“What can I do to protect myself?”
There’s a lengthy pause and I know my aunt’s shaking her head, thinking that the one family member who shares her “gift” is too stubborn to take logical advice and may get herself killed.
“I’ll be careful,” I assure her. “But I can’t remember which herbs to use. The grimoire you gave me is at home.”
Aunt Mimi’s reluctant but she rattles off the necessary information. I jot it all down on the pad by the side of the bed.
“Thanks,” I say when she’s finished.
“Last resort,” she commands.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“After this trip, we should meet up at the old homestead and I can teach you some more.”
“That would be awesome.” I would love a weekend in rural Alabama with my favorite aunt. Even though she’s my only aunt.
Stinky meows and when I look over at him I spot the salt shaker on the table.
“One more thing,” I say. “Should I put a circle of salt around my cabin for protection?”
“You have enough?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just the thresholds. Doors and windows. Anyplace someone could get in.”
We catch up a bit but it’s late and Mimi manages an active senior living establishment in Branson so she heads to bed early. I promise to call more often.
“Call me every night until you get home,” she insists.
“Yes, ma’am.”
After I hang up, I grab the salt shaker and head outside. I lay a stream of salt across the front door threshold beneath the doormat — I don’t want anyone to spot this and imagine witches visited this Christian academy. I place some along the windowsills, again trying hard to be inconspicuous. There’s a back door so I slip around to finish off the salt shaker, trying not to be afraid of the dark woods surrounding my cabin. After I lay a line of salt I straighten and turn and run right into a body.
I can’t help myself. I’m so startled I yell.
“Vi, it’s only me.”
I attempt to compose myself and TB moves to hug me, but I’m not in the mood. I’m still reeling from the idea that he thought I slept with Dwayne, not to mention him discussing me with Carmine at dinner.
I move away. “You scared me, is all.”
His shoulders drop. I can’t see his face but I know he’s disappointed I didn’t rush into his arms.
“What are you doing back here?” he asks.
“Protecting myself.”
I head to the front of the house, TB following behind. We move into the warmth of the cabin and Stinky meows from the bed.
“Why did you leave dinner?” TB pulls off his jacket.
Suddenly, that pie looks mighty good. I pull off the plastic wrapping, grab a fork, plop down at the table, and dig in.
“Had no reason to stay,” I say behind mouthfuls. “Besides, everyone probably felt safer with me gone.”
TB sits across from me with Stinky in his lap.
“And no, you can’t have a bite.”
“Why are you so angry with me?”
Why am I so angry at my sorta husband? The world’s turned upside down and I can’t really blame him for falling for Dwayne’s evil, as Aunt Mimi called it. On the other hand, yes, I can. I did cheat on him this summer, even if we were technically separated at the time. He cheated on me, too, I might add. Since we’ve been back together we’ve been loyal to each other, so to think I would do such a thing now really dills my pickle.
“Why were you so quick to believe Dwayne?”
He looks down where his fingers are scratching the top of Stinky’s head.
“I don’t know, Vi. I swore I saw him coming out of the trailer.”
I’m about to slide the last part of the pie into my eager mouth — that wonderful buttery crust with just enough pecan pie attached and the bottom offering a hint of crystalized sugar — when that light bulb turns on again. I place my fork down and slide it across the table within TB’s reach, then head for my laptop.
“What is it?” TB says and I can tell he’s enjoying my last bite.
I open the laptop and start Googling fallen angels, Lucifer, and the devil. I can still hear Carmine insisting Dwayne wasn’t the latter, but the information that’s popping up does mention folks of this persuasion being able to tap into people’s fears and emotions, and can cause them to see things that aren’t there.
“Kelly and I have history, like Shelby said,” I tell TB. “Nothing crazy like Shelby suggested but Kelly’s the kind of person who holds a grudge, especially if she thinks a woman’s stealing her man.” With an afterthought, I add, “Which I wasn’t.”
TB’s eyes narrow and I know he’s not following.
“Pepper adores animals. Her greatest fear is seeing harm done to them, hence viewing that horrific scene in the back of her cabin.”
TB shakes his head, still not getting it.
“If Dwayne’s as evil as Carmine makes him out to be, then he’s playing on their emotions. In the case of Kelly, making her see things that aren’t there.”
I’m about to include the man sitting in front of me, but I hate admitting that TB’s fear is that I will leave him for another.
“What about that girl in the woods?” he asks. “The one you helped cross over.”
I shake my head. “It was strange that she accepted our help so easily and moved on, but she must have been real. Why else would I have felt the electricity of that light and feel so strange as I did the next day?”
Unless Dwayne used it as a means to violate me.
I push that idea away, but another one takes its place.
“Dwayne said he would call that girl’s family, to let them know what happened and that she’s at peace.”
“Did he?”
“I have no idea.”
TB and I stare at each other, that thought floating around our brains. Then, TB joins me on the bed and grabs the laptop, asking for input. I tell him Natalie Stephens, Jackson Street, Tishomingo, and he types this into Google and several articles emerge, one with the same girl’s face.
