by Aiden James
But the night’s good time was far from over. Once everyone adjourned to the back porch for tea and strawberry short cake, new jokes and the jovial mood returned. Soon, Julian and Dad were talking stocks and everyone else discussed the neighborhood’s storied history that seemed to center mostly on our house and the school at the edge of our property—two places that once shared the earliest land grant in Denmark’s near two-hundred year lifespan.
I’m not sure if anyone even noticed me slipping away, back into the house. I stepped into the foyer and listened. Except for the occasional spurts of activity from the HVAC system, all was quiet. Not even the normal ‘house settling’ pops that seemed to erupt from just after dusk until an hour before dawn resounded. No sign of our invisible resident…. No rustling of a Victorian gown moving across the floor, as Alisia described one encounter. Not even when I carefully peered into the ladies’ parlor—the only room in the entire house that still had the original plaster walls and ceiling—did I detect the ghost’s presence.
Just an empty house. One that carried a curious warmth, or friendly feeling—which believe it or not, often means a place is haunted just as much as if it carried a creepy air. If there were ghosts residing with us in ‘Two Magnolias’, they were the good kind. Or, they at least liked us. Those were mostly Grandma’s words from when we lived in a haunted bungalow, our second residence in Wheaton.
Though I preferred the latter opinion, either one would work for me.
I nodded and smiled at the quiet emptiness, and then rejoined the dinner party. My heart felt lifted by the thought I now had something new to focus on, a revived interest in those who had lived and died in this grand old place, and wondering how our chapter in the house’s legacy would play out.
Hopefully, whenever the ending came, it would be a happy one.
Chapter Six
The following Tuesday afternoon marked our twenty-eighth day in Denmark. It arrived with the confirmation that Alisia and I had successfully mapped out the entire town. A feat we never accomplished in Chicago, I might add. Maybe we hadn’t seen every square inch of Denmark, but we certainly came damned close. Outside of our unconventional neighborhood, much of the place seemed unremarkable.
A typical small town, but with quirks here and there that set it apart from anywhere else. Quirks like old, sandwich-board wearing, white racists. However, I would be remiss to not also mention that the natural beauty in the nearby countryside can be breathtaking—especially near the local winery. A winery, I might add, that gives free samples of just about any kind of wine one can imagine. Better yet, the afternoon staff has been gullible more than once to believe that my sister’s played-up sophistication supported the fact she is of legal age to imbibe with me, her brother, whose latest fake ID says I was born in 1993. Granted, we can drink at home when it’s just family around. But, with the focus being so strong on looking and behaving like two teenage kids should, this was a significant coup for Alisia and me.
Although we had no intention of telling our parents about this, don’t judge or hate, unless you too have been stuck in puberty for half a century.
And, don’t think my need for distraction kept me from doing research on the phantom mistress of our house. Far from it. I had already made initial inquiries with the local historian at the library, just two blocks from our house. Marcella Oakley, the historian, invited Alisia and me to check out several books she had on hand. Unfortunately, none of them included photographs or painted portraits of Sophie—just her famous husband. Still, in addition to several new war games coming out for my Xbox in July, I counted on the hunt for our ghost’s identity to keep me entertained to a varying degree until fall. Even if that meant going through every archived file at City Hall and the courthouse to find something about Ms. Atwater, or any other female resident from that era whose essence might be lingering in the ladies’ parlor.
My biggest distraction might well prove to be my grandfather. Allow me to explain….
After Alisia and I returned from the Denmark Winery, chewing breath mints to camouflage all evidence of our afternoon excursion, we prepared to resume our weeding chores. Mom and Dad had given us a four-hour recess, since a local exterminator was coming by to give our father an estimate on how much it would cost to eliminate our mole problem. The blind suckers had made enough tunnels to cause one of the statues in the main garden to tilt. Alisia’s PETA—influenced compassion went for naught when the rest of the household, other than me, voted to kill the rodents. As with most things at present, though, that meant without the use of magic.
