Mary at the Old Railroad Trestle

Chapters 30-31

Chapter 30


          I couldn’t imagine what to expect from the upcoming evening’s festivities. Surely not what actually did occur! From snippets of conversation and gossip I would catch occasionally down at the General & Dry Goods when running errands for Mamma, and oncet or twice in the churchyard while waiting for Mamma to finish conversing with the preacher at the door, I had heard some tales of Aunt Grace’s odd evenings. As I said earlier, Aunt used to go to Birmingham and Montgomery to attend séance services at one Spiritualist church or another; and now that I think on it (as thinking is all I seem to have remaining) I believe that some of her people up in Birmingham may have held services in their homes as well. So she apparently had many an outlet up there if she wanted to be addressing the spirits of what she called her “dearly departed.” (Or anybody else’s dearly departed, for that matter.) Aunt Grace had eyes and ears and heart only for Uncle Colonel Custis, whom she fondly referred to as Mr. Colonel Haskell to his face and even to his spirit, and their son Jamie, dead in the Spanish War of ’98. For her nephews Wilson and Billy Raife, offspring respectively of her sister June and her brother Stratton, Aunt Grace seemed to care not a whit. From what I heard in town, she never requested their presence in the séances, never asked about them at all, never sent a word of kind wishes to them via the medium or Spiritualist minister’s Spirit Guide (usually an Injun apparently, or an Oriental).
         So I could guess that tonight Aunt Grace was going to ask to summon Spirits; that Minister Jepthah Termather would be the called-upon medium to the Other Side, and that me and Mamma would be witnesses. I was uncertain as to whether any one else would have been invited or not; this was Tuesday, and Mamma had said for the next few nights, and then Saturday. Intuition told me that Saturday would be the BIG night and that probably all of Aunt Grace’s open-minded Spiritualist-leaning lady friends would attend. Open-minded? What am I sayin’? This is small-town South Alabama, open-minded just does not do. But Aunt Grace did have a few “close” friends who had attended some of her “evenings,” as she called them, and these included Miz Nichols, Miz Lansing, Miz Wills, and Miz Buxton who lived over toward Andalusia way, that what used to be Montezuma, when it was down on the Conecuh River there and not up on the high bluff. Miz Buxton was some kin by marriage to some of Aunt Grace’s husband’s people up in Charlotte, and also to some of the Birmingham contingent, so she and Aunt Grace got together a time or two and actually pretty often. Miz Buxton had money to burn too, just like my Aunt Grace, who had a pretty penny when Uncle Colonel Custis was alive and dabbling in every pie he could get his pudgy little hands on, and she still had good money after he had gone because she held her purse strings tighter than a sow’s-umm-mouth, and she paid out as very little as she could possibly manage. This here is why Mamma and I have lived in a tiny little sharecropper’s cottage right smack at the edge of a corn field since my Daddy passed away of pneumonia in ’09, ‘stead of in that good-sized house in town where we used to live when Daddy was alive and managing the General & Dry Goods and even ‘fore that, ‘fore I came along, when Daddy was Uncle Colonel Custis’ right-hand man and errand boy.
         So I knew to expect at minimum Aunt Grace and Mister Minister Termather this evening; whether or not any one else would show up I guessed would remain to be seen. I wisht me and Mamma had not been included tonight though.
          Climbing into the back of the wagon behind the Minister, who was busy helping Mamma up into the seat at the same time as giving me odd looks out of the corner of his eyes, was not easy as I had on my heavy second-best skirt dragging at my boot heels. But I managed it, by dint of turning my face away from the Minister’s speculative gaze, and settled into the bed as comfortably as  I could manage under the circumstances, which was to say, not comfortably at all. It seemed like no time at all till we arrived at Aunt Grace’s lovely large establishment; the walk from Mamma’s house to Aunt Grace’s home usually made a lengthy twenty-minute or so trip for me. Of course we were faster in a wagon, but I really think that what made the biggest difference was my dread.
Chapter 31
          When we arrived Minister Termather kindly helped Mamma down from the wagon seat and then turned to help me. Predicting that, I had leaped out from the opposite end of the bed and was straightening my skirts and brushing out my shawl when he turned to me, so I circumvented any notion he had of holding my fingers or touching my skin and thus “reading” me. Seeing as how he had not been quick enough for me, he quirked me a wry smile in response, then offered Mamma his arm up the steps to Aunt Grace’s capacious verandah. I trailed as far behind as was socially acceptable; that is, no farther than would cause that weird eye of Mamma’s to gleam upon me. I wanted no more looks into that gaze, not once, not ever.
         Lucie answered the door ‘fore we could ever cross that wide expanse of verandah and stood back to usher us in. Her dark skin seemed paler than usual and she kept her eyes downcast until Minister Termather on the left and Mamma on his right had passed in and headed toward the back parlor, just behind Aunt Grace’s dining room. As soon as they had stepped beyond Lucie, and I moved as slowly as possible across the threshold, her eyes roved up and caught mine, and a wealth of attitude passed between us. Lucie, who knew what I can See, liked this situation no better than I. I believe now that she had tolerated serving at Aunt Grace’s minor gatherings because not much of anything was accomplished, except perhaps some stirring of the breeze within the room, a candle or two flickering, maybe a gentle wafting of the curtain. But like me, darkie Lucie, whose heritage grounded her in a native Spirituality far beyond my own, and foreign to what Mamma’s church had taught me, knew that the presence of this particular gentleman in the house, Mr. Minister Jepthah Termather,  Not to mention that now I was here too, and I See.
