by Ann Cook
Through the apartment door she could hear Brad whining. She had been fortunate to find Kyra Gibbons, a student at Florida State taking a semester off to earn tuition money for her senior year. Kyra’s mother managed the café downstairs, and the two shared the other second floor apartment. Brandy had agreed to $175 for a twenty-hour week with the option of $8.00 an hour each for overtime. She hoped royalties from her book on Seminole Indian culture would finance the time for research on Micanopy and Ada’s death—including babysitter expenses.
She found Kyra pacing the floor with Brad over one shoulder. One of Brad’s hands clutched her loose brown hair, the other brandished a soggy cracker. Kyra’s white blouse, once neatly pressed, was wrinkled and stained.
Brandy dropped her bag, the books, and the periodical on a littered living room desk and took Brad into her arms. “I know he must be hungry. Sorry to be this late.” She adjusted his chubby legs around one hip and pressed his warm body close. How had she ever questioned bringing a child into the world? Three years ago John had been right about having a baby. He was often right—irritatingly so. She couldn’t imagine life now without Brad. “You know my grandmother,” she added. “She does like to talk.”
“Oh, yes, She, like, told everyone in town you’ll find out what really happened to her mother. That big monument in the cemetery, it gives me the creeps.” Kyra lifted her denim jacket off the sofa from Hope’s antique shop. Hope had also added two shabby armchairs and an oak desk with a scratched top to their sparse furnishings.
Brandy wished Hope didn’t talk so freely. Brandy might not want to tip her hand when she arranged an interview.
Kyra picked up a heavy volume on an end table, Statistics for Social Workers. She was a social work major, but her main interest was in child counseling, which pleased Brandy. “Got a date. Like in a few minutes. He’s had his bath.” She giggled. “Brad, I mean. Not my date.” Her rebuke for Brandy’s lateness was always mild. Kyra didn’t actually have much to do to be ready. Her generation seldom dressed up, and the only concession Kyra made to cosmetics was eyeliner and mascara. Her face had its usual freshly scrubbed look.
Brandy was already settling a fussy little boy in his high chair in the tiny kitchen when the young sitter paused at the door and called, “A ranger. At Payne’s Prairie. You’d like him. He might be able to help you.” Brandy had grown accustomed to Kyra’s verbal shorthand. Tonight’s date, presumably. After that cryptic comment, Kyra closed the door and hurrried down the steps.
A few minutes later Brandy heard John coming up the stairs. She was still helping Brad guide dripping spoonfuls of toddler peas and carrots into a mouth that gaped like a little frog’s. He’d plastered something sticky in his dark, wispy hair and smeared vegetables on his cheeks. His large brown eyes with their long black lashes, much like his father’s, were the envy of every woman who saw him.
Brandy didn’t look forward to telling John about her projected trip to a spiritualist center. Also she hadn’t had time to straighten the living room, and John hated untidiness. He strode into the living room, propped a portfolio of blueprints against a wall, and walked over to give her a quick kiss. She enjoyed looking at her sturdy, straight-backed husband, at the clean lines of his square face and his thick, dark hair that often fell across his forehead. She’d even grown used to the soft pressure of his mustache. He thought it made him look more mature.
“You’ve got to see this house,” he said. He bent down over Brad—searched for a dry spot—and finally gave his son a kiss on the top of his head.
“Da-da,” Brad said. “Ho-o-o-me.” He took pride in the words he was adding to his vocabulary. He batted John’s white shirt with the spoon.
“When I can find time. I’ve been with Grandmother.” Brandy wiped the spot with a moist washcloth, and then Brad’s face. She lifted him from his high chair and took him into the bedroom. Here she pulled off his shirt and jeans, took down his training diaper, and set him on the potty chair in the bathroom. “Pee-potty,” the little by said with satisfaction. “Big boy.”
John still stood in the kitchen. “Don’t see supper started. Want me to do something?” His voice had a slight edge. “I’m going to run up to Gainesville this evening. Shoot a little pool with the guys in the office.”
