The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  Even Nola was looking at me strangely as I blathered on and on about the stupid invitation and party. I think I was probably more coherent when I was two and just learning how to speak.

  When he still didn’t say anything, I said, “Well, I guess I should be going. I’ve got another closing at three and an open house at six. Busy, busy.”

  “I bet,” he said. “Well, don’t let us keep you.”

  “Right.” I turned on my heel and headed back toward the front door. “Have fun, Nola. I’ll see you later tonight.”

  I turned the knob and was halfway out the door before Jack spoke. “Oh, before you go. I’ve had a couple of chances to chat with Miss Julia. Not only when I’ve brought Nola over for her lesson, but I’ve also volunteered to do a little carpentry work, repairing floorboards and spindles or whatever.”

  I tried to let the fact that he was handy with tools not affect me, but it was a losing battle. “Yes?” I prompted, trying not to show my surprise that he was still interested in the Manigaults and their ghosts.

  “She keeps a note or a letter—something so old and read so many times that it’s almost in shreds—in a Santa head–shaped box in her Christmas room. I think it’s important, but since she doesn’t know I’ve seen her taking it out and putting it back, and hasn’t mentioned it, I can’t really bring it up. But if you’re wondering what to ask William when you speak with him, that would be a good place to start, I think. Because then she’ll know that you really are talking with him when you ask her about the note.”

  It was an olive branch of sorts, and one I was happy to accept. “Thank you,” I said. “I will.” I didn’t mention that I’d made only a few halfhearted attempts to contact William, and given in way too easily. My life was in a tenable holding pattern, almost like it had once been before I met Jack and before my mother had come back into my life. I wasn’t sure I wanted to rock it enough to send it off course again.

  I began to walk toward the elevator when his voice called me back again. “I read something the other day that made me think of you.”

  Pleased that he would think of me when I wasn’t with him scooted pleasant electrical pulses through my veins. I turned back to him with a smile. “What was that?”

  “ ‘Life begins where your comfort zone ends.’ It was embroidered on a pillow in a shop window.”

  I held my breath, waiting for the words to come to explain to him that I was happy the way that I was, that not everybody needed to jump out of airplanes, or jump into bed with someone, or irritate angry ghosts to make life worthwhile. There were plenty of things in my life that made it great. I just couldn’t think of any of them at the moment.

  Instead of responding, or standing silent in the hallway waiting for the elevator, I headed for the stairs, the clicking of my heels on the wooden steps a sad and pathetic response to his challenge.

  CHAPTER 20

  Dusk in Charleston settles on the city like an unexpected surprise, tinting the church steeples and stuccoed houses with shades of pink and purple, adorning the city with a shawl of ethereal light. I often wondered whether all this beauty was one of the reasons why so many past residents refused to leave the city, even after death.

  I found my mother in the parterre garden of her house, the garden in which I remembered spending so much time with my grandmother. It must have been a special place for my mother, too, as her directions for my father’s reconstruction of it made it an exact replica of my childhood garden.

  An untouched cup of tea sat in front of her, the cream stagnant on top of the cooled liquid. General Lee lay at her feet, giving a lazy swipe of his tail in greeting before lowering his head and closing his eyes again.

  My mother looked up at me, but in the dim light I didn’t see that she wasn’t smiling until I sat down next to her. Her hands were folded in her lap, a paper bag sitting on the wrought-iron table in front of her. Next to it were the gloves she normally wore to prevent herself from touching things that might have something to say to her.

  “How was your day?” she asked as I felt the side of the carafe, the ceramic cold to the touch.

  “The usual. Lots of out-of-towners looking for deals and leaving disappointed. My new receptionist, Charlene, canceled an appointment to preview a house—without my approval—so I’d have time to do yoga with her, and Sophie called about three hundred times to ask about flowers for the wedding. When Charlene volunteered that she used to be a wedding planner, I just handed the phone to her. Killed two birds with one stone.”

  A soft smile lifted my mother’s mouth.

  “But I did close on a warehouse loft today on East Bay Street and made a nice commission.” My smile faltered only when I started to think about how much of that commission was going to go into the new foundation of the house on Tradd Street.

  When she didn’t say anything, I looked at her more closely, seeing how drawn she looked, how tired and pale she seemed. Wary, I leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my attention focused on the bag.

  She raised her eyebrows. “I think it’s time you took this seriously.”

  “Oh, no, you didn’t.” I shook my head as I opened up the bag and stared inside. The four dollhouse family members lay inside, nestled together like cords of firewood. “Why would you touch them? Especially without me here?”

  “I only held the mother without my gloves. She was the weakest, so I deemed her the safest. But they’ve been coming to me. In my dreams—or nightmares, I should say. Anne, the mother, keeps wanting to show me something, but William and Harold hold her back. There’s something they’re desperate to keep hidden.”

  “You should have told me about the dreams.”

  “I thought that you might be having your own, but you were keeping it to yourself. Until Nola told me this morning that she’d had a bad dream, and it was the same dream I’d been having, and I realized that they had chosen Nola and me for a reason.”

  “Nola? Why would they pick her?”

