by BoJenn
He had stayed hidden and watched her tire of calling him. Cat fell asleep in the den. After she was in deep sleep, he stood over her and watched that none of the other spirits took over her body. He had more authority than the demon spirits. “They won’t bother you right now. But, they aren’t dead people. They’re devils,” he reminded her from his mind to her dreams. There, the boy stayed watching her, protecting her, until the sun’s first light. Then he drifted back to the wood.
Each morning, after the evening of gaiety with the spirits, Cat realized the parties were delusional—the hallucinations she just conjured up, due to loneliness and isolation, she figured. They were nothing but a fantasy. She felt guilty and each time vowed to herself that this would never happen again.
But, Cat did rationalize entertaining their companionship every once in a while wouldn’t be so bad? Allowing herself a single night of socialization with the spirits, knowing it would make her feel horrible the next day, might be okay, once in awhile. Knowing the guilt she would feel, she could let her guard down for the sake of company. She knew that she was weak. “Dammit! What else can I do? I am lonely!”, she yelled to God. “What do you want me to do?” She cried again.
Her mind was going back and forth and sideways, then it would slow, then move faster, rolling the memories, the pains, the goodness, and everything she could account for in her childhood and since. “I have a gun. I can use it if I have to,” she resolved.
“No, not yet,” she disputed.
“Yes, you can,” the demon, Murderer, told her by whispering to her.
Her mind was racing faster than a thoroughbred, only it never reached the finish line. In the next flash of good memory, it occurred to her that, once upon a time, a long time ago, Elizabeth Catherine Dubois was a young girl of five, who grew into a young woman that lived to hear God. She was bright, fair, and innocent of worldy desires. Golden lights surrounded her. Everything she touched, was blessed, or so it seemed to her. She was an excellent student, always eager and ready to learn all of God’s ways.
One night, many weeks after the soirée with the spirits, she lay on the cool ground of the earth, with all the stars shining over her. They witnessed her confession—the vow, the contractual agreement that wed her to her Lord, forever. She had boldly yelled out to Him, “Take me, I’m yours.”
Cat wondered if God heard her now that she had fallen from sexual purity. Not only was she now touched by the fingers of dead people, and they had their way with her, but she wasn’t pure and thought that God would surely not come to her rescue, now.
Many more years passed. God had still not come to save her. She could do nothing but sigh an endless sigh. “It’s useless. I’m wasted. Doomed.”
But, what had happened to her? Why had she wandered so far away from her God that she loved so much as a child? She tried to rationalize, but was left as empty as before. “I dedicated most of my time studying God’s character, his healing power and the gears that move the energy to make prayers work. I can’t take my life. I will never reach heaven.”
So, she continued her rationalizing. After all, as she had been instructed, good students would be tried by fire, tested for loyalty, and corrected in love. And, all love lessons, she believed, were all painful. Many people have wilted from the refiner’s fire when true love was being molded. The students of love would eventually arise from a fall and face the next battle, knowing they were not alone when fighting.
Cat went ‘round and around in all the understanding she possessed. She dialogued with herself, as usual. The key was to “know.” Faith in the beliefs of prayer, and speaking words that have no meaning in the spoken word of prayer, are imperative. It is belief only. Belief can stand alone. Words are words with no power at all. The power behind prayer is belief. Belief has the vibrational energy. This is why Cat chose a language not of her own in which to pray. She didn’t know what language she spoke; but she knew the power had no strength in merely saying any word. It is the faith—the belief—the vibrational energies of all life—that move the prayer wheels, that grind the causes, that make the effects. The language—the chosen words—were useless without the energy. Words don’t conjure happenings. However, the force behind the spoken, whispered or screamed words does have bearing on the outcome.
With this soliloquy, she poured another glass of red wine. Cat reviewed the love lessons to be found in Glory Town. It was troublesome for her. Could all the shouts and sneers of mean-spirited people be only trials—lessons meant to test and strengthen her soul? Could the verbal daggers of hatred actually come from the Devil himself? Or, did God allow them for a higher purpose? After all she reasoned, God knows what was meant to harm would only strengthen the weak. Cat thought she understood her weakness. “But, perhaps, I really didn’t understand, after all? The understanding of the learned lessons became vague.”
Hidden in the confusion of going through the trials, similarly described as not being able to see the forest when standing in the middle of the trees, these lessons to learn were now unclear. “I guess I really never understood.”
As time moved along more quickly than ever before, her hair had turned grey midst the black dye. “The spirits lie to me. Wrinkles have formed on my face,” she spit out from her mouth like a bitter pill. More than that, dark circles from drinking too much were showing, and her beautiful smile had disappeared from view. Her teeth were stained from the red wine and brandy. Cat looked honestly at herself in the mirror in the foyer where the light seemed truthful. The childhood innocence had vanished long ago; and answers seemed to be nowhere in sight. She didn’t like her frail self, losing life’s meaning, but she tried not to give in to self-pity. It almost amused her that she was, indeed, childish…and ignorant. “Not such a shining star as I once believed,” she said aloud again, this time to make sure she heard herself.
