Times have changed since Cora’s age but do I fear being together again with TB. Is it because I fear losing my freedom? We married so young, so insistently since I became pregnant. We remained together for two years following Lillye’s death because neither of us was motivated to do anything except sleep, eat, and work. Katrina pushed me to action, which is how I ended up living in a potting shed two hours west of New Orleans and changing careers. And now…?
He’s a good man.
I feel this rather than hear someone say it out loud, but it’s like a message from another world coming through, similar to the ghostly images I see on occasion. I get the sudden urge to touch TB’s face, let my thumb roam across his cheek, enjoy those soft, stubborn curls.
He’s a good man.
I almost imagine it’s Lillye whispering in my ear.
TB would help me send slaves into freedom, I think, as my eyelids grow heavy. And he wouldn’t demand I marry him for the task.
Morning comes way too soon and I’m desperate for coffee. TB’s been up for a while and has showered and shaved, looking good in his blue flannel shirt and jeans. I used to love watching him walk through the door after work, his tool belt hugging that slim waist. I had admonished him about not removing it before driving home and TB, with his usual innocent smile, would shrug and say, “It takes too long.”
Lillye would come bouncing up to greet him.
“I’ll do it,” she would exclaim, then remove each tool while TB lovingly caressed her head.
“Where are you?”
I look up to find TB leaning against the door jamb of the bathroom. How long have I been standing here?
I shrug. “Just remembering something.”
TB walks over and starts to give me a morning hug but then thinks better of it. Now, it’s my turn to be disappointed. Have I caused my husband to doubt my affections? Of course, I have.
Before he can pass me by, I grab the front of that flannel and pull close. I breathe in his heavenly scent and wrap my arms about him. He returns the hug instantly.
“What’s the matter, Boo? Were you having a ghost vision again?”
I nod, which is a lie, although watching Cora decide to marry a man who’s almost a stranger has made my pity come, as Aunt Mimi likes to say.
After I dress, we head to the Council House Café for breakfast and who should be there but Kelly, a cast covering her right shinbone. She gives me a hostile stare but then thinks better of it, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. It’s now or never, I think, and head her way.
She’s perched on a comfortable chair, her leg extended over a soft ottoman. I sit down in the chair opposite her.
“How are you?” I ask, and immediately kick myself for such an insipid question.
“As well as can be after falling down a mountain.”
Her tone isn’t as accusatory as I expected.
“Kelly, listen, I didn’t…,” I say playing with my own shirt’s hem.
“I know.”
My head pops up. “You do?”
She looks around the room but the others are all gathered around the coffee, like buzzards on road kill. “I swear I saw you behind me right before I took that tumble. Like clear as day.”
“I wasn’t there…,” I insist but she raises a hand.
“I know.”
She glances around the room again and it’s then I notice than everyone — and I mean everyone, including the woman putting out silverware — is watching our conversation. One person is absent, however, and it’s you know who.
“I thought about it in the hospital,” she begins. “I know you probably don’t like me very much.”
“I don’t dislike you, Kelly. I wasn’t in a good place when we were in Eureka Springs and you offered a ride to the airport but then let me drive while you napped, and the weather was so awful, and I needed family.” I’m rambling. “I had an aunt who lived in Branson….”
She raises her hand again. “I know. I thought about that, too. I tend to take advantage.”
More likely used to getting your way being rich and beautiful, I think.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I can’t imagine why you’d push me off a cliff. I mean, you’re here with your husband.”
I know where this is going so I lean in close. “I have no designs on Dwayne. If you must know, he and I share some psychic abilities and that’s what we talk about.”
This perks up Kelly, much to my surprise.
“What? You’re psychic? Wow, that’s so awesome.”
I pull back. “Yeah, I guess. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Now, it’s her turn to lean close. “Why, what happened?”
I don’t feel like explaining my gifts or my relationship with Cora right now. As Dwayne throws the door of the café open and we all get a burst of cold air, I know my mission is something more important.
