Trace of a Ghost

by Cherie Claire

  I’m too embarrassed by the whole incident to admit that I worried he took advantage so I grab TB’s sleeve and pull him toward our cabin.

  “We leave in fifteen minutes,” I hear Dwayne calling from behind. “You might want to shower and get out of those things.”

  I look down at my clothes which are exactly as they were the night before. If Dwayne had violated my person, it’s doubtful he would have been able to dress me back up in the same way, wet jeans included.

  “That’s it?” TB asks, as I continue to pull his sleeve toward our cabin.

  I’m too embarrassed to admit that I might have made a grave error, and something deep inside thinks there’s more to this scenario than Dwayne’s letting on. I don’t want to go into it now since the van is leaving shortly, so I simply answer, “That’s it” and head for the showers. But I check my body for anything suspicious when I do.

  After I dress and emerge from the bathroom, I find TB in deep conversation with Carmine. When Carmine spots me, his face turns as red as a Bama fraternity man at a football game.

  “You did what?” Carmine spits out at me.

  My head’s still splitting so I’m not in a mood to be lectured. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

  Carmine shakes his head and I realize he’s furious with me. “You bet we’re going to talk later.”

  I can’t help myself. I bite back. “Well, that’ll be a first. Not like you’ve been forthcoming with all this great information.”

  Carmine stares at me for a moment – no doubt not used to me talking back — then leaves for the van. “We leave in five minutes,” he tells TB.

  I don’t wait for TB’s disapproval; he adores Carmine. I throw my clothes into the suitcase and head for TB’s pickup truck, careful at the door to not let Stinky out. TB follows but leaves the door wide open. Before I can admonish him, he calls to the cat and Stinky trots out, then jumps into the cab of the pickup when TB opens the door.

  “What the…?”

  But I don’t have time to ponder all this. Within a heartbeat, we’re off and running, following the van to our next stop, breakfast at the Parkway Visitor’s Center outside Tupelo. TB’s unusually silent so I pick up Stinky and offer my signature cat massage. He purrs loudly, cuddles closer, and I feel myself relaxing.

  “Who’s Cora?” TB asks.

  The horrid dream comes back in a rush, poor Cora wakening to find herself in disarray with a massive headache and no answers to what happened the night before. Her distrust of Reynald has evolved into fear and she wishes she had never started on this fateful journey through Mississippi.

  “I found two photographs of this woman and I’ve been dreaming of her ever since.”

  “What woman?”

  I lean over to my purse, careful not to disturb Stinky, and pull out the two photos.

  “Those look antebellum,” he says. “What’s on the back? Anything?”

  “It says ‘Briarwood, Natchez.’ In my dreams, a friend calls her Cora, but that’s all I know.”

  “I’ll do some research.”

  When I first started travel writing, my husband had offered to help me solve a century-old mystery involving female students at a Eureka Springs college. The school became the Crescent Hotel, claimed to be the most haunted hotel in America. I’m here to attest to that fact, although I helped one of their apparitions cross to the other side.

  TB was instrumental in solving that mystery, much to my surprise, and has been helpful with my research ever since. Too bad he left college and went into carpentry because he’d make an excellent researcher or police detective.

  We pull into the parking lot of the Visitor’s Center and are greeted by several national park rangers.

  “What about Stinky?” I ask.

  “He’ll be fine.” TB closes the door behind him with a crack in the window. The weather’s balmy and partly cloudy so heat isn’t an issue and TB has placed lots of food and water on the cab floor. When I look back, Stinky’s stretched out on TB’s flannel shirt on the car seat, happily cleaning his face.

  We all get an introduction to two park rangers by the front door, then are brought inside where coffee and a large array of pastries await us.

  “Finally,” Pepper says, heading straight for the bear claws.

  “Youth,” Joe whispers to me with a smile.

  I want to laugh but the smell of it makes that headache return. When Dwayne walks by and his aftershave hits my nostrils, I head straight for the bathroom and revisit that nasty Apple Jack. I sit on the cold tile, head in hands, and wait for my stomach to calm down. I hear the door open and know it’s Winnie coming to check up on me.

