Micanopy in Shadow

by Ann Cook

  No woman is ever satisfied with her own appearance, and Brandy was no exception. Although her face had her grandmother’s bone structure, it didn’t have a classic oval shape. Once she had an assignment in Holland, Michigan. When she gazed at the round-faced, blue-eyed pedestrians, she knew these were her people, although most were blondes. She turned sideways, surveyed the curve of her stomach, and sighed. Still slim, but better watch the calories. After her critical appraisal, she led Brad back into the kitchen to let him help stack silverware in the dish drainer.

  North Central Florida’s crisp fall weather had not yet arrived. The air still felt moist and oppressive, but Brandy bundled the little boy into his jacket and overalls and carried him downstairs. It was only 8:30, time for a walk together. He held tightly to Brandy’s hand, stopped to admire the scarlet blossoms of the hibiscus and stooped to study a low-growing bed of golden Wedelia edging the sidewalk. Across the street an elderly man came out of the drug store. He paused and stared at her, although he didn’t look familiar. But everyone in town knew Hope. He probably also knew Brandy was the granddaughter.

  “Pretty,” Brad said, patting one of the flowers. Brandy bent down to listen to him and thought no more about the man watching her.

  Promptly at 9:30 Kyra rang the doorbell. A slim black girl in jeans and a Florida State tee shirt, her hair in cornrows, waited behind her. Kyra introduced her classmate as Sheshauna Hall, a native of Micanopy. Brandy saw the shyness in her chocolate-colored eyes.

  She held out her hand. “Glad to meet you here,” she said.

  Sheshauna nodded, eyes grave. While Kyra settled down on the living room floor with Brad, the other girl perched on the couch, clutching her copy of Statistics for Social Work. She eyed Brandy with frank curiosity, but remained silent. Perhaps Kyra had told her friend about Brandy’s quest.

  It was time for her interview with Shot Hunter. A few minutes later Brandy drove her Prius slowly down a narrow road in the northwest corner of town, peering at mailbox numbers. Cottages here were widely spaced and set between tracts of undeveloped woodland. At 10:00 she pulled up before a small, white frame bungalow with a hip roof. “C.K. Hunter” was the name on the mailbox. A brick walkway and two steps led to a plain front door flanked by a low viburnum hedge. Narrow green shutters trimmed both front windows. As Brandy stepped out of her car, she noticed a small silver car parked beside a vacant lot in the next block. She saw no one on the property. For a moment she was curious. Then Hunter’s door opened and the retired Sheriff’s Office captain stood in the doorway.

  “O’Bannon?” He moved aside. “Come on in. I have a few minutes.”

  Hunter looked about sixty-one or two and stood a compact 5’8”. As Brandy held out her hand, she took in the salt and pepper hair—thinning only a little—the tanned, deeply lined face and the creases around light-colored eyes. Hunter’s gaze was sharp, but his face closed. Above a wide jaw and cheekbones, his forehead narrowed to a hairline that shaded from brown to gray. He wore a tidy, open-necked polo shirt and pressed jeans. Brandy would have spotted him on the street as law enforcement.

  A blue couch, two overstuffed armchairs, an uncluttered coffee table, and piecrust end tables furnished the pristine living room. Ethan Allan pieces, she thought, and everything new, including the green Berber carpet. Yet something was missing. The room had no pictures on the walls, no family photographs, no magazines, books, no feeling of being lived in. As she glanced about, puzzled, Hunter noticed.

  “Been here only a month.”

  Still, didn’t he read the newspaper? Books? Take a few magazines? She did see a stack of CD’s, but no stereo.

  Hunter ran a large hand through his hair and followed her gaze around the room. “A gift for my wife. She put up with the law enforcement life in Gainesville for a lot of years. Too many, I guess.” He gave a short, harsh laugh. “Took her a week to move in and another to move out. The joke’s on me. Rejected the house—and me. She’d found another guy. He didn’t work nights.”

  Brandy hesitated. What could she say? “Sorry to hear it” was all she managed.

