“It’s lovely,” I say, running a hand across the chenille bedspread.
Ricky tells TB how to control the temperature, shows him the bathroom, and then heads back into the hallway. “You access the porch through this hallway door. There’s also a staircase to the rear of the porch on the house’s left hand side, in case you want to explore the grounds. Just be mindful of the others; their windows open to the porch as well.”
“Thank you so much,” TB says, but Ricky looks down and shuttles away.
“You’re got some feathers to smooth,” TB says to me once he’s back in the room, door closed.
Thirty minutes is next to heaven on a press trip. I could take a warm shower with expensive toiletries and super-thick towels, rest in this glorious old bed, or linger in a rocking chair on the porch and watch birds flit by on the live oak branches. Or I could head downstairs and make amends with Ricky Esteban.
I let out a deep exhale and leave the room.
“Be nice,” is the last thing I hear my husband say.
I slip down the staircase, hoping to be delicate in my approach but the wooded floors built over a hundred and fifty years ago practically scream my entrance. I find Ricky in a sunny room off the back of the house, standing behind a bar checking in an African American couple. He’s sees me coming and frowns so I look around the room that’s been fashioned as a social gathering place for guests, complete with tables sporting board games and a bookshelf full of titles dedicated to Mississippi and its diverse history.
“Nice room.”
You’d never believe I was a writer by the astute things that emerge from my mouth.
Ricky explains the lay of the land to the couple, asks where they’re from, where they’re going, do they need restaurant recommendations, and the like. I feel like he’s taking his time here, but I guess I deserve it.
“My family’s from around here,” the man says with an accent-free tone. “Hoping to do some genealogy research.”
Must be a trend, I think, or Ancestry has opened up a whole world of fun to people who like that kind of thing.
Ricky brightens and mentions how he’s a local historian and happy to assist, all the while sending me a snarky look.
“Thank you,” the woman says. “We appreciate the help.”
Finally, the couple head to the one room on the ground floor that isn’t occupied by our group. I’m ready to apologize but Ricky spends a good minute or two filling out a form before he looks up. I try not to get exasperated.
“What can I get you, Mrs. Valentine?” Again, no sense of friendliness here. “Something to drink?”
I offer a smile. “I’m fine, Mr. Esteban. Thank you.”
We stare at each other for a moment, me standing awkwardly in the middle of the room and Ricky behind the bar poised like a soldier at a barricade. Finally, I approach, hoping he doesn’t shoot.
“Look, Mr. Esteban, I’m really sorry about before.”
“You were very rude on the phone.”
I take another step forward. “I know, TB told me what you had said to him and it took me by surprise. I didn’t mean to get so upset.”
Ricky relaxes a little. A little. As if his name being mentioned caused him to appear, I see my husband coming down the staircase, sending me a look and then heading for the front door.
“Why does Cora Meyers mean anything to you, anyway?” Ricky asks. It’s obvious I touched a nerve with this man.
“Why doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
He shrugs. “She lived here for a very brief time. Wendell Meyers owned this place from the time of the Civil War until the 1930s. He helped bring slaves to freedom. He’s the story.”
Now, it’s my turn to bite the inside of my cheek. “How do you know that?”
Ricky looks offended. “I’m a local historian and when I bought this place I learned everything I could from previous owners and their families. I think I know more about my property than you do.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
I hadn’t meant to go there, but my defiant tone has come back. Ricky’s back straightens and he pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at me in contempt. “Mrs. Valentine…,” he starts.
I decide to get back to civility. “Viola, please.”
“Viola, I don’t know why this means so much to you but I can assure you that I am the foremost authority on the Meyers family, including his first wife and son who both died young.”
I gasp. Loudly. Which takes Ricky aback.
“Her son died?”
He must have read my emotional reaction for his tone softens. “Yes, not long after he was born.”
My old friend heartache returns and I feel Cora’s pain deep in my soul. The loss of a child. Is there anything worse in life? “Mrs. Valentine?” Ricky calls out to me, but I’m back in that black hole of despair.
The front door opens and I turn to see TB sneaking inside with Stinky in his arms. He puts his index finger to his lips to command me to be quiet, but as he comes closer he must see the pain lingering in my gaze for his forehead burrows and he mouths, “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, as much to resume composure as to make sure Stinky gets to our room without Ricky noticing; pets are not allowed at Richfield.
I look back at my host and change the subject, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “Why is this plantation called Richfield? It was originally Briarwood.”
Now, Ricky’s forehead is twisted in curiosity. “Why do you want to know all this?”
There’s no way around my inquisition. I step forward to the bar and place the two photos I found of Cora on top. After Ricky looks at them both, I turn them over.
“Are you related?” he asks.
I remember TB saying he had lied to the Archives Department so I decide to take that track. “Cora Schumacher’s my great great grandmother.”
The tension in Ricky’s shoulders drops and he picks up the photo of Cora with the baby. But he’s still skeptical, looking at me curiously.
“She had no offspring so how can you be related?”
Good question.
“Actually…,” I pause, searching my brain’s archives for an answer. “Cora had a brother who stayed in Kentucky and I’m descended from him.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
Why not? Think Vi. Then TB’s conversation comes back to me.
