"The Trolley Tour stickers Andy gave you as you got on the trolley will get you discounts and special prices at any of the business or eating places that I point out to you on our tour. Just wear them where they can be seen and save money. If you didn't get one, please pick one up when you leave.” Greg turned and settled himself in the driver's seat.
"Our tour starts right here at the corner of Princess Anne and Charlotte Streets. You all purchased your tour tickets at the Fredericksburg Visitor's Center. The red brick building that now houses that center was built in the eighteenth century and was a family candy business until the mid-nineteenth century. It has always held some type of business and is one of our oldest original establishments."
Connie looked at the building, remembering the children running down the wooden steps to the board sidewalk and stopping to examine their packages of sweets. She turned and looked at Brian.
He was watching her reaction to the guide. “Are you sure you want to go on with this? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I feel like I have. I don't know if this is a mistake, but maybe it will open some doors.” Connie smiled, trying to cover her nerviness. “If I faint, make sure no one steps on me."
"Promise.” He held his camera on his lap as he sat sideways, his back against the narrow wall that separated the front and back halves of the bus, his right knee resting on the empty bench between them.
Connie turned sideways, too, putting her back to Brian. She could feel his eyes and hoped she didn't embarrass them both. Taking out her tablet and pen, Connie prepared to make notes.
She dutifully wrote as the guide pointed out the many original buildings in the town, giving a short history on each and giving a “commercial” for many of the small businesses that were now housed in them. Many times the driver slowed or stopped the bus as he talked about the proprietors, ringing the trolley bell to alert them that he was there, and waving to them when they came to the door. Many were attired in period costumes.
Sophia Street was a narrow two lane street that followed the river. Greg, the tour guide, kept up a constant dialog about the tides, flooding, and depth of the river. Connie's pen had stopped, her eyes fixed on the short side street that was barricaded at the top of the rise. It was called Rocky Lane and was only the length of the short block. Large stones and dirt made up the road.
"Rocky Lane is an example of what passed for streets in most of Fredericksburg during the nineteenth century. If you get down to this part of town, be sure to take a stroll on it. Get a feel for the past.” The guide went on to tell his audience about the Shiloh Baptist Church, but Connie watched as the rocky alley was left behind.
"What do you see?” Brian asked softly.
"I see that this road was made of stone too and the one above, what is it, Caroline Street? I can see them as clearly as if they were that way today.” Forcing her eyes from the scene outside the trolley, Connie smiled at Brian. “There were less houses and not as many trees, or maybe it just seems that way because its winter when I see them and there aren't any leaves."
"Do you want to get off?"
"No, I want to see this through."
The fingers of Brian's free hand briefly brushed against her arm as he leaned close. “If you change your mind, just say the word."
Connie nodded and turned, trying to pick up the thread of the guide's talk. She could hear Brian's camera as he took pictures. She was very much aware of his presence.
They struggled to see the gray roof of Chatham through to trees, just catching the smallest glimpse before the trolley moved on. The river was marked by many parking lots for tourists and a modern day bridge. There were no signs of the bridges burned down by the townspeople to keep the Union army out of their city.
"Back in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, sailing boats could navigate the Rappahannock. It was deeper then and the river still rises three feet with the incoming tide. It's no longer used by ocean vessels, but we have our own paddle wheeler if you would like to see the city from the water."
The bus left Sophia Street and went back into town. Connie tried to fit the guide's words to what she was seeing.
"That little white house is the smallest functional structure in the city. At the present time it is not in use, but at one time it was slave quarters for the big house you see on the corner."
Connie stared at the tiny white house and saw three black children playing in the dust in front of the door. An older girl was washing clothes in a tub and watching the children.
The tablet and pen had become props, Connie no longer made a pretense of making notes but instead she watched Fredericksburg—the real Fredericksburg, go by as the bus drove through the veil of time.
"Try to imagine that there aren't any buildings for as far as you can see, except the brown house on your right.” The bus had stopped in a narrow street. Connie didn't have to imagine the barren landscape, she could see it. She knew that between where they sat and the wood fence she could see in the distance was a canal. This was the death field for Burnside's army. By the end of the day on December thirteenth, eighteen sixty-two the fields were red with blood and blue with the mangled bodies of the Union army.
The bus moved on. Only a short fifty yard stretch of the original wall and sunken road survived over the years, but Connie could see it stretching far ahead. Landmarks that were built after the eighteen sixties weren't there; neither was the reconstruction being done on the Kenmore mansion for which the guide made apologies. Instead she saw the serene plantation house as it had been before the ravages of war had turned it into a hospital for Union soldiers after Lee lost the second battle at Fredericksburg.
The bus was heading back toward Old Town, as Historical Fredericksburg was called on the maps. Greg told his passengers about the Greek restaurant as they passed, it wasn't there. Connie closed her eyes and put her head down. She was suddenly very dizzy. She gripped the back of the bench with her right hand and tried to stop the spinning.
"It's all right. I'm right here.” She could feel Brian's breath on her neck and his hand on her arm.
"Sorry, I just had a dizzy spell. I think it's passing.” She allowed herself to relax, opening her eyes. They were passing the slave blocks on William Street. “But the scenery isn't."
