“But of course Samuel told everyone, servants and all, embellishing the story greatly. I was too humiliated to look anyone in the eye for a time after that, especially George.
“I spent so much of my youth indignant about things, failing to enjoy the beauty of life. Knowing what I know today, I would have set aside my pride and told George how I really felt about him. I was in love with George, as I’ve said. I thought about him every day and dreamed about him in my sleep.”
“So why didn’t you tell him how you felt?”
“For foolish reasons. George was a poor servant, and my family was very well-to-do. It would have upset my dear father greatly if I had run off with George. Instead, I let George return to Russellville without letting him know how I felt. That fall I married a family friend, a man much older than me. His name was Jefferson Wentworth.
“Jeff, as I called him, was a very wealthy man, owner of a large carriage manufacturing company in Franklin. He was kind to me, but I was never in love with him. He had a bad heart and died shortly after we married. I have only kind things to say about him. I returned to Flintridge, and as was the custom then, I wore nothing but black for the next six months. I had become a very wealthy widow at a young age.”
“So when did you first realize you had psychic abilities?” asked Ethan.
Zelma stood slowly up from her chair, and Ethan rose up and assisted her, handing her the horsehead cane. “Oh, that is a story for another day. I will take you to the family cemetery when we come back. I think for now we should head home. We don’t want to be out past dark. Would you like to come back here again tomorrow evening?”
“I’d love to,” said Ethan.
“Wonderful!”
Chapter 8
The next day Ethan rode his bike around town a few times hoping to find Cynthia, but she was nowhere to be seen. Already feeling frustrated, he came home to find Mike Kinsley sitting on his spot on the couch, watching TV like he owned the place. Ethan was ready to demand to know what he was doing there without his mom present, but Mike quickly explained that Sandy had gone to the grocery store to grab a few things she needed to fix supper. Only half satisfied with this explanation, Ethan went to his room and shut and locked the door. He’d just started to read a comic book when he heard a knock.
“Hey, Bud,” said Mike through the door.
“There’s nobody in here named Bud,” said Ethan, contemplating climbing out the window.
“Sorry, Bud, I meant Ethan. But anyway, do you want to go outside and pitch some ball or something?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to take a nap. It’s too hot out, anyway.”
“Okay, just thought I’d ask. By the way, I noticed you’ve got some weights and a weight bench. We can workout together sometime, if you want. I can spot you and give you some pointers.”
Ethan looked up from his comic book, almost tempted to act positively towards this offer. He wouldn’t mind having somebody to work out with, and Mike sure looked like he knew how to do it. But remembering that he wanted as little to do with Mike Kinsley as possible, he simply stated, “Maybe sometime. I’m not really up for it right now.”
“Okay, let me know if you decide you want to,” said Mike, the floor squeaking as he walked away.
Ethan returned to reading his comic book, thinking maybe Mike wouldn’t be such a bad guy if they had met under different circumstances.
That evening he helped Zelma out of the old Lincoln, and she held his arm as they walked toward the Flintridge cemetery. The small cemetery was enclosed by an ornamental iron fence and was situated about an acre away from the right corner of the house. The gate door squealed as Ethan opened it. Most of the stones were very old and moss covered. There were angels, small lambs on tiny stones, tall obelisks, simple rectangular markers, and a few above ground tombs in the shape of ornate oblong boxes. Ethan reflected that the largest tomb of all was the abandoned house looming in the background.
“You know,” said Zelma, sitting down on a rusty cast iron bench identical to the one on the house porch, “with the exception of my husbands and my boy, almost everyone I’ve ever loved or cared for is buried here. There was no more room within these iron gates when my first husband died, so I purchase a lot at the Promised Land Cemetery, and that’s where my child and all my other husbands have all been buried since. I think if I had it to do all over again, I would have had this cemetery expanded somehow, maybe enlarging the fenced-in area, but I was young and less sentimental back then. Perhaps it’s for the best, though. When I’m gone, this isolated place will likely soon be forgotten and quickly devoured by the kudzu that has already swallowed those trees over there. The public cemetery will at least be taken care of for many years to come.
“I need to come out here more often, I see. It’s starting to look raggedy. It should at least look nice while I’m still living, or I haven’t done my duty. Why those decayed flowers over there are left over from Memorial Day. I will certainly call Frank about this tomorrow. He’s supposed to be keeping this place up. The weeds creeping up around the stones are disgraceful.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think to bring a camera,” said Ethan. “I love it out here. It’s so peaceful and isolated from the rest of the world. You can’t even hear the sound of cars. Kind of reminds me of being in the mountains but in a different way. I guess you could say I’m not a city person. I like quiet places like this and the mountains.”
“I’m glad you like it out here,” said Zelma. “I was hoping you would.”
Ethan walked carefully around the cemetery, examining and reading the various gravestones. Sitting down beside Zelma, he asked, “Is your whole family buried here, I mean besides the ones you said are at the city cemetery?”
“Most of them,” she said. “My great-great grandparents are buried beneath that tall moss-covered stone you see over there. They moved here sometime around 1800, came from Virginia. They prospered greatly in a short time. This is very rich farmland, you know. They grew some of the finest tobacco in the state.”
