5
I found Narciss holding up a lopsided pink glass vase.
6
She was scrutinizing every aspect of the vessel like a 7
budget shopper studying a possible buy from an over-8
crowded reject table.
9
I sat there with knots in my stomach. It made me sick 10
to have to ask Ricky for charity. And watching Narciss sift 11
through my family’s history now somehow made me sad.
12
The cold from the window worked its way into my gut. I 13
wondered if I was getting sick.
14
“Oh my,” Narciss said.
15
“What?”
16
Instead of answering she came to me with a wooden 17
box held delicately in both her hands. She sat down next 18
to me, placing the old scarred box between us. Other 19
than its obvious age, it was unremarkable. About a foot 20
long and six inches in depth and width, it was plain and 21
held together by smith-made iron hinges. There were 22
three letters roughly carved on the lower right side of the 23
lid — jld.
24
“Look.” She lifted the lid.
25
Inside there were three hand-carved masks, rust to dark 26
brown, ivory I was sure. Each one was about five inches 27 S
from crown to chin and three inches from one cheekbone 28 R
to the other. They were simple images with sloping fore-62
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The Man in My Basement
heads and slitted eyes. One was smiling, one possibly feral, 1
and one looked like he was whistling through an O-shaped 2
mouth. They were laid out on an old crumpled newspaper.
3
Two of the faces had been broken in places but were 4
seamed back together with some kind of adhesive. There 5
was a blue splotch on the delicate chin of the leftmost im-6
age. They were beautiful and commanding, fitting perfectly 7
in the wood box that, I supposed, was built to hold them.
8
“It’s the history of your history,” Narciss whispered.
9
The words came to me as truth. I believed I was look-10
ing at the cargo, carried on some European ship, of an 11
African who had sold himself into indentured servitude.