Poor Natalie disappeared one day while the family was enjoying a picnic in the park. The entire town of Tishomingo, and several Mississippi State Police officers, searched the park to no avail. After two months, police gave up.
“That poor child,” TB says, both of us feeling the pain the parents must have experienced never knowing what happened to their little girl.
TB switches to the White Pages and looks up Stephens on Jackson Street and one entry comes up. John and Debbie Stephens.
“Should I call her?” I ask.
TB nods but he’s likely feeling like I do. How will these parents react and will they believe me? And did Dwayne make the call earlier?
I take a deep breath and punch in the number on my cell. It rings twice and then a woman’s voice answers. “Mrs. Stephens?”
“If you’re trying to sell something you can hang up right now,” she says in a stern Southern voice.
“No ma’am, I’m not.”
“You’d be the third one tonight and I’m not in the mood.”
I swallow and gather up my courage. “Mrs. Stephens, it’s about your daughter.”
Silence follows and I swear I can hear that woman’s heart beating across the line.
“What about her?”
I exhale. I can do this.
“This may sound strange but I’m a medium and I was at Tishomingo State Park recently and I think Natalie drowned in the creek near a red tree marker. I was about two hundred yards on the trail past the cabins, where the first rock outcropping is.”
“How do you know her name?”
That’s what she chooses to focus on?
“She told me, told me where she lived, then I Googled her and found out she disappeared.”
More silence.
“Mrs. Stephens, I’m not trying to scam you or sell you anything. I just want you to ask the authorities or the park officia
ls to look in that area of the creek. They might find something that’ll give you peace.”
She’s crying now and my heart breaks.
“I lost a child, too,” I whisper and TB turns away. “I know your pain and I just want to help. Natalie wants you to be at peace.”
She keeps crying and after almost a minute manages to say, “Thank you” and hangs up.
I flip the phone closed and drop my head into my hands. Losing Lillye comes back so hard I can’t breathe. I knew at the time of her death I would never recover but life kept going and so did I. But sometimes that heartbreaking, raking pain takes over and I wonder how I’ll survive. It’s as if someone stole my heart when she died and times like these I’m reminded of that hole, so dark, giant, and all-consuming.
TB’s rubbing my back and whispering comfort in my ear. I grab his hand on my shoulder and hold tight, as if it’s a rope thrown to keep me from drowning. Finally, I rest my head on his chest and we silently grieve the dearest thing we had in our lives.
After what seems like an eternity, we straighten, compose ourselves, and get ready for bed.
“You didn’t say if Mrs. Stephens had heard from Dwayne,” TB says, crawling under the sheets.
I join him and the warmth of his body comforts me on this cold, cold night. I can’t say for sure, but I’m fairly certain Dwayne lied. There’s a bigger question here as well. How did he know Natalie was at that spot in the creek in the first place?
“I don’t think he did tell her,” I say as I turn out the light.
Cora’s sitting in the parlor working on needlepoint, pausing as if she’s waiting for me. I’m outside the action again, but I can’t help feeling that she’s showing me her life for more reasons than solving the mystery of her murder. I almost expect her to turn and welcome me to Briarwood.
Menasha arrives with tea and places it on the table in front of Cora whose body language changes immediately. Cora doesn’t trust this woman, I sense, or resents having to be in charge of an enslaved person within her household, someone living so close.
“Thank you, Menasha,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Menasha moves to leave but pauses on the room’s threshold. “Will Mister Wendell be requiring anything specific?”
This takes Cora aback. She turns and looks Menasha in the eyes, and Menasha bows her head. I’ve heard that slaves weren’t allowed to gaze into the eyes of their owners, must keep their eyes downcast. It’s one more thing that disturbs Cora.
“What exactly would Mister Wendell need?” Cora asks.
“Men like cigars and whiskey. Sometimes we kill a chicken when company comes.”
Cora digests this. “Do we have cigars and whiskey? And yes, let’s kill a chicken.”
Menasha heads to a cabinet in the corner of the room and taps the top lightly. A door opens and behold, there’s whiskey and a box of cigars below.
“I’m surprised McDaniels didn’t raid that as well.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Menasha leaves the room and Cora rises to see what her kitchen slave had in mind. Behind the whiskey, in a hidden drawer, lies several bills, apparently Uncle Walter’s financial stash. Cora studies the bills, then slips them into her skirt pocket.
The vision fades and we move to a rainy day and the home’s dining room. Cora and a man are enjoying a roasted chicken with various sides and glasses of wine.
“Lovely dinner, cousin,” the man says.
“Wendell, we’re not related.”
The man smiles affectionately. “After all those years living near each other in Kentucky, we’re practically family.”
Cora places her glass on the table and becomes serious. “I want to sell this place, Wendell. I aim to take the money and return to Kentucky, purchase a small farm there.”
Wendell leans back in his chair. “Are you sure? You have a wonderful situation here, good soil, people to till it. According to your uncle’s ledger, Briarwood has been quite profitable over the years. Not to mention that the climate is so agreeable.”
“I have to admit, the balmy winter suits me well.”