“I’ll explain later. Just know that I’m on your side and that we women have to stick together.”
Kelly looks confused. “Stick together, how?”
I look at Dwayne who sends me a warning glance.
“He’s not right, Kelly. If my intuition’s correct, he slept with Shelby last night and Pepper the night before.”
Kelly’s head jolts up, her stern gaze traveling from one woman to the other.
“It’s not their fault,” I quickly add. “Which is why we need to stick together.”
I’m not sure Kelly understands or if her jealousy still dominates her senses, but Shelby calls us to sit and enjoy breakfast so I assist Kelly to the table, then take a chair by TB and Winnie. Thankfully, Winnie fills the morning conversation with tales of her children who have been calling constantly since she left, the goats she’s raising are eating her hydrangeas, which might die anyway if the temperature keeps falling, and her farmhouse that’s a massive work in progress. I relish the reprieve of thinking about fallen angels and plantation ghosts. Before long it’s time to resume our trek down the Trace.
We all haul out the door to retrieve suitcases and meet the van, but I’m ahead of the game. My suitcase is packed and ready to be loaded. It’s one thing I’m super proud of, being able to pack in record time. If there was a suitcase Olympics, I’d win gold every time. I wait in the cold morning air by the van, inhaling my coffee, while the rest go back to their cabins.
It’s then I spot Dwayne, standing in the Parkway, taking photos of the mist of morning. I hear Aunt Mimi’s warning in my ear but I ignore it, my curiosity getting the better of my logical mind.
I follow him, standing on the perpendicular street to provide distance between us. He turns and smiles, as if he knows I would come, and we stare at each other on the crossroads.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“Yes, we do.”
I’m not afraid of this man. I know I should be but something deep in my soul wants to take this guy down. I know he’s going to ask me to join him in some dark woods tonight, prove his evolution theory, or worse, hurt Shelby along the way. But I’m not falling for his charm. Not anymore.
And then, she appears.
It’s Lillye, standing next to Dwayne in her favorite outfit, a purple and gold dress we bought at the LSU gift shop one Sunday when we drove up to Baton Rouge. She’s even got on her purple ballet slippers my mother thought was too tacky but Lillye adored them so we let her wear them everywhere. Her curls hang loose about her shoulders, harking back to the time when she had her own hair, before chemo took it all away.
I’m so shocked, I can’t speak.
“Are you ready to evolve?” Dwayne asks me.
I’m here to disavow this man, to tell him off, to fight back at whatever evil he’s springing forth on this trip. I can’t trust him, should not follow him anywhere.
But all I can do is nod.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Eleven
Shelby cheerfully points out historic sites on the map, places we will pass as we make our way south along the Trace but no one
seems interested. Joe and Stephanie examine photos on his Nikon and Carmine and Winnie are deep in conversation about editors with a publication they both write for. Kelly’s busy trying to figure out how to walk on crutches and Pepper’s thumb beats out a marathon texting on her cell phone. Dwayne has already entered the van, taking an entire aisle in the back and it appears he’s starting a nap.
“Well, perhaps we should make our way to the boardwalk outside Jackson, then,” Shelby says, clearly disappointed.
“Great idea,” Pepper says, and jumps on board, heading to the back to talk to Dwayne. Shelby watches and frowns.
Still working the women, I think, as I watch Dwayne perk up at Pepper’s approach. On the other hand, some women carry that stubborn kink in their armor, always falling for the wrong man. I’m no stranger to that scenario, having had a dalliance with a co-worker when reviewing hotels this past summer. He was charming, arrogant, and a fun romp in the hay. But he was a jerk, and even though I followed in his arrogant footsteps for a while, I came to my senses. I hope these three will do the same.
“Okay then,” Shelby says to me and I notice her eyes glistening. “Just follow us to mile marker one twenty-two.”
I touch her arm and lean close. “She’s a kid. It’s not her fault. Blame him.”
