by Tony Martin
“Let me go with you on this call,” Bethany said suddenly.
“That’s fine,” said Joshua, surprised. While Bethany had always been a great supporter of his ministry, she didn’t always get intimately involved in his work. She’d worked with preschoolers and children in their churches prior to St. Helena, and that suited her and him. “We’re just going to wait to hear from Christine and take it from there.”
After the worship service that evening, the Nixes had gone with two other couples for frozen yogurt. Afterwards, they had come home and turned in early. Joshua was always exhausted on Sunday evenings; while Sundays were theoretically a day of rest, it was his big, on stage, work day. He loved preaching, and had begun a message series through the book of Ephesians on Sunday evenings. He enjoyed taking a book of the Bible and picking through it. His congregation appreciated his teaching skills. No one had said a word about his sermon of that morning; Joshua imagined that most of them couldn’t even tell him what his topic was.
Joshua awoke and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:22. One detached part of his mind took physical inventory. He couldn’t imagine what he was doing awake at that hour. Nature hadn’t called, there weren’t any sounds inside or outside the house, and everything seemed perfectly peaceful.
He stirred in bed, trying to rearrange himself to get comfortable, when his hand touched a damp place on the bed. Groping, he felt more moisture. The sheets were soaked. It was too dark to see, but he reached over to touch Bethany. The shape he touched was wet and cold.
Joshua slid away to the edge of the bed and found the lamp. He turned it on and found himself staring right into Bethany’s face.
Bethany Nix was lying very still. Her face was cotton-white; her lips were shriveled and pulled back to reveal colorless gums. His eyes met hers. Her eyes were black, shiny orbs, like polished onyx. Her wet hair splayed across the pillow, and she smelled dank and soured.
“I’m so cold,” she said, and reached for Joshua. Her skin hung loosely from her arms and jiggled.
Joshua sat up in bed and drew a breath to cry out. As Bethany touched his leg, he did scream. At the same time, the bedside lamp went out, and for a moment, Joshua had an unreal floating sensation, as though the room were rotating around him.
Then it was over. Joshua found himself sitting up in bed in his darkened room, his knuckles pressed to his lips. The room was still, the bedclothes were in place, and he heard, as from a distance, Bethany’s voice:
“Josh? Josh? What’s going on? Are you all right?”
Joshua felt his breath catch in his throat and come out in a gasp. By an extraordinary act of the will, he turned on the bedside light. Bethany was sitting up in bed, clutching the covers around her neck, her eyes huge.
“God help me Jesus,” Joshua said. He felt like his body was reassembling itself. “I have just had the worst dream of my life.”
Bethany was so panic-stricken that she looked as though she’d shared the same dream. “Lord, Josh, you look awful.”
Joshua looked at his hands. They were trembling. His pulse throbbed in his temple. “Whew. Give me a minute for my heart rate to drop back to normal.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah. Man. That was nasty. Hoo.” He lowered himself back into bed. He stared at the ceiling.
Bethany propped herself up on one elbow. She studied his face intently. “I’m not convinced you’re OK,” she said.
“No, really, I’ll be fine. Man. Where did that come from?”
“What did you dream?”
Joshua pondered this a moment. “No, babe, I think I’ll have to wait till later to fill you in on this one,” he said finally. “It’ll be OK.”
“If you say so,” Bethany said, not convinced. “We’ll talk later if you need to.”
Joshua reached over and brushed her hair away from her cheek. The warmth of her skin comforted him. “I’m gonna turn the light off now,” he said quietly. “It’s way too early to get up.”
Bethany leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek. “Well…goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” Joshua turned off the light.
He lay very still, wide-awake, until daybreak.
At almost exactly the same time that Joshua Nix was recovering from his nightmare, Meredith Dubose woke from a blessedly sound sleep. A week earlier she had bought a night light for her bedroom, the first time in her life she’d ever felt she needed one.