"Tell me, maybe it will help."
"There's a black woman standing on the block. She's very young. She's holding a baby and another youngster is sitting on the street crying. A young man is being held back by several white men.
"It's so hard to believe that things like that happened in America.” Connie shivered as the bus turned onto Princess Anne and left the auction behind.
The bus had stopped and Greg expressed his well wishes to his passengers as they disembarked, paying the guide complements and leaving tips in the baseball hat on the front consol of the bus.
"I'm not so sure this was a good idea. You're more upset than you were at the church. Come on, Connie, you need some air.” Brian stood and shouldered his camera bag.
When had he put the camera away? Connie wondered. She must have really been out of it. She stood on shaky legs and went past the driver thanking him before she descended the steep steps. She gladly accepted the tour aid, Andy's hand to assist her.
"Oh, I forgot to leave a tip.” She turned to reenter the bus, fumbling with her purse.
"It's taken care of. Let's go over to the café and have something cold to drink.” Brian took charge and led the way.
* * * *
The iced tea and cooler air that settled over the city as the sun moved further west, worked together to help Connie focus on the present.
Fraiser's Rest stood in front of them. The late afternoon sun sent the building's elongated shadow across the narrow street.
"It feels like home. Know what I mean?” Connie studied the building. “It's changed some. The windows have been replaced. The glass in them was wavy and the frames pushed out from the center to open. The shutters were wood and painted black. They were close
d over the windows in stormy weather to keep out the wind and cold. Victoria liked to watch it snow, so she kept her shutters open except during the worst storms. The original wood siding has been replaced with aluminum, but it's still home."
Brian stood with his arm partly around her shoulders, his hand resting near her neck. “Well, it's comfortable and it is homey, but I don't think that's what you're saying. Is it?"
"No, it isn't. Right now I'm having trouble remembering what my apartment in Harrisburg looks like. This is Home with a capital ‘H'."
His hand touched exposed skin on her shoulder, sending a chill through her. Not an unpleasant feeling. Brian moved his fingers up Connie's neck, gently pressing on her chin, turning her face toward his.
Gradually Connie allowed herself to be distracted. She looked at Brian. Drawing back slightly he looked into her eyes. “I know it seems ... I feel like ... Do I have a place in all of this?” He stumbled over the words.
Connie knew he didn't mean as a friend. How do I answer him? Am I ready for another relationship? “I'm not sure—can we give it some time? We did just meet.” Hesitating, Connie turned away. What if he's like Phillip? We did just meet, yet...
Brian reclaimed his arm, putting his hands in his pockets. Connie felt the chill of exposure.
"Sure we can take it slow. You set the pace. Are you ready to go in? Or would you like to walk some more?” Brian waited, this time he was staring at the building across the street.
"Let's go in. I want to take a shower before supper.” Connie walked toward the looming house, hating the sudden tension between them.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Twelve
The cool air in the dark hall raised the hair on Connie's arms after the heat outdoors. Joe's voice came from the parlor. “...to the grove is an all day trip. Do you mind?"
A softer voice answered, the words indistinguishable.
"You're a real Pennsylvania peach."
Brian and Connie reached the open parlor doors in time to see Joe lean toward Tracey and give her a noisy kiss on the lips.
Will I ever have that kind of relationship? Connie thought with envy. Looking up at Brian's smiling face. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him.
"But you taste much better.” Joe said.
"Behave yourself. We have company.” Tracey nodded toward Brian and Connie.
"We don't want to intrude. I'm on my way to raid the kitchen for cold drinks.” Brian said as he stepped into the room.
"I think I'll join you.” Connie followed him, reluctant to be alone.
"I could use a snack. Supper won't be ready for more than another hour.” Joe got to his feet, sending a small stack of maps and pamphlets to the floor. He leaned over to pick them up.
"After the big lunch you ate?” Tracey took the papers from his hand, placing them on the small mahogany coffee table.
"Hey, I'm a growing boy.” Patting his flat stomach, Joe waited by the door for his wife to join him.
Taking his arm, Tracey teased, “If you're not careful, you're going to grow in the most unattractive places."
Val, Betty's reliable house-help, provided a plate of fruit and cheese to go with their drinks.
Connie chose a chair facing the door to the parlor. She didn't want to repeat her experience of the previous evening when she watched the kitchen crumble in a pile of rubble, and reappear like one of those pictures that change depending on the light. It was a disturbing reminder that things weren't normal.
As it was, she almost choked on a slice of apple when a pile of blankets topped by a bridle, spurs and a dusty Confederate officer's hat appeared next to the blazing fireplace. Slowly the scene changed back to the present day reality of a cold hearth displaying a huge iron kettle.
Distracted by the changing times, Connie only partially listened to the banter around her, responding with a smile or nod when she heard her name.
"Are you with us?” Brian's hand touched her arm, and drew back when she flinched, startled.
"I'm sorry.” She laid her hand briefly on Brian's in apology. “I'm afraid I'm not very good company."
Joe put a piece of apple into his mouth and focused his attention on Connie as he chewed and swallowed. Tracey glanced expectantly from her husband to her new friend.
