“So what kind of dining experience am I in for?” Nate asked.
“The best, of course.”
“Well, I’m sure of that, but my culinary experience is pretty limited.”
Anna’s eyes shone with opportunity. “Can I order for us? Do you like spicy?”
“Love spicy.”
The waiter brought them their drinks and Anna went through a recitation of Louisiana fare: fried alligator, two cups of gumbo, crawfish etouffee, boudin. Nate mowed through plate after plate until his mouth was on fire, then went back for more. It tasted mind-bogglingly awesome. By the time the food was gone, his stomach was so full he was practically ready for a nap right then and there.
“So, did you like it?” Anna asked, testing.
“Nah, hated it.”
“Yeah,” she said, looking at the empty plates. “Send it back, huh?”
“Yes.” Nate patted his belly. “Much better than microwave dinners.”
She giggled her little giggle. “Well, I’m glad this was a hit. I wish I could cook like this.”
“That would be terrible,” Nate said. “You’d weigh six hundred pounds. It’s too good.”
“Oh, I disagree. I do a lot of stuff in the kitchen. The secret to cooking is feeding others, not yourself. You take your little tastes of each dish along the way, but for any leftovers, you pack it up with the guests and send it home with them. That way, you can enjoy the actual act of cooking and not stress about eating it all.” She sighed contentedly. “Nights like this are my research for new recipes.”
“My idea of a new recipe is using a different take-out joint.”
Anna stretched. “I can cover that too. I know all the best places. Let me know when you want pizza. Antone’s has this great meat lover’s pie, real salty. Oh yeah. I have shoes that won’t fit the day after eating one of those.”
Nate laughed. Anna smiled back.
“So tell me more about what you found in the attic,” she said, sipping her wine.
“Right! It was all kinds of old-timey stuff straight out of the Civil War—clothes, weapons, flags. I think it belonged to a Colonel McAuliffe. One of the boxes had his name on it and something about a Cavalry regiment.”
“Colonel McAuliffe built that house you’re renovating,” Anna said. “Do you remember when we first met? You were confused by how I referred to the place because it was different than your aunt’s name.”
“I remember.”
“What are you going to do with it all?”
“Sell it,” Nate said without hesitation.
“What?” Anna’s eyes got wide. “Nate, those things are probably incredibly significant from a historical perspective, especially if they’re in good shape.”
“I know. Perfect for a collector somewhere.”
“You don’t think you should donate it to a museum?”
“No.”
“Or put it in a display case somewhere in the house?”
“No.”
“Wow, tell me how you really feel?” Anna wrinkled her forehead. “Aren’t you curious in the least as to the story behind what you found?”
“There’s a journal of some sort I found mixed in with the clothes. I was thinking about reading it.”
“Is it Colonel McAuliffe’s?”
Nate shook his head. “I don’t think so. I just glanced at it, but the handwriting looks like a girl’s. Anyway, I haven’t dug into it yet. I’m saving it for when I have trouble falling asleep.”
“You’re not expecting it to be interesting?”
“It’s not that.” Did he tell her? Nate scrunched up his face with embarrassment. “Reading has always put me to sleep. Can’t help it. Restless? Pick up the newspaper. Insomnia? Flip through a book. Instant narcolepsy.”
Anna smiled. “You must have done well in school then.”
“I’m a good listener.”
She liked that, and smiled some more.
They talked for a long time. When they finally drove back to the mansion, Nate invited her in for some wine.
“Just one glass,” Anna warned.
“Let me get the bottle. Make yourself at home.” Nate glared at Adolf, who was fast asleep and taking up the entire length of the love seat. He gave him a shove and carved out a tiny clearing on the cushion. “Be right back.”
Nate ran to the kitchen and pulled out the convenience store special he had hastily purchased earlier in the day. After eleven twists of the corkscrew he successfully pulled off the screw-top he could have easily opened if he had been paying attention.
Anna was sitting stiffly on the couch next to Adolf.
“Here you go. Dime store merlot.”
