by Lauren Clark
In that instant, I see families, all in mourning, wandering the acres of land, in search of a sign or a clue. My own mother is buried, and it’s awful to think of her lying in the cold, dark earth, but I have a place to go. I can visit. And it’s more comfort than not to know that her spirit was there, if just for a short time.
“Okay,” PD takes a hold of my arm. “Let’s take a little break.” We walk back to the car at a brisk pace. “For the article, or anyone who asks, there’s a Ghost Walk and Tales from the Tomb at the Pilgrimage in the spring. But, we don’t have to worry about that now.”
She opens my door and helps me inside. PD leans over me and buckles my seatbelt. “Are you okay?” Not waiting another second for my reply, she cranks the engine and drives off, spinning gravel and dust in our wake.
Chapter 22
“Okay, so no more graveyards,” PD attempts a smidge of humor as we put the acres of Fairview Cemetery into the rearview mirror.
My breathing eases the further we get from the iron fence surrounding the property.
Shug’s sister doesn’t ask me anything—I chalk it up to her good Southern breeding—but I can tell by the way she keeps glancing over at me that she knows something is not right.
In that moment, all I want to do is head straight to Roger’s B&B, work on my story, and return to the comfort of my apartment in the City. A place devoid of ghosts, history, and hard questions.
I roll down the window and try to enjoy the breeze in my face as we drive back downtown, but the silence hangs between us. It’s oppressive and deafening. The unspoken truth pushes at my conscience. I don’t have to share my sorrows, but today, for some reason, they’re seeping out of my mind and mouth.
“It’s my mother,” I blurt, exhaling the words. “She passed away two years ago. I feel cheated. There are so many questions I want to ask her.”
PD nods, keeping her eyes on the road. “It sounds like you miss her a bunch. My own mother—well, you’ve seen her—she’s a piece of work. We’ve never been really close, and I’ve never understood her. She didn’t have a bad life. She had everything growing up right here in Eufaula. Aubie was beautiful, popular, became the Pilgrimage Queen. Then she married TJ and started a family.”
We stop at a red light, both counting the beats until the glowing circle turns green.
“From what everyone says, Aubie promptly went off the deep end.” PD is tapping on the steering wheel as if her life depended on it.
“Something about marriage—or maybe the men they marry,” I muse aloud. “I think my father broke my mother’s heart,” I say with another sudden confession. “And that’s what killed her.” I shift in the seat. “Of course, she did have ALS,” I include, “but the realization that my father had a secret life the entire time?” My voice reaches a high-pitched octave that might break glass. “I think she stopped fighting.”
PD slows down to a crawl, locked on every word. We stop at an intersection and let the cars blow past. I burst into tears. The sobbing, gushing sort of crying that makes your nose run and your eyes rimmed with red. PD hands me a few tissues and I blow hard, the force a person uses when she’s held back emotion for years.
“It’s family,” PD says, her mouth twitching when I catch a breath. “Isn’t it our parents’ job to mess us up?”
The statement strikes me funny—being that I’ve spent years trying to avoid David, my own father, and now he is my new boss. I don’t share this, but we both laugh until my shoulders hurt from shaking. I’m not sure where we’re parked, but I hope that there isn’t a tourist group in sight.
When the hilarity subsides, PD looks me square in the face. “I can tell that you’re hurting.”
“It does hurt,” I admit. “I’m sad, and I’m angry that she’s gone. And, I really miss her.” The statement is so raw and honest I feel like someone’s ripped a band-aid off the inner lining my heart.
PD turns her body toward me, puts an elbow up on the seat back, and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. “Don’t you think she knows that? And she wants you to be happy? And wouldn’t she tell you to really live—because she can’t?”
The idea she presents is so simple, I gasp. The truth is this: I’ve spent the time since my mother’s death running away from life, not toward it.
And it took traveling one thousand miles from home to figure it out.
Yet, coming here, being here, and living in the moment, everything makes sense.