“Uhm, well, Cora was my great-great aunt but when I tell people that they don’t take me seriously. Like when I did some genealogy work in Jackson, I had to tell people I was a direct descendent to get information. Apparently, they don’t always divulge information to those who are not in the direct line.”
I don’t know if Ricky’s buying this for that wrinkled forehead remains.
“And what do you know about her?” he finally asks, and I wonder if he’s beginning to have an open mind.
I hear Winnie and Pepper laughing about something and heading for the stairs. A door opens downstairs as well and I realize my time is up. I grab the photos and put them back into my pocket, then lean across the bar.
“I think she was murdered,” I whisper.
Ricky’s eyes enlarge and he’s about to inquire further but Winnie enters the room and starts exclaiming how much she loves the place. Pepper’s not as enthusiastic; it’s not her thing. But when Ricky suggests drinks, she perks up.
“What are you offering?” Pepper asks.
“Anything you want,” he answers. “We have wine and locally brewed beer, plus soft drinks and sweet tea. Cocktails will be served before dinner.”
Winnie and Pepper hesitate. It’s only noon, after all. But when Dwayne waltzes in like he owns the place and loudly proclaims, “A cold beer sounds perfect,” we all join the bandwagon. By the time the rest show up and we head into the dining room, we’re either sporting glasses of beer or wine. All except Shelby, who asks for a Diet Coke, and Carmine, who takes a sweet tea.
“That’s not like you,” I say to him in jest.
>
He’s not smiling. “Have to keep my wits about me,” he says, and heads into the dining room, sitting next to Shelby.
For the hundredth time on this trip, I feel like Carmine’s avoiding me or blowing me off. He’s one of my best friends and his constant dismissal hurts.
We enjoy a lovely meal of chicken salad over fresh greens with candied pecans, cheese straws, deviled eggs, and pie for dessert. It doesn’t get more Southern than this. Afterwards, we’re aching for a nap, but Ricky rallies us for a tour of the plantation.
I’ve done my share of these old Southern homes, oohed and awed at the Mallard four-poster beds, the portraits of family members, the ugly ceramics people value as art, and the elaborate crown molding, as well as other architectural elements some — not Ricky, thank goodness — fail to mention were crafted by slaves. Richfield, on the other hand, captures my entire focus for it was this house that once belonged to Cora.
But it doesn’t resemble anything from my visions. These are not the rooms where Cora sat with the witch tribe, or listened to Wendell offer marriage. The kitchen has been modernized, which is to be expected, and that sunny room where Ricky and I discussed the family might have been the back porch where Cora cried that night while her husband drank with fellow slave owners.
“Where is the original house?” I interrupt Ricky in the middle of his explanation of the European tapestry hanging in the front parlor. I didn’t mean to blurt that out.
“The house was enlarged several times,” he says.
He starts to return to that God-awful tapestry when I ask, “But where did the original house exist?”
Ricky gives me that semi-hostile look he bestowed on me in the back room, and sighs.
“The original house was your standard farmhouse back in the day. It consisted of a parlor on one side, a dining room on the other and a bedroom and kitchen behind. The original home had a front and back porch. When Wendell Meyers enlarged the home in 1861, he tore down walls and added on to either side. Most of the original house, Mrs. Valentine, is the massive hallway.”
I’m standing on the threshold of the new parlor, so I step a couple of feet backwards and gaze into the hallway. There’s nothing here to remind me of Cora, nor is there a feeling that she lingers in this space. It’s just another expansive plantation.
I also consider what Ricky said, that Wendell enlarged the house at the beginning of the Civil War. Where did he get the money?
As we walk through what used to be Wendell Meyers’ office I spot a familiar face on the wall. It’s Wendell many years after Cora’s demise for he looks about twenty years older.
“So that’s the old man?” I say, then realize I said it out loud.
Ricky gives me what is now the familiar look. “Yes, that’s Mr. Meyers,” he says, and proceeds to tell the audience the history of the Meyers family. I’m not interested in what that man did either before or after Cora died so I wander around the room gazing into glass cases and checking out Wendell’s reading material. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Dwayne studying me. I’m about to say “What?” but I hear Ricky gushing about how Wendell sent a mother and her son to freedom right before the Civil War.
“He sent the slaves to Kentucky, where Mr. Meyers had family, and they were set free,” Ricky says proudly.
Again, I react before I think and let out a huff. Everyone turns and looks my way.
“I’m sorry,” I begin, trying to explain my actions, “but I can’t imagine a man who made this much money off slavery, enough to build this exorbitant home, simply giving away two of his slaves.”
At this point, Ricky’s about to chew my hide. “Mrs. Valentine, I know what I know,” he says defensively, his voice almost cracking with emotion.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Esteban, but it doesn’t make sense to me.”
Ricky ignores me, Shelby exhales, and Winnie sends me a mom look while we all move into the hallway so Ricky can show off the enormous chandelier encircled by elaborate crown molding. I pause in the library, waiting for everyone to pass, including TB who gives me a half-smile. I half-smile back.
