TB glares at me. “You were the woman yesterday morning who was scared she had been violated in some way.”
“I wasn’t violated.”
“Vi!”
We’re pulling into another historical site and once TB parks and pulls up the brake he turns in his seat and looks me dead in the eyes.
“I know you want to see Lillye. So, do I.” His voice catches and he looks away. “But you don’t have to follow some lunatic who may do you harm.”
TB rubs his eyes and grimaces and I haven’t seen him this upset discussing Lillye in quite some time. Again, guilt assails me. I rarely speak of my daughter, especially to the one person who understands. It’s been too painful. My mother, friends, and TB have insisted I seek professional help. I visited a doctor for a while, but nothing assuages my pain. TB, on the other hand, grieved and talked incessantly to everyone. Have I assumed, again incorrectly, that because he verbalizes his heartache he’s worked through the grief?
“We all miss Lillye,” he quietly says. “But retreating from the world and jumping into dumb and dangerous situations doesn’t make the heartache go away.”
“I know that, TB….”
“And Dwayne Garrett is a dumb and dangerous situation.”
“Perhaps.”
He stares at me now. “If you don’t face this, Vi, you’re going to move away from what your heart and soul was put here to do and end up in places where there’s more pain.”
Whoa, what? This is totally new coming from my husband. I touch his elbow and find his muscles taut as ropes.
“I won’t do anything stupid,” I finally say, “but I have to explore the possibilities.”
TB shakes his head and turns off the engine. He looks at me, more serious than I’ve seen him in years. “She’s right here, Vi. If you stopped chasing rainbows long enough, you’d know that.”
And with that last comment, he jumps out the truck. I follow, realizing we have paused at a stretch of the old Trace, a ten-foot-wide original roadbed where evidence of wagon ruts and footsteps remain. The historical marker encourages visitors to notice the giant trees growing on either side.
“These trees are mute testimony to the endless struggle between man to alter and change, and nature to reclaim, restore, and heal,” I read.
“Fat chance,” I hear Dwayne say at my side. “Humans will always try to destroy God’s creation unless we stop them first.”
“Fellow environmentalist, I see.”
Dwayne looks at me as if he’s now acknowledged my existence and there’s no love in that gaze. It’s unnerving, but after a moment he shakes it off and that old charming smile returns.
The rest of the day is much the same. We visit a former trading post that housed passenger pigeons and a creek that served as the boundary between tribes. As we head south, Shelby informs us, we’re entering what used to be Choctaw land.
TB and I rarely speak, and for the first time since we started this road trip, Pepper can’t stop. According to Winnie, Dwayne poured his magnetic attention on the Goth Girl who “ate it up with a spoon.”
“A spoon?” I ask.
“Shut up.” Winnie pulls our her camera and shoots a lovely section of woods, then turns back. “I don’t know what they have been talking about back there in the van but it was animated and full of feminine giggles.”
“From Pepper?”
“Yeah, go figure. They act like….”
“Like what?”
Winnie shakes her head. “Like something happened the night before.”
The thought that sweet, young Pepper would fall for that man makes me cringe. I lean into Winnie so no one can hear. “Do you believe Carmine and all that stuff about angels?”
Winnie gives up the photo and shrugs. “I don’t know, Vi. Call it mother’s intuition or plain ole mistrust of sweet-talking men but I trust Carmine over that devilish man any day.”
“Devil?” I ask with a laugh.
But she’s not laughing.
Further down the Trace we stop at the Jeff Busby picnic and primitive camping area, named for the U.S. Congressman from Mississippi who authorized the survey of the old road that four years later became part of the National Park System.
“Thanks to Thomas Jefferson Busby, we’re here today,” Shelby says proudly.
We’re once again growing weary of the historical explanations so thankfully it’s time for lunch. Shelby’s new driver — a bearded man ironically named Jeff — leaves at the picnic spot and drives into Starkville to pick up platters of food from a popular spot called Remy’s.