After making sure that I was in possession of functional, sturdy heels, and a glitch-free outfit, Roger went on ahead—an hour early—to the dinner. I assure him that I have a few calls to make, work-related emails to return, and important notes to type up. While my to-do list was accurate, and I diligently tackled each item in turn, what I really needed was solitude.
When I finally emerge from my room, step onto the sidewalk, and make my way up North Eufaula Street, I am struck by the beauty of the city’s historic district.
It’s not that I haven’t noticed the fresh pine garland and wreaths strung with red velvet ribbon. It’s not that I haven’t seen the flicker of candles gracing every window. It’s not that the city hasn’t been dressed and ready in its finest splendor since I arrived a few days ago.
Every home on the street is decorated in similar fashion, and the streetlights provide a soft ambiance as I walk.
Tonight, though, I slow down. Deliberately walking at half my caffeine-charged pace. The sky is a midnight blue pricked with pinpoints of stars. They glitter overhead, scattered like jewels on a sea of fine silk. A few are so bright and close, I feel that I could almost catch them in a butterfly net.
The air has grown chilly. Roger warned me a huge temperature drop was forecasted for tonight, but I don’t hurry. I pull my borrowed wrap a little tighter around my shoulders. Spending time, here in Eufaula, has helped me realize that barreling through life at a breakneck pace—while exciting, sometimes glamorous, and always loads of fun—has been, at best, a distraction. A useful tool in avoiding personal introspection or thoughts of the future.
It’s always been the next stop, the next flight, and the next assignment. There hasn’t been a day in the past decade that didn’t include stress-inducing tasks and multiple deadlines.
All in all, I conclude, my raw wanderlust and suitcase-required career has, in a way, prevented me from really seeing and understanding the magic waiting to be discovered—both in people and places.
That said—inside my brain—I promise myself that I will enjoy tonight and experience it fully, with no thought to my watch or the clock on the wall.
I arrive on the steps of Shorter Mansion. When I push the door open, a rush of warm air swirls around me. Roger immediately spots me and winks across the room. I wave, slip off my wrap, and hand it to the waiting coat-check girl. With careful steps, I meander through the parlor, stopping to chat with the mayor, his wife, and their closest friends.
In the next room, I share a giggle with PD, who’s still getting praise for sharing her latest inventive treats. There’s talk of holding a contest in the Eufaula Tribune to name them, and I second the idea.
“What fun,” I say, giving PD’s hand a squeeze. “What did your grandmother and the rest of the family think of them?”
“MeeMaw’s pretty much in love with them,” PD grins and looks down at the floor. “TJ and Shug will eat anything I whip up, so I’m planning to do a second ‘sampling’ and serve more after dinner with coffee.”
Ella Rae chooses that very moment to barrel through the crowd, holding two of the puffed, golden pastries in her right hand. There’s a telltale streak of white powdered sugar from her upper lip to her earlobe.
“Well, that answers that question,” I whisper as PD excuses herself to apprehend her daughter.
Suddenly, there’s a warm hand on my shoulder, and I flinch when several long fingernails dig into my skin. Without having to look, I realize that it’s Aubie. The pungent scent of her flowery perfume mixes with the distinct sm
ell of hard liquor.
“S’c-cold outside, sugar,” she slurs, attempting to wave outside. “Temp-ture down to the thirties, s-someone said.”
“Have to bundle up tonight,” someone comments.
I want to take Aubie’s hand and drag her to the nearest bedroom, and lock her inside until she sobers up. When I scan the room for TJ, her husband, as usual, is nowhere to be found.
“If it fr-freezes, J-Julia sh-should be right at h-home, then,” Aubie leans to her left, her head lolling with her body. She attempts a smile, but the corners of her lips don’t move more than a millimeter.
“Sure,” I agree, trying to manage a bright smile.
The couple to my left exchanges a pitying look, and the two men front and center cast doubtful glances at Aubie’s much-deteriorated condition. She was fine at lunchtime, I seem to recall, but anything could have happened in the hours during my tour of town with PD.