Just as I’m about to join the others, I notice Dwayne studying the Wendell portrait.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
He smirks. “Funny, I was going to ask you the same question.”
“I didn’t mean to sound impertinent. I don’t like misinformation.”
“I think it’s more than that.”
Dwayne turns around so I can fully see his face and something in my gut tells me he knows I’m lying. My intuition also tells me to keep quiet about Cora.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like it’s someone you’re channeling and you’re close to a crossover.”
There were times when I couldn’t get Lillye to eat certain foods, things like collard greens and scrambled eggs. I would do the fork airplane, bribe her — even disguise the offending food to trick her. I always got the same answer. She would look at me sternly and utter, “No, Mommy.”
I’m getting that image now. The memory falls out of the ether like dust but the image’s clear. Either my intuition is demanding I keep quiet or Lillye’s coming through.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say and move to join the others.
Dwayne catches my elbow and places his lips near my ear. “This is perfect. Meet me tonight and we’ll send her up the ladder and you can watch me in action.”
I pull my elbow free and say nothing, head over to stand by Winnie, but I catch TB watching.
“Let’s say after dinner, then?” Dwayne whispers to my back. “Just you and me, love?”
I watch my husband tense and can’t help wondering if Dwayne did that on purpose.
The tour wraps up after that and, because it went longer than expected, we have fifteen minutes to regroup or wander the grounds before heading over to Rocky Springs. I grab my camera and head outside, searching for something that tips me off to Cora’s demise, but all I find are landscaped gardens, expansive lawns, gorgeous ancient oak trees, and a gazebo and reception area for weddings. To say I’m disappointed is an understatement.
“What was that all about?”
Winnie comes up from behind, shooting photos no doubt for the wedding publication she writes for. I look around and make sure no one’s in sight, then lean close. “This is the plantation of the woman whose pictures I found at Tom’s Wall.”
“No shit,” Winnie exclaims, then, because she’s a mom, adds, “Pardon my French.”
“That would be merde if it was French.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“But Mr. Esteban has a few facts wrong and I couldn’t help myself.”
“Like what?”
“He said she died in a mental institution.”
“How do you know she didn’t.”
I don’t.
“She’s haunting me, Winnie. That means water was involved. And from what I’ve seen in my visions, I believe she was murdered.”
Shelby calls to us and we head towards the van.
“The trouble is,” I confide in Winnie, “I have no proof of this.”
Winnie lets out a snort. “Then maybe you shouldn’t pick fights with historians.”
We go our separate ways, Winnie to the van and me to TB’s pickup. When I jump in the cab I can feel the tension in the air.
“It’s not what you think.”
TB bites the inside of his cheek. “What is it then?”
“He asked me back at French Camp to accompany him on a crossover so I can witness how he does it.”
TB shakes his head. “Are you kidding me?”
I knew he wouldn’t understand but the force of his exasperation takes me by surprise. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The van takes off and we follow. “Oh, I understand all right. This crazed individual has convinced you that you will see our daughter and now you’re going to walk to hell and back even though you know in your heart that he mea
ns you harm.”
TB’s voice has elevated; I haven’t seen him this angry since the nurse was late with Lillye’s pain medication.
“I’ve got to know, TB. I have to know.”
“Know what, Vi? That this man is a fruitcake? He’s slept with every woman on this trip, and probably killed that fox and broke Kelly’s leg.” He looks at me with big eyes. “Do you remember what happened when he talked you into the last crossover?”
I look down into my lap, wishing Stinky was here. The trouble is, I still don’t remember what occurred that night and that hole in my memory haunts me. But then there was Lillye, standing in the middle of the street, beckoning me to reach her. Her image haunts me more.
“I can’t help it,” I say softly. “I need to see her.”
TB pulls over to the side of the road, shifts the truck into park, and turns to look me dead on. He takes my hand, but from his tone I know this will not be a sympathetic conversation.
“Vi, you are not the only one suffering here.”
This isn’t what I was expecting.
“I buried my child and I grieved. But every time you go running after some pie-in-the-sky belief, I feel like I’m burying her all over again.”
Definitely not what I was expecting.
“TB, I….”
“Nothing,” he commands. “If you want to talk to Lillye, just do it. She’s right here.” He moves his hands around the cab. “Always. Why can’t you see that she’s right in front of your face.”
I think of the message I received in the library and want so badly to believe what TB is saying, but I did see her. Dwayne showed her to me. She was as real as flesh and blood.
I say nothing and TB calms down. After a few moments, we get back on the Trace and head south. When the Rocky Springs sign comes into view, we pull into the parking lot behind the van. Shelby runs over to the driver’s window, hands TB a brochure on the place, instructs us to read it and returns to the van.
“That was brief,” I say.
“Might have something to do with you arguing with our accommodation’s host.”
Again, he’s not happy, so I take the brochure and read about the town that began in the 1790s and peaked about 1850. Rocky Springs was a bustling town with a church, school, Masonic Lodge, post office — you name it — and it’s all gone save for the church. First, the Union Army had thousands of troops stationed here, then yellow fever hit, followed by boll weevils ruining cotton crops and the springs drying up.
Trace of a Ghost Page 18