“You’ll love this place,” Shelby says to TB and me. “They have Cajun food.”
I fight back the urge to groan. I adore Louisiana cuisine, but rarely eat it once I cross the Louisiana state border. Mississippi and other parts of the South sometimes do gumbo well but for the most part, the attempt at Creole and Cajun cuisine lacks authenticity. Besides, I don’t want to eat my food somewhere else. I want native dishes.
But Remy’s stands up to my discernable palate. We enjoy roast beef sandwiches the restaurant calls poboys like in New Orleans, Cuban paninis, platters of red beans and rice, jambalaya and sides. I’m really digging the potato salad, cole slaw, and curly fries.
“Back to being a vegetarian?”
Dwayne slips in next to me with his ham sandwich.
“I eat everything, but I try to limit the meat.”
“Health reasons or humane reasons?”
I have a mouthful of pasta salad but I utter, “Both.”
“Then you must have been really disturbed by what happened last night.”
My fork is halfway to my mouth when the image of that fox returns. I place the fork down and push my plate away.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset your lunch.”
Dwayne continues eating and I decide to pick his brain. “What did you mean about French Camp? We’re staying there tonight.”
He takes a drink from his coffee and I sense a smile behind the rim. “Ready for another lesson, SCANC girl?”
“Don’t call me that.” I look around to see if anyone has heard but the others are either too far away or deep in conversation.
Dwayne laughs. “You’re a closet SCANC?”
I send him the evil eye and he raises a palm. “I won’t say a word.”
“And just what is your specialty, Dwayne?”
He smiles. “Meet me tonight and I’ll show you.”
I’m about to inquire more but he’s wiping his mouth with his napkin and rising. “Time for a hike,” he says. “And God knows, I need to walk off this meal.”
Shelby waltzes by with a plate full of cookies, cupcakes, and slices of red velvet cake. I was planning on indulging, but Dwayne’s last comment makes me shoo her away. Besides, he’s heading toward the Little Mountain Trail, Pepper and Joe in tow, so I follow. When Kelly realizes her male squeeze has two women accompanying him, she decides to go as well.
The rain disappeared mid-morning and what followed is next to perfection. There’s enough chill in the air to keep us comfortable on our trek through a hardwood forest that’s been releasing its leaves for weeks, leaving us a soft path to tread. I breathe in the peacefulness of the woods, glad for the quiet of nature, and the thoughts plaguing me these past two days. I look around but it’s only we five and wonder where TB has gone.
Joe and Dwayne discuss photography while Pepper and Kelly follow close behind, each one trying to slip next to Dwayne. I half expect them to start fighting over who will be the one to carry his coattails. I’m glad, for hanging back by myself allows me to savor the smells of the rich earth and decaying leaves, touch the sandstone and shale that runs in patches by the trail.
It’s a good walk to the highest point on the parkway, peaking at six hundred feet at the overlook. There’s an exhibit shelter there, explaining much of what we’ve been enjoying. We pause to savor the view as a chilly breeze blows, causing us all to pull whatever jackets or sweaters we’re wearing tigh
t across our chests.
It’s there the two women begin fighting.
It started with Pepper mentioning that leather isn’t as warm as other materials and Dwayne wrapping an arm about her shoulders. Kelly bristled, crossing her arms defiantly about her, and mentioning something beneath her breath.
“What did you say?” Dwayne asks. He’s not pleased.
Kelly doesn’t go down easily, however. “I said, ‘Is she next?’”
The two begin arguing so Joe starts backing up, thinking, no doubt, to escape this ménage a trois. Pepper tries to make peace but Kelly won’t have any of it, turns on her as well as Dwayne.
At this point, the buzzing begins. The signal that I’m tapping into something supernatural usually appears soft, like a faraway alarm or a hive of bees. Today, it’s louder, sounded more like the airport alarms when you walk through forgetting you’re wearing a metal belt buckle.
The sound makes me wince and my head pound. I find a boulder and sit down, absorbing deep breaths to relieve the pressure building there. I look out at the overlook and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to be receiving from what Carmine calls the Etherworld.
