Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy

by Allison, Jennifer

  THE CITY OF ST. AUGUSTINE:

  Mrs. Rabido, like many Northerners (or “Yanks,” as the old-timers would say), you might be under the impression that the Pilgrims up in Massachusetts, with their black-and-white outfits and turkey dinners, were the first colonists ever to settle on the North American continent. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong!

  In fact, the Spanish landed on the Florida shore way back in 1565, led by an ambitious and puffy-sleeved conquistador named Pedro Menendez de Aviles. And when they got off the boat, what do you think those Spanish sailors did first?

  “Have a snack?”

  Nope.

  “Give each other high fives?”

  Nope.

  “Write a research paper with footnotes to send back to the king in Spain?”

  All wrong, Mrs. Rabido.

  Really, you should know better. The very first thing they did was go to church. That’s right, they set up an altar and, being good Catholics, they said the first Mass in Florida and named the settlement they had discovered St. Augustine after one of everyone’s favorite saints (St. Augustine, in case you didn’t realize that).

  Of course, the Spanish weren’t actually the “first” people in St. Augustine. The Timucua Indians were a peaceful community of farmers who had been living there for quite some time. Well, the Spanish settlers didn’t waste any time doing their best to convert those Timucua to Christianity.

  I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Rabido, that it did not end well for the Timucua tribe. Unfortunately, there aren’t any more Timucua Indians left because along with church, the Europeans brought terrible diseases, like yellow fever, that completely wiped them out.

  However, it is interesting to note that the bones and artifacts of the Timucua are buried on land throughout the city and in places like the historic Tolomato Cemetery. In fact, some people believe that the bones of the Indians are one of the reasons that St. Augustine is rumored to be one of the most haunted cities in the entire United States!

  Mrs. Rabido, I know you like to present yourself as a sensible lady dressed in support undergarments and low- heeled loafers, but you can’t fool me. Something tells me you might share my personal belief in ghosts, n’est pas? Am I right?

  Okay, even if you don’t believe in ghosts (but I hope you do), you may be intrigued to know that the past has a strange way of lingering here in St. Augustine. I can FEEL it.

  Is it the aromas of traditional woodstove cooking wafting through the air from restaurants and bakeries? Is it the employees dressed in historical costumes who spend their days making candles and horseshoes to entertain tourists? Or is it simply the memories of the many families who have lived here for generations? Some of the oldest families came over with Menendez, some against their will as slaves who were sold in the old “slave market.” Others are descendants of Greeks and Italians who set sail from the port of Minorca, near Spain, in the year 1768. Now considered “the Minorcans”—a label they cherish with pride—they first arrived in Florida as the indentured servants of a man named Andrew Turnbull, who hired them to clear the land and build a settlement in a town called New Smyrna, Florida.

  Well, when they got to Florida, the Minorcans were greeted with sweltering heat and clouds of mosquitoes thick enough to choke cows. Hundreds of the workers fell sick and died from malaria. To make matters worse, Andrew Turnbull turned out to be a candidate for the “Bad Employer of the Year” award. Eventually, the surviving Minorcans /s were “freed” from Mr. Turnbull and moved to St. Augustine, where they eventually built a vital community, known for its shrimping and datil peppers.

  GRAND FINALE CONCLUSION:

  Thus, it can be seen that the past and its many ghosts continue to lurk around in the St. Augustine community today.

  THE END

  I hope you’ve enjoyed my first travelogue entry, and that you’re coping with the school week despite the complete lack of my scintillating personality in your classroom.

  With very best wishes,

  Gilda Joyce

  To: GILDA JOYCE

  From: GILDA JOYCE

  RE: UPDATE

  Now approaching the home of Eugene Pook!!

  11

  Darla and Mary Louise

  We’re getting close now,” said Eugene. He drove into a quiet old neighborhood near the St. Augustine waterfront where enormous Civil War–era houses sprawled, encircled by expansive porches and balconies and shaded by trees that dripped with gloomy Spanish moss.

  “Here we are!” Eugene parked in front of a large yellow house.