Better that he go out tonight. She hoped to set up her own plans for tomorrow, and it could include the evening. “You might set the table. I’ll be right there.” It took only a few more minutes to yank a pair of cotton pajamas from the little boy’s dresser and wrestle him into them. He was already making whimpering noises. She handed him his favorite stuffed toy—a glow-worm with eyes like big circles—laid him in his crib and turned on the elephant mobile. It spun around gently, tinkling a tune.
In the kitchen again, Brandy buttered four slices of whole wheat bread lavishly on both sides, slapped cheddar cheese slices between them, and plopped them into a skillet over a slow burner. A can of split pea soup completed the menu. John had laid soup spoons and napkins on the narrow table and covered its cracked enamel with plastic placemats. He was already seated beside the window.
Brandy joined him with the soup and sandwiches. For a few second she gazed at the shrouded limbs of a live oak in the back yard while she gathered her courage. Spanish moss brushed the pane.
“Think Bran, about what you’re starting,” he said. “You expect to do in a few weeks what law enforcement couldn’t do in eighty-one years? It won’t take long to finish work on the house. They we’re out of here.”
Brandy knew John had reservations about her investigation. She unfolded and re-folded her napkin. “I have to try. Grandmother had a lot to tell me today. I warn you. She has a bizarre idea. She wants me to consult a medium.”
John’s left eyebrow shot up. “As in spirit medium?”
Later she would remember her reply. “It won’t hurt to try.”
He put down his napkin, brushed his fingers across his mustache, and frowned. “Don’t get mixed up in a lot of mumbo-jumbo. I like Hope, but she can be a bit”—he tapped his finger against his forehead. “Mediums play on wishful thinking, use the power of suggestion. They’re skilled at reading body language, too.” John had never believed in her intuition, either. He saw her conclusions as subconscious but logical deductions. His rationality often irritated her.
She paused to choose her words. Outside, yellowing leaves floated down and blanketed the stubbly grass. “Grandmother’s not altogether whacko. She claims physicists are discovering amazing things about the composition of the universe, like the world of subatomic particles. Time itself. She thinks everything that ever happened still exists somewhere.”
John shook his head and stood. “Alexander Pope said it best. ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing.’”
Brandy began stacking the dishes in the sink and running water over them. “I’ve heard about Cassadaga all my life. I’d like to see this town and talk to one of the spiritualists. If I can arrange an appointment, I’ll go tomorrow. Kyra could come in if you need her.”
John paused in the kitchen doorway. “I would like you to come see the house I’m working on. Both the Irons will be there this weekend. and they want to meet you. It would help to establish a good relationship.”
Brandy glanced down at the sink. She hadn’t stopped to consider John’s plans. “I could come Monday. Would that be okay?”
“We’ll see,” John said, clearly unconvinced. “I’ll ask.” She peeked in at a sleeping Brad, then settled herself before the laptop, while he rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. After slipping on his leather jacket, he said. “I won’t be too late.” But he closed the door after him a little more forcefully than usual.
Brandy actually welcomed an evening alone. The Cassadaga Spiritualist Campground website listed “certified” mediums and her grandmother’s favorite, Adele Marco, was among them. The qualifications for bein
g certified surprised Brandy. She pulled out her notebook and jotted them down: a plan of study, classes in religion, science, the philosophy and history of spiritualism, parapsychology—nothing unexpected there—and metaphysics, among others. During a two-year probation, the candidate submitted to peer evaluations. These were aimed at testing the accuracy of the person’s readings. Candidates could earn one of three levels of certification, depending on their degree of expertise. A pretty thorough plan. But how advanced were the science courses?
The spiritualist association, established by New Englanders, dated from 1894. The Cassadaga Hotel, rebuilt in 1928, was worth a visit as well.
Brandy checked Adele Marco’s website. A middle-aged Latina face with a direct gaze stared back. Her black eyes, heavily lashed, looked as if they could pierce a client’s consciousness. She wore her shiny black hair plaited around her small head and a simple, deep green dress. Ms. Marco’s credentials looked impressive: a Ph.D. in Integrated Health. All degrees came from legitimate universities. She practiced yoga, meditation, and healing, as well as studied in Burma and Thailand. She had worked with hospice.