And then, oh so brief and faint as if in a fog, I imagine I hear Lillye’s voice.
One word.
“Mom.”
“Lillye?” I breathe.
Then everything goes black.
There’s a hand on my shoulder, and the autumn breeze causes the wide hoop skirt to sway, bouncing against my ankles. Since heading south with the Witch Dance clan, I’ve loosened the aggravating corset but it still pinches my side from walking incessantly. Nancy squeezes my left shoulder and Mel appears on the other side. I look at one and then the other, grateful they’re here as I enter my new home.
The house stands neglected, a few shutters askew, the porch beams in need of paint, and the front yard overgrown with chickens and a goat milling about. But, for the most part, Briarwood’s in good shape. We walk through the front door, checking out the parlor with its few furnishings, the sparse dining area, and then the kitchen, the most important room of the estate, at least to a woman. I’m thrilled to have a home of my own, a source for my independence, even if there’s hardly a chair to sit on.
There’s wood in the stove and coffee brewing, which takes us aback.
“Someone’s been here or squatting,” Nancy says.
We head to the back porch and look around. It’s then we spot several slave cabins and my heart sinks.
“Slaves?”
Young Negro boys play in the mud around the cabins, some chasing each other with sticks. An older Negro woman sits on the porch of one cabin, mending a shirt but eyeing us suspiciously. In the distant fields, I see people working.
I swallow hard, my abolitionist mind trying to make sense of it all. Uncle Walter never mentioned slaves, always insisted the practice was an abomination to God.
“I think you have bigger things to worry about,” Teresa says.
I turn and see writing on the back porch wall, words written in what appears to be blood. On the porch floor is a headless chicken.
The words read, “Deth to Wiches.”
I awake with a start, TB looking down at me.
“Vi? Are you all right?”
I sit up, wondering what happened. Had I dozed off or fainted?
I rub my forehead which is still pounding. “I was Cora.”
“What?” TB glances over my shoulder as if he’s needed elsewhere. It’s then that I hear the commotion in the background.
“What happened?”
TB looks me over once more to make sure I’m okay. “Kelly’s been hurt. If you’re fine….”
I wave him off. “Yes, go. I’m right behind you.”
I get up slowly to not upset the throbbing pain in my temple. The buzzing has ceased and the pain’s slowly subsiding, but the dream’s still fresh in my mind. I was Cora, in every sense of the word. I felt her, saw through her eyes, witnessed her inheritance for the first time, including the slave cabins and that horrible message in blood.
Once I’m feeling myself, I head toward the overlook shelter where our group has gathered. The van pulls up and Shelby bolts from inside, followed by an ambulance from Starkville. I head to the gathering as fast as my pounding head will take me and grab Winnie’s sleeve.
“What happened?”
“It’s about time you showed up,” Dwayne announces loudly and everyone turns to look at me.
I glance around the circle at everyone’s questioning eyes until finally settling on Kelly, who’s lying on the ground with Dwayne’s jacket draped over one leg. She’s not making a sound, her hand covering her eyes. TB’s bent down by her head, talking softly to her, and Carmine’s grasping her wrist on the other side, looking as if he’s taking her pulse.
“What happened?” I repeat to Winnie.
“She fell off the side of the overlook, tumbled down that rocky cliff over there and it looks like she broke her leg.”
The paramedics push everyone aside and take both TB and Carmine’s places, checking Kelly’s vitals and removing the jacket to reveal what is most certainly a broken leg. The shin bone hasn’t punctured the skin — thank goodness — but it’s close and the bump the break has produced makes my lunch want to return. Poor Kelly groans in pain when they examine her leg and I look away.
“Where were you?” Dwayne insists, causing everyone to glance at me once more.
“I was….” I point to the side of the shelter where I sat down in the grass but his tone and the resulting accusing looks has unnerved me. “Why? What has any of this to do with me?”
“You’ve been gone a while,” Pepper says.