“Perfect. I’m not a fancy girl.”
Nate stood next to her, wondering how to make more room without Adolf getting territorial. He went back to the kitchen and retrieved a bully stick from over the fridge. Adolf’s head popped up and he instantly vacated.
“What was that you gave him?” Anna asked.
“A bully stick.”
“What’s a bully stick?”
“Uh, not important.” Nate began to sit down but glimpsed his Jambone on the end table. He had a sudden inspiration. “Hey, will you dance with me?”
“Dance?”
“Yeah. Check this out.”
Nate switched on the speaker. He had a lot of heavy metal on his phone, but as he scrolled through the list he saw some Willie Nelson he saved for when his mother came to visit. A few swipes later and Crazy filled the air.
Nate extended his hand. “Madam?”
Anna put her hand in his and stood up. Nate placed his other hand gently against the small of her back. He was nervous, sweating, despite an air gap between them that would make a nun at a Catholic school dance nod with approval. As they started to sway back and forth to the music, the space began to shrink. He kept staring into her eyes. They were so pretty. She was so pretty. And then everything was dark. His eyes were shut as her lips pressed against his, the soft sounds of Willie in the distant background.
Willie suddenly shrieked out the dissonant chords of The Back Street Boys.
“Oh.” Anna pulled tragically away. “That’s my phone. Sorry, that’s my mom’s ring. She has Des.…”
“Of course,” Nate said, still in a daze from having tasted heaven.
Anna had her phone to her ear. Nate could tell something was wrong almost immediately. “Yes … oh, Jesus … okay. I’m—I’m on my way,” she was saying.
“What is it?”
Anna wore a pained look. “Des is sick—has a fever, threw up all over the bed and is crying for mommy. I have to go. I’m so sorry, Nate.”
“Hey. I understand. To be continued.”
Nate followed her out the front door to her car. She was flustered, fumbling through her purse for her keys. She found them and opened the front door, then seemed to think of some errant thought before opening the back door. A large handbag full of stuff tumbled out upside down.
“Crap! My Des bag.”
Bending down, Nate helped pick up a stuffed lamb, bags of snacks, and other kid things. He tried to put them back in the bag but Anna was competing with him, still digging through what was inside until she found some medicine. “One less stop to make,” she muttered.
“Anything I can do?” Nate asked.
“No. I just have to. I’m sorry, Nate.” She put her hand on his chest. “I don’t want to go, but I have to.”
Feeling brave, Nate grabbed her arm and pulled her close enough for another kiss. This one was different—a fleeting, rushed embrace. But when their lips parted Anna wore a rueful smile.
“Like you said, to be continued,” she said.
“Yes.”
She climbed into the driver seat and started the engine. As she backed away, the headlights flashed on something on the ground. Nate scooped it up and saw that it was a Barbie doll. He tried to wave her back but it was too dark, and the headlights were pointed in another direction. Nate knew Anna
was distracted. Moments later she was gone.
Nate walked back up the front steps to the porch. The light from the parlor revealed the doll had no clothes, and her hair was mussed up and wild.
“At least someone looks like they got lucky,” Nate said.
But he didn’t mind. He was in love.
16
Being in love apparently meant being unable to sleep. Nate stared at the ceiling in his bedroom for the better part of an hour. Gilligan curling up at his feet didn’t help; in fact, it made it worse because every time Nate shifted around, the disturbance caused the cat to glare at him with a how dare you expression that telegraphed payback. And despite the temptation, Nate was too lazy to go to the kitchen and pour himself a nightcap.
He turned the light on to search for a magazine. His eyes fell upon the old journal from the attic. Opening it once again revealed the faded photograph that didn’t match the handwriting. What was it all about?
“Let’s find out,” Nate thought. He propped up his pillow and began to read.
