Before we start, Linda points to the Turning Angel on our left, a lovely statue of a female angel writing something in a book in her lap. At her feet are several graves, young women who died in a horrific gas explosion at the turn of the twentieth century.
“She’s called the Turning Angel because people have said when you approach the statue at night and turn your headlights on the statue, she will turn and look at you,” Linda explains.
This reminds me of my own angel, so I check for Carmine. Instead, Winnie appears at my side.
“That’s ridiculous,” she mutters in my ear. “It’s a play of light.”
“Where’s Carmine?”
I must have sounded concerned for she gives me a puzzled expression. I don’t wait for an answer, scan the crowd but it’s so frickin’ dark. If there’s a moon, it’s covered by the approaching storm clouds which are billowing around us. I spot Pepper who’s hanging close to Linda — good — and the Penningtons are busy setting up photo shots on the side of the road, illuminated by the paper lanterns at their feet. Winnie is by my side and Shelby takes up the rear of the crowd, helping Kelly on to a motorized scooter. Dwayne’s nowhere to be seen, but again, it’s too dark to tell.
“Where’s Carmine?” I ask again and find my heart beating rapidly.
“What’s with you?” Winnie asks, unconcerned. “You his mother now?”
And then we’re off, following Linda down the road, the wind wiping around us, my jacket billowing as if I’m pregnant, then deflating, then filling up again. I keep searching the crowd for my SCANC friend but a school busload of people is too difficult to dissect.
Finally, we pause as a woman in a hoop skirt tells us the story of Katherine Grafton Miller, the founder of the Natchez Pilgrimage, one of the oldest home tours in the country and an annual event that spurred tourism that continues to this day. I glance around and spot Carmine off to the side talking to someone on his cell phone, which makes me breathe easier, even though he seems to be having trouble with the phone. I try to head in his direction and find out what’s happening but I’m unable to once the crowd starts moving again.
Another long walk through the darkened cemetery paths and we meet Florence Irene Ford, a doting mother who comforted her daughter who was terribly frightened of thunderstorms. When the child died of yellow fever at age ten, Florence buried her next to steps with a glass window at the coffin’s head. Florence would sit at the base of the steps, watching her daughter’s coffin, and continuing to console her during storms. The window has since been removed due to vandalism but we can view the steps if we like, Linda informs us. I’m too busy searching the crowd for I’ve lost Carmine again.
The next stop features Lilly Ann Eliza Granderson who was born into slavery in Virginia, but moved to Kentucky when she was young and learned to read and write from the master’s children. When her master died, she was sold to a Mississippi plantation and ended up in the hot cotton fields, which caused her health to fail.
“Figures,” I hear Pepper say somewhere to my left. I scan the crowd but in the intense darkness cannot find her.
The woman portraying Granderson explains how she ended up in the kitchen because of poor health and it’s then I realize I know this voice. I’m unable to maneuver closer to the front so I walk to the edge of the crowd and peer over. It’s Carol from Briarwood and she proudly tells how Granderson taught numerous slaves in her secret night school.
As she concludes, she adds, “I’m proud to say that I’m a descendant from another slave who did heroic things. Menasha Walker was also a kitchen slave and was taught to read and write by Mrs. Granderson. Menasha helped move others to freedom and taught former slaves in her later years.”
I’m so captivated at hearing that Carol is related to Menasha and how her ancestor spent her life that I fail to notice the crowd shifting to the next stage until the glow of Linda’s lantern falls away and I’m suddenly enshrined in darkness. I step lively to catch up with the crowd but the path eludes me and I stumble on a tree root, realizing that I’ve missed the road by a few steps. I make out the luminaries up ahead so I’m not worried that I will be unable to find my way. I take the moment to rub my knee that feels warm and sticky beneath a tear in my jeans.
“Dang,” I say to the darkness. At this stage of the trip, I don’t have another clean pair of jeans to wear.