Shug’s mother exhales deeply as her arm drops to her side, and a gust of strong whiskey floats past my nostrils. The odor, combined with the heat from the crowd, causes me to sneeze not once, but three times in succession.
This, fortunately, makes everyone around me laugh and takes the focus off Shug’s drunken mother. I cover my mouth with one hand and excuse myself, pleading a need for the ladies’ room before dinner.
As I make my escape, I catch a glimpse of MeeMaw in the corner with Ella Rae. For once, the child is quiet and sitting still. I wave over at them as I wind my way through small groups of women deep in conversation, knock on the closest powder room, but find it locked. There’s another upstairs, I think, so I round the corner and make my way up the red carpeting.
When I reach the top of the steps, I’m standing at the edge of a short hallway. The second floor of Shorter Mansion is just as large as the first, and the upstairs landing opens into at least five different rooms. Under the sound of my own breathing, I hear a man and a woman talking—or arguing—in hushed tones.
My first instinct is to turn and hurry back down the stairs. I press a hand to my abdomen and bite my lip. With a hand against the wall, I ease forward. The full sensation in my gut is making me uncomfortable, and now, a little desperate. I decide that the urgency of finding a ladies’ room significantly outweighs the embarrassment of being caught opening random doors.
With a gulp, I try the first door. It’s is a simple bedroom with a small bed and dresser. The second, much bigger, contains glass-encased displays of period clothing, long, faded dresses, and children’s outfits from the 1800s. With a sigh, I move on to door number three, which ends up being a small, dark closet containing quite a few dingy gray cobwebs and a number of perturbed spiders that scuttle away in the light. I muffle a yelp and close my eyes, easing a few steps away from the opening.
The hallway is silent, though my heart is galloping like a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby. I don’t hear the voices anymore, so I chalk it up to my overactive imagination and the glass of wine I polished off downstairs.
With a hesitant hand, I grasp the doorknob on one of the two remaining doors. It’s stuck for some reason, but I give it a frustrated yank, and pull it wide open.
This time, there is a scream, but I’m not sure if it’s mine, or Mary Katherine’s.
Chapter 23
“It’s you!” Mary Katherine leaps to her stiletto-clad feet as if she’s been stabbed in the derriere with a dinner fork.
“Julia?” A bewildered Shug shifts his gaze from his girlfriend to me.
I begin to stutter. “I-I was only looking for the ladies’ room,” I explain. “The one downstairs…” But, I realize that no excuse matters when it comes to a jealous girlfriend.
Mary Katherine stalks toward me, pointing a manicured fingertip. “You were following us. You’ve been lurking over my shoulder since you got here. Why can’t you just leave us alone?” She is seething with anger, her voice scaling a few octaves.
I step back from her, trying not to trip over my own wobbling ankles. "Listen. I am simply doing my job. I have to write a story on Eufaula’s Pilgrimage. That’s it." If I had a white flag, I’d be waving it.
Shug pulls us apart. “Mary Katherine, that’s enough. Do you want all of Eufaula to hear you having a hissy fit on the night of the Christmas Tour? Is that how you’d like this evening to be remembered for the next three-hundred and sixty-five days?”
I press my lips together, holding back from launching another verbal attack on Mary Katherine. Shug seems to be holding his own.
His girlfriend juts out her bottom lip and scuffs the floor with the toe of her silver shoe. “No,” she mutters like a child who’s been caught drawing on the wall of her Sunday school room with bright pink permanent marker.
“I’m surprised,” he continues, “at both of you.” Shug shoots me a look that borders on disappointment—or contempt—I can’t tell because my eyes are filling up with tears faster than I can wipe them away.
There’s a knock at the door and the three of us look up to see PD in the hallway with Ella Rae at her side. “We were looking for you,” she says, confusion filling her face. “Dinner’s going to be served in a few moments and I didn’t want y’all to miss it.”
No one answers.
“Uh, Mama, Uncle Shug? Why are y’all three in the bathroom together?” Ella Rae twists her face into a sly smirk and eyeballs Mary Katherine. “That’s weird.”
