“I remember that she took me to a small sewing room, filled with scraps of fabric and various tools, like scissors, awls and needles. It smelled nice, like bergamot tea. She gave me a cookie or a biscuit, then sat down, and began working on a quilt.
“I was ten or so at the time. Daddy and Mamma told me I was seeing things, but I swear I saw this: Hazel threaded a needle and started sewing—with her eyes closed. It was like she was asleep, but every movement was precise. The work was delicate, but her needle didn’t snag. She didn’t prick herself, not once. And, the whole time, she smiled.”
“This Hazel,” Shadrach said, “she probably sewed a lot of things.”
“Obsessively,” said Miss Birdie. “She was—the word that Judith used was driven. Like she couldn’t control it. ‘Something’s moving through her,’ I heard Judith say. I’ll never forget that smile. I’ve seen that look before. In church, when people get the Spirit inside of them…”
“What did Hazel look like?” Shadrach asked, after a long pause. Miss Birdie’s attention had drifted. Her eyes pointed toward the china hutch, but he knew that she didn’t see it.
“Hazel was pretty enough,” said Miss Birdie, “short, a little plump, dark brown skin. Her children were all sold, to pay for the son’s gambling debts.
“That’s where the real strange part of the story comes in.”
Cephas’s eyes glittered with excitement.
“Around the time the fourth child had been sold, Helena Whitby, the mistress, began having headaches. Real bad ones, the type where you see images. She told Mamma that the Missus became addicted to morphine. Judith said that she became a drooling mess. What a nightmare it must have been: living with a drunk, a drug-addled woman, and a scoundrel son. Well, Hazel got scarlet fever that winter and died shortly after. Mrs. Whitby’s headaches increased. She began to complain of bright lines of color in her vision, and dizziness. She claimed that it was because all of those quilts Hazel made were somehow connected to her headaches. Something about the colors Hazel used.”
“So, Hazel haunted the Whitbys, and drove ’em out of town!” said Cephas. He was beside himself with the macabre story.
“That was the rumor around town,” said Miss Birdie. “You ain’t seen nothing strange at the house, have you, Mr. Grayson?”
***
It was hard to get used to the rhythms of Shadrach’s mind. It was completely unlike Hazel’s. Where Hazel’s thoughts had been as quick as hares in the underbrush, Shadrach’s mind was slow and becalmed, like a turtle on land. He was a man who gave himself to muscle memory. As he worked, he never lost himself in thought. He was always in the here-and-now, present, thoroughly aware of his surroundings. Each thought was deliberate, a finely crafted, solid thing, not like the lacy, wispy train of Hazel’s mind. Fuchsia thought that this was due to his maleness.
He had had a hard life, one that did not allow for flights of fancy. He was permanently in survival mode. Shadrach’s body was always ready to flee or face threats. He kept his emotions blunted.
The topsoil of Shadrach’s psyche was thin and rocky. It was difficult to find purchase there. So Fuchsia went deep, to the sleeping side of his soul, where the ground was moist and rich. Shadrach’s dreams were chaotic and joyless things. It was like a storm. In between the gusts, she saw that Shadrach had lived a life dictated by grim circumstance, devoid of any beauty.
She was just a seed, floating on gale-force winds.
***
This house is not haunted.
Shadrach told himself that. And he believed it, for the most part. It was easy to ignore that the quilts he slept on and the ones he hung up never seemed to get dirty. Also, there seemed to be a never-ending supply of them. The armoire was a bottomless coffin. When did Hazel ever get any actual work done? He counted at least one hundred of them before he stopped. But there always seemed to be more stuffed in the cavity. He was forever unfolding them.
Shadrach hadn’t remembered his dreams since he was a teenager, when he had an embarrassing wet dream full of shirtless boys bathing in the creek behind his parents’ house. It wasn’t something that bothered him. But in this not-haunted house, he dreamed each and every night. They were rich and luminous dreams, full of tranquility. He looked forward to sleeping, for the first time in a long while. The colors were vibrant, intense. All of them were in the marsh, a marsh where the water was clear as crystal. Where brightly colored fish swam, and blue herons stalked them. Where the grass was soft as carpet, and insects hung in the air like jewels. Where it was always the moment before twilight starts, and the sky is indigo, and the sun just begins to turn orange. These dreams were not hauntings, though. They were just dreams.