I stand and shake myself off, but I’m not two seconds on my feet when my head explodes. Did I hit my head, too, I think as the world spins and I tumble on to the ground. But that’s impossible, since I went down knees first and the pain seems to be emanating from the back of my skull.
I feel hands lifting me up by the armpits and dragging me into the darkness and for a moment I imagine someone saw my fall and has come to my rescue. But then the hands disappear and I fall lying on the ground, my head hitting the dirt and feeling as if it’s made of glass bursting into a million pieces. I hear a car door open and those hands return, dragging me into what feels like our van, up three steps and then thrown on the floor between the two aisles. Once again, pain shoots through my skull like lightening.
I hear the door close and someone starts up the van. I’m about to ask what’s happening but a groan sounds from above. I raise up on my elbows high enough to keep the throbbing head pain at bay and get a look around. Someone’s sitting in the seat to my right, their head pressed against the window like they’re sleeping.
“Vi?” I hear Carmine whisper, but the world tilts again as the van starts moving and all turns to darkness.
I’m back in Briarwood and once again I’m Cora. My head no longer hurts but I feel a tightness around my middle, enough that I can hardly breathe.
“What is this?” I ask Menasha, who’s helping me dress.
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Your corset?”
I feel Viola flow away from the scene and Cora take over and I now know that whatever comes out of her mouth will not be me. I’m a participator in someone’s else body.
Menasha pulls a dress over my head and starts lacing me up in the back. Downstairs, I hear men laughing.
“How will I get through this night?” Cora asks.
“Like you always do,” Menace says, straightening out my skirt. “Smile and play along.”
“He’s going to kill me when he finds out.”
“If he hasn’t already.”
That damn corset feels like a prison made of cloth, but I slip on my shoes and make my way downstairs. I stand at the doorway, hands clasped tightly together. Menasha gives me an encouraging nod so I take a deep breath and enter the parlor. Wendell sits on the settee as if he’s king, drinking his whiskey as usual, no doubt pouring our profit down his throat if he hasn’t gambled it away in New Orleans. He’s surrounded by two men I’ve never met and won’t likely this night for Wendell never introduces his friends to me. Lingering over at the bookshelf in the corner are two men I do recognize and my heart stops beating. Tyson McDaniels, my former horrid overseer, and Reynald, my guide down the Trace, are whispering about something important while another man sits by their side, his hat pulled low about his face and his body covered by outer wear he failed to remove when entering the house.
I feel like Daniel in the lion’s den and wonder if my faith in God will save me this night for Wendell turns toward me and I see the hatred in his eyes. He knows I have sold Rebecca and Jacob and sent them away.
“Y’all have met my delightful wife,” he says with a sneer. “She’s quite the businesswoman.”
The two men I don’t know are polite enough to tap their hats but my enemies in the corner do not. I curtsy and ask if the men need anything. The two gentlemen thank me and say no but Wendell hasn’t taken his glance off me.
“I need the money you received for those two slaves of mine you sold,” he says. “Not to mention some pile of money your uncle left behind that I’m now learning about.”
A silence falls about the group and the gentlemen look uneasy. I hear a snic
ker at my back where McDaniels stands.
“It’s late,” says one of the gentlemen, grabbing his hat. “I really must be going.”
Now, I recognize him. He’s the clerk of court, the man who registered my sale of Rebecca and Jacob at the courthouse. It’s a man’s world, after all, a confederation of masculinity desperate to maintain control.
The other man agrees and retrieves his hat and the two scurry out the door faster than our field cat spotting a rat. I suddenly feel surrounded with Wendell in front of me, those two at my back, and that silent man sitting there, so I ask my leave and turn toward the door.
“Leaving so soon?” Wendell asks and that smug tone remains.
I squeeze my hands together and close my eyes. I know what’s coming. He’ll beat me — or worse. I don’t say a word, simply nod my head and leave the parlor, closing the door in my wake. I head down the back porch stairs and walk towards the slave quarters, slip a hand inside my skirt pocket and feel the sharp kitchen knife hidden there.