  He shrugged. “I like to sit out in back. It was the arbor I liked best.” He led the way through the formal dining room with its oblong maple table and six chairs and down a short hall. The door to the bedroom stood ajar. She could see an unmade bed, a pair of pajamas trailing onto the floor. She also saw a file cabinet and a desk, bare. He walked on into the small kitchen, where a plastic topped table stood next to the sink and counters. On it sat a half empty coffee cup and a fat file folder. Brandy glimpsed the name “Losterman” on the folder, but Hunter had pushed open the screen door, and was holding it for her. He must have refreshed his mind about Ada before Brandy arrived.

  “Guess I’ll sell,” he said. “I thought Micanopy would be a nice change. Not for her, I guess. Now it’ll be too quiet.”

  He gestured toward a narrow strip of lawn and two benches under a latticework gazebo laced with Confederate jasmine. A small CD/tape player sat on a plastic table beside one seat. He did play music but out here, away from the reminder of his rejected gifts.

  Hunter glanced at the lush green leaves overhead. Next spring it would burst into fragrant white blossoms. “Come May, the whole yard will smell like jasmine.”

  Brandy didn’t ask about the separation. Hunter obviously needed to talk to someone. She couldn’t be that person.

  “About the Ada Losterman case,” she began, “can you help me with it?”

  He paused, then leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “My dad was a rookie in the Sheriff’s Office when the Losterman woman drowned. He was only twenty. The older guys were still getting back from the war. He tried more than anyone to figure out who she was and why she died. The coroner’s jury called her death a suicide. No evidence of anything else. Still, Dad thought it odd, coming here like she did and then drowning herself the same day. Especially since no one even admitted knowing her. An ugly place to die, that muddy pond.” He gave her a penetrating look. His eyes were steely blue. “Strange to leave a child here like she did. Dad was never satisfied with just forgetting about her. But he was too young to influence decisions in the department, and there wasn’t a provable crime, you see.”

  Brandy slipped her notepad out of her tote bag. “I told you, my grandmother is that abandoned child. She still wants to find out what happened. Did he discover anything helpful?”

  “Truth of the matter is, the family who took the little girl in didn’t welcome an investigation. Afraid they’d lose her. They had help from people in town, so supporting her wasn’t an issue. The extra money wasn’t a bad thing for the Havens. They weren’t well off. If Dad found out who the child was, her family would get custody. But …” He tilted his head back for a second, then glanced down at Brandy and dropped his voice. “Dad did leave notes. He always thought someone would care enough to really investigate. I told your grandmother I’d look into the old case again, now that I’m retired.”

  “I’d love to see your father’s notes. Surely, after all these years no one but her family cares how Ada Losterman died.”

  He paused. Years of habit, she thought: divulge a little at a time, study the other person—what do they know?—find the advantage. “Seems to me I remember reading “The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon their children,” he said. But, tell you what. Dad had theories. I’ll make a few discreet inquiries. Rattle a few cages.”

  “Any names? I plan to interview people who might know something. The dry goods store owner met her, and the town marshall, Ezekiel Wilson, saw her. Their descendents may know something. Any suggestions?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’ll do what I can. This is Saturday. Come back Tuesday morning, okay? Say 10:00 again.”

  Brandy had no choice. She tucked her notepad back into her bag. Not much to write down yet. “Tuesday it is, then.”

&nb
sp; As she walked around the house to her car, she heard the plaintive strains of Duke Ellington’s My Solitude start up under the gazebo. She climbed behind the wheel.

  Sins of the fathers. She needed to remember that.

  * * *

  John was home by noon. Once he was reconciled to Brandy’s Cassadaga trip, he threw himself into planning time with his son. Brandy knew he had stocked the cupboard and refrigerator with evening delicacies, but one supper of treats should do no harm to either.

