Old Sally rests. She must garner her strength to climb the concrete steps. A long life carries so much grief. Not only from her own life but also the losses passed on to her from her ancestors. Sorrow from those days of not being free and not getting to choose what to do with their lives. Old Sally carried this history with her to the Temple mansion every day she worked there. She scrubbed grief into the floorboards as she cleaned the Temple mansion. Old Sally cooked grief into every meal. She polished grief into the silver until it shone like a full moon. That is why that old house burned down. It was a necessary sacrifice. All the grief needed to burn away and turn to ash, so her people could finally be free. And so the Temple grief could be set free, too. Sadness from knowing what they did, even if they never acknowledged it.
Not much longer now, her grandmother says, reappearing at the top of the steps near the entrance of the lighthouse.
Why did you bring me here? Old Sally says, now concerned that it was too much to ask. To get my old heart to finally stop beating? To push it beyond what it can do?
Fear hits, nearly staggering her. When she doesn’t resist it, it moves on with the wind.
After working in the Temple mansion for so many years and going up and down the spiral staircase thousands of times, Old Sally kept up her exercise by climbing these concrete steps stretching between the beach and the lighthouse. Forty-two of them, to be exact. She started counting them after reading an article in Reader’s Digest about how to keep her mind active by counting things and working on crossword puzzles. The old iron railing still stands, except for one section about halfway up. There, she must rely on balance to keep herself upright.
One at a time, she takes the steps now. Every five steps she rests. Where the railing disappears, her grandmother takes her hand. Real or imagined, it is a great help.
When the lighthouse was being built in the early 1900s, the government hired Gullah men to be the laborers and paid them less than white men. Her father was one of those men and was proud that he had a part in the lighthouse being here. When she was a girl, he walked with her up the beach to show her his handiwork. He told her stories of mixing concrete to make the floors and walls inside, as well as the steps outside that hold her now. Back then, you could see the beacon from their house, which was the closest thing to having God looking over her in the darkness that she could imagine.
You did good, Daddy, she says to his memory.
It feels strange saying “Daddy” as a hundred-year-old woman. It has been decades since she uttered the word. Just like it has been decades since she has been called a girl. But the girl still lives inside her even now, and Old Sally remembers her often these days. Her endless curiosity. Her delight in simple things. Sunshine. A beautiful seashell. A sweet breeze. The sound of laughter and the playful chatter between family and friends. Like school photographs causing her to recall specific memories, every year of her life is documented inside her. She is the girl she once was, even as an old woman. Remembering that makes her life evergreen, even during the bleakest winter.
The Gullah menfolk tended to die off early, leaving the women—her mother, grandmothers, and aunts—to keep things going. Even in her dreams, it is the old women who visit her, rarely the men. Maybe it is true what she has thought for years, that women are the stronger ones. Raising children and tending homes. Midwives for births and deaths. Storytellers. Magic keepers.
Her father died when she was nine. She remembers his massive arms and how he would lift her up as a young child and carry her on his shoulder like she was as light as a seagull’s feather. He smelled of tobacco and taught her how to have a poker face and not reveal—with wide eyes or a sudden gasp—what cards he held in his hand when he played blackjack with his friends. These memories live in the past and feel further away than the recent dreams of her ancestors. One is a remembrance, the other a visitation. Whenever her grandmother shows herself, it is like she is standing in the room with her. Flesh and blood. Sometimes she can even feel the weight of her sitting on the end of Old Sally’s bed.
At the top of the outside concrete steps, Old Sally stops. Her knees quake with the task. Finally, she touches the familiar coolness of the metal door, corroded from age and salty air. Her hands shake as she pushes against the door. A door that will not open.
Her grandmother now stands next to her, a calm presence in the growing chaos.
I need help, Old Sally tells her.
Her thoughts create the opening between the worlds. The threshold Old Sally and Violet have begun to explore.
Be gentle, and it will come, her grandmother says, regarding the door.
This makes no sense to Old Sally. This door does not need a soft touch, but a man-sized shove. Or two. Or three.
But Old Sally heeds her advice. A harsh wind at her shoulder, she turns the handle and gives it a gentle push. The door swings wide open with the help of the wind, nearly pulling her inside.
Steady, her grandmother tells her. You must save your strength to build the courage fires for the others.
If only someone would tell her what that means. It is June in the South. Humid and hot. No need for a fire of any kind. Not a literal fire at least.
As Old Sally steps through the threshold, the past greets her with a metallic, musty smell. She blinks, shining her flashlight into the dark room, her eyes adjusting to the new darkness. The absence of the wind is a blessing. Yet, the sudden silence disorients her. She falters as past and present collide, steadying herself to keep from dropping to the concrete floor. To reorient, she aims the flashlight at the old metal cot still in the corner, and the metal desk chair nearby, companion to the metal desk across the room. An old gray army blanket covers the bed with its edges tucked in over the narrow mattress.