The Personal Diary and Journal of Susannah Rose Mayfair
4 April, 1861
Our party has finally arrived at Uncle’s estate. What a relief! I have been told that Louisiana can be hot, but even now on this early day of spring the weather is a shade less than unbearable. My travel clothes are so sweaty, I do believe that if I were doused with honey and tied down on an ant mound I would be less itchy than I am right now. Mercy! I cannot wait for a cool glass of water and a steady breeze.
Uncle Rufus and Aunt Sophie met us on the front porch with smiles bigger than the moon. Sophie is with child and starting to show her bump. Rufus looks so tall and gallant, if they have a boy I am sure he will look just like his father. They took me inside so that I could change, then we spent a lovely time on the porch where they asked about my journey.
“Is it always so hot here, Uncle Rufus?” I said.
“What, the sun does not agree with your delicate sensibility, young Savannah?”
“My sensibility left a sweat stain on your fine cushion seat, dear sir.”
“No worries. That can be Sophie’s seat then.”
It was here that I learned about my aunt and uncles remarkably … unique … relationship. It is clear that they love one another, but oh Lord, do they have sharp tongues.
“WHY would that be my seat, Rufus?” Sophie said. “You should change that cushion to show some honor for your lady.”
“If she were a lady, I would. But I only see you!”
“Well, ‘only me’ will be sure to drop your laundry in the horseshit outside.”
“Don’t talk to me that way, woman!”
“You ungrateful bean pole!”
Rufus raised his hand. “I will smack you, I swear I will!”
“If you come over here, your arm is going to be as broke as Jimmy Ray!”
“Don’t you bring poor Jimmy into this! It ain’t his fault he got thrown off his horse. If it weren’t for that goddamn horsefly, he wouldn’t have been bucked.”
“Well, maybe you should go ride then, so you can get bucked into a tree to knock some sense into you!”
“You troll!”
“You hobgoblin!”
I swear my eyes must have been the size of saucers over the next several minutes, which ended in Sophie storming off and Rufus fuming in his chair. The questions about my trip were all but forgotten.
Aunt Sophie later had a slave named Junie assigned to help me during my stay. Junie is not even thirteen years old, no one is quite sure, but truly a blessing. She is the most attentive help I ever could have hoped for. I retired to my room, a lovely corner on the second floor that overlooks some magnificent pecan trees, and Junie had fresh clothes laid out for me as well as a basin of water and towel. She is quite a pretty girl, skin as dark as night and the biggest brown eyes you could imagine. I caught her eye after I changed clothes and smiled at her. She gave me the tiniest of smiles back.
I asked, are you as excited as I am about the baby coming?
“Oh, yes Miss Susannah, I bin very excited,” she said.
“I do hope it is a girl and she is just like Sophie,” I said.
Junie certainly had a strange smile, sort of like her tummy was sick and she was about to puke on my shoe. Must have been something she ate.
I do believe I will enjoy my stay here this summer. I shall miss my home of Tennessee, of course, but the chance to spend time with extended family is always to be cherished. For now, I am simply glad to be out of that suffocating carriage with all the bobbing and bumping.
So, this was mildly interesting. The old Colonel had a visitor one summer. Nate pondered the wonder of this little window back in time as he continued.
5 April, 1861
My first day at the plantation! Breakfast was served early in the dining room. Uncle Rufus had an older Negro attend to me personally. Mister Amos is tall and wiry, and has the most penetrating gaze if he looks at you directly. His skin has the appearance of tough leather. I imagine he runs a smooth household and is not someone that the rest of the slaves would trifle with. The meal itself was fabulous, biscuits and jam and eggs—so much better than during our travels. I shall need to sneak into the kitchen later today if hunger overtakes me.
We had a lovely tour of the gardens over lunch. Aunt Sophie showed me some ancient stone fountains, carved from the early days when the French settled and meant to establish civilization here. The flower beds were meticulously kept and full of all manner of colors. We took our lunch underneath a shade tree and talked of the neighbors from the surrounding plantations. Aunt Sophie says the Devereaux family has the largest land holding after Uncle Rufus. They have a son, George, almost sixteen and terribly handsome from what I understand.
