I chose ribs, red rice, collard greens, okra, and tomatoes—all for the price of seven dollars. Then I slid into a booth at one of three rickety tables and watched her go to work.
The old woman puttered about, murderously hacking away at the ribs with such vengeance that I was taken by surprise. Even more startling was the lethal look in her eyes. Her mouth moved, uttering the same word over and over, as I focused in on what she said.
Clarence, Clarence, Clarence.
The chant tripped from her lips with each fall of the cleaver, appearing to give her great satisfaction. I imagined Clarence to be her husband, and wondered if he were already dead.
She then spooned soggy greens from a battered old pan. The veggies hung limp as wet noodles, having experienced a slow, painful demise after cooking on the stove for several hours.
A tiny black-and-white TV angrily blared where it sat on a decrepit Formica table. Even here, there was no escaping the Auburn–Georgia football game. My dinner was served as Auburn scored a few extra points before halftime. My hostess clucked her tongue in disgust, and irritably turned the channel. Oh goody. I got to watch Robert Stack narrate Unsolved Mysteries, instead.
I polished off the last of my meal, dipping a slice of foam rubber disguised as white bread into the remaining barbecue sauce. Yum. Then I attempted to track Santou once more. Damn. The man wasn’t anywhere to be found.
Oh, Rachel!
The lights mischievously called from where they danced upon the cobblestones. Only now they’d moved farther down the street and playfully urged me to come along.
While I didn’t mind being alone, I wasn’t yet ready to head home. Instead, I tripped the lights fantastic and headed to Pinkie Masters’s bar.
A local watering hole, Pinkie’s is easy to find. The neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign shines like a beacon in the dark. I entered the smoke-filled bar where the jukebox competed with the halftime show of the game on TV.
Bellying up to the bar, I ordered the house special—a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon straight out of the cooler on the floor. Then I slid onto a stool and joined the locals, none of whom would have been caught dead ordering a mixed drink in this place. Pulling off the tab, I hoisted the can—no glass, thank you very much—and surveyed my nocturnal companions.
Savannah’s pioneers had mainly been exiles released from debtors’ prisons. Though that was centuries ago, not a whole lot had changed. These days, Savannah’s aristocracy still tends to be one of shabby gentility, many of whom are eccentric enough to belong in a Tennessee Williams play. This gathering of unconventional souls is what gives the city its unique flavor. What other place can lay claim as home to both Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts, along with Lady Chablis—better known as Midnight in the Garden’s ever-loving, party-crashing drag queen?
I knocked back my second beer as the football game resumed, ratcheting the noise level up another few notches. The racket succeeded in driving me out of the place. It was just as well. The guy next to me had become too friendly, and the hour was getting late.
Dragging my rear end off the stool, I walked to my Ford and drove out of Savannah on motorized wings, past the historic district and run-down projects. I waved sayonara to the paper plants, leaving the trappings of city civilization behind. Then, taking a deep breath, I exhaled all of the day’s frustrations. And, just like that, I found myself running on Tybee time.
I flew between strands of land, pulled by the gravitational force of the ocean.
Oatland. Whitemarsh. Wilmington. McQueens.
The name of each tiny island ran through my brain like a mantra, and I chanted them out loud, feeling as though I were a child again. The only thing that slowed my flight was the drawbridge that suddenly rose up into the sky, piercing the heavens like an angry hackle.
Shrimp boats bobbed off to my right, masquerading as fallen stars in the night, their lights forming a strand of diamonds that floated on the black water. I spent the time counting each vessel, while impatiently waiting for a large barge to crawl by. The drawbridge barely came to a close before my foot hit the gas pedal and the Ford continued to soar. I crossed over Lazaretto Creek into Tybee, feeling like one of Blackbeard’s invading pirates.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!
The moon cast ghostly shadows that came to life, swaying and dancing in its light, like a gang of drunken buccaneers in search of buried treasure.
The figures trailed me through the night, as I parked under the carport, ran up the steps, and bolted myself inside, only to discover that the house felt strangely empty. Then I realized why. Loneliness had craftily followed me home, stalking my every move. It edged closer as I saw a note lying on the kitchen table.
Had to take off for destination unknown. Should be back in a day or two, chère.
The loneliness that had been peering over my shoulder now brazenly slipped inside my bones.
There was only one thing to do when the darkness and solitude began to loom. I reached for the vodka bottle and poured myself a hefty drink—no ice, thank you very much. Hell, I didn’t even bother with a splash of vermouth. Forget the olives. No need to add juice. Instead, I drank it straight down until nothing was left. Then I poured myself another.
I was in a state of sleep so deep, it’s as close to death as one can get, when the strangest sound awoke me. I opened my eyes to discover darkness surrounding me everywhere. I must have nodded off, having forgotten to turn on my night light. I hate when that happens. It gives my demons the freedom to run amuck through my home, my dreams, my psyche.
Tiny shivers ran up my back as I heard the sound yet again. I know my demons inside and out. In return, they’ve learned to plumb all my weak spots and like to torment me. However, these moans didn’t belong to them.
