The Myrtles Plantation

by Ghostly Enconter

  After Hamp’s death, Jim and I became even more estranged. We hardly ever talked, especially about anything important. It seemed that he was drinking more, or maybe I was just noticing more. He frequently stayed out late with the guests, while I went to bed early. One night, he didn’t come to bed at all.

  “Where were you?” I asked, when he finally came in the next morning.

  “I fell asleep in the laundry room,” he claimed.

  How stupid did he think I was? Yet with all my being, I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. I think one of the worst feelings of all, however, is the feeling that you are being played for the fool, when you think maybe you are being lied to, but you just don’t know for sure. It can drive you crazy. And it wasn’t the first time that he gave me reason to doubt him. I had not forgotten the incident with Carolyn.

  “You expect me to believe that you fell asleep in the laundry room?” I asked. “What were you doing in the laundry room in the first place?”

  “I spilled wine on my pants so I went to throw them in the washing machine before they got stained and ruined.”

  The crazy thing was that his story sounded like it could possibly be true, just like the time with Carolyn, and I chose to believe him then. Had I been a fool? This time I desperately needed to know for sure. Anything was better than the torment of not knowing, or so I thought at the time. Distraught, I decided to play a dangerous game to try to force the truth out of him.

  “Jim, I already know the truth. I know you were with Sandy,” I lied. Sandy was a friend of one of my hostesses, and she had recently separated from her husband. She had been out in the tavern with him when I went to bed.

  “If you just tell me, it will be a lot better than if you continue to lie to me,” I claimed. I think I truly believed that when I said it.

  But Jim continued to proclaim his innocence.

  I nagged him about it all morning, each time telling him he was just compounding his crime by lying about it, and that I would think more of him if he just came clean. Finally, he did admit it: He had slept with Sandy. In spite of my suspicions, you never really know for sure. I was devastated by his admission and I had been praying that he hadn’t slept with her. Losing control, I picked up the nearest chair and smashed it through the bedroom window before breaking down, sobbing uncontrollably. Jim tried to put his arms around me to console me, but I broke away and ran outside, still sobbing.

  Jim and I were having a dinner party that evening. In the inn business, you learn quickly how to hide your emotions, because any time you step outside the confines of your own private quarters you are apt to meet a guest, and it’s very important to be professional at all times.

  I knew it was too late to cancel the dinner party, as most of the guests were driving up from Baton Rouge. I was grateful that the grocery shopping had already been done. Luckily, cooking for me is therapeutic, and although I felt dejected, the untimely commitment forced me to take my mind off Jim’s betrayal, if only for a few hours.

  The guests started arriving around five. I asked them all to wait out in the tavern, including Jim, without explaining why. The dinner had been ready for hours, but I desperately needed to be alone still. I closed up the house so no one would disturb me, and sat in the gentlemen’s parlor. I just needed some time to think.

  Although I had had my suspicions about Jim in recent months, I had never actually caught him red-handed before, so I had never been forced to take any action. Even the time he stayed out all night and resurfaced at Carolyn’s, I chose to believe his excuse, as lame as it seemed now. After all, believing him was a lot easier than the sinking feelings in my heart when I suspected the worst. Sometimes you have to have faith to go on, even if it’s blind.

  I no longer had that privilege of faith. I knew the truth. Jim had been unfaithful. So the question was, what was I going to do about it? Was I going to behave like a good Southern wife and turn my head while my husband dallied? I didn’t think I could do that, especially when the betrayal was so fresh. It would just eat me up inside.

  Then again, I was afraid that as hard as I tried not to, I might hold it against him. I was very hurt. Would I be able to keep my mouth shut without making snide, cutting remarks or trying to wound him back? I loved him so much, but did I love him enough to push my feelings aside? Would that even be healthy? Our marriage was becoming rocky as it was, without my anger, loss of trust, and sense of loss.