Meredith had not been sleeping well for some time, so she was shocked and disappointed to wake up. When she had collected her senses, she froze in anticipation of what was coming.
Outside her bedroom door, in the hall, she heard a woman’s voice. The words came in whispers, fragments of sentences, unintelligible. They hovered at the edge of her hearing, but there was no question as to their reality. Meredith felt herself involuntarily drawing her knees up toward her stomach. She couldn’t make out the words, but she did identify the sorrow in the tone of whoever was speaking. Then, in tandem with the female voice, she heard a man’s voice - equally unclear, guttural and harsh.
The whispers continued for some few minutes. Meredith didn’t move. She lay as though paralyzed, hardly breathing. Finally, the man’s voice rose in volume and with an abrupt yelp fell silent.
Meredith’s room and the hallway were once again silent. She felt alone and yearned for her mother. And, in the age-old response to fear, she pulled the covers over her head and cried herself back to sleep.
Chapter Three - History and Encounter
Joshua had never seen what the locals invariably referred to as “the Dubose mansion.” In spite of the depravation that many old southern families and communities faced at the end of the Civil War, most towns boasted at least one grand edifice standing in mute testimony to the era that, in the classic words of Margaret Mitchell, was “gone with the wind.” Joshua, history buff though he was, didn’t subscribe to the idealistic “moonlight and magnolias” romance of the Old South, but he did know that there was an aristocratic planter society that had flourished in this part of the state when cotton was king. The Dubose family had been part of that aristocracy, and their ancestral home was a monument to those days.
Monday afternoon Joshua made some sort of vague excuse to Gretchen about going out to make some visits. She gave him a wry look; she had seen more than one pastor slip off to play golf or to drink coffee at the City Cafe. She knew that Joshua was falling right in line with that hallowed tradition of preachers making themselves scarce. “I’ve got my cell phone if anyone needs me,” he told her, and she waved him out of the office.
Joshua, consumed with curiosity, decided to go have a look at the Dubose mansion before making a formal call on Meredith. He left the church and circled the courthouse square. Highway 187 led northwest from town; St. Helena was the only town of any significance for twenty miles in any direction. 187 ultimately wound its way to Montgomery, but there were other, more direct ways to get to the capitol now. 187 had been a major market road, but now it was little more than a two-lane remnant of bygone days.
Less than a mile from downtown was the last of any kind of commercial activity. As the road dipped and curved, he saw traces of the true rural south. Acres and acres of cotton fields, peanut fields, and cornrows spread across the landscape. He saw cows, ruined silos, and shotgun shacks long since abandoned and dilapidated. He rode through the little crossroads community of Pleasant Hill, its quaint white Baptist church guarding the road, and its tree-shaded graveyard with generations of community residents in silent rest. As he passed the church, he saw that a covered pavilion was nestled close behind the building. He glimpsed long tables, chest high, in the pavilion and thought of the years of homecomings and reunions hosted there. He pictured the dishes of fried chicken and pork chops, every vegetable known to man served up in abundant piles; rows of artery-clogging casseroles; he imagined homemade biscuits and corn bread, and pecan and sweet potato pies being served in virtually limitless quantiti
es. He saw little girls in frilly dresses chasing each other giggling, and boys in their best blue jeans playing pickup basketball with the netless hoop over the parking lot. Men stood around smoking under the shade of the oaks, talking about crop prospects, Alabama and Auburn football, and speculating on local politics. Women chattered, gossiped, and made sure there was plenty of iced tea, sweet enough to put on pancakes. As Pleasant Hill disappeared in his rear view mirror, Joshua caught himself grinning broadly; these are my people, my roots, my clan, he thought, and God protect me from living anywhere other than the South.