Brandy shifted to MapQuest and found the drive from Micanopy would take about two hours—down I-75, then east, and south again. Cassadaga lay about forty miles northeast of Orlando. Brandy e-mailed a query: was Ms. Marco available tomorrow afternoon?
Outside, the sound of distant thunder startled her. She glanced through the front porch balcony. Lights from across the street had winked on. A slice of white moon slid above the brick buildings and cast a silvery glow. She shut down the laptop, gathered up the library materials, and stepped out onto the porch. A faint smell of rain hung in the air. Under a street lamp in the garden below, the hibiscus glistened flame-red. She flicked on a lamp and settled into a rocking chair, books and periodical piled beside her.
Mediums claimed various sources of knowledge. Brandy recorded them all in her notebook: they might hear a voice, sense a presence or message or see visual symbols. Sometimes the gift was simply a “knowing.” The aim of ethical ones was to disconnect from the subject and become a passive receiver. One candid medium admitted that her “spirit guide” might be part of her own subconscious. Some provided recognizable information; some produced a few facts on target but others that were not. A few—even with a skeptic as the subject—were uncannily accurate. For these, researchers had no explanation.
At 9:00 Brandy shut down the laptop, put away her notebook, and began straightening up the living room. She was indifferent to disorder, as long as the house was clean. Not John. Even his shoes had to be lined up by the toes, and coat hangers all turned the same way. She tried to accommodate his quirks. A comfortable man was easier to live with.
By 9:30 she stopped to check her e-mail. Adele Marco could see Brandy at 8:30 Sunday morning before the 10 A.M. Spiritualist Church service. After that she planned to leave for New England. Brandy considered the situation. She could drive to Cassadaga Saturday, stay overnight at the old hotel, and be ready for the early morning reading. With a few keystrokes she confirmed, signing herself only as “B,” and sending the e-mail from John’s account. No need to furnish the medium with information. She phoned and made a reservation at the hotel.
After that call, Brandy decided to call Shot Hunter, the most important person to interview. She pulled his phone number from her bag and dialed.
After a few rings, a gravelly voice answered, “Yeah, I’m familiar with the Ada Losterman inquiry. But I doubt I have anything for you.”
Brandy had introduced herself as a journalist. Probably a mistake. She’d learned the hard way about the suspicion, if not hostility, law enforcement officers had for her profession.
“I’m researching a book about Micanopy and the area.” Not the whole truth, of course. “The case could add human interest.” Better come clean about her connection. A former detective would
I.D. her and be even more suspicious. “I’m Hope O’Bannon’s granddaughter. She asked me to look into her mother’s death again.”
“Why you?”
Brandy tried to picture the man she was speaking to. Healthy sounding. A strong voice. Must have retired early. “I had some success with investigations in the past—in the Tavares-Mount Dora area, in Cedar Key, and three years ago, on an island in the Homosassa River. Unfortunately, I’ll be in Micanopy a fairly short period of time, and I’ve got to be out of town late tomorrow.” She didn’t explain she had an appointment with a medium. He’d have the same reaction as John. “Could you possibly see me in the morning?”
He paused. “I’ll check my calendar. Hold on.” A minute later he picked up the phone again. “Tell you what. I could see you about
10:00. I’ll check Dad’s files. Don’t expect much.” “I’ll be there.” Actually, Brandy didn’t expect much, even if he had it. These guys liked to get information, not give it.
She called Kyra, apologized for the lateness, and asked her to come in at 9:30. Kyra was glad to earn the extra money. “But I was planning to study with a friend,” she added. “She’s got another year, and we’re taking the same course next semester. Mind if I, like, bring her along?”
“Fine, just take Brad outside for while.”
