John was my only hope. If I could convince him that I didn’t want the black students at my plantation, maybe the Klan would ease up on me. I felt guilty lying to him, but if it saved my life as well as the lives of others who might be present at the plantation from any form of retribution, it was worth the try, so I placed the call.
“Hi, John. This is Frances, how are you?” I started out, congenially enough.
“Hi, Frances. Just fine, thanks. How are you?” he replied.
As if he didn’t know.
“John, I have a real problem here,” I began. “The black kids want to have their prom at the Myrtles. What can I do?”
Of course, they had every right to their prom at the Myrtles, and I was going to be sure that they got it.
“Well that depends,” he replied. “Did they sign a contract?”
“Well, yes, but as my lawyer, I was hoping you could do something to get me out of it,” I hedged, hoping that he would be obligated to advise me of the law.
“Did they put down a deposit?”
“Yes, I’m afraid they did. I just didn’t know what to do when they came over,” I replied.
“Well, if you cancel now, those damn niggers will sue you, and they’ll end up owning the place. I hate to tell you this, but you have to let them have their prom there.”
“Oh, no, John, isn’t there anything at all you can do?” Boy, I was getting good at this!
“No, I’m afraid not. They’ve got lawyers, and they think they have rights. They would sue you for everything you own. You can’t let that happen.”
“No, I guess I can’t. Darn.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help,” John offered.
“Yeah, me too, John. But thanks anyway.”
“Miraculously,” all the threatening calls stopped shortly after I made the call to John. Although I was still more than a little apprehensive that some of the Klan members might show up the night of the event, they didn’t, and the prom went off without a hitch.
CHAPTER 45
Not too long after the prom, I found myself all alone for the night. It was unusual that we didn’t have any overnight guests, and Charles had come out of his apartment long enough to take Joanie to a movie in Baton Rouge, so I knew they wouldn’t get back until very late.
My first inclination was to just leave the house empty and go to Betty Jo’s, but I was afraid someone might call and need a room. When you are running a business you can’t just leave. So, as I had several times before, I called everyone on my list of acquaintances and regular guests and offered them a free room at the Myrtles for the night. Usually by the second or third call someone would jump on the offer of a free room, but on this rare occasion I had no takers. I even offered to pay people to come stay with me! But everyone was tied up. Surely I could survive a night alone in my own home.
As a child my slumber had been protected by a menagerie of stuffed animals that surrounded me so tightly in my bed that there was barely room for me. I felt they somehow protected me from unseen intruders or goblins hidden in the closet.
“Do you promise I won’t die tonight?” I used to ask my daddy every night before I went to bed.
“Yes, I promise,” he always answered, patting me on the shoulder for extra reassurance. At his words, I was always able to go to bed unafraid that I wouldn’t wake up.
Later, my husband became my protector, his warm body next to me in the bed where I could curl up next to him for protection. Where was he now?
At least I had my puppy dog, Grinch. I got Grinch, a tricolored cocker spaniel, not long after my baby Caesar died. We bonded right away, and like Caesar, Grinch became my shadow, following me everywhere. He was also my protector. If anything happened, or anyone evil approached, I reasoned, Grinch would bark and scare them off, or at the least wake me up.
I locked Grinch and myself in our little quarters and tried to forget that we were all alone. I placed the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, poured myself a sherry (to relax), and kept the television on low for company. Finally, I drifted off.
I was yanked out of my sleep by footsteps, heavy footsteps, coming up the back walk. The sounds became louder as they resounded on the wooden planks of the back verandah. It sounded like men, several of them. They started banging on the double doors, and then on the door to my quarters. “Let me in,” I heard one of them shout.
I lunged under the bed, my heart pounding so hard I felt like it would burst out of my chest. As their pounding continued, the back doors suddenly gave way, crashing to the inner walls. The men were inside the house!
“I’m dead,” I thought. “They will come in here and find me.”
I tried to lie perfectly still, trying to suppress even my breath. I was sure they could hear my heart beat, even from the other room. I thought about running out the back door to my car, but what if they had someone posted outside?
Slowly extending my arm out from under the bed, I reached up and fumbled for the phone. Frantically I dialed the number of the police department, suddenly stopping before I pushed the very last digit.
What if it wasn’t an intruder? What if it was ghosts? I couldn’t call the police every time I heard a noise. I would be the laughingstock of the town. I quickly hung up the phone.
Yet this was way more than just a creak. There were footsteps and voices. If this were real intruders, they could hurt me, but if it was ghosts . . .
The ghosts had injured Arland Dease, leaving a scar on his forehead. Would they try to hurt me, too?
It could just as well be real, live men. What if it was the Klan members, making good on their threats!?
I held the phone firmly with new resolve and redialed the number to the police station. Again, I paused before I reached the last digit.
What good would calling the police do anyway? I had heard rumors that several of the policemen were afraid of the ghosts. I was really freaking out now.