  I had watched Jim flounder in the past few months. I knew he had been wrestling with his own demons. Was he really still happy at the Myrtles, with me? Since we seldom spoke, I didn’t know the answers to those questions. Did he?

  The only thing I could think of to do to salvage any part of our relationship was for us to take some time apart, to find out what we both really wanted deep down. Yes, I wanted Jim, desperately, but at what price?

  The question was just as much whether Jim wanted to continue in this relationship as it was about what I wanted.

  I felt a strange sense of peace once I had made up my mind, which I found odd, because the last thing on earth I wanted was for Jim to leave. I knew I had to talk to Jim right away, before I lost my nerve and changed my mind. I went out to the tavern, where our guests were assembled, enjoying their drinks, and asked Jim to join me privately inside.

  We walked silently into the gentlemen’s parlor, where I told him what I was feeling, the inner torment.

  “I truly don’t know what got into me,” he confessed, his head down. It was apparent he was full of remorse. “Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the situation. Or maybe it was the house,” he said, looking up at me. “I just don’t know.”

  Ordinarily I would have objected to his inferring that it might be the house. But I had seen the Myrtles swallow up people, step up their neuroses, and fill intelligent individuals with fear and insecurity when they were unable to cope with what they had seen and heard at the Myrtles. Maybe I was the crazy one, but this excuse actually made some sense!

  Jim and I really talked for the first time in a long time, and we both agreed that a separation would be the best thing for him, for us, and for our marriage. Alone, we could each decide what we really wanted and how committed we were to the marriage. Jim thought he could do that much more clearly away from the Myrtles, and I’m sure he was right. Our experiences and stress at the Myrtles had changed him, and I yearned to have my old Jim back.

  Once we made the decision that he would leave, I didn’t want to wait. It was too hard to have him there, to be so torn, wanting to be with him, but feeling so betrayed. We decided it would be best not to put it off, and that he would leave the very next day.

  Once we had talked things out and made our private decision, we turned our attention to our dinner party and invited the guests in. The show must go on, after all. Since Hamp’s death, we always set a place for him at the table and offered a toast in his honor. Neither Jim nor I offered any explanation for our prior absence, or displayed even a hint that our lives were in turmoil. I don’t think any of them suspected the depth of emotion and grief that Jim and I were experiencing, and they had a good time. It was all quite civilized.

  The next morning Jim and I were both fighting back the tears as I helped him pack his bags. The silence in the car was deafening as we drove to the Baton Rouge airport where Jim would catch a plane back to San Jose. He didn’t want a public goodbye, so we stood beside the car, holding each other tightly for a long time, tears streaming down our cheeks, until he had to run to catch his flight.

  “We just need some time apart to find out what we want,” I comforted him. The truth was, I had no idea if I would ever see him again.

  On the lonely drive back to the Myrtles, clutching the steering wheel hard, staring straight ahead, I felt too numb to cry.

  CHAPTER 44

  Life was tough for me without Jim, especially during those times when I second-guessed myself and wondered if I had done the right thing. But you know what they say: “If you love
something, turn it loose. If it returns, it’s yours, if not, well . . .” I needed Jim to be sure that he wanted to be with me and would commit completely to our marriage. I missed him terribly, and I longed to have him with me; my body ached for his touch, but not under any circumstances.

  It wasn’t as if I were alone: Joanie and Charles were there, too, I had lots of friends, and there were tourists and guests around almost all the time. Yet even with all those people around, I missed Jim terribly and felt lonelier than ever.

  I had watched as the Myrtles slowly got its hooks into Charles, and I had mourned our friendship. The house does that to people. It exacerbates and exaggerates any dysfunction a person may have. Like Jim, Charles drank more and more, and I frequently noticed entire bottles of scotch missing. He stayed to himself these days and rarely entertained the guests anymore out in the tavern pounding out ragtime on the piano. He used to love that. I also learned that when I wasn’t around Charles passed himself off as the owner of the Myrtles. Other people had done that, too—employees or friends watching the house while I was out of town. I have no idea what possessed them to do it.