Presently the fields disappeared and piney woods began encroaching in on the sides of the road. Joshua slowed, knowing that the Dubose house was close by. He rounded one more curve and saw a red-clay bluff on his right with a gravel drive cut right into it. Beside the drive was a historical marker placed by the state of Alabama. Joshua coasted to a stop to read the marker:
The Eleazar Dubose Home. Built 1824 by Eleazar Dubose, early settler of Pelham County. The home is a prime example of neoclassical antebellum architecture. Eleazar’s grandson, Jacob Dubose, was a captain in the 33rd Ala. Regiment, CSA. Traces of slave cabins are still visible.
“Well, how about that,” Joshua said aloud. He inched the car forward to get a glimpse down the drive cut through the bluff. On impulse, he turned off the highway and drove slowly down the lane.
Apparently, this drive had been in place ever since Dubose built this house. Joshua could imagine wagons laden with trade goods making their way down this drive from the old home, then making their way to town for sale. The depth of the lane through the bluff struck him; the walls were easily ten feet above the roof of his car. With the native pines crowded along the edge of the bluff, Joshua felt vaguely claustrophobic.
The sensation only lasted for a couple of hundred yards. The slope of the bluff fell off abruptly, and Joshua found himself in open farmland again. Apparently, Eleazar wanted his home to catch the casual visitor off guard, and in Joshua’s case, that was exactly what happened.
“Holy cow,” Joshua said, exhaling slowly. “Holy cow.”
Beyond a space of about a quarter mile of farmland, in the middle of an impeccably mowed and manicured lawn, stood the Dubose mansion. Joshua’s first thought was of Tara, then of every southern gothic story he’d ever heard, then of something beyond both those sentiments. Incredible, he thought. Then -- no, perfect.
If Joshua could have mentally pictured the stereotypical southern plantation home, he couldn’t have imagined anything more idealized than this. Oaks flanked the gravel lane on both sides as it approached the house. He had visited Oak Alley plantation along the Great River Road north of New Orleans, and while these oaks weren’t as massive and symmetrical as those were, the Dubose oaks were nothing to take for granted. The house itself glowed warmly in the afternoon sunlight. Four columns supported the portico in front, with a second-floor balcony perfectly positioned above the front door. A verandah hugged the first floor, encircling the house. A prim gazebo sat a few dozen yards from the east side of the house. The Dubose mansion seemed as elementally a part of the landscape as the trees themselves. Beyond the house, past another broad expanse of pastureland, were the pines and hardwoods of southeast Alabama.
Joshua absorbed the surreal perfection of the scene for several minutes. He could see ancient outbuildings, perhaps a stable and smokehouse, further back on the property. He noted the widow’s walk on the roof; certainly, a decorative touch, since the house was nowhere near a navigable waterway.
Presently he thought of Meredith Dubose, as far as he knew the sole owner of this estate, living here alone with the maid Bernadine. Joshua was suddenly swept with a sense of sadness, of loss; what a tragedy for a young lady to be saddled with the responsibilities of this place, with no immediate family, alone in the desolate woodlands of Pelham County. He pondered her situation for a few moments, idly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, before turning around in the drive and heading back toward town.
Joshua called Gretchen into his office Tuesday morning. She came and settled in one of the twin wingback chairs, steno pad in hand. She looked every bit the professional secretary.
“Got a few questions for you this morning, Gretchen,” said Joshua. “You won’t need to write anything down.”
Gretchen laid her pad down. “OK, Preacher,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Catch me up on the Dubose family. What do you know about them?”
Gretchen moistened her lips. “I know a pretty good bit. Of course, everyone in town does.”
“Can you enlighten me?” asked Joshua.
“Sure. I imagine you know that the family goes back almost two hundred years. Eleazar Dubose was the patriarch of the family. He came from West Alabama in the early 1800’s. He and his young wife. They were actually part of those political exiles banished from France who settled in Demopolis to get away from the Revolution.”
Joshua was intrigued. Gretchen – who knew everything about everybody – had a memory that went back further than he’d thought.