“Don’t forget this, Vi.”
I hear the voice as if it’s Cora’s but I rub my hands across my dress to make sure I’m still in Cora’s point of view and not talking to myself. I’m still Cora, but I’m puzzled who said that and why.
The sun’s setting behind the slave quarters, all of whom are out working in the fields save for an elderly woman looking after the small children. I recall Wendell insisting that when planting time arrives, these children will be sent to work and my pleas on their behalf fell on deaf ears.
I head down to the pond, and know instinctively that I’ve been here many times before, my place of solitude. There’s a sweet little spot next to a willow where I have attempted to escape the pain of losing my son and the abuse my husband inflicts daily, whether verbal or physical. Now that he’s returned from New Orleans and found Rebecca and her son gone — not to mention that there’s inheritance I failed to tell him about and he can’t locate where I’ve stashed it — the abuse will surely intensify. And yet, I don’t care. Since my darling boy perished, nothing matters anymore.
I sit next to the willow and watch the sunlight play upon the water, wishing the sublime sight would provide some semblance of comfort. The ground feels cold beneath my clothes and there’s a chill in the late spring air as the sun descends upon the horizon, but nothing compared to the coldness of my heart.
Footsteps sound and I sense a body behind me, but I don’t turn. If Wendell wants me dead, then so be it. I begin to sing my favorite hymn as a shadow falls upon me and I make out an arm rising above my head, its hand carrying a tool of some kind. I close my eyes and welcome death. The blow arrives instantly.
The pain shoots through my head and I’m blinded by the impact, feel myself falling forward and the world turning dark. The last thing I register is falling into the pond while the cold water greets my face.
I gasp as the water jolts me awake.
“Get up SCANC girl.”
Dwayne stands before me, an empty Big Gulp in his hand. I shake my head and wipe my face with my sleeve, shivers running through me for that horrid wind has dropped several degrees with the cold front pushing through. My head still pounds and I’m dizzy as hell. Something sticky lingers in one eye and the ground feels cold and damp beneath me.
“Where are we?”
I hear a murmur to my right and look over to find Carmine, bound and gagged, sitting on the ground. I instinctively try to stand and head to his rescue but both the intense pain in my head and Dwayne’s hand on my shoulder knock me back down.
“What’s happening?” I ask him. “Are you mad?”
Dwayne starts pacing, those perfect teeth inside a sly smile and those cold blue eyes the only things I make out in the darkness of these woods, wherever we are. Not far away I see our van, so I know the man has kidnapped us and taken us away from the group.
Finally, Dwayne squats down and I can make out his face.
“You know, SCANC girl, I had high hopes for you. I could have showed you the world but you just wouldn’t listen.”
“Showed me how to steal souls is more like it.”
His smile fades. “I’m not what you think I am.”
“You’re right.” I lean in close. “You’re no Lucifer.”
The slap comes fast and hard; I didn’t see it coming. Now, my left cheek burns along with the throbbing in my head and I taste blood on the side of my lip.
“Nice,” I say. “Beating up girls.”
“And faggots,” he adds with a smirk, which makes me hate him so much more.
He stands and looks down at me with contempt. “All I wanted was your dear friend Carmine. He’s been dogging my steps for years, him and all those silly friends who think they’re the guardians of the earth.”
He looks at Carmine. “Where are they now, Carmine? Little help they’re offering tonight. Of course, it helps when someone drains your cell phone battery.”
I look over at Carmine who’s sending me an apologetic glance.
Dwayne turns back to me. “But then I met you at that ridiculous convention and I knew right away this could be a very advantageous trip. Nothing like teaching a witch a few tricks. You pagans are always good for a laugh. Too bad you didn’t take me up on it.”