“So?”
I can’t explain the sudden appearance of ghosts or why I was sleeping in the grass, but why would any of that matter to poor Kelly’s broken leg? I look at Winnie for support.
“I just got here,” she says with a shrug.
I glance at Joe, but he’s avoiding my eyes. Stephanie is watching me carefully and Dwayne stares, arms crossed.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What does Kelly’s falling have to do with me.”
“What indeed?” Dwayne asks and I see TB moving forward with the same expression he had the morning before at Tishomingo State Park. Carmine holds him back, but he’s as upset with Dwayne as my husband.
“What the hell are you saying?” TB practically yells.
Dwayne steps so close to my face I almost gag on that aftershave. “I’m not inferring anything. Miss Valentine disappeared and Kelly suddenly fell over the cliff. I find that coincidence disturbing.”
I back up and hit the pole of the shelter, suddenly feeling like the witches of Salem three centuries before.
“What is going on here?” I ask in desperation.
“What happened, my dear,” Stephanie says quietly, “is that Kelly claims she was pushed.”
I’m aghast, first that someone would push Miss Georgia over the edge of Mississippi’s Little Mountain, which might have done more damage to the prima donna than a broken leg, and second, that they would assume it was me. Even if I don’t like the woman.
“Why on earth would you think I did that?”
Dwayne steps forward once more, now right in my face.
“Because, Viola,” he says, drawing my name out in three syllables. “She said it was a woman of your height, with curly brown hair!”
I’m sitting at the dining table of the Burford Cabin of the French Camp Academy Bed and Breakfast. Normally I would be loving this 1800s former dog trot home that the owners moved here and enhanced, loving those hand-hewn logs making up the walls, or enjoying the fall weather on the cabin’s porch, but Sergeant McGee has me hostage. I stare at the chocolate-covered strawberries and muscadine juice the owners have left for us, but I don’t dare touch a bite.
“May I offer you something, Sergeant?” I ask him. “They do this for us when we’re on these press trips. Leave out goodies so we never go hungry.”<
br />
If I wasn’t so nervous I’d laugh, because it’s the truth. Tourism folks feed you until you pop. I usually go home and diet for a month.
“I’m fine, Miss Valentine,” McGee says. “Or is it Boudreaux?”
“Valentine,” TB and I say in unison. I never gave up my name when I married Thibaut Boudreaux because my mother’s one of the foremost Shakespearean professors in the country — she’ll say the world — and I have a twin named Sebastian, like the characters in Shakespeare’s play, Twelfth Night. Viola Valentine flows off the tongue much sweeter than Viola Boudreaux, especially for a writer.
TB insisted he didn’t mind but for all I know he may harbor that resentment as well. I glance at my husband sitting backwards in his chair, wishing we had had a moment alone so I could have explained where I’d been. At Briarwood in the 1800s.
“Where were you today, Miss Valentine?” McGee asks.
TB shifts in his seat so I correct him, “It’s Mrs. Valentine.”
“Okay, where were you?”
I explain how we hiked up the trail to the overlook, me trailing behind the rest.
“Why weren’t you with the others?”
Because I didn’t want to be near those two women fighting for Dwayne’s attention.
Instead, I say, “Because it was nice and peaceful and the others were deep in conversation. I live in a city surrounded by swamps. I wanted to enjoy the woods.”
He writes something in his notebook. “And when you reached the overlook?”
I exhale. Loudly. “For the life of me I can’t imagine how Kelly thinks I pushed her off a cliff.”
Now, it’s McGee’s turn to exhale. “Just answer the question please.”
How do I answer this, I wonder? Tell him I’m a medium and I needed to visit a woman by taking over her body?
“I get these headaches,” I start. “They come out of nowhere.”
“Like migraines?”
“Sort of.” I grab the stem of the wine glass in front of me and turn it round and around. “More like sinus pressure. Maybe from the altitude?”
“Six hundred feet?” McGee looks at me funny.
Trace of a Ghost Page 12