Heartbreaking sobs wound themselves around me tight as a steel band. Their sorrow and pain infused my heart, their wails racked with despair. The cries had come before in the night, always when I was alone. Whoever they were, whatever this was, they clearly wanted me on my own. I had little choice but to leave my bed and go outside to further investigate.
I walked into the night where my feet were pillowed by darkness, though the cathedral ceiling was littered with glittering stars. It was almost as if children had gleefully tossed handfuls of sand high over their head, and the grains had magically adhered to the black velvet sky.
I blindly pursued the sobs where they led, following a trail down along the marsh. The moon had risen, fat and round as a well-fed tick that had been busy feasting on the night. It cast its light over the land like a sheet of black-and-white film, creating a photograph in which I now took part. The air was so still, I could have sworn I was in a trance as I kept walking, having lost all sense of time.
I finally stopped in front of a liquid field of spartina grass, each blade blanketed in a golden net of moonbeams. It was here that the sobs died, replaced by a primal throb that rose from deep within the marsh. The vibration filled my body until my frame hummed along in perfect pitch. Then its beat overflowed to mournfully fill the night. At that moment, the marsh came alive in a symphony of pops, rustles, and plinks. The mud awoke with one great gulp. Even pistol shrimp contributed to the concert, clicking their claws loudly together and snapping at the air. That’s when the hairs on my neck stood on end. I could feel that I wasn’t alone.
Rachel! A voice called to me from somewhere in the marsh.
It was as if an invisible cord bound us together. Against my better judgment, I began to walk toward the sound. The water lapped at my toes like tiny, wet kisses, but still I didn’t stop. Not until the low belch of a tugboat punctuated the air, joining the music of the night. Only then did the spell burst like a fragile bubble, causing my feet to come to an immediate halt. I looked down at where a patch of shiny black mud lay before me.
Then I carefully scanned the area. But the tugboat was the only thing in sight, along with the commercial barge that it steadily pushed upriver. I followed them with my eye
s, as they continued toward Savannah. Only when the boats reached their destination could they rest for a while, secure in the knowledge that they’d finally found safe harbor.
Eight
The sun played hide-and-seek, knowing that I wanted to sleep, yet refusing to let me lie in bed any longer. My throat was parched, while my tongue felt like an alien object in my mouth—something akin to a wooly caterpillar. The pounding in my head reminded me to never again mix Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and vodka. But it was the scent emanating from between the sheets that vividly jolted my memory of last night’s foray.
Ohmigod! I smelled exactly like the marsh!
I rolled out of bed and jumped in the shower, where the water beat down upon my head. It washed away the pungent smell that stubbornly clung to my arms, my legs, and my hair. The only thing it couldn’t rinse away were the cries I’d heard in the dead of night, while tracking sorrowful ghosts through the marsh.
I toweled off, dressed, took two aspirin, and stripped the bedsheets. Then I headed into the kitchen, planning to dine on yesterday’s untouched breakfast—a small bowl of Cap’n Crunch.
Opening the fridge, I rooted around—not that there was all that much to dig through. I could have been a stand-in for Old Mother Hubbard, herself. You know—the one whose cupboard was always bare. But that’s what happened whenever Santou went out of town.
I pulled the milk container from behind a couple of beer bottles, opened the carton, and poured some over my cereal. Then I dug into the bowl and popped a spoonful in my mouth—only to spit it back out. The milk had already turned sour. What the hell. There was still a stale Pop-Tart to gnaw on.
I chewed on the dried dough and gummy jelly, only to have it remind me of the mud I’d nearly tramped through in the marsh last night. One thing led to another, as I again replayed what had happened in my mind. There was one person who might provide an answer as to exactly what it was that I’d experienced. Even so, I didn’t know if involving her was the wisest thing to do. It could very well stir up more trouble than would prove worthwhile.
I was still tossing the pros and cons back and forth, as my feet carried me toward my landlady’s house. Houdini met me halfway, where he loudly purred and rubbed against my legs. Then the cat leapt back up onto his favorite spot—the hood of Marie’s mint-condition Eldorado.
The only problem with the car wasn’t mechanical; rather, it had to do with its driver. I’m sure Marie could have navigated just fine, if she would have swallowed her pride and stuck a pillow under her rear. Without that additional height, she couldn’t see above the damn steering wheel. The result was that whenever she drove, the car appeared to be traveling under its own power.
Though she’d never yet had an accident, it had more to do with the neighbors’ precautions than anything else. They’d thoughtfully placed big orange cones along both sides of the road. Their hope was that Marie would take the hint and follow them, like a plane going down the runway.
Even so, something was bound to happen sooner or later. It was just a matter of time. That was the reason parents warned their children to run whenever her yellow bomber came cruising down the blacktop. However rather than flee, it had turned into a game that local kids loved to play. Skipping into the street, they’d join hands and loudly chant,
You better get back
You better get back
Before you end up a big, wet splat.
You better hide
You better run
Or you’ll get hit by Marie and be squished like a bug.
The last child to race off the road was declared the winner. That is, unless someone’s mother caught them first. Then the kids would scatter at her angry warning:
Watch out! Marie’s behind the wheel and she’s gonna cream ya but good!
