“Pretty sad,” I say.
We follow the van through the woods, crossing streams and spotting deer and rabbits by the side of the road. I want to exclaim how beautiful this place is but the tension remains. The van halts at the beginning of a hiking trail and the other journalists emerge. When TB spots Kelly struggling with her crutches, he jumps out of the pickup and comes to her rescue.
“This trail leads up to where the old town was located,” Shelby says. “There’s a beautiful old church on one side and remnants of the town on the other.”
We take off down the trail, pausing here and there to read the signs, admire the stream beneath the bridge, and assist Kelly who’s struggling with the rugged path. When I spot the church, I know what lies behind, so I make my excuses to TB and Kelly and veer to the right.
Sure enough, behind the church built in 1837 by the Methodist congregation, there’s a graveyard. I spot old tombstones and cast-iron enclosures inside, once an elegant homage to the dead but now a creepy spot probably frequented by teenagers driving the back roads looking for places to scare their dates. The grass is overgrown within the cemetery and bees buzz loudly from a hive high up a water oak. Most of the tombstones are discolored and in bad need of a cleanup — in New Orleans we do this every year at All Saints so I’m admonishing these people in my head — but none of this stops me. I’ve always admired old cemeteries and the histories they contain.
For instance, there’s a tall elegant monument to Sarah, daughter of John and Harriet Stevens, who died in 1854. Sarah was twenty-five, at least entered adulthood, but it’s obvious the pain her death caused her parents for they spared no expense at her funeral.
“Thus, the human heart bereft,” the monument states. “And nothing but memory is left.”
Is that true, I wonder? Is all that’s left of our time on earth nothing but a memory? Or is Lillye still here, as TB insists, existing on another plane, waiting to communicate? And what of Dwayne’s conjure of Lillye? Was that real or was he playing with my fears and desires?
The bees buzz around my head, much like the confusion running through my mind. I sink to the ground, not worrying that the overgrown weeds are still damp from the latest rain. What is the truth, I wonder?
I sit in this sacred space for several minutes before I begin. Since no one else has braved this rugged piece of land — and people are forever scared of cemeteries and I’ve never known why; I find them beautiful — I think of what TB said in the truck. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and think of my once special child. And I begin to speak.
“I miss you,” I start, but the pain’s too deep for words. Tears pour down my cheeks but I try to focus, imagine she’s here, believe that she can hear me. Like my experience at Tom’s Wall, I swear two tiny hands touch my shoulders, and that sweet smell that was all Lillye invades my senses. I breathe it in, tell her in my mind how much I love her, will always love her, and ask that she guide me.
In an instant, the moment passes, the bees, a lone cardinal call, and a slight breeze rustling the overhanging tree branches the only sounds. Once again, the dark hole reappears, threatening to swallow me whole.
Before I fall inside, before I descend into the familiar pain, that cardinal perches on a tombstone in a lone area of the wooded graveyard. It seems to beckon me so I wipe away the tears, gather my emotions, and wander over. The tombstone’s badly discolored, covered in a brown and beige dirt layer, so I lean down to remove as much of the grass and grime as I’m able.
Here, in this lonely place that history has forgotten, lies the son of Cora Meyers, aged three months old.
Right behind his stone is a smaller one, that of Cora Meyers.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Thirteen
“April twenty-third,” I tell TB. “Cora’s death date is September the ninth.”
We’re back in our room and TB’s writing down what I’m rattling off nonstop.
“Did you get all that?”
He doesn’t respond and he’s biting his cheek again.
After my foray into the Rocky Springs cemetery, Shelby gathered us together for a hike, a chance to enjoy the natural side of the Trace, she said, adding with a laugh that it’ll also help walk off that big Southern lunch. Kelly raised her hand to remind our host that she couldn’t walk far so I grabbed the opportunity.
“I just got an urgent message from my editor,” I said. “I really need to go back to the B&B and send over edits. Kelly can ride over with us.”
Half the group gave me a look that said, “Take me with you,” and Kelly practically squealed with glee. Talk about a pack of weary journalists.
The three of us — TB, Kelly, and I — squeezed into the pickup cab, Kelly talking nonstop all the way back to Richfield about her latest cover feature and her upcoming press trip to New Zealand. For once I was not feeling jealous; my trips usually stick to the Deep South and I can’t help turning green when I hear of journalists heading overseas. This time, I was too busy contemplating what I had witnessed in the cemetery.
“What did you get?” I ask TB.
He looks up from his laptop. “Seriously? The Internet is great and all but it does require human research.”
I shrug. “I thought you just pulled it up on Ancestry.”
TB shakes his head. “How did you get through journalism school?”
This smarts, because I never was good at research. “I got As in writing. The other stuff wasn’t as much fun. Besides, look where it landed me, following cops around in St. Bernard Parish. I’m good with police procedure, little good it does me now.”
“It might,” TB mumbles, “if you keep solving murders.”
I start pacing the room because I’m excited. Finding out when Cora died might bring up information on what happened.
“This is 1860,” TB says, reading my mind. “Don’t get your hopes up. They didn’t record everything like they do now.”