There’s an awkward pause, and Shug walks out of the cramped space to scoop up his niece. He lets out a forced chortle.
“Now, we were just having a little meeting about how many of those treats you’ve been eating. You know, the ones with the marshmallows inside them?” He is tickling her and she is giggling with laughter. “Are there any left? Any at all? I’m going to be mighty hurt if there’s only a crumb.”
The steps creak as Shug carries Ella Rae downstairs. PD remains standing in the doorway, looking back and forth from me to her brother’s girlfriend. Finally, she manages a bewildered smile. “Well, okay then.”
I hang back, clinging to the windowsill while Mary Katherine flounces past. I can hear the thump of the steps as she descends to the foyer with a decidedly un-ladylike stomp-stomp. “Can you give me a moment?” I ask, not able to read her face. “I’ll be right down.”
PD nods. “Take all the time you need.”
Less than ten minutes later, the incident upstairs is forgotten, overshadowed by the sumptuous spread of food. I slip an engraved menu card in my purse for safekeeping, but not before reading over the extensive list of Southern dishes laid out on the table.
Fried Green Tomatoes, Deviled Eggs, Fried Okra
Squash Casserole, Collard Greens, Buttered Yeast Rolls
Fried chicken, Smothered Pork Chops, Chicken Pot Pie
Homemade Banana Pudding & PD’s Pillow Pockets
My plate is heaping with samples of everything but dessert. Wine is poured, water glasses filled and refilled. I’m seated—thankfully—next to Roger, who carries the conversation with ease and grace. Not surprisingly, my appetite has waned, and I move the delicious portions of food around on my plate, hoping that it will appear like I’ve sampled a little of everything and am just watching my figure.
Roger leans toward my ear. “Just try to eat something. A bite or two, or everyone will think you don’t like it. And they’ll never forgive you.” He smiles and laughs at someone across the table, but keeps a strict eye on me. I raise my fork and take a small bite of collard greens, which are bathed in butter and cooked to perfection.
After I set my fork down, my stomach twists in protest, and I dab at my lips with my napkin. In the next room, I can hear Mary Katherine’s shrill laugh. Shug’s deep voice follows and, for now, it seems that peace has been restored in their little corner of paradise.
Silly me, I chide myself. I am here to do a job. Report on an event and go back home. My place is in the City, I tell myself, and there will be another story and another town to visit next week. I steel myself with thoughts of fin
ishing the article tonight, flying back, and presenting a perfect specimen of my writing—on time—to David’s shocked face. Somehow, even that tiny amount of anticipated satisfaction has lost its zing.
Perhaps it’s because—somehow in the last few days—I’ve realized that my life is better spent being happy and moving forward than getting back at people who’ve hurt me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve figured out that my job—my career—is more than writing about a pretty place, with lovely food and plush hotels. My career is about sharing stories about people, and how those individuals and families, not geography, makes up the lifeblood and future of that city or place. And finally, perhaps it’s because I like it here and I’m a little more than sad to leave.
As the conversation swirls around me, and dessert is served, I absorb the remaining moments of the evening. When the chairs are pushed back, and everyone chats over coffee, a shout of excitement comes from the foyer.
There’s a rush toward the front of the mansion and a clatter of heels on the wood floor. I can hear Ella Rae calling for her mother. Mary Katherine rushes by the table, dragging Shug by the hand. Even Aubie totters toward the parlor windows, pushing MeeMaw in her wheelchair.
Roger and I are the only two left at the table. He grins in my direction and shakes his head. “It figures,” he says.
“What is it?” I ask. “What are they saying?”
“Sugar,” Roger laughs and points to the top of the windows. “Can’t you see it? It’s snowing.”
By the time Roger and I reach the front door, the entire dinner party has drifted outside. The night sky is like a snow globe, with swirling white flakes drifting down and melting on everything they touch.
“It’s amazing,” someone shouts.
“This hasn’t happened in forever.”