I could tell it was distressing Dad to not simply ‘will’ the little monsters elsewhere. His point that it would be the more humane solution, rather than poisoning the moles, fell on deaf ears.
“We can’t afford to have the only yard on either street ‘mole free’ without a viable reason,” said Mom, right before she headed off for a hair appointment with Meredith. They were going to one of the town’s ritzier salons, located in the square. “Remember that everyone is watching what we do, and especially along Chaffin’s Bend, where they all seem to view the yard as their personal park. Getting rid of our notorious mole problem that apparently has been going on for years, and without the help of an exterminator, would mark one more instance of us being noticeably different.”
Maybe Dad could still find a way to spare the little critters an agonizing cyanide-aided demise without Mom finding out about it. But as things turned out, the mole problem was nothing compared to Grandpa’s eccentric nature that seemed to have taken a turn for the worse during the past week. As I mentioned, Alisia and I had just returned, and Dad was in his office. Grandma was upstairs taking a nap to avoid the afternoon heat and nearly one hundred percent humidity. My sis stretched her recess to the limit, grabbing a Coke from the fridge. And me? Well, I wanted to get the assigned weeding for that afternoon over and done, with or without her help.
I decided to get started on the side of our yard facing another grand house that was built by the son of the guy who built our house when it was the centerpiece for a small horse farm. The Beauregards, an older couple who visited Denmark twice a year for just a few days each time, owned the red brick replica of our place. Thankfully, as we had yet to meet them, they were nowhere around that afternoon. Otherwise, they might’ve had the unsettling sight of my grandfather passing by the upstairs and attic windows on his way to the highest roof in the three-story building, the highest vantage point in our entire neighborhood.
And, I’m not saying he climbed a ladder to reach the roof’s apex.
Back in Chicago, I had heard he used to hang out with the chimney sweeps near downtown toward the end of the nineteenth century. Even today, there are chimney sweeps throughout the greater Chicago area, although they don’t look like the guys in Mary Poppins anymore. In fact, most are skilled masons who can repair and restore chimneys to the way they looked when first built.
“Grandpa—what in the hell are you doing up there?!” I called to him quietly; not wanting to yell for fear the neighbors would notice him. They might have already, but the tall trees and summer’s thick foliage provided a better chance that no one was the wiser about a middle-aged man sitting next to the tallest chimney. “This isn’t Chicago, you know!”
“It isn’t?” he teased. I heard him laugh as he stood up and leaped onto the very top of the chimney. “I’m glad it isn’t! The views, Sebastian… they are incredible from up here! In fact, I can see for several miles… maybe more. Do you know how wonderful it is to not have one’s view encumbered by smog and skyscrapers, or a damned church steeple? This is heavenly!”
I didn’t know how to react, or remotely what to say to him. Other than what stumbled out of my mouth.
“Mom and Grandma are gonna kill you when they find out you’re up there!” I said, half-tempted to run in the house and get my father to come outside. Something bad was going to come of this—I could feel it. And, no, it didn’t make complete sense to be so apprehensi
ve. After all, if Grandpa fell, he would likely land lightly on his feet, and if he didn’t, he might get a few scrapes or bruises. But that would be it. “Why can’t you at least stick to your own roof? That would at least be easier to explain.”
“The view, Sebastian!” He pointed around him, and I now feared his excited agitation would make him more noticeable. The situation was getting worse by the moment. “I love that house—you know it. But the views from the roof suck! Big time—isn’t that the way you youngsters put it? Yeah… the views suck big time!”
“Georghe?... Georghe! Get down from there now!”
As I feared, Grandma figured out what was happening. I wasn’t aware of the back door opening; nor did I hear the screen door open after it, until it cracked loudly against the doorframe. But by then, my grandmother had already rebuked the old man presently dancing like U2’s Bono across the roof’s narrow crest.