I pause. “It won’t tell me how she died?”
TB exhales, looks up, and crosses his arms about his chest. “Okay Miss College Graduate, you need to leave me alone and let me do my work.”
There’s something about his tone. Resentment? All this time I thought he didn’t mind not having a degree. His well-paying job certainly took the sting out of being interrupted in college by a baby. Or maybe I was too blinded by money — journalism pays squat so I was always jealous of his salary. Did I fail to realize he had dreams? But just what are those dreams?
I almost ask about him going back to LSU but I’m still hurt he didn’t tell me. Now, I wonder if I say something he will think I’m patronizing him.
“I’m going for a walk,” I tell TB and he grunts affirmation, studying his laptop.
I was hoping he’d find answers quickly and we could traipse through the plantation grounds together. It’d be a good time to explain what happened with Dwayne at French Camp, how I saw Lillye, and what I plan to do tonight. Maybe it’s best, I think, as I watch my husband digging through the Internet. The less he knows, the less he’ll try to talk me out of it.
I grab my jacket and scarf and head out the door.
“Take Stinky with you,” TB says without looking up. “I ran out of kitty litter and he probably needs to poop.”
I don’t have two seconds to respond to this insane suggestion when Stinky goes flying out the door, heading down the hallway to the second-floor balcony entrance. There are so many logical problems with this scenario but I’m thinking it’s time to roll with it. I open the balcony door and Stinky takes off around the corner, me following right behind. We pass Kelly’s room and I see her through the window talking animatedly on her cell phone, her broken leg prompted up on a pillow, she leaning back on an elegant four-poster bed. The next room before the back staircase must be Dwayne’s and I attempt a peek inside but the curtains are pulled tight. Stinky leaps down the stairs, heads to a group of nearby shrubs and does his business.
“That cat’s not right,” I say to myself,
hoping that he continues to be strange and doesn’t run off into the woods.
When my feet hit the ground floor, Stinky emerges from the bush and meows. I look around to make sure my host doesn’t see. Have no idea how to explain me walking my cat in a no-pet accommodation. Stinky meows again and walks off toward the woods and my fears are realized.
“Stinky,” I call out in a whisper.
He looks back at me for a second as if waiting for me to follow. And, of course, I do, thinking the whole while that I’m following a cat! But then, I see dripping wet ghosts and my friend believes in fallen angels so why not?
We enter woods consisting of pine trees, oak, and a few other hardwoods so there’s a mixture of year-round greenery and bare branches. A chilled breeze makes my cheeks tingly and the fallen leaves crackle under my feet. A blue jay cries out and another answers a few yards away. The trees sway in the breeze and hum, much like those bees did earlier. I exhale my worries and enjoy the moment, following my orange tabby down a solitary path deeper into the woods.
“Where are you going?” I figure I might as well have a conversation with him.
Stinky turns his head slightly and meows, as if to say shut up and follow. And I do. I look back at the big house and it’s barely visible now through the trees. There’s something similar about this scene, however, as if I’ve been here before. I think back on when Cora helped her slaves fix their cabins, the spring sun beating down on her face, she happy with her new home. When I look back again, I realize it’s about the same distance from the main house.
I nearly trip over Stinky, who’s come to a halt. He lets out a yelp as I step on his tail.
“Sorry, but what’s the big deal?”
I look up to see a group of bricks sticking out of the ground, as if an old wall once stood here. As I get closer, I find more bricks in the shape of what must have been a building of sorts, the wood rotted and disappeared leaving behind remnants of a foundation. I lean down and study several of the bricks, rectangular but not perfect, and all sporting slightly different colors. I suspect they were made by hand.
Stinky falls on his side and rubs up against a few bricks, purring away. He makes himself comfortable among the leaves and brick debris while massaging his head against one of the larger bricks. Taking his lead, I sit down among the ruins, too.
“I wonder what used to be here?” I ask him and he meows.
I decide to enjoy the solitude of the woods, so I lean back against what’s left of the wall. In an instant, the vision comes to me.
I’m standing outside a slave cabin that’s located next to a brick smokehouse and the smell of roasting meats invades my senses. I’m busy studying the brick building with the tin roof, imaging what delicacies lie inside because I’m so very hungry, when I see Cora and Menasha walk up, heading toward my home.
“I didn’t do nothing.”
I look up to find a beautiful African American slave woman and feel an instant connection.
Menasha holds up her hands. “We’re not saying you did, child.”
Cora comes into the light of the candle that I’m holding and she appears to have aged ten years, which couldn’t be possible considering she died a few months after her three-month-old son. As her face becomes clearer, I know why; I spot the familiar pain. She’s carrying a parcel in her arms, held tight against her chest as if a balm for her now empty arms.
The slave woman named Rebecca Hamilton backs up a step nervously and is almost inside our cabin. “He made me do it.”
Cora steps closer, and before Becca can slip away Cora grabs her hand. “I know that. I want to help.”
Menasha turns to me. “Jacob, go make yourself scarce.”
Jacob? I look down and find I’m wearing rough trousers that reach above my ankles and a torn calico shirt. I’m barefoot and dirty and my stomach growls from emptiness. This body can’t be more than twelve.