  I began to really grow close to Joanie. She had become such a big help, both emotionally and with the guests. “Hey, mister,” she used to call me, short for a combination of “mother” and “sister.” She was my family here at the Myrtles, along with Charles and Jim.

  The ghosts didn’t seem to hurt our business, and we were booking more and more weddings, along with family reunions, club formals, and even proms. When the St. Francisville High School black prom committee came to meet with me, I was pleased. The white teenagers had held their prom at the Myrtles the year before, and the black students wanted their prom at the Myrtles, too. I gave them a copy of the contract to review and told them that when they were ready to book they should bring the contract back with a deposit.

  Barely a day had passed since I met with the prom committee when the phone rang. The hostess was busy giving a tour, so I picked it up.

  “The Myrtles Plantation.”

  “Nigger lover,” a muffled male voice shouted. I quickly hung up the phone. Right away, it rang again. I didn’t want to answer, but on the off chance it was a customer I needed to pick it up.

  “You are dead,” the voice threatened before slamming the phone in my ear.

  I had no idea who would be making such a threat, but I suspected it was about the black prom. In St. Francisville, as in any small town, gossip spreads like wildfire. Not wanting to alarm my staff, I decided that I needed to be the one to answer the telephones for a day or two. That evening another call came in.

  “We are going to burn that place down,” a voice raged. Although the first voice had been disguised, this voice sounded as if it was a different person. Seriously frightened, I confided in Charles about the unsettling calls.

  “What did you expect?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There has never been a black prom at a plantation. There should never be one.”

  I couldn’t believe that the Charles I knew and loved was saying this. I had believed him to be an enlightened and spiritual person; he was a vegetarian, after all, and a Northerner at that.

  “Charles, those kids have just as much right to have their prom here as anybody else.”

  “If you allow the blacks to have their prom at the Myrtles, I will still work here, but I will not support you, and I will not work on prom night!”

  I was shocked at Charles’s reaction. I thought I knew him so well. It just had never occurred to me that a prom at the Myrtles would become the focus of so much hatred.

  The next day there were many more calls. Some of the callers used foul language, and they all threatened to kill me, disfigure me, or burn down the Myrtles. The Ku Klux Klan was alive and well in St. Francisville. In the late sixties they had staged a demonstration at the courthouse, dressed in full regalia, hiding behind their long white robes and hoods. All this went on right across the street from Grace Episcopal Church. Ruth Reed’s father was the Episcopal priest, Reverend Kline. Although the men were almost indistinguishable in their KKK attire, from the balcony of his rectory the reverend called each member by name and thoroughly reprimanded him.

  “John Smith, I know that’s you. Stop this foolishness right now,” he shouted above the ruckus. The Klan members absconded as each one’s identity was revealed.

  I thought about calling the police, especially about the death threats, but I wasn’t sure if anyone in the police department was in the Klan. After all, the head of the Alcoholic Beverages Commission had come right out and told me not to serve liquor to blacks. It hadn’t been that long ago, in 1980, when the Holiday Inn in St. Francisville first allowed Afro-Americans to swim in the swimming pool! In California a business would lose its license if it refused service or rights to any group of people, so it was hard to comprehend that this sort of blatant discrimination was publicly avowed. The local KKK burned a huge cross on the lawn of the Holiday Inn, so everyone driving by could see. I had no idea what they might do to me. I became afraid to leave the plantation grounds to go to the post office or grocery store.