  Her tired eyes met mine. “Because she’s vulnerable.” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes still on mine. “She told me that in her dream her mother came and made them go away.”

  “Like a guardian angel,” I said softly. “I told Nola that was probably why Bonnie was still here. To watch over her. I think knowing that has helped Nola a lot.” I remembered my experience in the Circular Church cemetery, and the photograph the teenage girl had shown me, and told my mother. “She was protecting me from Harold, but I don’t why. Nola wasn’t even with me.”

  My mother shifted in her seat, more alert. “And it was definitely Bonnie?”

  I nodded. “Definitely. I’ve seen her enough around Nola to recognize her.”

  “She feels maternal around you for some reason, but I can’t imagine why.”

  She continued to study me long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. “So why are they coming to you and Nola in dreams but not to me?”

  “They’re trying to scare us away.”

  “From what?” I asked, dropping the bag on the table, not wanting to touch it any longer than I had to.

  “They know you’re the strongest, that you have the ability to seek Anne out and isolate her, to find what they want to remain hidden. They must believe that Nola and I will make you stop.”

  Stop her. “Is that what the words burned into the stair runner and carved into Nola’s wall meant, do you think?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. After all, you haven’t really done anything yet that would make them believe you’re much of a threat. I think the incident in the cemetery was more from opportunity than anything else.”

  “I have to admit that they’ve convinced me to cease and desist. And if Nola didn’t love that dollhouse so much, I’d suggest giving it back to Amelia to sell and just being done with it.”

  My mother let out a deep sigh. “There are some very unhappy spirits connected to that dollhouse, Mellie. And a very unhappy woman who’s still living an
d who wants to speak with her brother. We can help them, Mellie. Doesn’t that make you feel at least a little bit obligated?”

  My immediate “no” lingered in my mouth, as if to speak it out loud would make me a liar. Another thought intruded. “Why didn’t Nola tell me about her dreams?”

  Smiling softly, she said, “Because if you send the Manigaults away, you’ll most likely send her mother away, too. I think Nola likes having her here.”

  “Is that a problem? Hanging around to be close to a loved one?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that, Mellie. Remember, there’s no handbook for what we do. But from my experience, only troubled spirits linger, and when their questions are answered, they suddenly see the light and follow it. Being earthbound is a temporary state, holding them back from what lies beyond death.”

  The sun dipped lower in the sky and I sighed with resignation. “Would you help me contact William? If we can keep Harold at bay, we might be able to get a message for Julia.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too, since trying to contact Anne didn’t work.”

  I stood and picked up the bag holding the doll figures. “Put on your gloves. Your attempt to communicate with Anne has already weakened you. You’re not ready for William. Let me try it myself—with you in the room, of course. I’m not that strong.”

  Without argument, my mother slipped on her gloves, then, using the table for support, pulled herself up to a stand. “Let’s roll,” she said, her voice a lot more confident than she looked.

  We turned the hall light on, but left everything else in darkness. Of all the ghost movies I’d seen on TV, the one thing that Hollywood got right was that most ghosts really did prefer the dark. I suppose it made sense. They had once been living people, and most people I knew didn’t like the harsh light of day to show all of their flaws and shortcomings. Dead people shouldn’t be any different, and their most obvious shortcoming was their inability to die completely.

  We walked slowly into the drawing room, General Lee prancing behind us, our steps muted on the Aubusson rug. The streetlights streaming through the stained-glass window splashed unintentional color onto the walls and furniture, but left the dollhouse, now moved back against the far wall, in its own black space devoid of light.

  “Take William out of the bag,” my mother directed. “Then fold up the top and leave the rest in the bag on the hall table.”

  I brought the bag back into the hall to see better. Glancing inside, I could have sworn Harold’s face glowered at me. Quickly finding William, I plucked him out of the bag and with one hand folded the top of the bag and placed it on top of a Chippendale console.

  My fingers seemed to hum and vibrate, the tips warming as if I were touching a living, breathing person. Eager to put him down, I walked quickly back to the drawing room and set the figure down on the coffee table. “What do I do now?”

  I felt rather than saw my mother’s reproving glance in my direction. “What did you do with the Hessian soldier and Mary Gibson?”

  “I just spoke to them, like I’m speaking to you now.”

  “There you go. Speak to William, and tell him what you want.”

  I sat down on the sofa opposite my mother, the William doll on the table between us, and took a deep breath. Placing both hands flat on my knees, I cleared my throat. “William Manigault? Are you here?”

  Nothing happened, the only noise that of the mantel clock and the sound of General Lee licking himself. I glared in the direction of the dog, then turned back to face the doll. “William Manigault, I have a message from your sister, Julia. Can you speak to me?”

  The temperature of the room dipped sharply as a small pinprick of light appeared on the turret of the dollhouse and then began to grow and shimmer, gradually shifting into a column of light that hovered between the floor and the ceiling next to the dollhouse. General Lee whimpered, then shot out of the room, his tail firmly planted between his back legs.

  “William? Is that you?”

  The light began to take on a human form, with arms and legs visible, and then a head, tilted at an odd angle. His suit was in the style of the nineteen thirties, his neatly combed hair parted in the center, his body solid enough to be confused with a real person except for the fact that he glowed.