Shadrach was never alone in this dream-marsh. She was always off in the distance, at the horizon’s edge or on one of the islets, gazing in the distance. She never looked at him directly, but she clearly knew Shadrach was there. They might spend the entire dream on different islets, sharing silence. Sometimes, she wasn’t a young woman, wrapped in purple. Instead, she was just a flower, one the same color as her robes. And sometimes, she was a formless, glowing shape, a bright ball of light hovering above the waters.
But this was not a haunting. It was just Miss Birdie’s crazy stories, and the townsfolks’ superstition rattling around in his brain.
***
What am I doing? Shadrach thought. It was night and the sky was starless and mist leaked from the Shimmer Marsh as thick as clouds. He was outside, like a fool, because he had seen something. Or rather, he thought he had seen something.
He pushed through brush at the marsh’s edge. There was much crackling in the undergrowth, both his own and other unseen creatures’. He had seen hares and foxes, and the occasional deer during his stay in the Whitby house. They were probably confused as to why he was out on a misty night like this. He didn’t even have a lantern.
Shadrach had woken up early, startled into the predawn darkness by something that had spilled over from a dream. The dream was not a nightmare. It was, in fact, a wonderful dream, one that he wished would never end. He and the woman in purple were finally on the same islet, watching as the sun sank down into the water. They stood side by side in silence for a while. Then he turned to face her. Her face was round, her brown eyes sparkled. Her hair was plaited and woven with flowers. Her robe-like dress fluttered, even though there was no breeze. She moved toward him, her mouth shaping words he couldn’t hear.
Your name, he said, what’s your name?
She replied, “…”
And he woke up, grasping for a sound.
Her face faded from the air. It was replaced by a glowing sphere the same color as her fluctuating dress. The tiny purple sun hovered in front of his face before leaving the room. He chased after it, straight into the misty woods.
The orb led him to the edge of the Shimmer Marsh, and vanished when he arrived. The marsh was alive in the darkness, full of frog and bird song. The grasses shivered in the wind.
Shadrach searched the shore for the little light.
“Don’t leave me now,” he said to the marsh. “I know you are real.” He felt like a fool. It’s just a delusion, he thought, crazy stories that made my imagination go haywire. In spite of this, he felt that someone was listening. The air grew still, and the sounds of the marsh paused.
Shadrach asked, “What is your name?”
His voice was absorbed by the marsh.
A minute passed in silence.
And then, she answered.
18: Iris (2010)
Shimmer was as thick with ghosts as it was with fog and seagulls. Iris saw them clustering around the immensity of the marsh when she drove home from work. They were like thermal signatures, blotches of color with random features visible, like a hand or half of a face. For the most part, they ignored her as assiduously she ignored them.
Other than the ghosts, Iris loved the coastal town. She had thought she was a city girl to her core, but it turned out not to be true. The slowe
r pace of things suited her well. When Tamar and she moved to Shimmer, Iris expected to be bored. Adjusting to Shimmer’s gentle rhythms had been difficult the first year. Tamar’s dad made it plain from jump that he thought their ‘lifestyle’ was sinful, and while he and his daughter eventually came to an understanding, it was clear that Iris was still persona non grata. The townsfolk themselves were a reserved bunch, suspicious of outsiders. Most of them had roots in the town since before the Civil War. The townsfolk had a curious mixture of Northern stoicism and Southern hospitality. But gradually, people warmed to their presence. They came to be known as, alternately, as ‘Ernest’s Girls,’ and Tamaris. When Ernie died, the townsfolk came out to his funeral and the house was filled with cakes and casseroles for weeks. Shimmer became home.
***
“How do I look?” Tamar walked into the room in a silk peach dress and matching slingbacks. As always, her hair had a flower pinned in it, a pink hibiscus. She smelled of orange blossoms and sandalwood, and her neck was encircled by a black bead necklace.