  Brandy left Micanopy about 3:00 P.M. She barely noticed the small, light-colored car that cruised along about a block behind her—maybe a Chevrolet or Ford—but not distinctive. It pulled into a gas station when she turned onto I-75. After several miles, she veered off onto U.S. 27 to pass through the outskirts of Ocala and followed the directions east on FL 40, under twisted branches of live oaks and by the skinny, gray trunks of cabbage palms.

  She passed small settlements and churches before she reached the Ocala National Forest. Here the air seemed to grow more still, the ospreys more plentiful, the myrtle and runner oak thicker along the roadside. Blackened pine stumps and blistered grass spread over long stretches of controlled burns. A weak sun glowed in the west.

  She focused on what she’d read the night before—how mediums claimed to communicate with the dead. People generate a form of energy that survives death, they said; according to the conservation of energy principle, energy cannot be either created or destroyed. It produces vibrations, spiritualists believe, and skilled mediums sometimes can connect their own vibrations with the deceased’s surviving energy. Living bodies do produce vibrations, but what is the exact nature of that energy?

  At the small town of Astor, she crossed the St. Johns River. Boats huddled at a marina below. But John had been right. She saw no people, until she turned south toward the university town of Deland.

  Brandy couldn’t sort out the science. She hadn’t enough information. All she could do in Cassadaga was observe and listen.

  When she reached a pine woodland beside a county road, she mourned its invasion by developers. Bulldozers had cut ugly gashes in the soil to create a new subdivision. Here was a different kind of dying—that of Old Florida. Gloomy skies were appropriate. Micanopy was one of its last survivors.

  She turned at last onto the final leg of the drive, Route 4139. Pines, oaks, and a few evergreens lined a two-lane road that led over hills and around curves into Cassadaga. She saw signs advertising psychics as she neared the Spiritualist Campground. All psychics, she’d read, were not mediums, but all successful mediums claimed to be psychics.

  Across from the tiny post office, a pair of white stone pillars welcomed her to the the Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp. She wheeled past the white frame building that housed the Bookstore and Information Center and parked in the lot by the Cassadaga Hotel, a two story, mustard-colored stucco. It dated back almost a century. On one side of its enclosed front porch hung a copper-colored awning with the hotel’s name. The other one announced the Lost in Time Café, a name that captured the atmosphere. A side veranda, furnished with aging wrought iron tables and chairs, faced the bookstore.

  Cassadaga’s early twentieth century homes were tucked among small lakes and pines and along wandering, often unpaved roads.

  Brandy checked her watch—almost 5:00 P.M. The faint October sunlight was fading. Outside she caught the sweet scent of newly mowed grass. At a desk in the hotel she stared at New Age books, crystals, prisms, post cards, and signs advertising the services of hotel mediums. Those who advertised tarot cards, were not certified by the spiritualist campground association. It did not endorse cards or fortune telling. They did not believe in a predestined future or in the supernatural. To them, survival after death was a natural process.

  The dimly lit lobby consisted of a few small tables and straight chairs, a television set, a couch, and comfortable, well-worn armchairs. Brandy found her room mid-way down a narrow hallway. She laid her bag on the four-poster bed and took in her surroundings: sink, wardrobe, bedside table, thin but serviceable carpet. The adjoining bath had a claw-footed tub. Not the Ritz, but clean. She decided to leave the precious brooch and prayer book in her suitcase. She would not need them until morning.

  Cassadaga had no restaurant—not even a Wendy’s or McDonald’s or grocery store. At a snack dispenser she managed to crank out cheese crackers, an apple, and a soft drink. In the lobby she finished her meager dinner before taking a walk around the nearby streets, past frame houses with steep, pitched roofs, more native to New England than Florida.

  Back in her room, she left a call for 7:00 A.M. and looked over her notes again, preparing for her first experience with a medium.

  * * *

  Brandy awoke before the phone rang. She took a quick shower, and having no idea what was appropriate to wear to a reading, pulled on linen slacks and a tailored white blouse. She lifted the prayer book and jewelry box out of her suitcase and slipped them carefully into her canvas bag. The hotel served a continental breakfast of pastries, cereal, and coffee, and she ate with an eye on her watch.