“There were a few settlers in this part of the country, but they were scattered all around. Dubose saw some potential here, I guess. Maybe he liked the name of the little community. St. Helena is named after the island of Napoleon’s last exile, after all. He had managed to bring part of what must’ve been a sizable family fortune from France over here. I don’t know who the original property owners were, but he was able to buy up the better part of Pelham County. It gave him plenty of timber, and in no time he’d built what folks say was the biggest sawmill in the state. Even though there wasn’t a lot of building going on here, he was sending lumber all over. Dubose lumber built a good part of what is now downtown Montgomery. He did well for himself, adding plenty to his fortune.
“Dubose had two sons, Christopher and Pierre. Christopher stayed here all his life, taking over the family business when his papa got too feeble. Pierre went to the University to read law, as they used to say, and he came back and settled in town. His home in town burned years ago. But he built a good practice for himself.
“Christopher never married. He was one of those lifelong bachelors who I think was kind of a mamma’s boy. Pierre married a girl from Marion – I don’t know how they met – and he brought her back here. She bore him two girls and a boy.
“Some of the old-timers in town remember their folks talking about the son, Jacob. He was a real rounder, apparently. He moved in the mansion in his late teens, and his granddaddy put him to work on the place. While Christopher tended the sawmill, Jacob cleared the land around the mansion for miles around and planted acres and acres of cotton. There’s no telling how many slaves they held. Jacob married a girl named Judith from town, but talk is that there were illegitimate Dubose kids sired by Jacob all over the county. He had parties out at the mansion that were legendary.”
“Are you making all this up?” asked Joshua. He felt as though Gretchen was recounting something from a paperback romance.
“I most certainly am not,” Gretchen said, without a trace of irony. “What’s fiction to other folks is a reality for us. Ask around – everyone in town knows this.
“Then the war came, and it was an honorable and noble thing for the local boys to enlist to fight for the Cause. Since Jacob came from a moneyed family and the other fellows thought well of him, he was elected captain of the local company mustered from the county.
“Jacob served his country well, and was active all during the war. He was wounded at Franklin – and by that time, the war was virtually over – and came on home. He walked with a limp the rest of his life. The old scoundrel lived to be in his 90’s. He was a real fixture in town. He had one of the first cars anyone had ever seen, and even had a chauffeur to drive him around in his big old black Ford.
“Jacob’s two sisters died young. One of them died of consumption, the other died in childbirth, and her husband died soon afterwards of malaria. So that left Jacob as the sole h
eir of the family fortune. Jacob and Judith were able to live very comfortably in the mansion in their twilight days. Word is, though, that Judith was miserable with her husband. No doubt, she knew of his philandering, but back then, you just stayed with your husband, no matter what.
“Judith had two children, a boy and a girl. Both of them – Jake and Margaret – were raised in the mansion and were given anything they wanted. It’s like Jacob was doing penance for being such a rascal. He thoroughly spoiled both of the children, giving them anything they wanted, the whole deal. Meantime, the sawmill continued to prosper, and there was still a lot of cotton being grown. This family just didn’t face the financial grief so many folks did around here after the war.”
Joshua marveled at Gretchen. To hear her talk, all this had just happened last week.
“There was a real tragedy, though. One Christmas, while Margaret was a teenager, there was a hard freeze. Back behind the mansion was a cow pond. It had frozen over, and Margaret decided to go walking across the ice. As best anyone could tell, she broke through the ice and drowned or froze to death. It was one of the biggest funerals the county had ever seen, folks say.
“Jake married and turned out to be the most prolific of all the Duboses. He had five kids – four girls and one boy. It was funny, because all the kids except the son – Jacob the third – ended up scattered all over the south. I don’t think Jake ever really got over the death of his sister. From all accounts, he was a distant, unloving parent. Jacob number three must’ve been the only one who could put up with him.”
“Well,” said Joshua, “this is all very interesting. But tell me about Joseph Dubose and his daughter Meredith.”