  Stepping out of the car, Gilda felt a distinct tickle in her left ear. It’s the house I pictured in my mind when I tried on Mom’s ring! Gilda felt simultaneously proud of her psychic abilities and frightened by the implications of her premonition, remembering the cold, ominous feeling that had accompanied it.

  “Eugene! Hello there!” A woman, who wore her white hair pulled back in a bun, and a girl, who appeared to be about twelve years old, approached on the sidewalk as Gilda, Mrs. Joyce, and Eugene climbed out of the car. The woman wore a long sundress with a shawl. Her willowy, feminine silhouette contrasted with the girl’s rumpled Bermuda shorts, deep tan, and tousled black hair. The girl had earbuds in her ears; she was listening to music on an iPod. “We haven’t seen you in quite a while,” said the woman, while eyeing Gilda’s plumed hat with interest.

  “Well, I’ve been right here,” said Eugene. “Mary Louise, I’d like to introduce you to my fiancée, Patricia.”

  Mary Louise’s eyebrows flew up with surprise. “My goodness, Eugene,” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were engaged! How surprise–I mean, how wonderful!” Mary Louise now turned her full, inquisitive attention to Mrs. Joyce and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Patricia.”

  “Oh, and this is Patty’s daughter, Gilda,” Eugene added.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Gilda,” said Mary Louise. “We’re Eugene’s next-door neighbors. This is my daughter, Darla; she’s in the seventh grade.”

  Darla looked impatient. “Mom, I’m going to be late for rehearsal.”

  “Darla, please say hello to Mr. Pook, and to his fiancée and Gilda.”

  “Hello,” said Darla. She shot Gilda a quick smile.

  “Hey,” said Gilda.

  “Nice to meet you, Darla,” said Mrs. Joyce.

  Something strange happened as Darla looked directly into Mrs. Joyce’s eyes and shook her hand. Her brown eyes registered a spasm of confusion, as if she were about to exclaim in fright or surprise, but then stopped herself. She quickly looked away.

  That was weird, Gilda thought. You’d think Darla had just seen a ghost.

  Eugene seemed oblivious to the strange interaction between Darla and Mrs. Joyce. “How are those kids treating you over at the school these days, Mary Louise?”

  “It’s a mix, you know,” said Mary Louise, who was an elementary school teacher. “We have some families going through difficult times.”

  Gilda noticed that Darla again searched Mrs. Joyce’s face as if trying to gauge whether it matched some phantom in her memory.

  “We’re also doing a unit on the Civil Rights era, and it’s awkward to bring up that pain,” Mary Louise continued. “Some of the kids have parents who are still afraid of the Klan when they walk around at night; others actually have a family member who was in the Klan back in the days of segregation. Some of them have grandparents who wanted Martin Luther King arrested when he visited our city. In my opinion, they shouldn’t be made to feel bad; I mean, it isn’t the child’s fault their family didn’t know any different back then.”

  “You teachers are always stirrin’ up trouble,” said Eugene.

  It was a joke, but Gilda sensed that he was at least half serious.

  “Mom, I’m going to be late,” said Darla.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Darla has a dance rehearsal to attend. She goes to a performing arts school.”

  “Doesn’t that sound nice, Gilda?” said Mrs. Joyc
e.

  Gilda thought it did indeed sound nice, but her mother’s transparent attempt to generate excitement about moving to Florida annoyed her.

  As Darla and her mother said good-bye and turned to head down the sidewalk, Darla glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Joyce once more, her brow furrowed with worry.

  Why does she keep looking at Mom that way? Gilda wondered.

  12

  The Spell

  Eugene led Gilda and Mrs. Joyce into a room filled with mismatched objects, ranging from grandfather clocks and rocking chairs to paintings and pottery. A spicy, pungent aroma permeated the air. Gilda felt anxious as she caught a glimpse of herself, Eugene, and her mother in an eye-shaped mirror that seemed to observe the three of them from a corner of the furniture-stuffed room.

  “I use most of the space here to restore furniture and keep my extra stock,” Eugene explained. “The main shop is in the antiques district of the city.”