She doesn’t answer, nods slightly, and herds the others on to the van. TB and I enter the pickup and head out. Stinky makes himself comfortable in my lap.
“You’re quiet,” TB says after a few miles.
I’m too busy thinking of my meeting with Dwayne and the vision of Lillye. I want so badly to share this with TB, to try to make sense of it all, but he’ll likely talk me out of tonight’s rendezvous with the devil. We’re spending the evening at a plantation close to Natchez and Dwayne insists there’s a ghost in need of a crossover nearby. It sounds like another walk in the woods which I’d be crazy to do but I want to see him in action. I want to know how he does what he does and if I’m able to do something similar to evolve. How I will handle this, I haven’t a clue.
And Lillye…she was so incredibly real. Her vision only lasted seconds but it was enough to give me hope I never would have imagined before.
“Vi?” TB asks.
“Wondering about Cora,” I lie.
“I forgot to tell you, I did some research on her and Briarwood,” TB says excitedly. “The place is now a museum and bed and breakfast.”
This perks me up. “Wow, maybe we can visit it when we hit the city.”
“It’s not in Natchez. It’s about twenty minutes north of town.”
“Cool! The next time we stop, let’s tell Shelby we want to pause at Briarwood.”
“It’s not called Briarwood.”
This doesn’t make sense. “Then it’s likely not the one Cora lived at.”
“It’s the one.”
“TB, I know for sure she lived at a plantation called Briarwood.”
He looks over at me and that enthusiasm drops. “It’s the same one, Vi. I did the research.”
He’s been awesome helping me investigate my ghostly mysteries but I fear his lack of education and experience with this kind of thing works against him.
“If there’s no modern Briarwood, it may have fallen into disrepair and been torn down,” I explain to him. “We will have to use what we have on Wendell and try to figure out where he lived and compare that to maps today.”
TB looks at me again, this time like a fussed-out puppy.
“I appreciate your help, but it might be a lot more complicated than you think.”
He turns back to the road, but I can see him biting the inside of his cheek, something he’s prone to do when aggravated, like when LSU is down by two, it’s twenty seconds to go, and they’re almost in field goal range.
I touch his arm. “I really do appreciate your help. Let’s look at all the information the next time we stop and we’ll see if we can piece this together.”
TB says nothing, which isn’t like him. Stinky takes this moment to stretch his claws, digging deep into my thigh. I yelp and move him on to the seat. TB looks down at the feline and I swear they’re both sharing a smile.
“Okay, I could be wrong,” I admit, getting the message. “Show me what you’ve found at the next stop.”
We hardly say a word until we reach the boardwalk that stretches through a tupelo and bald cypress swamp along the edge of the Ross R. Barnett Reservoir outside Jackson. Through the trees, I see the bright blue of the lake glistening in the autumn sun but the boardwalk disappears through dense woods.
“Keep your eyes open,” Shelby says brightly as we join the group. “You might see an alligator.”
TB and I share an “Oh goodie” look; we’ve seen plenty growing up in South Louisiana. We tell Shelby that since we’re well acquainted with swamps and wetlands we’ll hang back and help Kelly hobble along. Shelby hesitates, no doubt thinking TB and I will throw Miss Georgia to the gators.
“It’s fine, Shelby,” Kelly assures her. “We’re all good now.”
I was hoping to snag Carmine during this stop and get some answers, and I catch him lingering by the boardwalk entrance, looking my way. When he notices Dwayne put his arm around Shelby and lead her off down the trail, whispering something in her ear, no doubt assurances, he exhales and follows behind. I wonder if he fears for her safety since she’s the current Dwayne girl.
“Bitch,” Kelly says softly. I give her a look and her shoulders fall. “Okay, Mom. Bastard then.”
I laugh. “That works.”