Brad’s care settled, Brandy delved next into her two-drawer metal file and pulled out a manila folder labeled simply “Ada.” She wanted to re-read the verses etched on the monument, front and back. Both were excerpts from Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Lenore.” As an English major, Brandy didn’t consider Poe in the first rank of American poets—too fixated on ghouls, horrific deaths, and the music of his verse at the expense on the sense. Yet his turn of mind suited the drowning of Ada Losterman. Someone else had made the same connection. Brandy settled back in an armchair and read:
“Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! That didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries …”
The stanza seemed prophetic. Brandy didn’t know what the “too bright dream” was, but Hope herself had been born and then abandoned or “overcast.” Hope indeed became a “voice from out the future,” crying for answers.
The poem took up again:
“Come! Let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young”—
The final lines had intrigued Brandy for years:
“Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—From Grief and Groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”
What if the “fiends below” referred to people on the “damnéd earth” in 1921—people responsible for Ada’s tragic death? From what “grief and groan” had Ada’s indignant spirit been wrenched to join her friends in heaven? And why hadn’t the person who grieved for her in such a public way come forward? The poem must be a kind of code. Somebody in Micanopy besides the donor must have understood it.
Brandy was slipping the copy back into its folder when she heard John on the stairs, along with another rumble of thunder, closer.
He came in and glanced approvingly around the room. “I see the good fairy’s been here.”
Brandy chose not to take the remark as sarcasm. “How was the game?”
“Lousy. I’m out of practice. These guys are good.” He picked up the latest copy of The Gainesville Sun and sat down on the sway-backed sofa.
Brandy curled up close beside him. “I made that appointment I told you about at 8:30 Sunday morning.” She sighed. “I’ll have to leave by 6:00 to be in Cassadaga in time.”
He glanced up from the paper. “I don’t want you starting out in the dark, trying to make a deadline. The ro
ad through Ocala State Park is isolated enough. It’ll be more so on Sunday. Better go over in the afternoon and stay overnight. Brad and I will be all right.”
Brandy didn’t tell him she’d already made that arrangement. She stepped to the porch door and looked out. The moon had ridden higher, lacquering the cabbage palms and oaks with silver. An echo of their disagreement about the medium shouldn’t end the evening. She turned back into the living room.
“That’s sweet of you.” She lifted the paper from John’s hand and, bending down, kissed him deeply. His eyes widened. She dropped her voice. “If I’m going to be gone tomorrow night, let’s make the most of this one.”
A few strategic buttons undone and he forgot the news, stood, and pulled her close. She squeezed his hand—it could be so gentle—and led the way into the bedroom. Brad lay facing the wall, breathing softly. She tugged her blouse off over her head. She liked him to take care of the rest.
Later, deliciously tired, she lay beside him and stroked his fingers. She thought of Ada, her remains lying all these years under the lofty memorial stone. Ada had known love, too—at least had a lover, if not a wedding ring. Her daughter was evidence of that.
Did Ada lose him in the Great War? Or had she come to this little Florida town to find him and found the Smith Street pond instead?
FOUR
Saturday dawned with gray skies. John was up earlier than Brandy and standing in the bedroom doorway, briefcase in hand, when she awoke. Rising on one elbow, she surveyed her husband. He was really a fine man—clean, trim, and purposeful looking in his khaki Chinos and open-necked beige polo shirt. She loved the way a wisp of dark hair curled above his collar. Essentially a kind man, too. Not as high maintenance as some.
“I need to stop by the Irons house this morning,” he said. “I’ll be back before you leave for Cassadaga.”
Brad was stirring in his crib, trying to pull himself up and climb out. John slipped a digital camera in his briefcase and left. He planned to photograph another Victorian house in Ocala. Brandy set the little boy in his high chair, fed him a breakfast of egg and cereal, and carried him into the bedroom. She sat him down with a large wooden puzzle while she showered, leaving the door open wide enough to glance out and see him. At the bathroom mirror she blow-dried her coppery hair. Should she look for a hair salon? Hope probably had her own silvery mane chopped off at a barbershop. For Hope, a stylist was out of the question.