“Stunning, as always.” Iris wore a simple black crepe smock accented with a rose quartz necklace. Other than a touch of lipstick, she didn’t bother with makeup. Tamar had a layer of foundation and faint hints of blush along her cheeks.
“I hope there will be food,” said Tamar. She gathered up a matching clutch and began transferring some items from her bigger purse.
“I’m sure that there will be some. At least cheese and crackers. Maybe wine.”
“Well, I’m hoping for something a little more substantial. Like passed hors d’oeuvres. People are so stingy, though.”
“You might get your wish,” Iris said. “The museum was an old fish processing plant. Maybe we’ll get crab cakes!”
They didn’t bother with driving. The new museum was only a twenty-minute walk away. It was a lovely spring evening, and the sky had taken on a silver-blue sheen. That’s when Iris saw the first ghost of the night. At least, she thought it was a ghost. The shape it had wasn’t particularly human. It was a translucent blob of color smeared on the surface of the world. She could see right through its cobweb-thin substance. It had no features. No eyes, no face, no hands, no legs. But Iris knew that it was once a human being, and that it was watching the two of them amble down the street.
“What is it?” Tamar said. That’s when Iris noticed that she had stopped walking. She was tempted to tell her “nothing,” but Tamar could always see right through her.
“I’m just seeing one of the caspers,” she replied. The splotch of color, coral pink, made no move toward the two of them. It just hung in the air.
“Does this one have a collapsed face? A missing eye?” Iris shook her head. “Then I ain’t interested,” Tamar said. “I like my haints to be walking hot messes.”
They both laughed. “Girl, you’re a trip,” Iris said.
“I try,” Tamar said. They moved past the vague wisp, on down the street. “I still think you should try to communicate with the caspers. By the way, what did this one look like?”
She told Tamar that it was just a hazy shape. “They’re no better than hallucinations,” Iris said. “I can’t talk to them, and they can’t talk to me.”
“What about that girl? What was her name—Ruby?”
“Pearl.”
“That’s right. You were able to talk to her.”
“Ha! Only if you call random images flashing in your brain ‘talking!’”
Tamar said, “People pay good money to hear mediums. And those mediums just piece together some mumbo jumbo, and folks just eat it up. Dionne Warwick rakes it in.”
“I’m not Dionne Warwick,” Iris said. “So nobody is lining up to hear Madame Iris. Besides, it’s uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell which thoughts were mine, and which were hers. It’s not a nice feeling.”
They walked in silence for a minute or two. The museum was finally in view in the distance, a low building that spilled out bright light onto the lapping waters of the nearby pier. It had been under construction since they moved to Shimmer, and it seemed like it would never open. It had barely been on Iris’s radar. Adjusting to small-town life, finding a job and dealing with Ernie’s orneriness had drained her. Tamar was more interested; back in Baltimore she’d always arrange trips to the museums in the city and nearby DC.
“You know, people lived in the marsh,” said Tamar.
“Huh? What does that have to do with anything?”
“I think that’s why you keep seeing these caspers. People lived in the marsh, to escape being slaves. I read about it in that article about Hazel Whitby. One of the reasons this one dude thinks she made those tapestries was that she was dreaming of escape. And the marsh was a place where she could disappear.”
“Seems like a stretch.”
“Maybe,” Tamar said. “But there were some folks who lived in the marsh, and I imagine they died there, too. Maybe that’s why you see them by the water.”
“Way to bring down the mood, T.”
Tamar said nothing. Was she sulking? Iris didn’t think so. Tamar’s gait was free and easy, her face calm. It didn’t matter anyway. The new museum was close.
They saw that there was a line to get inside. This was not surprising. Every Shimmer resident had gotten an invitation in the mail. Tamar and Iris joined the line, right behind Samuel and Eileen Miller, their across-the-street neighbors.
“They’re letting groups in only when a certain number of people leave,” said Eileen.
Samuel said, “I hope that the artwork is worth it.”
Tamar said, “Well, it’s a nice enough night.”