“Well,” I said, “I certainly hope I am afforded the opportunity to meet him.”
“Oh, of course, how could I forget!” Sophie exclaimed. “They will be at our cotillion ball later in the spring. We have such a rich history together. They wouldn’t miss a party for nothing. George, his father Richard, and his wife. Bessie.”
The way Aunt Sophie said ‘Bessie’ had a bit of an odd inflection. I asked, “Perhaps you and I and Bessie and George should endeavor for a lunch sooner than the ball?”
I noticed that her eyes had narrowed into a faraway look. “What’s that?”
“I said, perhaps we should do lunch beforehand.”
“Oh. Oh! That’s … oh, my, that’s.…” Sophie slipped into the most awkward cackle I have ever heard. “Oh, the cotillion will be here soon enough, and I will have my guests well entertained. In fact, Bessie is quite the performer—she’s going to sing for us! Oh, she will be singing! So let’s you and I just enjoy ourselves in the meantime!”
We clinked our glasses of sweet tea in a toast. I sipped mine and watched dear Aunt Sophie put a crumpled napkin onto the table in favor for another. She had accidentally scrunched it into a little ball with her hand and it was of course not useful.
Supper was wonderful and I would be remiss if I did not recount how succulent the roast pig was. I shall have to be careful if I wish to continue fitting in my clothes! Aunt Sophie seems to be on a mission to add some weight onto what she has already called my petite frame. After we dined, I was able to spend some more time with Uncle Rufus in the parlor. He sipped a whiskey and asked me all about Mother and Father, how my schooling was, and so on. He seemed particularly amused when I shared how I had taken to my horse riding.
“Horses are not an endeavor for a fine young lady such as yourself,” he said.
“How else should I run down my choice of suitor?”
Uncle Rufus let out a magnificent laugh. “Indeed, sweet girl. Indeed!”
I must confess, at one point our conversation did take a turn to a rather serious nature. Uncle Rufus asked me what I thought about the establishment of the Confederacy. I told him that it was not my place to have an opinion there, especially since this newly created constitution is barely
two months old. I am no politician, nor am I a person of business or of the military establishment. So I asked him what he thought, both as a gentleman and landholder. Uncle Rufus was quiet for a long time. Then he looked at me and I could see the worry in his eyes.
He said, “The economics of The South have been very good to our family. I would not wish for that to change. But a declaration of succession is a direct challenge to a well-industrialized nation. The United States will never be in agreement to halving its population. It will never willingly part with its resources which are so inconveniently located in the lands with which the Confederacy intends to depart.” He smoked his pipe, staring intently at me.
I asked Uncle Rufus how this could be. For are we not the land of King Cotton, as so many of the folk are proud of sharing in their discussions over tea?
“Do you know what King Cotton says?” Uncle Rufus asked.
I confessed that I did not fully understand the concept.
“The idea is that if the Confederacy controls the supply of such a vital export, then we have no fear of war. Indeed, cotton merchants in New Orleans and other ports have refused to send any more shipments. If the New England mills and British markets are starved of their ability to furnish textiles to the world, then surely they would sue for peace over a long and protracted military dispute.”
That seemed a sound strategy, I advised.
“Is it, my dear?” Uncle Rufus challenged as he smoked his pipe. “Our harvests over the past few years have been very successful. What would you do if you had ample supply that was more than you could consume?”
“I would save it,” I said.
Rufus nodded. “For a rainy day such as now.”
I thought for a while. “So, you believe that King Cotton will fail?”
Uncle puffed on his pipe. “I fear that no good will come of this course of action, dear Susannah.”
I remember Rufus staring at the floor for several very long moments before Junie came in with a message that Aunt Sophie was looking for me. Then the tension was gone. The twinkle in Uncle Rufus’s eyes returned, and he stood graciously as I excused myself. And in truth, I was quite relieved. I love my good uncle so, but the intensity of our conversation was more than I cared to bear.
The House That Jack Built: A Humorous Haunted House Fiasco Page 11