“Self-Pity”, another spirit, loved her to see her cry. It stood next to her. It pointed out her aging flaws. The tears she’d shed from all the rejections could have swallowed her alive—or taken her life—if it hadn’t been for her own spirit which tenderly wooed her back to safety and normalcy of mind.
“But, you have a broken heart, caused by the physical and mental distress of deaths, departures of loved ones, ridicule, isolations, and mean bullying of supposedly Christian people who make you this way. Shame on them!”, “Self-Pity” reminded her by whispering into her ears. “You were a young orphaned woman, for heaven’s sake,” the doting spirit added.
The “Murderer” manifested in dark robes but remained unseen. The spirit just spoke—in a dark, deep voice of determination, “Now, the gun is in the drawer. You simply have to take it out, load it and use it. Just end all of this sadness. Take your life. Do it now.” But as soon as it had spoken, it dissipated. Cat sobbed, again, but this time harder. “No, I can’t take my life,” she resolutely refused, as she moved to the couch and fell asleep. Her anguish caused extreme tiredness.
She got up to face the next day. Courage and faith were no longer hers, as she had once believed she possessed. She made it to see the sunrise each morning; that was all she could muster. But, if she left faith, hope and courage behind, then, isolation and loneliness became her worst enemies—so much so that “Loneliness” and “Isolation” actually became spirit beings—real entities, not just a state of being. They were emotionless—tall and thin, looming, shadowy, virtually unseen presences. She felt them more than saw them. She knew they had always been with her, even when she was five, when her family moved to Glory Town. The reasons why they were with her, she did not know, but they were there; and they weren’t going anywhere—ever. And she kind of counted on them. She knew of no other replacements, and accepted the fact they would always be the center of her void.
One day, however, annoyed by their constant companionship, she mumbled to herself, “You two, “Isolation” and “Loneliness”, you may have been hanging around my whole life, as far back as I can remember; but one day, you will be gone.” Sh
e may have just mumbled it, but it was a fierce thought.
Cat blatantly refused to entertain any thoughts of suicide, even if she did drink far too much wine to soothe her troubled soul. That was just her coping method. She was not an alcoholic, according to her own belief; but the wine or the brandy were her medications, and a sip once in a while— nightly—was calming. God did not chastise her for drinking wine. She didn’t even have to think about that; she had justified their purposes. After all, she further reasoned, He turned water into good wine. This was his first miracle, and, being His first miracle, of not only wine but very good wine, she decided to get another bottle from the cellar and find the best one tucked in there, somewhere…
Cat got up right then, went down into the storm cellar, where her collection was stored. “Here’s one—a beautiful dark red Cab,” and up the stairs she went carrying the bottle of Cabernet.
She uncorked it and poured another glass, then another. “Well, hello, my old friends,” she spoke to “Loneliness” and “Isolation”. There was no reply, as was always the case. Cat sat heavily on the couch. She looked around the room as if one of them should answer her questions. She was at the point of demanding the spirits to respond. She threw a book across the room and yelled, “Talk to me, now! You must make choices.”
She thought she heard them say within her mind. “Choices?”
“Are there other paths that I’ve got?—Where are you?—Come out,” she asked. Cat would have to make her own choices. Her only options were to choose life or death. “To live, I would just go on existing—getting drunk every night, and living alone with dead people and spirits.”
Could she raise her own bar of just barely living, moment to moment, without ever experiencing any sense of her own victory? Or should she just surrender and die—give into dying and wave her white flag—call it quits. She began to believe this was the real option. But, of course, she wavered. She knew she was good at that…these days. And she knew, in her heart, that suicide was not the answer. Suicide would be saying that she had a total lack of faith—forever. It would be admitting failure. It would be selfish, and it couldn’t include her God. No, she could not do this act. She would live in misery before ever dying that way.
At this moment, she chose to breathe—one little miserable breath at a time. She would endure whatever pain “Isolation” or “Loneliness” gave her, though she desired so much more. She didn’t know what to ask God or the universe any longer; she only knew there was, hopefully, something out there for her. There just had to be something more. “Life has a better plan and I’m not living it,” she told herself. She resolved to learn whatever the lesson at this point was; and she would be the best student.
So, the first and only solution, after having decided life as her option, was to ask again. She must ask God, ask the universe; and this, too, wasn’t just a first step, but her only step. So she asked, though she really didn’t ask as much as she told herself what she already knew down deep—and lost, like a needle in a haystack. “God, this is not my first time to ask; however, now, it is more of a necessary demand—my last request before my death. I am at the bottom of my soul, the end of my rope. I no longer want to, or am even able to ask or say please. My request is far beyond the formalities of polite company between you and me, God. I feel like a platoon sergeant commanding ammunition for a final battle. There isn’t time for platitudes and meaningless clichés.’ I know what is needed for survival.”
She went outside before the morning sunrays crested on the eastern mountains. The sky was grey and dark. She turned to face north. She raised her left arm and her fingers pointed due north, and pointed her right hand toward her home on earth. “God of the Universe, oh, Great Creator, I request a new beginning, and wisdom.” Then, she turned her body to the east as she said, “God of the Universe, give me clarity.”
