by Autumn Sand
“Geez, no need to bite my head off.” She huffs.
Patience, I need patience. No, I need to know more about this mirror. “I’m sorry that I snapped. Can you please explain to me again about the mirror.”
“Umm, sure. Like I was saying. Willa and I were shopping in New Orleans a few weeks ago. Remember, my friend Jasmine had her bachelorette party there. I still say that guy that she’s marrying is a loser, but I guess you can’t help—”
“Dawn. Mirror. Please,” I snap.
“Oh yeah. Sorry. Well anyway, Willa needed to pick up some supplies for her practice. Remember, she’s a Yoruba Priestess. We went into an antique shop; I’m not sure why we ended up there, but Willa said she felt drawn to the store. When we went inside, she walked straight to the back of the shop and found the mirror. Almost as if the mirror spoke to her. It was creepy as hell, let me tell you.”
I look at the mirror again and step ten paces backward, away from it. “Go on.”
“‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is it.’ Of course, I had no clue what she meant by that, and she said this mirror was meant for you.”
I step back a few more paces, toward the door of my room. “Go on.”
“I wasn’t sure at first because the mirror didn’t look like your style, but then I thought about the new house, and I said it would be a perfect gift. That’s when the shopkeeper came over.”
“And said?” The air in the room feels dense and suffocating.
“He said that this was the first time since he had the mirror that it has chosen an owner.”
I feel the air leave my lungs as a force hits me like a lightning bolt, and I drop to the floor.
“Evan? Evan! Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
I hear Dawn’s frantic voice as I stare at my phone by my side.
Chapter 10
I pace back and forth in my living room floor, a tumbler of scotch in my hand. I’m long past taking sips; I’m now guzzling it. I lift the glass to my lips and taste air. Frowning at my glass, I stomp over to the workman bench and pour another.
“There is no such thing as a magic mirror. This is Dawn’s usual nonsense,” I mumble, as I glare at the ceiling. A shiver goes through me and the hairs stand up on the back of my head when I think back to the phone call with Dawn a few hours ago.
She was in quite a state when I came back to the line. I don’t remember what I told her to get her off the phone while I was running down the stairs, two at a time.
I try to recall all of Dawn’s superstitious beliefs that Rae and I used to put up with, knowing nothing would come out of it. I think of that time when she was trying to find the perfect soulmate and bathed in rose petaled water for one week, a concoction that Willa made up for her. The only thing Dawn ever ended up bringing home was some guitarist from a B-list band with a heroin problem.
Or that time when Dawn dressed in all white for a year because Willa told her that her aura needed cleansing.
I hold up one finger in the air when another memory hits. Dawn spent thousands of dollars on crystals, for her home and to wear. I forget what it was supposed to do, but whatever it was, it didn’t work. There was always some mumbo jumbo bullshit that Dawn and Willa were up to.
And now this! If they expect me to believe that this mirror holds some type of magical powers they are crazy.
C-R-A-Z-Y.
CRAZY.
Absolute, batshit, off the wall, looney tunes, a few sandwiches short of a picnic, crazy!
But yet here I am, afraid to go back into the room where the mirror sits.
Whose crazier, me or them?
I take another large gulp and cough, sputtering the liquid from my mouth and onto the floor and down the front of me. I wipe at my shirt absentmindedly.
“This is utterly ridiculous,” I declare out loud. I wipe my hand over my face and shake my head. “Evan, shake out of it. There is an reasonable explanation for everything.”
With shaky legs, I walk toward the staircase as I try to come up with those reasons.
“Umm, you have been tired here lately, and are just exhausted.” I take my first step into uncertainty.
“You’ve always had a vivid imagination. That’s why you’re a writer, for God’s sake.” I take another step and pause as I search my brain for something else.
“There’s no such thing as magic mirrors or whatever. That’s just nonsense.” My leg dangles in the air in trepidation, hesitating to make contact with the step. I will myself to place my foot down as beads of sweat form on my brow. I lift the hand with the tumbler in it and wipe them away with the side of my thumb.
Contact; my foot plants firmly on the step. I gaze at the ascending staircase that is leading me to, hopefully, my sanity.
“When you get to your room, you’ll have a laugh at how stupid you were being,” I say, with extra bravado that I am not feeling. I give a nervous chuckle as I place another foot down.
When I finally reach the top landing, I look down the steps and debate if I should run the hell out of this house and never look back. Sure, I’ll have to put up with James teasing me, for probably the rest of my life, but I can handle that.
I lower my head and exhale, and somehow this gives me the courage to carry on. I walk toward the room and stand at the door’s archway. The mirror sits, in all its gilded glory, and nothing more. I count to twenty, waiting to see if something—anything—will happen, but nothing.
To my shock, disappointment hits me.
Did I imagine it all? Was it really just my imagination? Why am I upset, and not happy, by this?
I walk into the room and stand in front of the object that I, not too long ago, ran away from. With a steady hand, I touch it and, nothing. No overwhelming feeling…just utter calm.