  How could we move in here? Gilda wondered. There isn’t any room for people!

  “I realize it looks cluttered,” Eugene said, “but everything here is cataloged. Every artifact belongs in a very specific place in the house.”

  Sounds like he’s worried that Mom and I might mess up his collections, Gilda thought.

  “Some of these pieces are actually too valuable to sell,” Eugene added. “They’ve been in this house for generations.”

  As if in response to Eugene’s comment, the glittery chandelier overhead flickered. The room fell dark for a moment, then the lights flashed on again.

  “As you can see, the house has a few electrical problems,” said Eugene. “But that’s the norm for an old house in this city.”

  “Or it could be evidence of spirit activity,” Gilda suggested. She was curious whether Eugene believed in ghosts. After all, he had taken her mother on a ghost tour.

  “Plenty of people in this town would agree with you,” said Eugene. “But as a wise man once told me: ‘There ain’t no ghost but the Holy Ghost.’ ”

  Gilda decided to ignore this comment because she had always found talk of the “Holy Ghost” quite baffling. Didn’t the existence of the “Holy Ghost” support the possibility that other, non-holy ghosts might also exist? Her eye suddenly fell on a glass-topped coffee table filled with a collage of interesting objects—spotted conch shells, sand dollars, an old silver cross, and something unusual that gave Gilda a vaguely creepy feeling—a piece of bone that looked very much like part of a human skull.

  “Is that real?” she asked. The bone appeared to be a portion of a jawbone, with teeth still attached.

  “Course it’s real,” said Eugene. “That’s a jawbone.”

  “I mean—whose jaw is it?”

  “It’s most likely from the skull of a Timucua Indian. Someone found it ages ago when this house was first built here. It’s been in this house for generations.”

  Gilda had an uneasy feeling. “Shouldn’t a human skull bone be buried in a grave somewhere?” she asked.

  “Well, sure. But this one belongs to the house.”

  But what if the spirit of the person to whom that bone belonged doesn’t like having part of his or her head in a coffee table? Gilda mused. After all, that bone must have been buried here before the house was built.

  Eugene disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a silver tray of Ritz crackers topped with an unusual fluorescent-green sauce. “You have to try my datil-pepper jelly,” said Eugene. “Making jelly is a hobby of mine, and this is my latest concoction.”

  Again, just when I think I don’t like Mr. Pook, he comes up with something surprising. Who would expect a middle-aged man to spend his spare time making lurid green datil-pepper jelly? Yes, Mr. Pook, I give you points for one of the more unusual hobbies I’ve encountered.

  “I don’t think Gilda’s ever had the opportunity to try datil peppers before,” said Mrs. Joyce, biting into one of the crackers. “We certainly don’t have them up in Michigan.”

  Eugene explained how the datil pepper was a traditional favorite of the region—a unique hot pepper that “goes with just about everything” and defines the local cuisine. He watched eagerly as Gilda bit into the cracker topped with datil jelly.

  “It’s good,” said Gilda, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the odd combination of sweet and spicy flavors. Maybe he should put the datil peppers on a pizza or in a barbecue sauce next time, she thought.

  “Patty-Cakes,” said Eugene, placing a hand on Mrs. Joyce’s shoulder, “you should sit down and drink some water; you look dehydrated.”

  He talks to Mom as if he’s her parent, Gilda thought, feeling slightly annoyed with both Eugene and her mother. “Mom could probably use some maple syrup while she’s at it,” Gilda quipped.

  Mrs. Joyce frowned, and Eugene gave Gilda a quizzical look.

  “Get it? Syrup for Patty-Cakes?”

  “Oh. Very funny, Gilda.” Mrs. Joyce leaned back into the couch pillows, and Eugene simply turned and walked into the kitchen. I guess he’s not big on jokes, Gilda thought.

  “I’ll get the water for you, Patty-Cakes,” said Eugene.

  Gilda suddenly felt an urgent need to talk to her mother in private. She wanted to tell her about the premonition she had experienced about the house—the way she had pictured it in her mind even before coming to Florida, and the ominous feeling she had when they first walked through the door. She also wanted to complain about Eugene’s mustache.