“So when did you first realize you had psychic ability?” Ethan asked, repeating his unanswered question from the previous day.
“Oh, yes, I promised to tell you that story when we came back. I’m glad you’re still interested in hearing it. Let me dust the cobwebs off my brain, and I’ll tell it to you as accurately as I can remember.
“I guess I was about six years old when a traumatic event happened, though Ester always said I had the gift because I was born with a veil over my face. It’s a superstition that people born with a veil over their face will have the ability to see spirits. We lived and died by our superstitions back then. People today with all their modern technology are too busy to stop and contemplate the signs of the moon and stars, the natural wisdom and intuition of animals, or the marvelous symbolisms and warnings of certain life events—they’ve traded magic and wonder for gadgets.
“But as I was saying, Ester worked for my family many years and was like a second mother to me, more so than my stepmother ever was. It was Ester who was always there for me, lifting me up when I was down, giving me encouragement when I needed it. If I had taken her advise, I would have married George from the start. She somehow had a way of knowing a person’s soul. She told me George was a good man and that he would one day be very successful. She was absolutely right. Oh, if only I had listened to her wise words. She was such a naturally intuitive and intelligent person. It seemed she was always right, whether I chose to admit it or not.
“Looking back, I think of all her hard work and kindness, of all the sacrifices she made, how she must have had so little time to spend with her own children, and it makes me feel sad. I always tried to be kind to her, but I could have been kinder, I suppose. Money and things have always been thrown my way, but Ester had to work long hours to earn a meager living to support her family. She was there early in the morning and left for home late in the evening, all so I would never be inconvenienced. In those days, w
orking for a rich white family was nearly her only career option. I’m sure she would have faired much better in today’s world. As someone much older and reflective now, my greatest fear is that she died feeling unappreciated. It’s important to let others know how much you love them, how much they matter—remember that while you’re still young.”
Ethan thought this over quietly for a moment. Finally he said, “There’s a Mr. Simon Green, sits outsides of Square Deal and whittles, who I talk to sometimes. I believe he said Ester was his grandmother.”
“That is correct,” said Zelma. “My, people do talk in a small town. You will do well by befriending Mr. Green. He comes from a long line of very good people, people who know the ways of the world.”
“Yeah, he’s an interesting fellow to talk to,” said Ethan.
“Anyway, as I was saying…”
“I don’t mean to keep interrupting,” said Ethan, unconsciously kicking at a clod of dirt with his tennis shoes, “but I’m not sure I understand something.”
“Of course,” said Zelma, “you want to know what being born with a veil over your face means.”
“That’s exactly what I was about to ask. I guess I should already know, but I’d never heard of it until the other day. Mr. Green mentioned it, but I didn’t think to ask him what it meant.”
Zelma laughed and said, “It’s an old term. I’m sure it’s not something you would have been taught in school, at least not at your age. It’s like a sack that covers a newborn. The placenta is the technical term for it, though I hate to sound vulgar. It is a very rare occurrence. Some also call it a caul. As a matter of fact, Ester would sometimes refer to me as a Caulbearer.”
“Okay,” said Ethan. “I think I get it.”
“So,” continued Zelma, “although Ester thought the veil was the reason for my gift, I have another hypotheses. I trace it to one night when I was about six years old. It was storming that night, an unusually electrical storm. The very earth vibrated, and the windowpanes rattled violently with each clash of thunder. I was sitting on the side of the bed with my dog Brownie in my lap. Afraid of storms, I had been nervously reading a book of illustrated children’s biblical stories to calm my nerves, but it wasn’t helping. Finally, I put the book down and blew out the bedside lantern, thinking that crawling under the covers would somehow protect me.
“There was a tall open window next to my bed, and the thought occurred to me to close it before rain started to seep in. As I cautiously stepped onto the wood floor, I was suddenly thrown violently back onto the bed. I screamed as a shock wave flashed though my whole body. Brownie, having felt it too, yelped in terror. We had both, at least in part, been struck by lightning. I think what saved us was the fact that we were not near water; water and electricity, of course, don’t mix. In a near panic, I continued to scream until my mother and father came running into the room to check on me. My hair was standing on end like the white seeds of a dandelion.
“I was sure that I and my poor dog would die soon, that the lightning bolt had doomed us, but we both recovered completely, though Brownie was absolutely terrified of storms after that, shaking like a leaf at the first rumble of thunder. I, however, for some reason, was no longer afraid of storms, almost as though I had developed an intimacy with them. It was shortly after this traumatic event that I noticed I had special abilities.”
“What happened that caused you to first notice?” asked Ethan, wiping sweat from his brow. It was a very hot and humid day, though Zelma seemed not to notice the heat.
“There was no one specific event that I can identify. It started out subtly at first. Someone would mention that they had lost something, and it would occur to me where to find it. I could see it in my head. It got so that people started coming to me when they lost things. Word got around, as they say.