I lay very still, listening. I could hear “them” walking through the house, going from room to room. Maybe they had seen Charles and Joanie drive off and they thought no one was home. Maybe they were just going to rob the place and leave. That was fine with me, as long as they didn’t come into my area.
Just then, the doorknob to my room started jiggling and shaking. I inched as far as I could under the bed and started to pray. Grinch was perched next to the bed where I lay hidden, his tail wagging. Some help he was. I was sure he would give me away. The entire door leading to my bedroom was rattling now, and it looked like it was going to break open at any moment.
I didn’t know which frightened me more: the thought that it was real live intruders inside my house or real live ghosts. I decided that ghosts would be the lesser of the two evils. If this was robbers it was a sure thing they would hurt me.
I was dizzy from the impending terror. “Please be a ghost,” I prayed over and over. “Please . . . be a ghost.” I continued reciting this mantra until I must have passed out from exhaustion . . . or pure fright.
CHAPTER 46
The sound of Joanie’s voice giving a tour in the French bedroom next to mine must have woken me up. I looked at the clock—it was nearly 10:00 a.m.! I got dressed and walked through the house. Nothing was missing. I even inspected the back verandah for telltale footprints, but there weren’t any. I waited for Joanie to finish the tour, then asked her how the movie was.
“It was good,” she replied.
“So, when you guys got back last night did you notice anything unusual around here?” I asked, trying to sound as casual as I could sound under the circumstances.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like the double doors. Were they open?”
“We went straight to bed so we didn’t come up into the house.”
“What about this morning when you came in? Were the doors open or closed?”
“Closed.”
“How ’bout inside. Was anything out of place?”
“I was going to tell you about
that,” Joanie replied.
“What?” My heart skipped a beat.
“The grandfather clock.”
“What about it?”
“It fell over.”
“Fell over?”
“Yeah. It was lying on the floor. Charles helped me set it back up.”
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It was like that when I came in.”
“Was anything else out of place?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, I heard some noises, that’s all. It must have just been the clock.”
I downplayed what I had heard so I wouldn’t scare Joanie. In happier times, I would have shared my experience with Charles, but he had refused to listen to or discuss any of the ghost encounters for quite some time now. Without Charles or Jim or Hamp to talk to, I felt desolate and dejected. I was sinking into a deep depression. Thank God there were a few people in Baton Rouge whom I could trust to talk to about my supernatural crisis.
I don’t know how I would have survived those months after Hamp died and Jim left without my closest girlfriends. Southern women form deep bonds and truly look out for one another. In the middle of my dilemma, I was delighted when Fran and Ozelle arrived one day out of the blue, bringing along their friend Iris. A stunning beauty with black hair, striking violet eyes, and a warm smile, Iris had also been a good friend of Hamp’s, and was a well-known psychic; her face once graced the cover of Baton Rouge magazine. Hampton used to tell me about her, and he had always told me how much he wanted to introduce us. He said he just knew we would love each other.
As I had sunk deeper into melancholy, I had begun to let myself go. I wasn’t dressing up every day—as a matter of fact, on some days I didn’t even come out of my room. Once happy to greet each and every overnight guest, I told the staff that if anyone asked to tell them the Myrtles’ owners were out of town, and if they happened to spot me, in whatever state, to say I was a quirky overnight guest.
When my friends arrived unannounced, I was obviously in no shape to entertain visitors or meet someone new, so Fran and Ozelle showed Iris around while I freshened up and made myself presentable.
I was in my private bathroom, sitting on the toilet stark naked, about to take a bath, when a deep baritone voice bellowed out; “See, I told you I would watch over you!”
It was unquestionably Hamp’s voice! I jumped up, instinctively covering my bare breasts with my arms. Could he see me? I grabbed for the nearest towel and threw it over myself.
“Hamp?”
There he was again with that bellowing laugh of his that I loved so much.
“Hamp! Hamp . . . talk to me.”
No answer.
“Hamp! Come back! I miss you terribly! I love you!”
But he didn’t reply again. I was overwhelmed that he was here, even if his timing had been rather indiscreet. He was watching out for me! He must have been referring to Iris. He had sent Iris!
As I soon learned, Iris was reeling from a nasty divorce of her own. We felt an instant kinship, and after I got to know her that one day, she stayed on with me at the Myrtles for several months. It was really good for both of us to have each other during that traumatic time in both of our lives. I’m sure Hamp arranged it!
I started getting up early every day again, happy to have something to look forward to. I’m sure my appearance, both my demeanor and my dress, reflected this change. Joanie and Charles were not happy for me, however, and the more I got myself together, the more they seemed to rally against me. I felt ganged up upon, and at times both of them made rude remarks directed at me. Neither one of them had really been themselves for quite some time. I missed the old days with Charles. We had been so close once.
Iris’s energy and moving spirituality pulled me through this difficult period, but eventually Iris, too, returned to her own home and her own life in Baton Rouge, and I was alone once again. As the holidays approached, once a time of anticipation and joy, I started sinking back into depression, and I honestly didn’t know if I could endure another month alone at the Myrtles. I called Betty Jo and put the place on the market. I prayed that it would sell quickly. I had had enough.