         I strolled about at a snail’s pace down the hall toward the back parlour; by the time I walked in, Mamma had been placed on the front side of the table by Minister Termather. Aunt Grace was at the left end, the head, and he sat at the end, on the right. One look at me was enough to see I would not need his help seating myself, but then Aunt Grace (still not looking at me nor acknowledging my presence) demanded, “Mary! I need you to stay in the kitchen for tonight. Just go sit in there with Lucie and Ben.  She and Chrissy can keep you company. Tell Lucie I said to give you dinner from supper’s left-behinds.”
         Aunt Grace had a very upper-class and stylish voice. With her squat build and her mobcap, her dark grey mourning dress edged in lace at the collar (which my Mamma had designed and sewn, and tatted the lace), she looked so much like illustrations I had seen of England’s Queen Victoria that I expected her to speak in a British accent, rudely addressing us Colonials on how to respect our betters. She even had the puggy frog face of the Queen. I almost looked around to see if Parliament was lurking in the alcoves. Instead, I spun around and walked through the hall to the kitchen, an appendage to the house, standing as it did on the far end of the breezeway. I had not missed the startlement on the face of Minister Termather, though; clearly he had not expected my exile into the kitchen realms with the darkies.
          Right away I knew that slimy lizard had something planned, but apparently even Queen Aunt Grace did not catch on to it, or either she had decided on a change of plans for the evening’s event. Then I turned my mind to wondering why Ben was in the kitchen with Lucie and Chrissy, seeing as how Miz Wills did not seem to be anywhere in sight, but I guessed I could find that out in the kitchen, and since I had not had supper, nor lunch, I thought that I would fill my stomach with “left-behinds” while quietly quizzing the darkies on tonight’s planned events.
          Down the long breezeway to the kitchen, every step away from the main house was a walk of pure pleasure, knowing I was leaving Ol’ Slimy-Sneaky behind in the back parlour. I wisht I had been leavin’ him behind in Birmingham instead, or Montgomery, or Atlanta, wherever the fool man hailed from. Nonetheless, the breezeway carried me right on in to the huge kitchen, and I found Lucie and Chrissy hard at work with the food and dishes and Ben sitting lazily at the table. All greeted me politely but concealed from her niece and Ben, Lucie rolled her eyes and I gave her a firm gaze in response. I knew exactly what she meant and agreed with her completely; having been raised pretty much by Lucie since my birth and encountering her frequently at Mamma’s house as she came over to care for us since my Daddy passed, Lucie and I thought pretty much on the same plane and often we did not need even to speak to communicate. I am certain that Queen Aunt Grace would disaver any such connection between me and the darkies, but nonetheless, just like my Sight, there it was. A fact and I was proud of it (unlike the Sight.)
          I sat down at the table across from Ben, who tried to stand up till I waved him down, shaking my head at him to let him know I expected no especial respect of treatment. Especially not here in the darkies’ own palace of the kitchen. I was just another not-member of the household but at least I fit in here better than what I fit in anywhere else, including at the General & Dry Goods, at the First Baptist Church, and in my Mamma’s house. I have not really fit in anywhere since my Daddy died, and maybe I did not fit in even before then.
         Lucie fixed me a plate and brought it to the trestle table, setting it down in front of me with the silverware from the drawer that the darkies had to use. I thanked her with a smile and softly asked, “Lucie, what is going to happen in there tonight?” She looked sternly at me then cut her eyes over toward the other two darkies; Chrissy was across the room cleaning up the supper dishes, and Ben had moved over there to stand near, talking quietly.
                   ”Dat minister’s goan call up dem Spirits, ah thank, Miss Mary.” I frowned and Lucie nodded, knowing exactly what I meant.
         ”Miz Grace, she foun’ him up there in Montgomery, he be a travelin’ preacher man like dat dere Bro’ Littlejohn wut came through Canton last year, ‘member? Dat preached at the darkie Baptist there and Miz Grace let us all go to?”
                   I nodded, waiting, realizing Lucie would reach her point eventually, and applied myself to my belated supper. At least I would get something worth while out of this evening’s festivities, a good meal, for Lucie was a remarkable cook, even for a house hand. Then, too, I could be thankful I had escaped the séance in the back parlour. I truly hoped that I would not be called in there at some later point in the proceedings. Little did I realize, little did I suspect, that I would be in that back parlour in just a few days’ time, and that the events of that upcoming night would turn my life, my family situation, and even the town of Cameron’s Crossing, head over inverted heels. If only I had known, I would have done the very next day, or maybe even that night after Minister Slimy Snail took that person pretending to be my real Mamma, and me, home again after the un-effective ceremony in Aunt Grace’s back parlour.
