FEATURE: “Acquisitions” by Sascha Goluboff

Tall and handsome with a mind for finance, Bryce Martin quickly made a name for himself in the Louisiana real-estate market. Driving across the wetlands, he reviewed his latest prospect, condos along Lake Pontchartrain, but Miss Adeline Dupree’s property stood in his way. 

Kudzu had swallowed half of her old plantation home, and a windchime of tiny sun-bleached bones swung from the porch. When he stepped out of the car, swamp stank hit him hard. The front door opened. There she stood, a petite elderly light-skinned black woman with luminous green eyes. 

“Mr. Martin?” She extended her hand, and he grasped it with assurance. “I figured you’d come in person eventually.” She led him down a cluttered hallway past a Civil War era family photo. 

“Master Beauford and Mistress Kitty Dupree,” she explained. “He had a thing for Ady the cook, my grandmamma. I was named after her. He died in the war, and Miss Kitty and the children succumbed to the heatwave of 1875. But enough of that sad story. Where are my manners?” She led him into the kitchen. 

“Thank you for receiving me in your home,” he said in his most genteel New Orleans accent as he sat down to iced tea and cookies. 

“This place must really be worth a lot if you’ve come all this way.”

“I’ll double what I offered.” 

“This house is all I have.” 

“Too much for one person to handle. Why not move to a retirement community? All your needs taken care of.” 

“Try a cookie. Ady’s recipe. The Dupree children couldn’t get enough.” 

The first bite was sweet, the second spicy. The iced tea didn’t quench the fire blooming under his skin. 

“My grandmamma fought to get this house. Showed them folks they weren’t so big and mighty.”

Sweat soaked his shirt. 

“You alright?” 

“I’m so… hot.” 

“That Pontchartrain heat.” She turned on the sink faucet. “Splash water on your face.” 

The limp stream became a torrent. She pushed his head under. Her grip was strong. He flailed his arms. He kicked. “Stop,” he pleaded as water gushed across his mouth. She chanted strange sounding words. His whole body felt squeezed, trapped under a waterfall. 

When he came to, he was lying on the stained porcelain of the sink, the faucet and her liquid eyes looming large above. 

“You’re so little, so tender,” she said and grabbed a fork and knife from the drying rack. 

AUTHOR BIO:

Sascha Goluboff is a writer, mother, and academic with a PhD in Anthropology and an MFA in writing. She lives in Virginia.