CHAPTER 47
It was Christmas Eve again, my favorite time of year, and yet this year I did not feel festive. I was all alone, feeling quite sorry for myself. Both Joanie and Charles had gone to their parents’ homes for the holidays. I gave the entire staff (what was left of them) both Christmas Eve and Christmas day off with pay. There had been only one tour all day, and the house would be closed for tours, though not overnight guests, on Christmas day. The house felt empty, and so did I. Since there hadn’t been a tour in hours, I closed the house early. One couple checked in and then left to go meet relatives. It seemed as if everyone had someone but me.
I was locking the tavern when the phone rang. I picked it up inside the tavern. It was Ozelle.
“Fran and I aren’t doing anything special tonight, and we know you are alone, so we were wondering if we could drive up and join you,” she asked. “We’d love to spend Christmas night with you, if that’s okay with you.”
This was wonderful. I wouldn’t have to be alone for Christmas after all. My dear friends came to visit! They arrived before dark and brought all the fixings for a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner. Around 8:00 p.m. the phone rang again. This time it was Bill Caldwell, my violinist friend who played John James Audubon in the annual Pilgrimage. We had gotten together on several occasions to play violin duets, and Charles had accompanied on the piano.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“I have a few friends over,” I replied.
“Great. I thought I might bring a few friends over, too, along with my violin! Do you want to play some Christmas music?”
Local artist Merle Butler called shortly after I hung up with Bill. He wanted to know if he could come by with a few friends.
Things couldn’t have worked out better that Christmas Eve. Now we had people, merriment, and entertainment! Bill and I played Christmas carols on our violins while Fran accompanied us on the piano and everyone else joined in singing. What started out as my worst Christmas ever had turned into one of my most memorable.
The party broke up around midnight. Fran and Ozelle headed up for the Confederate soldier’s room.
“Hey,” Fran shouted back. “There’s no sense in you going to bed all alone on Christmas Eve. Why don’t you come up with us?”
“Great idea, let me get my things.”
We all piled into the double-size tester bed. We were all feeling a bit giddy, like schoolgirls.
“I know,” said Fran. An artist and poet, Frannie always came up with the most spontaneous ideas. “Let’s all tell a story about one of our favorite Christmases. You start, Ozelle.”
One by one we took turns telling a Christmas story, and then reciting our favorite poem, ’til one by one we dropped off to sleep. Just as I was dozing off, I heard hammering and sawing, and intermittently, a man humming. I was too groggy to bother waking the others.
Just before dawn I felt a light pressure on my shoulder, which stirred me out of my sleep.
“Merry Christmas, darlin’.”
“Merry Christmas, Hamp,” I muttered, smiling, before I dozed back to sleep.
“Did y’all hear what I heard?” Fran asked in the morning. “Someone was sawing and hammering.”
“I heard it, too!” I exclaimed, delighted that Fran had also heard it.
“Well, while y’all slept, I sat up and watched him!” Ozelle chimed in. “He was making a box. Then he wrapped it with a big silk bow. It was a Christmas gift.”
We were very excited that we had all experienced this together. My heart was bursting recalling Hamp’s special Christmas greeting. Fran and Ozelle helped me prepare breakfast, and we joined the overnight guests in the formal dining room for a Christmas brunch. It was a glorious Christmas after all. My friends, and even the spirits, all had a part in it.
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CHAPTER 48
I had made it through the holidays without Jim. It was hard not to ask him to come back. We had talked several times in the months since he left, but we both felt we needed ample time to reach any kind of permanent decision about our marriage. But I felt for the first time that there was hope that we would get back together.
I also felt a renewed interest in the Myrtles, and for the first time since Jim left I knew I wanted to stay. This was where I needed to be. I called Betty Jo, and in spite of several interested buyers, I took the house off the market.
I was determined to make the Myrtles work, in spite of seeming opposition, both personal and professional. The Historical Society had convinced the Delta Queen people to tour a small town home owned by one of its officers rather than the Myrtles, so I needed to find a way to bring in additional revenue. I also needed something in my life, a project, anything that would get me through the cold lonely winter and keep my mind off Jim.
I remembered the joy and excitement I felt as a little girl when my family assembled at my maternal grandparents’ big, spooky mansion, and my cousins, sisters, and I would put on theatrical productions to entertain the adults. We would make up an elaborate script, each of us building on the others’ ideas, donning whatever clothing we could resurrect from our grandparents’ closet to be used as costumes. Later, in high school, I participated in the drama club and the school plays, and each summer I attended the Summer Conservatory of Theater. Although the director usually required me to perform as concert mistress, relegating me to the orchestra pit when I longed to be where the action took place, I participated in all the production workshops and helped out with the costuming and set design.
The Myrtles Plantation Page 19