“I think I spooked my oldest brother, Carl, once. He had been working out in the tobacco field all day with our father and the field hands. This was once one of the largest tobacco producing farms in the state. We were a wealthy but a hard working family. Many a times, my brothers worked right alongside the field hands. When Carl got back to the house that evening, he realized his gold pocket watch was missing, hopelessly lost somewhere out in the vast field. The watch held sentimental value to Carl, having been given to him by our recently deceased grandfather. Seeing tears well up in Carl’s eyes, something came over me, an assurance without justification for it: I could find the watch. I took hold of Carl’s hand, alarming him for a moment, and told him to follow me.
“Carl and I walked outside, and after some searching, I found just the perfect branch in a hazel tree. Using Carl’s pocketknife, I cut the branch into a fork-shaped stick. This was something I had learned from Ester. Many times she had told me about her grandfather using just such a stick to find water or things lost—witching, she called it. Holding the two ends of the forked side with the single end pointed straight out in front of me, I led Carl way out into the field until the stick started to shake and point downward, as though trying to point to the watch itself. I reached down and picked up a clod of plowed red clay dirt and threw it. And there was the gold pocket watch, shining in the sun. Carl was too shocked to speak at first. He had a new respect for me after that incident.”
“That’s incredible,” said Ethan. “I’d like to try it sometime.”
“Yes, you really should try it. I believe it’ll work for you, as well. You’ve got the gift.”
“What do mean by that, exactly?”
“‘That’s a term I first heard Ester use. ‘You’ve got the gift,’ she told me one day. ‘You’ve got the gift more than anyone I’ve ever heard tell of. I knew it would be so,’ she said. ‘I knew it the day you were born.’ She warned me that the gift was a double-edged sword, a weapon that could be used for good or bad. She promised to help me use it for good. ‘The Devil will get a hold of you if you ain’t careful,’ she’d say. ‘He likes to use people who’s got special talents.’ She warned me that he’d be having me conjuring up spells and putting hexes on people, if I wasn’t careful to use my talent in the right way. She’d fuss at me for reading palms, convinced I was using witchcraft, but I only started palm reading as an entertaining way to get in close contact with people. By feeling someone’s hand, I can often sense things about them, sometimes frightening things.”
“Where is Ester buried? I’d like to see her grave.”
“She’s buried over in that corner, there next to her mother and father,” said Zelma, pointing in the direction of the headstone.
“Good, I was hoping to see her grave.”
“Certainly walk over and see it, if you like,” said Zelma. “I think I’ll just sit here while you look around. The grounds a bit too uneven for an old woman like me to be flitting about.”
He walked over to the grave and read the epitaph on the marble stone that had a rounded top:
Gone to her mansion in Heaven
to be served by the angels
“She’s at rest now,” said Zelma. Ethan jumped a bit. She was standing directly behind him. “She worked hard all her life, and I thought the epitaph only fitting. Two of her children are buried in the graves next to hers.”
“You scared me,” said Ethan, smiling. “I thought you said you were going to stay seated.
“Always changing my mind,” she said.
She stood silent for a few moments, saying finally, “It’s not always a good thing. In fact, it’s often a bad thing. Knowing too much can be unnerving at times.” Ethan was fleetingly puzzled by the abrupt change in subject. “Many times I’ve thought about how my cats must be some of the happiest creatures on earth. Cats are quite intelligent animals, yet they know nothing of their own mortality. They live every day of their lives in an eternity, no knowledge that they won’t live forever. I find myself wondering if we’d all be happier if we knew less.
“When I first realized I had special gifts, I thought it was wonderful, as though learning that I was some sort of a
fairy. I wasn’t long, however, in realizing the gift was more of a curse.
“There was a young woman who had moved into a house a few miles up the road from here. Mittie Drane was her name. I believe she was twenty-two at the time and had moved here, along with her husband, from Knoxville, Tennessee. They had taken up residence in a large Federal-style brick mansion. It was an ancient house, even older than Flintridge, once part of a neighboring farm. Being a very young widow and living in such a remote area, I felt very gloomy and longed for excitement, so the news of a new neighbor, not so many years older than myself, interested me greatly.
“I used to take long walks on nice days just to pass by that place, and many times Mittie would be sitting out in the front yard cooling off under the shade of an enormous oak tree. She was always friendly and would wave, sometimes inviting me to join her for coffee, or tea, and a pastry of some sort. She was a petite person with large sad eyes. As time went by, we became very good friends. She often told me how much she appreciated having someone to talk to, as she had no children or friends close by, and felt lonely living so far out in the county.
“It wasn’t until too late that I realized the utter depth of her loneliness.
“Mittie’s husband, Horace Drane, was a towering dandy dresser whose cold heart seemed manifested in his high forehead and seemingly frozen stern expression. He was a wealthy man, owning a farm machinery business with offices in Russellville and Franklin, and was often away on so-called business. Being a very cruel man, I firmly believe he purchased a home way out here in the country to keep Mittie isolated, while he ran around and did as he pleased.
“It was some time before I actually met Horace. He came home unexpectedly one day while Mittie and I were enjoying tea and an apple pie. Mittie became very pale, almost as though about to faint, and nervously introduced us. Horace glared at me, said nothing, and left the room. Moments later I heard a door slam upstairs. Mittie apologized and asked if we could resume our visit later.”
A Million Doorways Page 9