Dwayne stands, reaches into his pocket, and throws his cell phone in my lap, not what I was expecting.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
He squats in front of me again and this time I crawfish backwards until I hit a tree. “Call Ricky. Tell him about Cora.”
Is this man insane? “What? Why?”
Dwayne appears as if he’s going to slap me again. “You know why. You know how she died and why she hasn’t crossed over. Call him and tell him so she’ll appear and we can get this over with.”
I remember the article Jacob showed me, the one with a man who looked like Dwayne in the background. Then there’s the secretive fellow in the parlor who owned the same height as Dwayne.
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
Dwayne places a hand upon his chest and acts like he’s insulted, although that sly smile returns. “Moi? How could I have possibly killed a woman almost two hundred years ago?”
I glance at Carmine and see his shoulders fall. Nabbing souls helps one become immortal, I surmise, something else my dear friend failed to mention.
“You steal their light when they cross over,” I tell Dwayne. “You steal their souls and somehow that gives you strength, extends your life.”
“You could have had what I have, stupid girl. You could have evolved and be talking to your daughter right now instead of sitting in the Devil’s Punchbowl watching your friend die.”
I look at Carmine who’s now lowering his head in defeat. I get the feeling he knew death was coming but I sure didn’t. And the last thing he wanted was for me to watch it happen.
“You’re insane,” I repeat to Dwayne.
“Better than being ignorant, you stupid witch.” He leans in close. “You don’t even know what powers you possess. You’re almost as bad as that dumbass husband of yours who can only help crippled girls out of cars.”
This really pisses me off. No one insults my husband. I attempt to rise and say, “Don’t you dare talk about…” but Dwayne pushes me back on my rear, grabs the top of my shirt and tugs so tight it cuts off my air.
“I’m losing patience, SCANC girl. Call Ricky. End this. Or I kill Carmine right now.”
Even though I can’t breathe, I shake my head. He’s going to kill us anyway, so stalling would at least buy us time in case someone’s out looking for us. Please, God, let there be someone out looking for us. Sure enough, the other cheek burns with impact. This time, his slap really cuts up my lip so I take the opportunity to spit the blood right in his face. Dwayne says nothing, quietly removes a handkerchief, and wipes the blood away.
“Fine,” he says, standing. “We’ll do this another way.”
He grabs a rope he had laying on the ground b
y Carmine’s feet and walks behind him, throws the rope over Carmine’s head and pulls tight. The rope immediately cuts off Carmine’s air and his eyes enlarge. I attempt to stand, to reach him and fight Dwayne off, but the blow to the head has given me vertigo and I feel like Jimmy Stewart in that Hitchcock film where the world tilts and spins like a vortex.
“Call Ricky,” Dwayne demands.
Carmine shakes his head and I start to cry watching my friend in such pain.
Dwayne pulls the rope tighter.
“Call him.”
Still crying, I pat the ground for the phone and plop down on my rear when I locate it.
“I don’t know the number.”
Dwayne jerks the rope one more time and Carmine utters this horrific, painful sound. “Stupid girl, I’ll give it to you.”
“Okay, okay,” I shout like a babbling baby. “Leave him alone.”
Dwayne releases Carmine and he falls forward, coughing. Dwayne shouts out the numbers and I dial them by knowledge and not by sight; I can’t make out the cellphone’s keyboard in the darkness. The wind whips around the trees, and my wet hair and the temperature change causes my teeth to chatter.
Ricky answers on the first ring.
“Ricky,” I say, trying hard not to sound weird with my teeth rattling and my lips bleeding and swollen. “I have something to tell you about Cora.”
“Viola?”
“Yes, it’s me. I have something I need to tell you….”
“Where are you? Shelby called me and said you and Carmine have disappeared from the cemetery tour and the van’s missing. They’re worried about you.”
I take a deep breath, try to clear my mind. “The cemetery tour was delightful, thanks.”
He hesitates. “Are you okay?”
“Not really, no.”
Trace of a Ghost Page 24