“He won’t listen to me,” I told her, dismayed at what I thought for sure would be the Radus coming out party—as the crazy sons of bitches residing in Old Dominion’s ‘big white elephant’ on the corner. Destined to not only face the scorn of the conservative faction of the neighborhood, but also earn their fear. Hell, it would likely earn everyone’s fear! Crazy was one thing, but adding the aspect of bizarre to it would certainly hasten our departure. Then again… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad in the long term….
“Well, damn it, he’ll listen to me if I have to fly up there and bring his ass down here!” Grandma looked seriously incensed. She certainly intended to follow up on her threat in the literal sense.
Great… just frigging great! The whole damned neighborhood and probably the local police could soon be treated to a nice big taste of weird, Radu style. Might as well invite the sheriff and mayor while we’re at it.
“Mom’s home!” Alisa announced, as our recently purchased Mustang convertible pulled up. Frankly, my sis and I had hoped to drive it that day, but Meredith had wanted to take a spin in it, leaving the Escalade to us. Fortunately, Mom had already dropped off her new pal across the street before pulling around to the long drive to the back of the house from Chaffin’s Bend.
Maybe Meredith wouldn’t have noticed Grandpa’s antics from where Mom dropped her off, at the front gate across from ours. Likely, Julien wouldn’t notice either, buried in his bookwork inside their house. And unless things got loud, Sadee, living on the other side of the Beauregards, might not notice Grandpa’s presence atop the roof either.
But….
“Father get the hell off that roof!” Mom shouted, soon after she vacated the car, wearing an angry frown. “Get off the roof—Now!”
She sounded unusually infuriated. When Alisia cast a wary glance her way, and Grandma ran to meet her, I realized something else had set my mother off. Then, seeing her father-in-law carrying on like a fool atop the neighbor’s roof destroyed her tender façade. Granted, it wasn’t intuitive for me… it was seeing her nearly collapse when my grandmother reached her.
“Mom—what’s wrong?!”
My heart shouted the same words that Alisia uttered as we ran to where Grandma and Mom held each other. I couldn’t immediately recall the last time I had seen Mom this upset, and she wouldn’t tell us anything. She didn’t stop shaking until Dad came outside and gently took her in his arms from Grandma. She whimpered the entire way up the stairs, and as soon as they were both inside the kitchen, she bawled like a baby.
By then, Grandpa had rejoined us; his moment of childishness had passed. And, my grandmother didn’t resist his efforts to take her in his arms and lead her inside the house. The look on their faces told me they already understood what had upset Mom so much, and I looked to Alisia for an explanation. But she was weeping, too.
After casting a cautionary glance toward the surrounding houses, and not seeing the Mays, Deans, or Crawfords outside their homes, I followed everyone else inside our house. Didn’t see the crazy man or his oppressed family either. Even if the neighbors heard my mother’s anger and subsequent wails of grief, escaping their direct notice was far better than it would’ve been otherwise. We could come up with numerous alibis for my mother’s cries. But, seeing an old man float to the ground from a fifty-foot roof would’ve been another issue entirely.
* * * * *
It took nearly an hour before Mom was ready to share what had upset her so badly. We were all seated in the living room—my sister and me sharing the loveseat, and Grandma and Dad sandwiching our mother in the middle of the sofa, while Grandpa looked on from behind them.
Fortunately, Meredith Mays was unaware that the news from the real estate agent who sold the house to our family was significant in any way. Or, so Mom hoped, since, as I’ve noted, Meredith enjoys similar intuitive abilities to the women in our family. They had run into Julie Paris at the beauty salon, and Julie mentioned off hand that a wealthy family from Chicago had inquired about Denmark’s most prestigious in-city property that had recently been put on the market: The Dorothy Bresden home on Dewitt Street.
Nothing worried Mom at first, until Julie mentioned that this family from the North chose Denmark as their new intended destination, so they could remain in contact with some old friends who had recently moved here. My mother almost didn’t ask for a name… and soon regretted that she had, though inevitable that she would eventually find out the identity of the new Denmark transplants.