  Canceling the prom was not a consideration. In college, I had become great friends with a black trombone player named Paul Smith. We lived in neighboring dorms and had nearly every class together, which is virtually unheard of at a university with over twenty-five thousand students. Naturally, we started hanging out together, first in the music department at orchestra rehearsals, and in the cafeteria, and before long we were going to concerts and movies together. When the dorms shut down for Christmas break I went with my family to Los Angeles to visit my dad’s mother. Paul went home to Pasadena, a neighboring city. At that age, I thought that hanging around at my grandmother’s apartment was pretty boring, so I asked my parents if I could go to the movies with Paul. When he came to pick me up my grandmother stormed out of the room. When Paul extended his arm to shake hands with my stepgrandfather, my stepgrandfather turned and walked away. My parents had always welcomed Paul, so I had no idea that my father’s mother and stepfather were prejudice.

  On Christmas day, while my sisters opened one brightly wrapped present after another from my grandparents, there was one plain box under the tree for me. My grandmother gave me a single pair of plain white granny underpants that year. It was my first encounter with prejudice, made all the worse because I know Paul must have been hurt, too.

  The prom committee showed up to complete their plans, and although they did not yet have the signatures of their high school advisers who guaranteed the prom, or their deposit collected, the date was set, and the black prom would definitely be at the Myrtles. Immediately, the threats escalated. I decided I could not allow these bullies to make me a prisoner in my own home.

  We were out of grits, so someone had to run to the store. My heart was pounding as I parked in the lot of the Piggly Wiggly. Inside the Pig my eyes darted around each aisle, looking to be sure no one was waiting to do me harm. A white man I had never noticed in town before walked boldly toward me. I backed up just a step and then held my ground, waiting to see what he would do.

  “I heard what you are doing,” he gushed. I grabbed hold of my shopping basket, bracing myself.

  “I heard about the black prom, and I think it’s great that you are having it at the Myrtles,” he said.

  My body relaxed. I didn’t even know this person. Word travels fast in a small town. I was relieved to know that I had at least one supporter, especially since my own good friend and curator was shunning me.

  And then something wonderful started happening around town. A woman came up to me at the post office and expressed the same sentiments, and then another approached me as we pumped gas at the gas station. I realized that sentiments of the Klan members represented only a small, hateful group, and that St. Francisville was filled with caring, compassionate human beings with the same beliefs and commitments that I held.

  But from their past histor
y in St. Francisville, the threats of the Klan had to be taken seriously. There had to be a way to make them back off; to save my staff, myself, my plantation, and anyone else they might try to hurt. I was very worried.

  Finally I remembered the words of a very wise lady. Not long after I moved to Louisiana I met a woman who was the head of the League of Women Voters for the state. We formed a mutual admiration for each other, and she was my guest at the Myrtles on more than one occasion. She left me with two priceless gifts: the recipe for the barbeque shrimp at Pascal’s Manales (the best around) and a jewel of advice.

  She had been discussing the mentality of the Southern male and how they were still stuck in another century when it came to the way they thought of and treated women, in relationships or in business.

  “I have a little secret for you,” she told me. “The men down here don’t like strong, successful females. They want us all to be barefoot and pregnant—to stay at home during the day and have dinner prepared for them when they come home. What us Southern ladies have known for generations is that to get anywhere with men, we must practice what is called ‘waving our lace fans.’”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, sensing she was relaying a very important piece of information.

  “If they start walking all over you, it won’t help to protest, or stand up for yourself. You have to approach them from within the social constraints they have placed on women. Rather than fighting them, it’s much better to maintain your femininity, and let them continue to believe you are the weaker sex. Instead, wave your lace fan, and make them want to help you.”

  I never expected that one day her advice might save my life. I called my friend and attorney, Congressman John Rarrick. It was long rumored that the former congressman and judge who once ran for president (after George Wallace) on the Independent ticket was the grand wizard of the local Ku Klux Klan. When he ran for the United States Congress, his opponent aired a commercial that vividly implied that message by showing a clip of a Klansman and dubbing in Rarrick’s voice. Many Louisianans, upon seeing the commercial, believed Rarrick to be the grand wizard. Surprisingly, the commercial actually did more to get Rarrick elected than to discourage the vote.