No one has ever lived here full time. For decades, old Mr. Harrison stayed on stormy nights to make sure the light stayed lit for passing vessels. A set of metal stairs winds up the center of the structure into a small observation deck, where the great beacon holds center stage. For something so old and so close to the sea, the moisture has done little damage. Everything inside is remarkably well preserved.
This is where she met Fiddle on their one night together. The closest she has ever come to loving someone with her whole heart. From the pocket of her raincoat, Old Sally takes out the only thing she brought with her when she left. A piece of worn pink fabric with an A embroidered on it. A for Annabelle. Her sweet baby girl who died after only six days of living on this earth.
Dark and sweet as night, Old Sally says to herself as she fingers the cloth, remembering the warmth that at one time lived beneath the fabric.
The wind wails outside and reminds Old Sally of her howling grief when Annabelle died. If only she could have traded some of her time here on earth so that Annabelle could have lived longer. No need for Old Sally to have so many days, years, and decades when a tiny creature so pure and beautiful gets only six days. It doesn’t make sense to her how life-and-death things are decided. So many things just don’t make sense. Automobile accidents. Slavery. Random blessings and curses everywhere.
Meanwhile, she can’t remember a time when she was more tired. She lies down on the old cot and closes her eyes, feeling she could sleep for another lifetime. Every bone in her body confirms her journey through the hurricane.
Seconds later, the spell of the past is broken, and she realizes for the first time why her grandmother has brought her here: to get the others to follow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Rose
The pounding on the back door brings everyone to see who it might be. When Queenie opens the door, she shakes her head and says, “What are you doing here?” as though the storm has decided to introduce itself.
When Queenie steps aside, Rose hides a grimace. In the back doorway stands Heather, windblown and breathless from the storm.
“I thought the road onto the island was closed,” Rose says, a flashlight the only light between them. “A power line had fallen.”
“They moved it,” Heather says. “The road had just opened again when I drove up. I was the only person not heading off the island. But those people won’t get far,” she continues. “The interstate is at a total standstill. People are stranded and running out of gas.”
While Rose takes this in, Heather steps past her into the dark kitchen. She takes off a hooded windbreaker and throws it on the kitchen counter. Rose’s jaw tightens with the familiarity Heather assumes.
“What did you find out at the bank?” she asks Rose.
Rose pauses. “That’s an odd question given what’s going on outside.”
“Is it?” Heather shrugs in the shadows of the kitchen.
“Wait, how did you know I went to the bank?” Rose asks.
“You told me you were going to the bank,” Heather says. “Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember that.” Rose is confident she didn’t share this bit of information with Heather. A person she doesn’t know or trust.
“Yes, you did.” Heather smiles and cocks her head, looking almost pleased with Rose’s agitation.
However, Rose refuses to bite the wormy hook Heather dangles in front of her. She has more important things to deal with.
“What’s going on?” Max approaches, his flashlight spreading more light into the foyer.
“You remember Heather,” Rose says to Max.
Max nods at Heather and looks back at Rose like a bouncer in a bar waiting for instructions to bounce. But Rose’s lifelong goal has been to avoid conflict, not engage in it. As a girl, if she had ever questioned her mother’s criticisms, she believed the earth might open and swallow her. Back then, Rose stayed in the kitchen with Old Sally or played with Violet in the courtyard. Even today it challenges her to confront anyone, even if they deserve it.
“Is the road open again?” Max asks Heather.
She says it is and repeats what she reported to Rose. “Have you decided to stay on the island?” she asks Max.
“Sounds like we don’t have a choice,” Max says.
Like all previous encounters with Heather, something about it doesn’t make sense. When they tried to evacuate before, both lanes of the road leading off the island were being used for evacuation. How would Heather get back on the island? And why would someone drive directly into a storm when the island is being evacuated? Was she hoping to find the house empty? Also, how did she know Rose went to the bank?
Violet returns to the kitchen and looks at Rose as if to ask, What the hell is she doing here?
Rose answers with an I have no idea shrug of her shoulders.
Violet holds a piece of paper. “It’s a note from Old Sally,” she says to Rose. “I found it next to her bed. I’m not sure why I didn’t notice it before.”
“The old lady is missing?” Heather asks.
No one answers.
The windows rattle with stronger gusts, and the thought of Old Sally out in this storm somewhere makes Rose tremble.
“What does the note say?” Rose asks Violet.
They gather around the kitchen island, which looks somewhat romantic with all the candles burning. “The only thing it says,” Violet begins, “is how important it is for us to meet her at the lighthouse.”
“The lighthouse?” Rose looks at Max, worry etched in her eyes.
Violet nods, mirroring Rose’s concern.
It was only last week that Rose and Max walked up the beach and explored the old lighthouse. The outside steps were crumbling. Part of the railing was gone. Not the safest place for an old woman to go.
“Was the note to all of us, or only you?” Rose asks.
“I have no idea,” Violet says. “It isn’t addressed to anybody.”
“Sounds like she means all of you,” Heather says.
Rose and Violet turn toward Heather. Does she want them out of the house? Does she think they keep the Temple jewels in their closet or something? Although her closet was precisely where Rose kept her nest egg for years.