“What the…?” I begin, but Becca gives me a stern look so I quickly say, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s go inside,” Menasha says and the three women enter the cabin and close the door.
I must know what’s going on so I crawl underneath the house — it’s raised for better circulation in the humid south — and sit quietly beneath where the women are gathered inside. The floorboards are rift with holes so I can make out their faces. I hear my mother offering them something to eat, but instead Menasha pulls a couple of biscuits and a small tin of coffee from her pockets.
“We have to be quick,” Menasha says. “We’ve given the master something to keep him sleeping for a while.”
Becca looks scared, afraid of what these women will do to her, but she nods.
“The mistress has arranged for you to travel with someone she trusts, an old friend of hers from Kentucky.”
“Travel?” Becca says with alarm, looking from one woman to the other. “You selling me?”
Menasha rubs her hands on the front of her dress and gives Cora a look.
“His name is Bertrand Willis and he’s a good man,” Cora says. “You can trust him. He’s the brother of Mary Willis Tillerson, my dear friend, and they are both children of a man who helped raise me when my parents died.”
Becca stammers, “Are you selling me?”
“Listen, child,” Menasha says sternly. “It’s for your own good.”
Becca calls out my name and I can hear the fear, sense her panic from beneath the floorboards. I’m ready to call back and assure her I’m okay when Cora takes my mother’s hands.
“He’ll be going with you,” she assures her. “You’ll both be safe where you’re going. Safe from the likes of….” She looks down at her feet, gathering up what little fortitude she has left since her child died. “…my husband’s ways.”
A horse neighs outside the cabin and all three women jump.
“We have to hurry,” Menasha says. “We haven’t much time.”
Cora hands my mother the package she’s carrying.
“There’s money here. Some food. A blanket. Salt.”
Becca takes the package but she’s still confused.
“Bertrand has the papers on both of you. I can’t free you from here but he will once you get to Kentucky.”
“I don’t understand,” Becca says. “Where’s this Kentucky.”
“Far from here,” Menasha inserts, “but don’t you mind that. You’re heading to a much better place.”
“And Jacob….”
Cora nods and attempts a smile but it’s feeble. “Of course.”
Menasha places a hand on Becca’s back and moves her to the front door. “Grab what you can. I’ll fetch Jacob. But you must leave now.”
I scurry out from underneath the house, dusting myself off before the women open the front door. I instantly spot a nicely dressed gentleman in the seat of a wagon, a healthy mule in front.
“Howdy, young man,” he calls to me with a smile.
I’m speechless in front of this well-to-do white man but he appears friendly enough. Will he be taking me to this Kentucky? I shake my head because it’s becoming unclear the difference between me and this young Jacob. Of course I know where Kentucky is!
“Jacob,” Menasha calls to me. “Help your mother get her things into the wagon.”
Momma is pulling items from the cabin and I take them, shoving them over the wagon’s side. This white man has already filled half of the wagon with barrels and sacks of something but there’s room for us. At my back, I hear Menasha assuring momma that everything will be all right.
“You’re still a slave,” Cora tells Becca. “I sold you to Mr. Willis at the courthouse in Natchez so he will have papers on you and Jacob as y’all travel through Mississippi. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be safe, someone might grab you both.”
Momma nods and hangs her head. I sense she feels that the mistress is getting rid of us because of what happened between her and the master. Cora gently places a finger beneath her chin and raises her eyes to hers.
“Mr.
Willis will set you free when you get to his farm, you understand me?”
Momma looks down at her feet again but Cora repeats the chin raising. “Rebecca, I’m trying to help you.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Cora sighs. I don’t think she believes momma. “I want what’s best for you and Jacob. And the new one on the way.”
What? Momma’s having a baby? I shake my head again, realizing that this new life might be the product of Rebecca and Wendell Meyers.
“Yes, ma’am,” Momma says.
“Once the master goes to New Orleans, I’ll be on my way to y’all.” Cora looks up at the nice man in the wagon. “Thanks to my dear dear friends in Kentucky, I might now have a future.”
The man in the wagon smiles back.
“You have my word, Mrs. Hamilton,” the man says to Momma, the first time I’ve heard a white man call my momma by her last name. “Mrs. Meyers and I have an agreement. Once you’re free, you’re welcome to stay and work on my farm. For pay, of course. In fact, my wife has three young’uns and she sure could use some help in the kitchen.”
Something about this man and his warm way of talking relieves the tension in Momma and she braves looking up at him. “I’m right good at cooking, Mr. Bertrand.”
He tips his hat. “Well, then, that’ll do just fine.”
Holy Moses! A white man tipped his hat to my momma.
Cora slips a letter into Momma’s pocket and leans close. She’s whispering so the man won’t hear but I catch what she’s saying.
“I trust him completely. But I want you to send this letter back to me when you get there. Put a swig of rosemary from his garden inside so I know for sure.”
Momma nods quietly.
“And please,” Cora whispers. “Name the child after your late husband and not mine. He deserves a better father.”
Trace of a Ghost Page 19