The Deserted Cottage

The Deserted Cottage
By The Merry Farmer

I had some time to kill. 

Somehow I ended up near our old estate gazing upon the deserted cottage through a rain spattered windshield.  Shrouded in bougainvillea and ivy, it sat at the end of an isolated lane.

The cottage began as a humble slave cabin, not much more than a shell.  My great, great grandfather, Marley Thompson owned the estate back then. 

When the slaves were emancipated, Darla, the old black cook remained on as hired help.  She’d been on the plantation for so many years she was almost like family.  When they offered her a room off the kitchen she told Marley, she preferred to live alone. “I’s need to be peaceful now ‘n again.” Darla was known for her wisdom and independence even before the slaves were freed.  During her tenure she’d acted as mid-wife for over a hundred slave babies, nursed half dead slaves to health and chased off four and two legged varmints alike.

Hence, Marley rebuilt the cottage for her.  He added a room and installed a private bath.  He replaced the roof and built a proper porch and railing where she could set her pies to cool and partake of the shade in the hot afternoons.  She fixed up the cottage with chintz curtains and bright rag rugs scattered the floor.  Darla kept the cottage spotless.  Her soul was equally spotless and never took to heart the remarks over at the big house about favoritism. 

In recent history the cottage was renovated again.  My grandfather followed his dad’s wishes to the letter:  Preserve the cottage.  It was modernized with appliances and electric heat.  He instructed gardeners to plant roses and hedges.  Outside it looked like an ordinary country cottage.  Inwardly, it was a shrine in honor of Darla as well as ‘a way of life’ that had ended.

Years later my brothers and I would camp here overnight, our sleeping bags thrown on the porch.  We’d lay awake until the stars faded from the sky, just talking, joking and planning our futures.  Some of us lived our dreams.  The twins, Tommy and Randy didn’t.  On their thirteenth birthday they had stolen dad’s car and got it stuck on the tracks.  They didn’t make it out in time. 

The cottage remained vacant for years after the twins were gone until I met Caroline Brentwood. 

Stunning, Caroline was rich, smart and funny.  Her alabaster skin contrasted against waves of ebony tresses.  Caroline’s hazel green eyes peeked out from under long lashes when she pouted and flashed with mischief when she was excited.  She only had eyes for me and I was putty in her hands.

We would sneak over here and enjoy hours of tenderness and frivolity.  It kept us out of the rain, the hot sun and out of sight.  A broken window and a dent in the plastered wall from a flying frying pan attested to the fact it wasn’t always sweetness and light but we always made up.  For three summers this was our playground until her parent’s shipped her off to a college in the North. 

I’d never officially proposed to her.  I guess you’d say I took it for granted she’d marry me when we reached legal age.  The weight of that assumption still haunts me.

My mom and dad divorced after I graduated and the estate was sold.  I‘d never been back before today.  I could see the cottage had been neglected for some time so it didn’t bother me at all I was trespassing.  I stepped lightly through the collapsing door frame.
 
Not much to see but a few shards of a life that no longer existed.  Most of what I saw really wasn’t there at all.  The brain always fills in the details and my memory was at full tilt.  I could hear her laughter and see her billowing skirts as she twirled around the room to the latest beat.  The scratchy old phonograph rested on the sideboard under years of dust.  I entertained winding it up but decided there was little point in pouring salt into old wounds. 

Anyway, it was time to go. 

I came upon Mrs. Brentwood in the foyer and we shook hands.  I had no clue whether she knew of my past with Caroline.  She was stoic as only Southern matriarchs can be.  I remembered the veiled hat perched on her graying head from another time, similar to this and words didn’t come easily.  I gently pressed her arm in consolation.

I hadn’t seen or heard from Caroline in years.  Bits and pieces of news came to me from old friends or a Christmas card or two.  She’d married a successful doctor up North.  Later she gave up her career in law to raise their three children. 

I only knew what I’d heard from gossip.  They were returning from a party and there’d been an accident involving a drunk driver.  There was speculation her husband was the drunk but that was on the QT. 

The organ began to play.  People were filing past two coffins placed side by side, draped in black.  It seemed surreal to me Caroline was in one of them.

Later, I watched from a distance as the others left the graveside.  This was my chance to tell Caroline everything I’d never been able to say and I wanted to be alone when I said goodbye to her.

The rain continued all the way home.  I couldn’t help think it rained at funerals because the tears we hold in at other times need to come out, sometime.  I cried now.  Not just for Caroline but for love lost, for her children and the children who never made it off those tracks.

I dried my eyes and opened the window hoping some fresh air would clear my head.
It was time to put the past where it belonged, in the past and move on with my life. 

I never visited the cottage or relived the dream that was Caroline, again.


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