“You’re my angel,” Kelly says and I nearly spit coffee all over the place.
Once again, my husband takes it wrong and his smile disappears. I’m about to regroup and say something, wipe the coffee from my face, when TB announces that we all need to get going and everyone moves to their room to pack up. TB and I slip into ours and he immediately starts throwing clothes into his backpack.
I close the door and lean against it, wonder how to get out of the pickle I’m in. I’m so proud of him right now, for the work he’s done, for going back to school —heck, for being an angel without having to announce it to the world. I cringe on that last thought, still can’t wrap my mind around that one, wonder why I never suspected, although how on earth would someone know? I’m also in love with a man who I thought I needed distance from, thought we weren’t compatible, imagined that after Lillye died that that would be the end of it.
And yet, how do I tell him this? If I brag about his research, will he think I’m patronizing? Or worse, patting him on the head that he’s finally got some smarts? He imagines I think he’s dense, which, I admit, he has grounds to do. All those years raising Lillye while we worked different careers, followed by endless silence between us, he retreating to the television and me to that black hole, did I label him that to justify what was as much my failure to communicate as well as his? We lost a child, most marriages don’t survive that heartbreak. I could have at least tried. On the other hand, maybe we’re both struggling to survive the worst heartache imaginable.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
TB turns and looks up. “For what?”
“Everything,” I whisper.
Again, I suspect he thinks I’m talking about Dwayne, who’s the farthest thing from my mind.
“Whatever, Vi. We’re married in name only. You made that clear long ago.”
He throws his backpack over his shoulder and heads for the door, but I grab his arm. I lean into his shoulder and breathe him in, let my cheek fall on his upper arm.
“There’s no other man. There never was.” I look up into those baby blue eyes, his gaze curious and longing. “It wasn’t about Dwayne as a man. It’s about me and this weird situation I find myself in.”
“And what situation is that, Vi?”
This surprises me for he knows how it all went down on August twenty-ninth three years ago.
“The storm, the trauma, the ghosts I have to save.”
“And what goes down tonight?”
“Tonight?” What does he suspect, I wonder?
“What did you and Carmine talk about?”
I avert my eyes, TB closes his and grimaces, and I long for all the world to explain what Carmine told me but I have specific instructions to remain quiet. Finally, TB exhales, pulls the backpack over his shoulder.
“I’m going to take Stinky down the back staircase. You go out the front with the rest and hopefully no one will notice.”
He grabs Stinky under one arm, checks the hallway for people, then leaves, the antique door creaking in his wake.
I pull my stuff together and follow, hoping to see his pickup in the parking lot when I leave the building. But it’s nowhere to be found.
“Where’s your husband?”
Dwayne stands confidently, dressed in jeans and a neat T-shirt, slipping on sunglasses. I touch St. John in my pocket more to ease my broken heart that protect me from this man, who I won’t give the satisfaction of answering.
Shelby calls us to order and we all say our thanks to Ricky, who avoids me, then we all climb into the van. Everyone’s lethargic so you’d think we’re climbing the stairs of Gibraltar. I find a seat next to Winnie with Carmine behind and they both look at me surprised.
“He left,” is all I say.
This concerns Carmine. Greatly. He gazes out the window searching for TB’s truck but it’s gone.
“What did you do?” Winnie asks.
I’m about to say I failed him but the words get stuck in my throat, lodging there like food you were too quick to enjoy. I look out the window at that sleepy pond, the burnt orange cypress trees and the majestic oaks, that old Southern porch with its rocking chairs, and everything starts to blur. If only we had one more day to pause and enjoy this place, TB and I making love before breakfast, spending the afternoon on that porch reading, talking. Taking a long walk through the woods. I know why Cora decided to keep this place, to stay in a convenient marriage instead of returning home to Kentucky an old maid with coins in her pocket. It’s magical.
It’s also incredibly sad. Too much ugly history and heartache stain these magnificent houses. One reason why I can’t blame Ricky for believing those family stories about Cora, instead of the horrific truth about Wendell.