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  The door to my stall opens and it’s Carmine. He sits next to me on the floor, — bless his heart, he has this thing about getting dirty — his back propping the door open. He rubs his hands over his knees.

  “I’m sorry, Vi. I should have told you.”

  “That he’s Lucifer and he’s come to take my soul.”

  I’m joking but Carmine’s not laughing.

  “You’re serious about him being a fallen angel?”

  “He’s a descendant, not an angel.”

  “Whatever. You really believe that stuff?”

  Carmine finally looks up. “Have you ever wondered why there are psychic people in the world, wondered why us and not everyone else?”

  Not really, I think, but I nod anyway.

  “Most people in the Etherworld think it’s one of two things, and one is that we’re descendants of angels who long ago had relationships with women before God put an end to it.”

  Definitely not what I expected. “Are you kidding me? Etherworld? Angels?”

  When our eyes meet, I know he’s serious. He takes my hand in his. “That’s a subject for another day. What you need to know right now is that when people cross over, their souls go with them into the light. You can’t touch it, Vi. It’s dangerous.”

  I completely agree but I need more information. “Why is it dangerous?”

  “Because it’s not meant for you.” He squeezes my hand. “Their soul is rising, not yours. Do you understand?”

  Hardly. “So, you’re saying if I put myself into that light, my soul will ascend with theirs?”

  Carmine’s gaze turns deadly serious. “Likely, yes.”

  “So, why would Dwayne want me to do that, think that I will evolve by touching the light?”

  “Why indeed?”

  I’m so confused, and just as I’m about to inquire more, Winnie sticks her head in. “Am I interrupting something?”

  Carmine rises, then gives me a hand to get me on my feet.

  “We’ll talk later,” he says.

  “You keep saying that.”

  I’m suddenly hungry and in need of a cool drink to get the vomit taste out of my mouth. Bless them both for they link elbows in mine on either side and we laugh as we trot to the pastry table. When we get to the food, however, neither one lets go. I look up at Carmine who’s sending Dwayne the evil eye, as if he’s sending a mental message to him to leave me alone.

  Dwayne, on the other hand, ignores Carmine and sends me a wink and I can feel Carmine’s muscles tense throughout his body. For the first time, I wonder if Dwayne is using me to get back at Carmine and some high school feud that still simmers.

  “I’m cool, guys,” I tell my buds and they release me. I grab a croissant and a coffee with lots of cream and follow the others into the auditorium for a film. Without realizing it, TB’s been at my back the whole time. I feel like the president with a security entourage. All they need are earpieces and guns.

  We make ourselves comfortable and watch a film that teaches us about Natchez Trace history, dating back thousands of years to Paleo Native Americans, then how “Kantucks” would move their crops down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers to sell at New Orleans, taking the Trace back home. Naturally, other travelers used the road through Chickasaw and Choctaw lands, and remnants o
f their presence are located at many sites that we will see, Shelby announces from the side.

  The Trace was also plagued by highwaymen, robbers, and murderers, and the dream about Cora comes back in a flash. Is that why she looks so pained in the photograph, I wonder? But then, she was happy with child at some point. My head’s buzzing and I can’t shake that mysterious feeling, wondering if a piece of my soul was left behind at Tishomingo State Park.

  After the film, we’re left to browse the center, which has a nice collection of Native American and colonial artifacts. For the first time since we started this trip Goth Girl lights up.

  “I know this,” Pepper says pointing to a selection of herbs on display titled Native American Medicine. “Yellowroot is great for when you have an upset stomach. And this,” she points to a piece of bark, “is dogwood, awesome for headaches. I use it for my migraines.”

  I’m impressed because my Aunt Mimi taught me the same thing, walked me through the back woods of Alabama and explained how to use herbs in the wild as medicine.

  “Shouldn’t simply be called ‘Native American Medicine,’” Pepper continues with a frown. “We should still be using these. We’re so cut off from our Mother.”