  But Eugene returned to the living room carrying a glass of water before Gilda could blurt out her concerns.

  “Gilda,” said Eugene, “I’ll take your things upstairs to your bedroom and show you where everything is in the house. I just have one rule: Please don’t handle anything fragile.”

  Gilda felt her spirits lift at the prospect of seeing the rest of the house. With any luck, she’d have an opportunity to do some first-rate snooping.

  “There are some vintage clothes up there; you’re welcome to try things on as long as you’re very careful.”

  Gilda’s obvious excitement at the invitation to try on clothes must have worried Eugene because he raised a finger in warning: “Again—don’t handle anything fragile, okay?”

  “Got it,” said Gilda. “Look with your eyes, not your hands.”

  “Pardon?”

  Mrs. Joyce laughed. “That was a saying Nick and I used to tell the kids when they were little. Whenever we went into a store with breakable objects, Gilda was so curious she always wanted to touch everything.”

  Eugene didn’t look amused by the anecdote.

  He probably doesn’t like it when Mom mentions anything about the old days when Dad was alive, Gilda thought.

  Upstairs, Gilda followed Eugene down a hallway lined with antique mirrors, paintings, and furniture. She was thrilled when Eugene put her suitcase in the most feminine of the bedrooms: It had a regal-looking four-poster canopy bed, floral wallpaper, a full-length mirror, shelves displaying antique baby dolls dressed in lace, an old rocking horse, a baby buggy, and a vanity table complete with an antique silver comb and brush and some old-fashioned perfume atomizer bottles.

  The moment Eugene left, Gilda felt like a young child in a toy store as she began to explore the room. She opened a trunk that resembled a treasure chest and discovered a collection of silk gloves and petticoats inside. A hand-painted jewelry box contained a long pearl necklace, clip-on earrings, and a butterfly brooch. Gilda sat down at the vanity table and tried on the necklace.

  Gazing into the mirror, she spied something interesting in the room that she hadn’t noticed before—a dollhouse. She turned and walked over to investigate it more closely: It was an amazingly detailed miniature world containing lamps that actually turned on and off, beds with pillows and blankets, and tiny pieces of furniture carved from real wood. The “Southern belle” doll standing on the balcony of the house had soft brown hair curled in tight ringlets. She wore a petticoat of stiff lace and a hat decorated with silk flowers. Her eyes opened and shu
t to reveal glass irises. She was clearly a doll meant for display rather than the sticky hands of a young child.

  Next to the dollhouse, Gilda spotted two doll figurines with pitch-black faces; their eyes and mouths were gaping white circles. When she picked them up to look more closely, Gilda realized they weren’t dolls. They were actually salt-and-pepper shakers. Something about their cartoonlike black faces struck Gilda as more racist than whimsical. She felt certain that many people she knew back home in Detroit would be offended by them. Did Eugene keep them because they were historically interesting relics from an era of racial segregation, or did he actually think they were cute?

  Help!

  It was a woman’s voice. The sudden sound startled Gilda. Had it come from inside the house?

  Gilda froze, listening. Her mother and Eugene were downstairs, but it didn’t sound like either of them. “Hello?” Gilda called.

  Help!

  Gilda sucked in her breath. It was definitely a woman’s voice, but it sounded strangely muffled and hollow.

  Help!

  “Mom?” Gilda walked into the hallway, past the mirrors and other antiques. Was someone calling from the kitchen downstairs? Gilda had the bizarre impression that the house itself was talking.

  “Mom? Eugene?” Gilda peered down the stairwell, but nobody answered.

  Gilda went downstairs. Through the front window, she glimpsed Eugene heading down the front path toward his car, but her mother was not in sight.

  Gilda walked to the kitchen, where she found her mother. Mrs. Joyce stood as motionless as a statue in the middle of the floor, staring out the window.

  As Gilda approached her mother she felt the air around her cooling, as if she had just opened a refrigerator door. How strange! she thought, remembering how her Master Psychic’s Handbook had explained that “cold spots may be signs of spirit activity.”