That lump in my throat finally passes. Well, yes, I can. Before this trip ends, I will be setting Ricky’s history straight.
“What was all that about Cora being connected to that nice couple?” Winnie brings me back.
Dwayne sits up front, trying to cheer up grumpy Pepper while Shelby looks downcast. The man never stops. Knowing he can’t hear me, I fill Winnie in on what TB and I found, how we believe Cora was the savior of Rebecca and Jacob, how she lost her son at an early age and died not long afterwards.
“And not in a mental institution,” I add, although I still have no idea how she died.
We enter the Natchez city limits and Shelby announces that we have now exited the Natchez Trace, the end of the line. We drive through the quaint, riverside town that’s home to hundreds of historic homes, thanks to Union General Ulysses S. Grant, Shelby tells us, who refused to burn the town belonging to the nation’s millionaires at the time of the Civil War.
“Natchez was one of the richest cities in America, if not the richest,” she says proudly.
We pass delightful homes and churches, mostly nineteenth century architecture with a few late Victorians thrown in. Before we hit the downtown area, Shelby points out a couple of massive antebellum homes. And I mean massive.
“The city was founded by the French in 1717 — the oldest city on the Mississippi River,” she says.
“Oldest European city,” Pepper adds. “Wasn’t it named for a tribe?”
Shelby straightens her blouse and her smile fades. “Yes.”
We park at a hotel by the river and disembark. The plan is to check in, break into groups, and experience a horse-drawn carriage ride through the historic town, then have lunch in a tavern claimed to be the oldest surviving building. After lunch, we’re visiting a distillery and a brewery, then heading to the annual “Angels on the Bluff” cemetery tour. At the latter being mentioned, Pepper finally brightens.
Once again, I wish TB was here. I’m not the only one.
“Where is your husband?” Carmine whispers to me heatedly as we grab our suitcases.
When the carriages arrive, the Penningtons take a carriage to themselves while Dwayne offers his hand to Shelby who blushes, then sweeps Kelly off her feet and places her in the back. He then jumps inside and sits between the two, an arm stretched over each shoulder. Both women smile for all the world.
The rest of us — Carmine, Winnie, Pepper, and me — groan collectively, then enter our own carriage, although two on one seat and two on the other. I find myself next to grumpy Pepper, who still, no doubt, is thinking I murdered a helpless animal or stole the man of her dreams. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s left out of Dwayne’s arms, once again.
“He’s a jerk,” I whisper to her.
“Doesn’t help that they flirt with him all the time,” she says so low I barely hear her.
I take her hand, and those heavily mascara eyes look at me, surprised. “He’s playing you all. They’re not the enemy. He is.”
The carriage driver, a delightful man named Steven Winn, introduces himself and we’re off, our hair flying madly since the wind has picked up again. I’m ready to hear a tale of hoop skirts, pageants, and the “War of Northern Aggression” but our tour guide delivers a well-balanc
ed story of Natchez, starting with the French building Fort Rosalie on the Mississippi River bluff and the native tribe resisting and being annihilated by the French.
“Uh huh,” Pepper utters next to me.
Holding on to his hat, Steven explains the history of the town, how its wealth grew on cotton from neighboring plantations, and how these fancy homes were built for owners who’d rather be socializing with other rich families than isolated on rural farms. Natchez sits on a dramatic bluff, a protection against the river’s annual flooding, and below the town at the river’s edge steamboats arrived and products loaded and unloaded. Called Natchez-Under-the-Hill, the mini town owned a reputation for violence and prostitution, so when our poor horse navigates the steep road down to the Mississippi, we see both sides of the city.
We cover a lot of ground, including some pretty impressive churches and a synagogue; apparently some Jewish bankers and merchants came in at the turn of the century and gave an economic jolt to the town. Steven pauses at the Forks of the Road where slaves were auctioned off.