I throw my head back in laughter, again spilling more remnants of my drink. I set the glass on my desk, in search of a paper towel to wipe up the liquid from the wood floor.
In my makeshift kitchen area, I reach for a paper towel as my cell rings. I tap the green button and place the phone to my ear.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, calling to see if you’ve changed your mind and are coming back to New York yet?” James chuckles over the phone.
I smile and shake my head. “Not a chance in hell.”
He laughs uproariously as I walk back to my bedroom. “Well then, looks like I’ll have to come out to check on you.”
I convinced James he didn’t need to move down here with me, even though he insisted. His life is in New York, though; he isn’t the one who needed to get out, away from the memories. I kneel down and wipe up the scotch, then toss the soiled cloth in the trash can next to my desk.
“Sure. When?” I stand up and wipe my hand on my jeans.
“Ehh, was thinking in a few weeks. Give you some time to settle in and get some writing done.”
“Sounds good. Just let me know when I need to pick you up from the airport.”
“Will do. Have you started writing?”
“I’ve only been here a day. But yes, I did write a bit last night.”
I can hear him open his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “Don’t worry, I’ll meet the deadline that Agatha has set.”
He exhales. “Good. I really would prefer not to have to go another few rounds with her.”
“That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”
“Big bucks, ha. You get the friends and family discount. Reaping the rewards of my brilliance at half of what I’m worth.” He chuckles.
“I’ll dedicate a book to you, and that should even us,” I muse, as I take a seat at my desk and power on my laptop.
“Promises, promises, buddy.”
“Listen, slave driver, I need to get some writing done, and I can’t do that when you keep me on the phone, gabbing like a girl.”
“Did thine ears hear the writer say he is going to work for a change?”
“Yes, it’s the only way I can afford expensive lawyers, such as yourself.”
“Friends and family discount…”
“Mmmhmm. I’m hanging up now.”
“No problem, I have some more billable hours to do. Get your checkbook ready.”
I laugh and end the call, tossing my phone on the desk.
I give one last glance at the mirror before getting back to work.
I rub my face, trying to push thoughts of magical mirrors out of my head. “Yeah, just my imagination.”
Chapter 11
Days have passed, and nothing more has happened with the mirror. I begin setting a course of what is to become my new normal routine. I wake around seven a.m. and shower before the workmen come. I usually go over details with Marcus first thing in the morning, and from there, he dictates the day’s work to the men. Because of the racket of the construction during the day, I tend to do research on the internet for my book, and when they leave, I plot out my chapters and write.
This morning is my typical routine of late, and I’m sitting at my desk, with a cup of coffee, doing some more research. Of course, I can’t help but stare at the elusive mirror. Something in my gut is telling me there is more to it. I didn't imagine things, I just know it. Leaning back in my chair, I absentmindedly tap the eraser of my pencil against my temple, willing the mirror to do something.
“Quite the antique you have there.”
Startled, I drop the pencil to the floor and turn in the direction of the voice with the deep southern drawl.
He walks through the door, hands help up in apology. “Sorry ’bout that.” He bends to pick up the pencil, and places it on my desk.
From his attire, I surmise he’s one of the workmen. “Not a problem,” I say, as I stand to shake his hand.
“Didn’t mean to startle you like that. I was just admiring that antique you have.”
I turn to glance at it before looking back to him. “You’ve seen this before?”
“No, sir. But I can tell it’s old. Like this house, it has secrets buried within it.” He walks toward the mirror and hesitates to touch it. “May I?” I nod my approval, and he touches it and smiles. “Oh yes, it sure do have some secrets.”
“Secrets?” I walk over to him.
He nods and admires it some more.
“That’s an odd choice of words.”
“Like my grandmother used to say, everyone and everything has a secret locked away.” He turns around and smiles, with a gap-toothed grin, his hand extended. “I’m Dennis.”
“Evan.” We shake hands and he nods.
“Yes sir. This mirror, I believe, belongs here.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, why not? An antique mirror belongs in a house with this much history.”
My brow perks up. “Do you know the story of this house?”
“Mmhmm. Yes’m, sure do.”
“Hey, do you have time to sit and talk with me about the history? I’m afraid I haven’t done much research on it, and it was an impulse buy because of my wife.”
“Well, ah, I do need to get back to work.”
I must look disappointed or something because he goes on to say, “But I figure I can drop in during my break and tell you what you want.”
I reach out to shake his hand again. “That would be great if you could do that, Dennis. I can compensate you for your time, if you wish.”
“No sir, not needed at all. Be my pleasure to share the stories that have been handed down to me since I was a young’un.”
“Dennis, I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to talk with me during your lunch break.” I offer him a seat in my makeshift kitchen.
“No problem at all.” He places a brown paper bag on the table and pulls out a sandwich and a bottled water. He twists the cap on the water and takes a sip. “I got sugar, so I stay clear away from sodas these days.”
I nod and suddenly feel more aware of my canned soda with thirty-nine grams of sugar. I push it away and stand to get me a bottled water as well.