“Why the lighthouse?” Max asks.
“I’m not sure,” Violet says.
“How did she even get there in this wind?” Rose asks.
“Maybe the old lady is losing it and just wandered off,” Heather says.
“She left a note.” Rose shoots Heather a look that says, How dare you.
“Old Sally is a lot sharper than most of us,” Violet says.
And definitely a lot sharper than you, Heather, Rose wants to add, her anger rising.
In the next moment, hairs raise on the back of Rose’s neck, and it’s not from her anger at Heather. A loud creaking noise quickly crescendos like a giant rusty nail being pulled out of an equally giant piece of lumber.
A crashing sound follows, and the entire house shakes. Violet’s girls scream like extras in a horror film and the dogs bark. For a moment nobody moves.
Rose grabs Max’s arm and tells him to check on Katie and Angela, whose bedroom is upstairs. He points his flashlight into the darkness and dashes away. Rose follows Queenie and Spud up to Queenie’s bedroom, where the sound appears to have originated.
When Queenie opens her door, she screams something that evokes the entire Holy family: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The live oak that had been growing for two centuries next to the garage has fallen into Queenie’s room. Most of the roof went down with the tree, as well as a considerable chunk of the porch and wall. Queenie’s bed is crushed underneath massive limbs, where only a short time ago Queenie and Spud were lying. The strong wind rattles the leaves and whistles through where a wall once stood. Spanish moss clings to the limbs like ghosts hanging on for dear life.
The tree was one of the oldest on the island and has withstood storms for hundreds of years. The oaks on the island are second in age only to the Angel Oak up the coast near Charleston, which dates to the Revolutionary War.
When Rose questions how the situation could get any worse, it begins to rain.
CHAPTER FORTY
Violet
The rain forces everyone into action. Violet grabs anything in Queenie’s room that she can lift that is not destroyed and takes it to a dry part of the house. Jack and Max disappear to get tarps to nail over the gaping hole in Queenie’s wall and ceiling. Within seconds, everyone is soaked, as the rain comes down harder.
When the men return, Jack reports to Violet that most of their cars are crushed under the giant limbs of the tree. Max’s truck is the only one that appears to be drivable. His look confirms that there is no way they can evacuate now.
Panicking is not helpful, Violet reminds herself.
She has attempted to reach Old Sally via the underground-between-worlds-radio, and Old Sally is not answering. To make matters worse, Violet’s left shoulder has finally woken up with a hurricane warning of its own.
“What will we do?” Violet asks Jack.
He pauses. “I have no idea,” he says.
The thought of Jack not knowing what they should do unnerves her even more.
Violet helps Queenie spread a smaller tarp over her dresser, and Queenie wipes tears and rain from her eyes. Violet hugs her, telling her everything will be all right. But she doesn’t know if that’s true. This could be only the beginning.
“They’re just things,” Violet hears herself say. She said something similar when Queenie lost everything in the Temple fire. However, Queenie helped her understand that losing things can be devastating, too. In a way, it’s like losing your identity and a feeling of safety in the world.
We need you, Violet tells Old Sally, trying again to reach her.
She wishes this mysterious communication system of theirs also had an answering machine. Violet would leave a frantic message asking her to come home immediately.
“My wedding dress is ruined,” Queenie says, pointing to the chair where it was draped, now crushed by the tree.
“Maybe it’s still salvageable,” Violet says.
Was it only yesterday that her mother and Spud spoke their vows to one anothe
r? It seems like weeks ago.
“I thought Iris might crash the wedding, but it seems she waited until the honeymoon,” Queenie says.
From the floor, she picks up the red hat she wore at her wedding and puts it on to keep the rain from her eyes. Leave it to Queenie to be colorful even during a hurricane.
“After this storm blows over we’ll see what we can do about your dress,” Violet says, making her voice sound hopeful.
“It’s not like I’ll ever wear it again,” Queenie says. “I’m just hoping it’s not a sign.”
“Since when do you look for signs?”
“Since Iris crashed a tree into my bedroom,” she says, water dripping from her brim. “Is Mama still missing?”
“She’s at the lighthouse,” Violet says. “I found a note. She wants us all to meet her there.”
“How did I not know this?” Queenie asks, pulling Spanish moss from her lampshade, delivered by the tree.
“I have no idea,” Violet says.
“Why is she at the lighthouse?”
“I have no idea about that, either.”
Pain pings Violet’s arm. She can’t believe just a few hours ago she was convinced her sixth-sense shoulder had somehow given up the ghost, so to speak.
While the others work to salvage more of Queenie’s things, Violet returns to her bedroom. She can’t just do nothing. The lighthouse is only a ten-minute walk if she runs some of the way. She can get there and back with Old Sally in half an hour. That is, if she can convince her that she should come home. Violet puts on her raincoat. She has taken this walk a thousand times or more, although not in the dark, and not with a hurricane offshore.
Gullah Secrets Page 18