“Then why not stay?”
Cora looks around the room to make sure Menasha is absent. “I can’t bear owning slaves. It goes against everything I believe in.”
“I understand your feelings, Cora, but they are necessary to running a farm.”
Cora frowns and looks down at her lap. “Surely, you don’t believe that. Mary’s farm in Kentucky was run by the family, along with hired hands, and they all lived quite well. In fact, well enough to take in an orphan like me.”
It’s obvious Cora detests living off the kindness of strangers. She had been so hopeful with Briarwood.
Wendell reaches across the table and takes Cora’s hand, which surprises her. I’m thinking it’s an impertinent gesture for the time.
“I understand,” he says.
She pulls her hand free and rests it in her lap. “I thought about selling the plantation and freeing the slaves, giving them the option of following me home to Kentucky and working as hired hands.”
Wendell takes a long drink of his wine. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is the Deep South, Cora. You can’t free slaves because you don’t like the institution.”
Cora crosses her arms. “They’re my property now. I can do as I wish.”
Wendell rubs his face thoughtfully. “We are about to go to war, Cora. Congress is fighting over what states will be slave states and which ones will not. People are not going to take lightly to a woman wanting to upset the apple cart at this time.”
“I’m not upsetting anything.”
“By freeing your slaves, you’re sending a message that you don’t approve.”
She huffs. “I don’t!”
“But you do see how this will come across to those who do in this state. Besides, in Mississippi a freed slave can be sold back into slavery after living ten free. Will you be able to move your people to Kentucky in that short of time?”
“I could free them once I get to Kentucky.”
Wendell shakes his head. “It’s not possible.”
Cora stands and begins pacing the room. “Why are you fighting me on this? I thought you would understand.”
Wendell rises and moves to her side, places his hands on her shoulders.
“I do, Cora. I don’t see this as the right course of action.”
She folds her arms about her. “And what is? Gaining prosperity at the hands of people in bondage?”
Wendell takes her hand and leads her back to the table. They both sit down, facing each other.
“I have a better idea. Marry me.”
Cora’s eyes enlarge and she smiles as if he’s jesting. “You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
Cora’s smile disappears. “Wendell, you’re an old friend but….”
“I’m a man, and this is a man’s world, especially here in Mississippi. Together, we run this farm and help send those who live here into freedom.”
Cora catches her breath and her eyes light up. “The Underground Railroad,” she whispers excitedly.
“Exactly.”
There’s a catch, however. Cora must now head into bondage herself, one of a feminine sort. Her smile disappears and Wendell squeezes her hand.
“Think about it. We could do good together. Or, if you’d rather, you can sell the farm and all the slaves on it and return to Kentucky.”
It’s a huge decision. If she marries Wendell, they may be able to set her slaves free. On the other hand, she will be tied to a man she’s only known as a friend, a man ten years her senior. In truth, she barely knows him. If Mary hadn’t insisted on sending her cousin down to Mississippi to assist her in selling the plantation, Cora would have sought consultation locally.
The vision shifts once more and Cora’s standing behind the main house, watching slaves work on their cabins. The sun war
ms her face, her head free of the restrictive bonnet, and her bare feet relish the cool, gumbo mud.
“Miss Cora,” a slave named Jackson calls out. “It’s getting close to planting time.”
Cora looks up at the budding dogwoods, their pink and white flowers raining petals everywhere. She must decide soon, for to let her fields go fallow will decrease her asking price on the plantation. And without an overseer, she doesn’t know how she will instruct her slaves to plant cotton and indigo, to even purchase the seed. Her experience veers toward small fields of corn, vegetables, and hay.
She’s also come to love her new home, the soft winters, the Spanish moss lilting in the breeze beneath the massive oak trees, the camellias showing color in January.
She says nothing but I know what her decision will be. She’ll marry Wendell, either allow him to run the plantation or hire an overseer to do the job. They’ll live as husband and wife and secretly find ways to send their property north to freedom. It could work.
She will have to lay with him, of course, but it’s a wife’s duty, is it not? Likely children will be born. Cora has always wanted to be a mother.
Still, she doesn’t love Wendell and she will exchange her freedom for those of others. She looks at the slaves around her, many smiling and enjoying the spring day as much as she. Since her arrival, she has instructed the slaves to improve their cabins, add insulation, attend to their cedar-shingled roofs. Their diet has improved, even though Menasha insisted they were quickly running through the food resources. Cora even dug through her uncle’s closet and passed out his clothes so that the male slaves would be warm over the winter months. They appear before her well fed and clothed, almost happy, and she knows this is what freedom will look like once they escape the bonds of their situation.
It’s important, she tells herself. It’s worth the sacrifice.
Yes, she will marry Wendell. And she would help move her people to safety.
I awake and find it’s still dark outside, glance at the clock beside my bed and realize it’s two a.m., the witching hour as some like to say. More like the ghosting hour, I think.
I look over at my husband, a man who could sleep through the world ending. Those blonde curls fall across his forehead and there’s a slight smile on his lips.
Trace of a Ghost Page 15