Poor Pepper watches the interaction with Dwayne and Shelby, stuffing her hands inside her black leather jacket and walking silently behind. Joe and Stephanie, bless their Yankee hearts, come up on either side and distract her. I assume they share a joke for Pepper’s laughing.
“Can you manage those crutches down this walkway?” TB asks.
We all gaze down the trail through the wetlands and I get the feeling that TB and Kelly think as I do, that we’d rather sit in the warm sunlight at the trailhead than traipse through nature. At least this morning.
“Wanna just hang out here?” TB asks Kelly.
“Oh God, yes.”
We plant ourselves on the bench and do exactly what I envisioned, hang our heads back and let the morning sun bathe our faces. After a while, TB straightens and turns towards Kelly.
“I have a friend you need to meet.”
I realize he means Stinky and I’m wondering if he has a leash somewhere in the back of his cab. Instead, he walks to the pickup, opens the door wide, and lets the cat saunter out. I bolt upright.
“TB, what are you doing?”
“He’s fine,” my agreeable husband says.
“He’s not fine. Are you crazy? He’s not a dog.”
TB bites the inside of his cheek again. “I know that, Vi.”
Meanwhile, Stinky approaches Kelly and rubs up against her good leg. I gaze at Kelly with wide eyes, hoping she agrees that having a cat wonder free on the side of the Natchez Trace Parkway is as crazy as I think it is.
“Shouldn’t he be on a leash or something?” Kelly asks, and I take the time to give TB a stern look.
“He’s fine,” TB insists, volleying that look back at me.
Sure enough, Stinky doesn’t go far, sniffing out the bushes around us, checking out a small section of boardwalk, using the outdoor kitty litter behind a bald cypress knee. When he starts veering off toward the road, TB whistles and the cat comes right back.
“That’s amazing,” Kelly says. “How did you train him to do that?”
“I didn’t do anything,” TB explains. “Vi found him hanging around her apartment and when he stays with me — when Vi goes on press trips — he does everything I say.”
I’m still not convinced. “Tell me you don’t take my cat walking through the neighborhood.”
“Your cat?” TB asks.
I never thought about who owned Stinky. He came to me as a stray and I always assumed he would never call anyon
e his owner; he’s that independent. He ping pongs back and forth between TB and me like a divorced child and seems to like that arrangement.
“Don’t y’all live together?” Kelly asks.
A silence falls as I wonder how to answer that.
“Vi stayed in Lafayette, the town we evacuated to, and I’m in New Orleans renovating our house,” TB says.
He leaves out the part about me filing separation papers following the storm.
“You poor things,” and with that she asks the hundred questions people do when they find out you spent two days on a roof after the nation’s worst disaster flooded your home. I listen patiently but I want none of it. TB, on the other hand, loves to tell his “Katrina story,” much like everyone else in New Orleans these days. Thankfully the group returns and I scoop up Stinky as inconspicuously as I can and place him in the pickup. When I close the door behind him and look for TB, I find my sorta husband carrying Kelly back to the van, heavy cast, crutches, and all. She’s grinning like she’s being carried up the stairs by Rhett Butler.
I climb in the cab and scratch my sorta feline behind the ears. “Daddy’s something else, isn’t he?”
Stinky winks.
Once again we’re heading south, skirting the capital city of Jackson, although civilization remains hidden behind the park-like setting of the Trace. The van pulls over several times at historical markers and we all read the signs. I’m sure the van occupants aren’t willing to get out for we pause for a few minutes and then take off again.
“You want to talk about Briarwood?” TB offers. “Or would you rather do the work yourself?”
He sounds testy and defensive.
“I’m not doubting you.”
He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “Aren’t you?”
Yes, I really am. I went to journalism school and he dropped out of college to become a carpenter. I don’t think I’m off base here but I really should give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m sorry about before. What did you find out?”
“I followed Wendell Meyers through the census records and he always lived in the same place. He shows up in the city directory of Port Gibson, which is the town next to Natchez, same address for years.”
Trace of a Ghost Page 16