I always loved visiting Marie’s house. She was constantly collecting things, so that I never knew what I might find. I traipsed up the walk toward a carousel horse that stood on her porch, as if waiting to take me on a daredevil fantasy ride. Whirligigs dangled from the rain gutters and metal cutouts of dragonflies flew everywhere. Marie said they represented happiness, strength, and courage—three of the essentials for getting by in this world.
I knocked on her front door but received no answer. No matter. I knew exactly where she would be if not inside. My feet crunched down the seashell-lined walkway, as I now headed for her backyard.
Brightly painted birdhouses sat atop tall wooden poles, helping to guide the way. Though the lot wasn’t large, Marie had still managed to make room for two items that were near and dear to her heart.
The first was a small pond edged in purple brick, and gaily trimmed with glass stones and glitter. Nothing unusual there. Except that it held a nude mermaid statue adorned in Mardi Gras beads—a figure for which Marie claimed she had once posed.
The other object was a freestanding deck that rose high above the metal rooftops of all the surrounding houses. It provided Marie with an unparalleled view of the ocean on one side, and a panorama of marsh on the other. The deck’s permanent residents were a couple of pink plastic flamingos, along with a knockoff of the famous Waving Girl statue from Savannah. The sculpture stood looking out to sea. Legend had it that her fate was to forever greet approaching ships, while waiting in vain for the return of her lover.
I heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of a creaky porch swing and looked up to see Marie and Alfred rocking away, holding hands like a couple of lovebirds. I still remembered our initial meeting. But then, how could I not?
I’d answered an ad in the local Tybee paper concerning a house for rent, and drove by one night to check it out. What I’d found was an old Eldorado parked in the driveway, rockin’ and rollin’ as though it were possessed. I figured there were probably a couple of kids inside, trying to steal the radio. My plan was to sneak up and scare them. However, I was the one who nearly had a heart attack, as I peeked through the fogged-up windows and saw more than I could ever have dreamt. The juvenile delinquents turned out to be my future landlady and her boyfriend, both totally naked, and in the throes of making passionate love.
Talk about your trauma—not on their part, but mine! Marie later revealed it was one of the things that kept her young, and suggested that I try it sometime. What the heck. She even said I could borrow her Cadillac.
I sprinted up the steps of the deck, as Marie and Alfred fondly smiled down at me. Just the sight of them together always made me chuckle inside. Probably because they reminded me of a couple of puppets on Sesame Street. They were just so damn cheerful all the time. Marie constantly beamed as though she’d swallowed a lightbulb, while Alfred’s happiness rose to the top of his head. The tips of his white hair stood up in the air, as if held there by static electricity.
Marie scooted closer to Alfred and patted the seat beside her.
“Come and join us, Rachel,” she suggested and then took a closer look at me. “Is something wrong, dear? You look perfectly awful this morning.”
She must have been right. Even Alfred’s hair stood up a bit higher as he caught sight of me.
“I bet you haven’t had your morning coffee yet, have you?” he thoughtfully inquired.
Not unless sniffing the last of yesterday’s dried coffee grounds counted. I pathetically shook my head.
“Well then, why don’t you girls talk among yourselves while I go and fix us all a cup?” he helpfully suggested.
I wasn’t about to turn that down. Not when I knew there’d also be pastry involved.
Alfred gave my hand a sympathetic pat, after which he kissed Marie’s cheek. Then he scampered down the steps with all the energy of a sixteen-year-old.
Marie winked at me. “I’m slipping him some Viagra. Now why don’t you tell me what the problem is. Have you and Santou had a fight?”
That was just it. There wouldn’t have been any cries outside my window last night if Jake had been home. It was then I realized that I was beginning to depend on the man.
I looked over a
t Marie’s expectant face and knew I’d have to fill her in as to what had happened. I just hoped she didn’t suck me into her web of wacky superstitions.
“I’ve been hearing strange sounds outside my bedroom window every once in a while,” I tentatively began. “Have you ever heard anything like that over here?”
Part of me wanted her to say yes, so that I’d know I wasn’t crazy. Meanwhile, my rational side wanted to believe it was nothing more than an overactive imagination at work.
Marie’s eyes grew big as an owl’s, and her mouth formed a silent O. “Sounds? What kind of sounds are you talking about?”
A quicksilver jolt of excitement clung to her voice that sent a shiver racing through me.
“It’s the sound of people crying. I’ve heard women, as well as men. Sometimes I swear there are even children. But it’s always the same thing. The wails start softly and gradually build to a crescendo.” I now found myself admitting more than I had intended. “I followed them down to the marsh last night, where I heard them calling my name.”
Marie slowly nodded, as if she knew exactly what I was talking about, while turning toward the marsh. “So that’s where they went.”
The chill inside me blossomed into goosebumps that broke out along my neck. “Then you’ve heard them, too?”
“Oh yes, my dear. They used to be outside my window until I sent them away. I haven’t left this body yet and still need a good night’s sleep, you know.”
Marie was definitely beginning to freak me out. She seemed to realize it, and gave a reassuring smile. “Shall I tell you what it is you’re hearing?”
I nodded, choosing not to speak over the growing lump in my throat.
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