          As I munched on my meal, Lucie marched on with her story, explaining at great length about Brother Littlejohn, the traveling African Baptist preacher who came through Canton every year or two as he crisscrossed the Southland. Finally she reached the point about Minister Slimy:
         ”This Minister Termather, he be the same kind of travelin’ preacher man like as Bro’ Littlejohn, and he come across Alabama on his way down from Chancellorsville,” (and here Lucie dropped her voice to lower than a whisper) “which is whur that Miz Prescelia June and her people hailed from, remember wut ah tol’ you?”
I nodded, not stopping to point out that I had first-hand experience with Miz Prescelia June Hargrove, who had perished in that fiery death ‘long about ’76, I believe. I had first-hand encounters with that lady Miz Prescelia June indeed-and with her favourite darkie field hand, that Simmeon, that ‘un who tossed down the tower stairs early one morning like unto daylight and never recovered from his fall-and I had up close first-hand encounters with that white overseer Mr. Jack O’Rourke, sometimes known among the field hands as that Captain O’Rourke, him from Massachusetts who moved into the big plantation house at Twenty-three Oaks after it was learned that Mister Junior Dee Hargrove had passed away while still in service of the War up Chancellorsville way-some said Overseer Captain O’Rourke had not delayed his move into the Big House until Mister Junior Dee had fallen dead, not on the Battlefield in honor and glory, but instead in the rooming house infirmary bed of pneumonia and smallpox. Oh yes, I had first-hand and face-to-face (or sometimes death-to-life) experience of all three of these folks: Miz Prescelia June Hargrove, herself of Chancellorsville; “Captain Jack” overseer O’Rourke, supposedly of Western Massachusetts; and darkie field hand Simmeon, late of the Big House at Twenty-three Oaks.
          After I finished my dinner and pushed the plate away, I settled back with a cup of coffee Lucie sneaked me behind the backs of Ben and Chrissy, still talking softly by the sink as Chrissy finished up the pots from supper. Lucie sat down next to me, in the corner chair, and leaned over to whisper, when suddenly we heard the scraping of chairs at the elliptical table in Aunt Grace’s back parlour. Lucie jumped up like she had been whipped and rushed down the hall, skirts and aprons just a’flappin’, to see what her Mistress would require of her next. I stood up too and moved quietly to the hall door, waiting to see what if anything would be on the next agenda. Then Lucie returned with a flustered look on her face, carrying three china cups to the kitchen, and passing me, said,
          “Your Mamma wants you in the parlor, honey.’
         Surely she did, or whomever that were in the back parlour pretending to be my Mamma, but I ambled as slowly as possible down the hall toward the parlour door. Before I had reached halfway Lucie passed me in a flurry, fetching Aunt Grace’s bedtime libation tray, and flew up the stairs. As I reached the door and looked in, I saw Mamma still at the table with a thunderous expression on her complexion, which darkened as her eyes raised to meet my gaze. Relief overtook me when I saw that her eyes, though that odd dark colour of earlier in the day, at least held no unexpected, unsuspected depths, no portals to the stars-not at this moment. But something clearly was wrong in her mind (its?) and whatever it was, apparently it was both not about me and also about me, as her look, already troubled and vexatious, had noticeably darkened when she spotted me leaning on the lintel.
         ”Come, Mary, it is time to go home.” A simple request, a necessary comment, but that expression-oh that expression promised so much more! I prayed to the Lord Above in whom I scarcely and seldom believed (having seen so much already of The Other Side in my only 14 years) that whatever was at fault, the storm would not break over my head tonight. Nor did it, for as Mamma rose, so did Minister Termather, first to offer Mamma an elbow as she stood, then moving around her to the much more obese Auntie Grace, whom he properly lifted to her feet. By that point Ben and Lucie both had entered the room, and with a wave of her hand and a near-peck on the cheek for Mamma, Aunt departed her throne room in favour of her four-poster. Mamma grasped my arm and pulled me out of the room and down the hall to the front door, then to the wagon. Once again I climbed in the back and waited impatiently while the Minister bade his farewells to his hostess, and then climbed onto the wagon seat and turned the horses toward Mamma’s home.
                   When we arrived, Mamma simply spoke to me over her shoulder. “It’s late, Mary, just go on up to bed.” I whispered, “Good night, Mamma, good night, Minister Termather,” and slipped away, electing to scurry around the house to the back porch and go in that way and on up the stairs to my tiny refuge under the eaves, my dormer room, rather than walk across the front porch eyed by those two who still sat, silent like carved Injun effigies, in the front seat of the wagon. It was not late, yet I found myself exhausted, and for once I fell into a nearly dreamless sleep, on a night for once blessedly unpopulated by The Dead. I know not what time Mamma stepped in, for I had not even remained conscious long enough to hear the front door shut.

Haunting Historical Horror & Supernatural
From the Pen of
Montgomery Sword

** Image ID #1331392 Unavailable **

** Image ID #1323480 Unavailable **