  I’m sorry I wrote off this Millennial for I find we have something in common.

  “I grow all kinds of herbs in my apartment back home,” I tell her. “I also use them for gris gris bags.”

  Pepper’s face turned on when she spotted the herbs, like someone flipped a switch, but now it’s a ninety-watt bulb. I explain how Native Americans, voodoo priestesses, and African Americans routinely carried herbs with them as medicine and for protection. Some herbs were believed to assist with intentions. If you want to win at gambling, carry a Lucky Hand root in your pocket. If you want to attract love, herbs in a red bag do the trick.

  “Also helps if you put a lock of their hair inside,” I add with a smile.

  “Watch out for her,” Carmine warns Pepper with a laugh. “She’ll put some mojo on you.”

  Pepper surprises us all and pulls a gris gris bag from her purse. Naturally, it’s black.

  We have a good laugh at this — and for the record black doesn’t denote evil, it’s a powerful protective color. I look across the room and notice Dwayne staring intently at Pepper and her bag and remember he’s a man of God. Some religions look down on relishing natural items, call them pagan when really it’s about honoring our Mother, as Pepper likes to say. I doubt God thinks delicious smelling herbs culled from the earth he created dilutes our faith.

  I head over to the food table for more coffee. I smell Dwayne’s aftershave so I know he’s behind me.

  “Nothing happened, SCANC girl,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

  I turn but he’s looking off toward TB, who’s watching us both carefully.

  “Carmine and I have some history.” He pours himself another coffee and nonchalantly rubs up against my side which — against my rational mind that has rendered him non-guilty — causes me to stiffen. “So, don’t believe everything he says.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you? A man who lets a woman stumble off in the darkness because what she has done has messed with her head.”

  He smirks. “I didn’t make you drink that moonshine.”

  I grab his arm, a bit too hard, which isn’t what he’s expecting. “It wasn’t the damn moonshine and you know it.”

  Dwayne removes my hand and his gaze turns cold. “If you’d have done it correctly, you’d be seeing Lillye right now.”

  “Don’t you dare say her name.”

  “Come with me again and do it right and I’ll prove it.”

  I’m about to retort that I will never do anything with this man but he grabs his coffee and walks away. And, I must admit, against my better judgment, I’m still curious.

  The rest of the group climbs into the van and TB and I follow behind in the pickup, with Stinky happy in my lap. It’s going to be a day of the dead — we visit an old Confederate graveyard next to a piece of the original Trace, then drive through the Tupelo National Battlefield. I’m not a fan of Civil War history so I only half listen while a local historian drones on about the “War Between the States.” Yes, he refers to it that way, which makes me want to yell, “Time to move on!” TB, on the other hand, loves every minute.

  “I so want to do that,” he whispers to me and nods toward a man dressed as a Union soldier. I roll my eyes.

  Finally, we head into Tupelo to enjoy lunch at Johnnie’s, the oldest restaurant in town and supposedly once visited by the King. When TB realizes that Tupelo was Elvis’s birthplace and we might be sitting where Elvis once placed his gyrating hips, my husband’s about to hyperventilate.

  “You’re an Elvis fan?” Joe asks.

  “Anything from the seventies,” I answer, because TB has spotted the Elvis booth and hightails it across the room to take a million photos.

  Pepper, on the other hand, looks around clueless. “I thought Michael Jackson was the King,” she says.

  Johnnies, and Tupelo for that matter, is famous for their doughburgers, a combination of ground beef and flour mixed into the patty that’s later fried on a grill and served with mustard, pickles, and onions on a bun. We all order one, along with milkshakes, and squeeze into the booths; Johnnies’ isn’t that big.

  “I thought you were a vegetarian,” Dwayne says, watching me eat the burger.

  “Can’t miss the King’s favorite meal,” I answer with a smile, and Carmine gives me a stare. I guess I’m not allowed to get back on good terms with the devil.

  After lunch, we head over to Elvis’ birthplace and the look on Pepper’s face has us all laughing.