  Soon her little car was threading its way past the Temple, around a small, circular lake, and up a sloping hillside. On either side of the road stood more tall, frame houses with roofs peaked like witches’ hats. Almost all bore inconspicuous signs alerting passersby to the medium within. A few minutes before 8:30, she parked in the driveway of a white house with green trim and a front bay window. Dormers jutted from its steep red roof. It sat far back on the lot, behind three towering cabbage palms. The lawn, like others in the neighborhood, was environmentally friendly. Not unkempt, but a little ragged. She had noticed few flowering shrubs in the town. These residents were not the meticulous gardeners of Micanopy.

  The weather still had not lifted. A light rain fell, and Brandy pulled on a windbreaker before she trotted up the porch steps and rang the bell. Although she’d seen Adele Marco’s photograph on her website, she was not prepared for the medium’s appearance when she opened the door. It was not that she didn’t have the jet-black plaits or the petite figure—she did. But she gave an impression of softness and warmth that the picture did not capture. She wore a simple cotton housedress and sandals. Brandy judged she could be anywhere between forty and sixty.

  “You must be the mysterious ‘B,’” Ms. Marco said, smiling. Brandy’s evasiveness did not seem to annoy or surprise her, but Brandy flushed. She supposed mediums got this reaction all the time—people wanting to stump them, to prove them frauds.

  “Yes, my name’s actually Brandy.”

  Ms. Marco nodded and led her past the living room into a smaller room with a bay window. Bookshelves lined one wall. Brandy noted several volumes on Eastern religions and yoga. The morning sun gave only a dim light, and Ms. Marco switched on a lamp. Unlike accounts she had read about mediums operating in semi-darkness, this one seemed to welcome illumination.

  Brandy had planned not to provide much information. “I hope you can help me learn the truth about an event—something that happened in my family’s past.” This statement shouldn’t give many clues. Everyone who came for a reading must want to know something about the past, probably about someone who had died.

  Ms. Marco gestured to an armchair in the center of the room and took a seat in front of Brandy. “I make no promises,” she said. “I can only tell you what comes to me.” Her dark eyes fixed Brandy with a gaze that was both pleasant and searching. “First, I would like us both to get comfortable and quiet. Close your eyes and meditate for a few minutes.”

  Brandy obeyed. She tried to stop the chatter in her thinking mind and remember her yoga deep breathing. After the calming interlude, Ms. Marco asked, “Would you like me to record the reading?” Brandy nodded. She would be glad to have the record. It would be more accurate than notes written later. The medium punched on the recorder beside her. “You are a person who organ
izes your day carefully,” she said. Brandy thought of the notations on her desk calendar at home, and was surprised. She did start each new page with a list of tasks to be accomplished that day. A smile flickered at the corners of the medium’s lips. “But you don’t organize everything in your household so well.” Brandy remembered arguments with John about untidy rooms, and found herself nodding again.

  Ms. Marco’s gentle voice continued. “I feel that you have been working hard on some dirty job, like planting flowers or maybe cleaning out a garage.”

  Here the medium was off base, and Brandy shook her head. Many mediums asked the subject of a reading to verify correct statements and identify incorrect ones. Brandy knew this request provided clues. Still, indicating the truth of a statement might simply be a form of cooperation. She knew some mediums asked their subjects to withhold feedback until the reading ended.

  Ms. Marco moved to a different topic. “You are a person who feels strongly about your work. You become deeply involved, perhaps too much so. Often you feel you have a duty to others. You are interested in talking to many people—not for conversation—for work. I associate you with paper, lots of it.”

  Once again, Brandy was startled. Yet she knew that many people felt strongly about the importance of their work, and the observation would be accepted by almost everyone.

  Again, Ms. Marco shifted emphasis and made her first reference to a person who had died. “Someone is here now who feels very warm toward you—an older man. He could be an uncle or a father. He wants to give you a hug. He carries a book. Does that mean anything to you?”