, nor cool—quite the opposite, but my boss believes their futures will be complicated and powerful and could potentially wreak havoc on my world. We won’t talk about my boss, because I’m on vacation from my hellish job to talk to you.
But, I’ll share my boss’s final instructions—murder Daniela and Cillian before they accomplish the mission. Death and I are great friends, so I intend to have fun while carrying out my mission; but I needed help—a host—so I found Asher. He obliged in exchange for a favor.
I wanted to be Daniela and Cillian's houseguest, but some meddling human prayed for them, protecting them from my visit. Then, Legna, Yahweh's groveling servant, blocked my visitation.
There’s no need to tell the kids’ stories, they’re recorded in Frozen Prayers, Blood Moon Relics, Autumn Rains and a myriad of other books in the God Factor Saga, books bragging on their feats and strengths. I grind my teeth when thinking about both of them, but a warning: I’m determined that they won’t survive my schemes.
Here’s my friend Asher. He’s human, so earthlings acknowledge his existence but deny mine. That’s okay. There is no war when the victim doesn’t know he has an enemy.
I smile widely, revealing my glee.
2
1941
Yesterday, a villain was born. I am that villain, Asher Bushcroft, but Wednesday wasn’t my birthdate. My birthday occurred twelve years ago when my mother, Ruth Bushcroft, pushed me from between her thighs onto white, cotton sheets. My dad Rueben was probably sitting by a window reading a newspaper.
It’s December 11, 1941, at 3:30 p.m., and I’m riding in the back seat of my parents’ 1941 Mercedes Benz. My mother is gripping the steering wheel at the nine o’clock and three o’clock positions as she drives five miles under the speed limit on the highway. We’re ending our vacation early and are on our way to Sing Sing Prison in Ossining, New York.
A few minutes ago, Adolf Hitler, my father’s friend, declared war on the United States of America. I remember the day we left our house in Berlin, Germany. It was a cold, gray morning, and Christmas lights sparkled as they draped around our day-old pine. The sweet, earthy scent of pine mixed with cinnamon sticks, my sister’s favorite house scent, was noxious.
My dad threw clothes, socks, and shoes into my sister’s and my suitcases. As he raced from our dresser drawers back to our suitcases, his black knee-high boots thudded along the mahogany floor. He had unbuttoned the jacket on his ink-black SS uniform.
"Why are you unbuttoning your uniform, Reuben?" my mother inquired. Reuben was my father's real name, but Germans who weren't Jews called him Ryland. My mother sucked another drag from her long brown cigarette, as she tapped her crimson-red painted nails on the door frame.
“If you’d help, I wouldn’t have to run around like a fool.” My father continued his frantic pace, slamming open the closet door and grabbing my favorite sweater.
“I don’t want to leave Germany.” My mother crossed her arms. “I told you that.”
“I should grant your wish and just take the kids.” My father glanced at my sister and me. His expression was frantic and fearful.
“Reuben, you have a great job, and I finally possess a social life that is the envy of German socialites.”
“Clueless. That’s what you are.”
“Don’t you disrespect me in front of the children!” My mother marched toward my father and slapped him across the face. Her slaps had become more frequent, but my father never hit back.
I trembled and backed up until the window stopped me. Turning, I looked out of the second-story window; two men who were dressed like my father banged on a door across the street. A man with rumpled nightclothes opened the door. The men grabbed him. Then soldiers dressed in gray barreled into the house, dragging out a little girl and a woman in night dresses.
“Dad, I’m glad we’re leaving Germany. This place gives me the creeps.” I yanked the curtains shut, blocking out whatever was going on outside.
My mother ran her fingers across a gold necklace that dangled from her neck -- her favorite, given to her before Granny died five years ago. A pendant hung from the chain. A round circle surrounded a six-pointed star. Mom had called the symbol the Star of David, but Dad had said that it was evil and had called it The Seal of Solomon.
“Why don’t you take that pendant off?” His voice was controlled, but I could tell that he wanted to scream. His neck veins protruded and his face turned a deep crimson.
“My mother gave it to me. It’s a family heirloom.” My mother lifted her chin, adding to her haughty aura.
“Are you willing to die for it?” All was quiet, except for my father’s heavy breathing. He was angry and my mom was thinking for a change.
Mom twirled on her pink Lotus pumps and pranced from the room.
Who knew what the real story was in regard to that pendant? Occasionally, both of my parents had been known to embellish facts.
We left Germany that night on an evening train. Mom stopped fussing when Natalia, my sister, pulled a violin from its case.
“Natalia, where did you get that from? That’s a Stradivarius.”
“The Gutenberg’s son.”
Something seemed to click in mom’s head, but she didn’t inform me of her new-found wisdom. She kept her mouth shut.
As my journey down memory lane halts, someone makes me roll my eyes, a facial expression that I could control yesterday morning but not anymore. I focus on The Star of David as it dangles from the rearview mirror.
I stare at my mother as she glances at me in the rearview mirror. She's nervous. I can see the emotion in her body language by the way she taps the steering wheel with her red lacquered nails. She averts her eyes toward Dad. He sits in the passenger seat, reading his newspaper.
“We’re doing the right thing by the boy?” she asks quietly.
Dad grunts. I don’t know if that meant yes or no.
My late sister, Natalia, isn’t here. She’s dead at sixteen-years-old—murdered at 1:23 p.m. yesterday. At twelve-years-old, I was at the scene. We were close and could’ve been twins, but we weren’t born on the same day.
I push myself up in my seat to take a look in the rearview mirror. Nothing has changed. I’m still ugly. Pink dots must have rained down on my face while I was sleeping and stuck like glue. My ears could be mistaken for our neighbor’s basset hound’s. And my nose . . . well, nose shapes can be a sore subject with some Jews.
Natalia was tall and graceful with beautiful, flawless skin. She loved to dance and even tried to teach me, but I was hopelessly clumsy. Yesterday, before she sank to the bottom of the lake, soaked chestnut shoulder-length ringlets clung to her olive skin.
Yes, she was breathtaking, but not as beautiful as Adelaide, my middle school crush.
Adelaide is the reason Natalia is dead, but Natalia’s death is the reason for my parents’ road trip to Sing Sing Prison. They’re going to show me where murderers live.
I should be sorry, but mother wasn't sorry when she left her twisted romance novel on the coffee table, tempting me to read it. Now I see women differently, but not my sister. Even though I hate Adelaide, I still like her. Today, she prefers me over Robert, her ex-boyfriend, a tall Irish boy with muscles, but that has not always been the case. Yesterday, Nomed, my house guest, assisted me in turning her affections.
I’m shorter than Adelaide, but according to my late sister, my stature isn’t my fault since my parents don’t possess many inches over an elf.
On the way to Sing Sing, I look out the window, thinking back to yesterday. Nomed and I made a deal. In return for a promise of Adelaide’s affections, I invited Nomed to be my houseguest and help him fulfill his earthly plans. He asked me for an act of gratitude.
Desperate to indulge my feelings, I obliged.
J. Nell Brown, daughter of a chaplain and a teacher, is a Florida native.