“To give you an idea of the prosperity of Natchez, slaves might have cost twelve hundred in Virginia before the war and sixteen hundred and up here in Natchez,” Steven tells us.
“That’s disgusting,” Pepper says.
“Another tragedy,” Steven says as he turns his horse toward the tavern and lunch, “is the Rhythm Club fire where in 1940 a fire broke out in a nightclub and hundreds of people were trapped inside. Two hundred and nine people were killed.”
As we pass the site of the former nightclub, a sadness pours over me. I look to Carmine and know he’s feeling it, too.
“But not all is sad,” Steven says. “Natchez is also home to novelist Richard Wright and many other African Americans who were successful.”
The carriage finally stops at King’s Tavern, a building that definitely appears to be the oldest in town, something dating back before Gone With the Wind architecture. Steven thanks us and we disembark.
“Y’all going to the Angels on the Bluff tonight?” he asks.
“Yes,” Pepper says enthusiastically. “Can’t wait.”
“Great event and a gorgeous old cemetery,” Steven says. “Right on the river. If you get a chance, go back during the day and walk through.”
We all nod but when you’re on a press trip, your time’s not your own.
“If you’re really adventurous, head a little further north and visit the Devil’s Punchbowl,” he adds. “It’s an old ravine back there where pirates and other nefarious people hung out.”
Pepper beams but Carmine and I share a glance. We’d rather not.
The interior of King’s Tavern is even more interesting, a few tables surrounding a bar, a roaring fireplace to our left, wooden beams interrupting a low ceiling, and a brick floor that looks like it might have been here since its inception. I can easily picture Trace travelers, pirates, and Cora herself enjoying a hot meal and beer after a long walk from Kentucky, thrilled to be finally back in civilization.
The owner gets us situated and takes our orders, offers us local beer which I choose, wanting to be in the spirit of the place. He then explains how the tavern was the end of the road for most or the beginning for others, depending on which way people were heading on the Trace.
“Because there were so many travelers coming through, it also attracted thieves and murderers,” our host tells us. “Many times people rested here until others arrived and then went out on the Trace in groups. But many people lost their lives traveling through Mississippi with money in their pockets after selling their goods downriver.”
“We don’t have that problem anymore,” Shelby pipes in with a smile.
I savor my beer and some delicious flatbread but I can’t keep my eyes off that fireplace. I notice Carmine glancing there as well, so I slip close to his side.
“What happened here?”
He’s a gay SCANC and his ghosts are few and far between so I’m casting my line way out there. Sure enough, he shakes his head. But we still feel it. As if someone was murdered here.
Afterwards, we visit the rum distillery next door, listen to more tales of gypsy, tramps and thieves, and then we’re off to the Natchez Brewery and a fleet of beer samples. Pepper’s in hog heaven, perks up nicely, and heads outside to play lawn games with other millennials. The rest of us, however, are getting sleepy and I’m longing to call TB and find out where he is. Shelby gets the message and offers to drive us back to the hotel, but Pepper asks to remain.
“It’s only a few blocks,” Pepper says. “I can walk back.”
Shelby hesitates and I wonder if it’s because she’s our press mother — they’re anal about knowing where we are at all time — or if she’s worried about our youngest member and the incidents that have plagued us on this trip. That strange sensation I felt at the tavern returns so I encourage Pepper to come with us and get some rest before dinner. She glances over at Dwayne and shivers, then surprisingly, agrees.
Once back at the room I open my curtains and admire the rich amber colors of the sunset over the Mississippi. Storm clouds are gathering in the west and the wind rattles my window and lets out a howl. According to The Weather Channel, the rain’s due close to midnight so our stroll through the cemetery should be blustery.
I flip open my cell and call TB but it immediately goes to voice mail. I lay back on the bed and try a nap, hope to receive a visit from Cora and discover how she died, but sleep won’t come. The air sizzles with electricity with the incoming cold front and my sinuses are going crazy. Finally, I pull on a jacket and head to the lobby for a Diet Dr. Pepper. Who should I run into but Jacob Summerland.