  “Do you see him?” I asked quietly, turning my head slightly in my mother’s direction.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “He’s the one I saw in my dream.”

  Go away.

  I felt the words rather than heard them, the menace behind them palpable as a sheet of icy wind blew at me, strong enough to move my hair.

  “Your sister, Julia, wants to hear from you. Is there something you want to tell her?”

  Stop her.

  I stood and felt my mother stand next to me. She reached for my hand and grabbed it tightly. “We are stronger than you,” I said out loud.

  No, you’re not.

  My mother’s hand squeezed mine.

  “Is there something you want to tell your sister?” I asked again. “She wants to talk with you.”

  Stop her.

  I had to force my jaw to stop trembling as the temperature continued to drop. “What do you want her to stop?”

  She knows. Only misery awaits if she does not stop.

  “Why are you still here? Is there something you need to see finished before you can move on?”

  He turned his head and I could see a dark welt of black and blue on the side of his neck. I recalled the dollhouse figure of William, and the fractured line of glue that had replaced the head back on the neck. He will not let me.

  “Who, William? Your father?”

  Stop her. It will only get worse if she does not.

  “What happened to you, William? I think Julia wants to know, to give her peace. Can you tell me that?”

  What could have been a laugh rumbled through the darkened room. She knows.

  “Knows what?”

  The light began to flicker and diminish, absorbed into the inky blackness like oxygen in fire.

  “Wait!” I stepped forward, my mother moving with me, our hands still clasped. “What about the letter? The one Julia keeps in the Santa box. What is it?”

  A spot in the center of the shrinking light brightened briefly. She believes it is proof of innocence where there is none. Let her believe it. Make her stop.

  “Stop what?” I asked again, but the light was gone, the temperature of the room already returning to normal. I fell back onto the sofa, mentally exhausted and frustrated. “Well, that was a big bunch of nothing.”

  My mother, who’d moved to flip on the overhead chandelier, paused in the doorway leading to the foyer. “Not exactly.”

  I smelled the smoke as I walked quickly to join her. We both saw the smoldering bag sitting on top of the Chippendale console. The central portion appeared untouched, but the folded edge glowed with red, the color fading and intensifying as if the bag breathed.

  Thinking mostly of the furniture, I knocked the bag to the heart-of-pine floor and stamped my shoe down on the smoldering edge again and again until no red showed and the sole of my Bruno Magli slingback was crusty with paper ash.

  I stared at my mother, the smell of burning paper heavy in the air. “Great. That went well. I think we really pissed somebody off—probably Harold. And I really, really don’t like it when he’s angry.”

  My mother bent down to pick up the bag. “I know, sweetheart. But you did well, and you deserve a quiet evening to yourself. Go draw yourself a bath and have a long soak. No more ghosts tonight.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, the radio in Nola’s room burst into life at high volume, the words to “I’m Just Getting Started” so familiar to me now that I had them memorized.

  “Or not,” I said as I wearily climbed the stairs, recalling with envy my previous life, when the voices of the dead were something I easily ignored.

  I struggled to simultaneously close my umbrella and make it through the door at Ru
th’s Bakery without getting wet or dropping my purse and briefcase. A strong hand reached through the door and took the umbrella from me, allowing me to get inside. I turned to thank my benefactor, whose broad-shouldered back was to me as he carefully folded my umbrella and leaned it against the wall beside the door. My prepared smile dropped as Jack turned around to face me, his expression showing that he wasn’t surprised to see me. Or all that happy, either. He looked like a boy who’d been sent to the principal’s office, determined to act contrite despite his reluctance to be there. “Good morning, Mellie.”

  I glanced over at Ruth, who stood behind the counter, her eyes sparkling as she surreptitiously smoothed her hair and fixed the collar of her shirt. If her skin weren’t so dark, I’d bet she was flushing, too, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether anyone, besides Nola, was immune to Jack.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked as I approached the counter for my morning order of doughnuts and cappuccino that Ruth usually already had bagged and ready by seven thirty for me.

  “I thought this was a public establishment,” Jack said as he sat down at one of the two parlor-style tables.

  I looked up from where I’d been digging in my purse for the coupons I pulled every week from the unread Sunday newspaper for Ruth and saw that she was scowling at me.

  “Where’s your manners, girl? This gentleman’s been nothing but pleasant and you’re being unkind. I know your mama taught you better.”

  I thumped the coupons on the counter to circumvent the finger wagging I was sure was coming next.

  “That’s all right, Ruth,” Jack said as he stretched his long legs beneath the table. “I’m used to it.”

  I dug back into my purse for my wallet and beamed a smile at Ruth, who was doing weird things with her eyebrows and pointing to the fourth finger of her left hand and jerking her head in Jack’s direction.

  I squinted, trying to figure out what she was trying to tell me. She did it again, this time her movements more exaggerated.

  “No, I’m not married, Ruth,” Jack said from the table behind me. “Mellie’s aware of that fact, and I’ve had to rebuff her advances on many occasions. I’m just happy that I’ve remained relatively unscathed with all limbs attached and most of my clothes still in one piece.”