Taking my seat, feeling healthier with my water, I smile. “So, I take it your family has been around here for a long time?”
He nods as he takes a bite from his sandwich. He chews quickly and then speaks. “Yes, we go back for generations. You see, my family used to be slaves on this here plantation.”
I sputter my water across the table, then mumble out an apology. I have never really been a man to pay attention to race, but I’m acutely aware at this moment. I feel uneasy and don’t know what to say, except, “I’m sorry.”
Dennis laughs. “What for? You done did nuttin’."
“Yeah, but this must be difficult to work here.” I stumble over my words in this remarkably new territory of discussion.
“What fo’? Nah, work is work. Marcus, he a good guy. Done plenty o’ jobs for him before. I wanted to work here, matter of fact. I always heard the stories, but never got to come inside till this job.”
“But still…” I plunder through with my version of the white man’s apology for mistakes of our ancestors. Words can never settle the wrongs, yet I feel obligated to apologize.
“Listen, I didn’t tell you that to make things different. I just said it ’cause it was a fact. That’s all. My wife’s peoples date back to this place too.”
“Really? How so?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“They descendants of the slaves from this here plantation. Her grandmother, four times removed, Zhenga, worked the fields out dere.” He points toward the window.
My eyes along with my mind drifts in the direction of his finger pointing. I envision people cruelly slaved and working a cotton field.
“Now, what you wanting to know bout this here place?” He interrupts my wild imagination with a simple question.
And just like that, I know to drop the subject and not to bring it up again. I nod my understanding. “Tell me whatever you know.”
He sits back and stares upward, searching his memory. “You already know this was once owned by the De Wolfes.”
“Yes, I hear Simon De Wolfe was the last descendant to own the plantation.”
“Yep. He and his wife, Enid, were childless.”
“But I heard also that he had a child with one of his…” I’m right back to feeling awkward again, afraid to use the word “slave” in front of him.
“Yes, he had a child with one of his slaves. His daughter was named Franny.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
He places his sandwich down. “When he went off to war and came back, she was gone. But there were rumors that she was kilt by Enid. Enid couldn’t stand to know that her husband’s bastard was around. She was childless, and each year that passed without a swelled belly, she became more scornful.”
“Is there any way to find out about what really happened to Franny?”
“Not that I know of. You see, she was not considered a person, but a man’s property. If a slave was kilt, that was it; no records to keep that. Oh, you might get lucky and find some plantations that kept those type of records, yes. Because, after all, a slave’s death is money lost. But most of those records have been lost or destroyed.”
“And Simon De Wolfe? What became of him after the war?”
“Well, the story has always been that when he returned to find out that Franny was gone, he always felt it was Enid who had something to do with it. Franny’s mother had died shortly after his return, and he mourned her something terrible. After the war, his slaves were all freed. But because he was always a man who looked toward the future, he already had Northern machines on his plantation to help mill the cotton and corn. That’s how he was able to keep his plantation afloat. He eventually killed himself.”
That startles me, and my mouth drops open.
“Not in the house. The story goes that he went into town and booked a room at the fanciest hotel. He ate a king’s supper, they said, and laughed and talked with folk. And afterwards, went to his room, and shot himself.”
“D
o you really believe he killed himself?”
Dennis shrugs. “Who knows. I would probably say he didn’t, but I guess there’s evidence to prove that he wasn’t really living anymore, not since the death of his daughter and mistress.”
“And what became of Enid?”
“Don’t know.”
“I heard that Franny was a beauty.”
“That’s how the story always went. She was a striking woman. She was known to wear a blue calico dress with a yellow ribbon. They say the blue matched the color of her eyes; her father’s eyes.”
“She sounds like she really was beautiful.”
“That she was. You can see a painting of her, actually.”
My head whips up. “A painting of a slave?”
He nods. “Yep. One of Enid’s friends was a painter. He spent some time at the plantation, living off of their hospitality. He fell in love with Franny, from the stories I heard, and painted a portrait of her. It became one of his best-known works. It hangs in the South Carolina Historical Society building in Charleston. It’s one of their main attractions.”
I quickly look up the South Carolina Historical Society on my phone and save the information. “What is the name of the artist?”
“Henri La Salle, I believe.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Believe you would. Most have. They use another of his known images on hominy grits packaging.”
“Thank you so much for all of this info, Dennis.”
He tosses his bottle and paper bag in the garbage. “It’s a pleasure, anytime. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.” He shakes my hand and walks out the door.
Chapter 12
I just have to finish this last chapter before I go to bed, but it’s as if weights form on my eyelids and they fall close. My head bobs down, and I snap up, eyes wide, trying to force the words out from fingertip to keyboard.
Standing, I stretch and startle myself with my Chewbacca yawn. I look at the time, and the LED-lit clock indicates it’s four in the morning. I walk over to the balcony windows and open them. A cool breeze wafts through the room, carrying a scent of earth and grass.