“Why, it’s Simion and Magdelena Matei!” Julie drawled warmly, without a clue she had unwittingly plunged a verbal dagger into Mom’s heart. “Now, the offer is still pendin’, since Ms. Bresden’s great, great granddaughter was havin’ second thoughts about sellin’ the place after the last deal fell through. But, we’ll know for sure by Friday if your friends will be joinin’ y’all in Denmark…. Isn’t that wonderful news?”
Mom had told us that Julie Paris was sort of a blonde bimbo, who unnecessarily had embellished the facts about the Atwater house’s appointments. She obviously didn’t read my folks well, since they were ready to purchase the place as is, and gave the full asking price. Described to me as a mini-skirt wearing forty-ish gal, who wore too much makeup and spent far too long admiring my Dad, I enjoyed a clear picture in my head of how the beauty salon conversation went down…. My father’s cell phone conversation with his older brother Adrian, presently visiting Amsterdam, pulled me back to the present.
“Well, they found us,” Dad told Adrian. “Oh yes… it must be true. You were right, man. We should’ve taken it all the way and changed our frigging names. What? Maybe… but all that matters now is this: If they find us, they intend to resolve the issue once and for all…. Uh-huh. Well, we need you and Manuel—just get here as soon as you can. The Matei’s reasons for coming can’t possibly be good, Adrian…. Yes, that’s exactly right. A battle now looms. Uh-huh… Unfortunately, blood from the Radu’s and Matei’s will soon flow through the streets of Denmark…. Count on it.”
Chapter Seven
While my family continued the debate about slipping out of Denmark and heading west, Alisia and I were relieved of our weed-pulling duties. In addition to our emancipation from toiling in the oppressive heat, I felt like I now had a helluva lot more free time to enjoy. Very strange, as only a month earlier I often felt pressed for time, despite school being over and my days occupied with the latest version of Dark Souls. Amazing what having to work and relying on better time management can do for one’s perspective.
With all this sudden free time, and the inevitable vagabond status we were facing, I took my father up on his offer to let me tag along to Julien and Meredith’s place. The ladies in our family were out with Sadee and Meredith for the afternoon, and the urgency to monitor Grandpa’s extracurricular activities had waned since the news other warlocks would soon be citizens of the great city of Denmark. So, the prospect of hanging out a few hours with my new favorite author sounded very cool.
Besides, I had been dying to see the inside of this amazing Queen Anne across the street. The place gave me
chills as Dad and I stepped closer to the intricate spindle work atop the front porch and eves. Yeah, a little weird maybe, but a house like this has the same effect on me that meeting Justin Timberlake would have on my sis. Maybe I should take up drafting with a focus on Victorian-styled architecture, if I decide to go on to college. Even if I didn’t use a skill set like that in this generation, it might come in handy during the next hundred years or so.
As we stepped up to the gate that was slightly shorter and more ornate than ours, a little girl accosted us. Twyla Tidwell. I should’ve mentioned her earlier, since the five-year-old is a verifiable ‘hoot’, as they say down here. Blonde, blue-eyed, and cute as a button, she roams the neighborhood, introducing herself to strangers with the tag line of ‘it’s okay for me to be here as long as I can see my house’, which sits behind the Mays’ home. I could barely see the fence surrounding her yard the first time she pulled that intro on me, right after we moved in. But before I could stop her, she had already met Grandpa and Grandma after running to our front door, and then invited herself inside our house. Despite the unusual assertiveness, my grandparents liked her immediately. Once I got over the little girl’s obstinate pushiness, I fell in love with her, too.
“Hello, Mister man and his son!” she said, parking her bike outside the Mays’ gate and leaning it against an azalea bush, breaking a small branch and sending several flower petals spiraling toward the sidewalk. She didn’t wait for either my father or me to acknowledge her greeting, pushing past us to reach the front door. Before she rang the doorbell, Julien opened the front door. “Huh? You’re supposed to let me ring the doorbell! That’s what Miss Meredith said!”