Connie drank the last of her lemonade. Hoping to make a discreet exit, she pushed her chair back, glancing at Brian. “I'm going to—"
"You've been there, haven't you?” Joe interrupted softly. His words silenced the room.
Connie froze. She stared with disbelief at Joe.
"Where do...” Brian's question remained unfinished.
"She knows where I mean. Back in time, cruising history.” He focused on Connie. “You've been tripping."
His words, though spoken softly, made Connie recoil as if she'd been hit. Without looking at Brian, she gripped his hand, her lifeline to reality.
"What...?” Connie's voice trailed off. Ice burned in her stomach, her head spun. She fell back into the chair, her back straight and her eyes fixed on Joe's.
"Tracey told me what happened at the Pub. It's happened to me, too. I've been back to both Civil War Battles of Fredericksburg."
Brian leaned close to Connie and whispered, “You're not alone.” He gripped her cold hand.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced at Brian for support before answering Joe. “Yes. I have. But how did you know? What makes it happen?"
Tracey answered. “We call it ‘tripping'. You have that lost look that Joe had the first time it happened to him. And at the tavern today I saw you coming back from a trip."
Finishing for her, Joe stood. “I'm afraid we don't know much. This seems to be some kind of conductor or conveyor.” He held the metal belt buckle at his waist, bearing the Confederate signature “CS". “I found it in a meadow at Spotsylvania, six years ago. We were on vacation. The first time I wore it, I was witness to its original owner's death. I won't wear it there again, but I found out who he was and from that, where he fought. We've been able to retrace his life from the time he moved to Richmond in eighteen forty-five as a boy with his family. We can't find anything before that."
Connie glanced across the table. “But I don't have a conductor. I seem to trip at random to times and places where Victoria is, or in the case of the Chapel, is just leaving. I don't have anything of hers.” Looking from the man to the woman sitting across from her, Connie continued. “You're right, Tracey, she was in the pub at lunch time. She walked in the front door and went into a back room through an opening where the dart board now hangs."
* * * *
Brian watched the exchange with interest and skepticism. This was the stuff you read in sci-fi stories, or supermarket tabloids. Looking at the couple across the table he remembered the things that he had witnessed this afternoon ... why not? Strange things happened all the time, who was he to say it can't be.
* * * *
"Victoria?” Tracey searched her memory. “That name's familiar."
"Victoria Brentwell. Her father, Dr. Maxmillian Brentwell, had this house built. She kept a journal. Betty gave me the transcript. Have you read it?"
"No. I glanced through it. We've been so busy, I haven't had the chance. Betty told us the family history last week."
"You must have a conductor,” Joe interrupted the two women.
"Not that I know of. How does it work?” Connie asked.
"I don't know, but it seems to be a necessary part of tripping. If I'm not wearing the buckle, I don't go beyond this time."
"It would have to be something of Victoria's.” Thinking aloud, Connie searched her memory for anything she might have that was a direct connection to the girl. “I don't even have the original journal, just the transcript. Betty said that the furniture is original. But that doesn't explain the tavern or the church."
"Maybe your connection is different than mine. Tell me about your trips."
Trying to remember as many details as she co
uld, Connie described the mist that carried her into the past and surrounded her while she was there. “Only Victoria can see or hear me. When I went back ... tripped while I was waiting for you on the street, no one else noticed me, but Victoria started across the street just as I was pulled back. It's frustrating not to be able to control it ... and frightening."
Joe looked thoughtful as he relayed his own experience. “I'm not ‘pulled’ back, not since the first time when I found the buckle. Jeremy sees me. That's his name, Jeremy Nestor. But except once when he was a boy, he's usually pretends not to see me. Tracey and I went to Richmond to do some research and I tripped to his pre-war days. His dad beat him with a strap the first time he mentioned seeing a ‘ghost'. He never said anything after that as far as I know, not even to his wife. I know he saw me at the wedding and when his son was born. I gave him the thumbs up sign both times. He wasn't sure what it meant at first but I guess he figured it out from my expression and he nodded to me.
"When I want to indulge myself in a little on-hands Civil War history by tripping, I find a location, stake out a comfortable place to relax, and think about the War and Jeremy. And it just happens, almost like going to sleep.” Joe shrugged. “Tracey sticks close while I'm away. Don't know what I'd do without her. If I'm in danger of coming back in the middle of traffic or of being sucked up by a giant vacuum cleaner,” he glanced at Tracey with a smile, “she yells as close to me as she can. If I know she's trying to reach me, I break the connection. Once I had to take the buckle off, but usually I can just close my eyes and think about my pretty wife and I'm home. It works better than Dorothy's magic red shoes."
Tracey blushed at the compliment.
The small group fell silent, each with their own thoughts, when the kitchen door opened and Val entered, carrying a large, empty tray. “I'm sorry. I was going to clean up for supper, but if you're not finished..."
The four stood and pushed their chairs under the table, expressing apologies. Brian put his arm around Connie's waist as they moved into the parlor.
Tracey and Joe stopped to gather the maps and papers they'd left on the parlor coffee table. Connie and Brian headed for the stairs.
Lost in the Mist Page 9