The line moved at a snail’s pace. Both couples exchanged their summer plans, neighborhood business and family news. They learned that Eileen’s father was exhibiting some symptoms of Alzheimer’s, and Tamar gave them advice.
“Don’t argue with him if he starts accusing you of things,” Tamar said. “Just go along with it.”
Iris was only half listening, though. She saw two more abstract spirit things around the museum. An arm hovered above the reeds in the lapping water. The silhouette of a head drifted up and down the line, as if searching for someone. They were both the same awful shade of magenta, the color of azaleas. She checked her watch. It was nearly twenty minutes. They had barely moved.
Samuel said what she’d been thinking. “All right now. I don’t want to be here all night.”
Tamar said, “It will be worth it. I’ve been following the museum since I moved to Shimmer.” Her voice rose up in pitch. She had the same excited look she’d had when she discovered fado music, or the fiction of Octavia Butler. “Both Hazel and Shadrach are spiritual precursors to the Color Field movement. You know, artists like Morris Louis, or Sam Gilliam. Remember the Gilliam exhibit we saw at the Corcoran, Iris?”
“Yes.” Tamar had dragged her down to DC a year or two ago to see a retrospective of Gilliam’s work. Iris remembered the brightly hued splotches of color on canvas and folded bits of fabric. His work was joyous, the colors luminous. She had told Tamar that it looked like he was trying to paint music.
“Well, Hazel’s quilts—they’re really tapestries—and Grayson’s paintings all capture the Shimmer Marsh, but in an abstract way. And these two artists had no training whatsoever!”
Samuel Miller looked unimpressed. Iris felt a tinge of embarrassment for her girlfriend. But mostly, she felt a surge of warmth. Tamar was so cute when she geeked out.
Eileen had looked away from them. “Look,” she said. “Finally. The line is moving!”
Inside the Whitby-Grayson Museum were a couple of circular tables in the center that were laden with various appetizers. There was the requisite cheese and cracker plate, a fruit tray (grapes, strawberries and chunks of cantaloupe), a bread bowl filled with a green dip and ringed with slices of baguette and a tray of vegetables nested in a bed of curly kale. Music drifted out of hidden speakers, the languorous voice of Sade. A cash bar was set up to one side. The museum was airy and sp
acious, which was not surprising. The owners planned to double the museum as an event space.
“Genie Francis is over by the information desk,” Tamar whispered in her ear. Iris observed a tall white woman in a tailored black pantsuit. The woman had silver spiky hair and dangling dagger earrings, both of which suited her severe, angular features. Though her outfit was relatively plain, the lady oozed of wealth and privilege.
“I’m gonna wander about,” Tamar told her, then made her way through the crowd to the walls. Iris followed suit after she ate a couple of canapés.
Iris didn’t know what to expect. Art was Tamar’s bailiwick. Tamar’s apartment had been filled with coffee table books. She had so many that she had several towers of them stacked on the floor. Iris made her get rid of some of them when they moved to Shimmer.
She started to view the work before her. She saw a piece of fabric, primitively embroidered, with strips of blue, green and spattered with drops of a vivid pink color. Iris did not like it, for some reason. The color was too bright to be an artifact from the late 1800s, and there was something off about the stitch work, something she couldn’t put a name to. Iris leaned forward, thinking a closer examination was in order. The wave of discomfort she felt for these quilts or tapestries was overwhelming.
It happened in a blink. Between the flickering strobe of the overhead lightbulb, and a pulse of her heartbeat, she was no longer in the Whitby-Grayson Museum, in a room with people carrying plastic cups of wine and paper plates full of miniature crab cakes. The ambient din of conversation, the press of perfumed bodies all fell away and were replaced. Iris was transported to somewhere else, somewhere far away from Shimmer.
Iris stood in a marsh that seemed to go on forever. But the perspective was skewed. The sun, for instance, was too big, and too orange. The grassy hillocks where the deep green of forest moss, and the turquoise water was crystal clear. Schools of fish with enameled scales darted in the clear waters, along with silently patrolling giant catfish. The sky above was deep azure. The grass was dotted here and there with strange flowers, ones that were a pink so intense, it almost hurt the eye.
A Spectral Hue Page 15