The morning light turned pink, forming a soft mandala. When she opened her eyes, she knew she was being heard. Her right arm was still pointed to the western part of the manor and down toward mother earth.
She then moved to the south end of the house and raised her left arm to the south, her right arm pointed, again, down to her home on earth, and she said, “God of The Universe, restore my inner child, give me joy again. Forgive me, please.”
Cat moved to the west, and raised her left arm to the west, with her right arm pointed to her home on earth, and requested, “God of The Universe, give me new plans, new insight, a new direction.” And because Cat was a polite person—beyond what she had just said earlier about no please and thank you’s —she had to say, “Thank you for restoring me,” again and again.
It was fall and Thanksgiving was only a few days away.
Home is Where the Heart Is
The few days before Thanksgiving, 1998, the people of Glory Town excitedly await the holiday. Like all towns across America, everyone shopped, scurrying to get what all the mothers needed for their big family feasts. Glory Town’s grocery store was overflowing with turkeys that had been delivered early in the week from a neighboring village. People were grabbing them up, along with all the last minute items for the important holiday meal.
Catherine Dubois shopped early in the morning before the rush, but the market was as busy as it could be. She bought one smoked turkey, bread crumbs for dressing, celery, yams, fresh green beans, Brussels sprouts, French bread in a rolled pre-baked package, five bottles of Cabernet, one bottle of sparkling white wine, gourmet French butter, olive oil, parsley, allspice, cinnamon and nutmeg. Though, company wasn’t coming, and once again, she would be eating alone, she did not skimp on anything. In the back of her mind, her mother, father and their friends from the past would be visiting. They would attend, and her mother would be in the kitchen helping her; and her father, as he usually did during all wintry holidays, would start a fire in the chimney and keep the fire stoked and blazing. Cat also bought several boxed of amber, twinkling fairy lights. Yes, she would give herself something to do while she celebrated alone.
In the door, the townsfolk were so busy rushing to get everything on their lists that no one noticed Cat. No one said, “Happy Thanksgiving, or How are you?” There were no invitations to join anyone else during their holiday feasts. So, she passed down each aisle, carefully examining the items she needed. Picking up spices, reading their labels, putting them down, and slowly, methodically, moving down each row, she almost cried. But, she held the emotions in check by taking deep breaths every time she teared up. She remembered shopping with her mother; and she remembered when life was filled with the warm, loving voices of not only her parents, but all the maids.
Cat thought about Beulah—she was the colored woman who was their main cook, who also taught her mother American-style recipes—and Hattie, who tended the garden and took care of the chickens. Sadly, Cat also thought about the fact that both women, too, had “passed forward”, as she referred to death. Cat almost started to cry again, thinking about them.
Oddly, as she left the store to go home, a beautiful young woman of color approached her. “Hello,” she said in the sweetest soothing voice. “My name is Grace. We’ve never met except once. I’m Beulah’s daughter.” There was a pause. Cat responded joyfully, “Yes. I loved your mother. I’m so sorry she passed. She meant so much to me, and I’m sure it’s no coincidence that I was just thinking about her while I was shopping.”
Cat looked at Grace again as if she did know her. “Yes. I remember you. You picked me up and took me to Mrs. Davis’ that day, when I went to her bedside, before she passed forward.”
“Yes, that was me,” Grace smiled. “Thank you for saying that about my mother.”
“Strange isn’t it?”, Cat said curiously. As their polite conversation continued, Cat added that she was she was quite lonely without her parents and the women who were much a part of their family, and that she was so appreciative that Grace had stopped to visit. Grace seemed like a piece of home standing before her, and yet they were light years apart in the
way they lived. Truthfully, just a brief visit wasn’t what Cat was hoping for in that moment. What she really wanted was to be included in a warm gathering of lovely friends, or family, with laughter and wine and smiles, making Thanksgiving memories again, but Cat remembered that a white person going to a colored’s home was unheard of in Glory Town.
It seemed so one-sided that colored people were always in white homes, and that the rule about the places being reversed was just bigoted. Cat would go to Grace’s in a heartbeat, and she wouldn’t hesitate if Grace were to ask. So, Cat said, “While I was shopping, I wondered what Beulah would buy to make for the holiday meal. She was a wonderful influence in my life. Thank you for sharing her with me.”
Grace said, “Thank you. You have a wonderful holiday.”
For a moment Grace did think about asking Ms. Dubois to join her family for Thanksgiving dinner. She wondered if she was going to be alone during the holiday, but like Cat, she also thought of different defeatist reasons not to—“What will my husband say with a white woman coming to dinner? It wouldn’t feel comfortable. And, furthermore, Ms. Dubois would never come. White folks wouldn’t be seen in colored people’s homes.”
So, Grace turned and said, “Well, I’ll being seeing you. Stay warm; the weather report says there’s going to be a bad storm tonight. Happy Thanksgiving!”
Grace smiled, then turned to go into the store. Her husband had been sitting in the car and watched the exchange.
Cat turned and said, “Oh wait! I have a present for you and your husband.” She reached in the grocery bag and brought out a bottle of Cabernet. “It’s not wrapped, but please, accept this as a Thanksgiving Day gift.”