“Well, hey there,” I say.
“Hey, yourself.” He gives me a hug that surprises me because I thought only people south of the Mason Dixon Line did that.
“I’ve had the most informative day.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out several sheets of paper. “Your husband is a whiz. First, we went to the courthouse and found all kinds of information. Then, the library, where we found lots more. He’s really good at this genealogy stuff.”
“That’s awesome,” I say, trying to keep the hurt from my voice. All this time he was in Natchez. “What did you find?”
Jacob pulls me onto a lobby couch. “After Cora died, Wendell enlarged the house for the first time so he came into money somehow. TB looked for a probate that showed Cora had some kind of inheritance but we couldn’t find any.”
I’m thinking of the cash her uncle hid behind the whiskey, the money her overseer didn’t find. Then there was the money from the sale of Rebecca and Jacob. Or maybe her friends in Kentucky gave her money to escape her husband and Wendell found it. Or, all of the above.
“He also worked deals with the Union Army after the War, made a fortune out of some government contracts.”
Jacob starts discussing plantation documents, slave schedules, another house expansion and the like, until I touch his forearm. “Did you find out how Cora died?”
Jacob shakes his head. “Sorry, no. But I did find this.”
He hands me a newspaper clipping of Wendell’s funeral. The article mentions Wendell’s former wife and Cora’s date of death, which will come in handy, but the piece’s primarily about how wonderful this abusive slave holder was. My heart sinks.
Then, I gaze closer into the pixelated photo. There, standing behind what appears to be the mayor, is a familiar face.
Dwayne Garrett.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Sixteen
It’s not long after Jacob and I relate what he’s found and he heads off to dinner with his wife when it’s time for our cemetery outing and the other travel writers start appearing in the lobby. Winnie grabs me and begins a long diatribe about problems with her kids back home, the Penningtons are rushing around looking for camera batteries, and a group of Girl Scouts flood the lobby checking in for a district meeting. In all that chaos, I can’t grab Carmine and explain what I’d learned and
every time I call TB it heads to voice mail.
I look for our time traveler and, for the first time since the trip began, spot Dwayne enjoying company with a man. He’s talking to our van driver Jeff, both of them laughing about something like old friends.
Once the Penningtons have their batteries and Kelly struggles in with her crutches, Shelby herds us on to the van and we head to the Natchez Visitor Center. Apparently, our carriage driver was right, this Angels on the Bluff tour is widely popular for there are several school buses there to haul us out to the Natchez City Cemetery. Since we’re late arriving at the shuttle spot, Shelby grabs our tickets and tells us to load the first school bus heading out. I’m one of the last to get on board and seats are few and far between, so I grab one close to the front. When I look around, Carmine’s several seats behind.
“Keep close,” he mouths to me.
We travel through town on a road that parallels the river, meandering through a neighborhood of Victorian homes before reaching the cemetery that began in 1822. Shelby was right, this place is enormous. The tombstones stretch over acres of hills and roads finger through to allow access. It’s too dark to make out many of the statues and monuments, but several are lit for the occasion, and luminaries line the roads. The wind’s still blowing hard so as the live oak trees sway dramatically, shadows are cast about revealing statue faces, then concealing them again.
“Awesome,” I hear Pepper saying in front of me.
Someone else mentions how spooky this is, but I agree with Pepper. I love cemeteries. The crazy weather, on the other hand, can go.
A tour guide named Linda who’s dressed in a reflective vest and carrying a lantern introduces herself and tells us to stay together and follow the path. She will lead us to several places throughout the cemetery where costumed actors will tell the stories of those buried there. In the distance, I see other groups in different stages of the tour, wavering lights weaving through the tombstones. In several places, there are small campfires bursting with activity due to the erratic wind and generators lighting small stages where actors are addressing groups.
Trace of a Ghost Page 23