  “What?” she asks.

  “You look lost,” Stephanie says.

  She shrugs. “My mom listened to this music but I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  At this point, Joe is about to hyperventilate. Stephanie grabs his arm and pulls him off to the Presley homestead before he launches into how important Elvis was to rock ’n’ roll.

  “He was a big deal,” I say instead to Pepper.

  She shrugs again and heads to the gift shop.

  After we walk through the shotgun house where Elvis lived as a child, we move to the church that offers a surround-video giving visitors a chance to witness what a country church service was like. Dwayne’s now charming Shelby and her high heels are popping beneath her on the church’s wooden floor. Her nervous tapping is almost drowning out the movie and I long to put a hand on her knee and make her stop. Miss Georgia sends them both evil glances.

  We head back toward the Trace but not without a stop at the hardware store where Elvis bought his first guitar. There’s an Elvis competition in town and several of the Elvis tribute artists — they don’t like to be called impersonators — are visiting and gaping over one of the store’s original guitars, just like the one Elvis purchased so long ago. Joe and TB look like kids on the eve of Christmas and ask one of the artists to sing an Elvis song and the whole lot of them grab guitars and start singing together.

  I’ve never been a big Elvis fan but a dozen Elvi singing a rendition of Loving You has goosebumps racing up my arms. Shelby grabs my sleeve and pulls me toward the back. I want to resist but she’s up to something. Sure enough, we climb the back stairs to the second story that overlooks the hardware store and I’m able to not only hear these men singing harmony Elvis-style, but take some excellent photos as well. As I capture some video on my camera I glance down at my husband, whose eyes are glistening.

  It’s late afternoon when we get back on the van and we’re all getting those afternoon sleepies again, which is why when we approach the Black Belt overlook on the Trace we all opt to simply look out the window at the hills of rich soil which gives the area its name. We do the same for the Chickasaw Council House, which is now an archaeological site, and the spot where Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto spent the winter in the mid-1500s.

  I find it fasci
nating, really, but that burger and milk shake followed by singing Elvi have done a number on my eyelids. I want only to arrive at our next accommodation and take a snooze. We all listen patiently at Shelby’s description of the historic sites but Pepper gets right to the point.

  “Where are we staying tonight?”

  Shelby stops explaining about the Native American mounds found in the area. “Oh, yes, right. We’ll be at the Davis Lake Recreation Area.”

  “Another cabin?” Pepper asks.

  “You’re actually in for a fun night,” Shelby says. “We have something special planned.”

  TB grins at me and I can tell he’s having the best day. But he and Pepper appear to be the only ones. Miss Georgia rolls her eyes, Carmine and Winnie say nothing, and Stephanie and Joe seem unfazed. Dwayne, if I’m gauging him correctly — it’s quiet in the back — has dozed off beneath a World Series cap. Shelby’s smile fades and she turns to the driver.

  “Maybe we should head for the campground, Charlie.”

  “Campground?” Kelly asks. “Seriously?”

  Shelby deflates even more and before I can come to her rescue Dwayne bounds up to the front of the van and puts an arm around her shoulders. “Whatever you have in store for us has to be awesome because everything has been superb so far.”

  His charm does the trick even if Carmine is now the one rolling his eyes.

  We pull into the campground located on Davis Lake and find several Airstream trailers parked alongside. TB perks up instantly.

  “We’re staying in those?”

  Shelby’s slowing coming back. “Yes, we are,” she says with a smile although I can tell she’s guarded.

  “Cool,” says TB.

  He moves to leave and I snag an elbow. “Don’t forget. Charlie has to take you back to the battlefield parking lot to get the pickup.”

  We all get dropped off at our individual trailers but TB, much to his chagrin, stays on the van.

  “I’ll warm it up for you,” I promise him.

  I head into my personal Airstream, leaving the door open to catch the cool afternoon breeze, and feel as excited as TB for I’ve always wondered what was inside these Space Age motor homes. Mine appears to be the oldest of the group, with an inside that’s been updated but sporting the original seventies style.