I had spent considerable time in the ladies’ parlor the evening before. Like the rest of the house, it had high, smooth ceilings with intricate wood trim. A massive sliding wooden door, with a convenient keyhole peephole, separated it from the men’s parlor. The peephole opened only from the men’s side.
The men’s parlor had a small fireplace and a wall lined with built-in bookshelves. If I closed my eyes, I could smell the faint aroma of pipe tobacco that had once, many years ago, filled this dark paneled room in celebration of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood. I hoped that somewhere in the house, those books had been found. Both parlors had doors that opened to a wide porch. The sliding door that connected to the Blue Room was less impressive. The Blue Room was slightly larger than the other two parlors. During Muncie’s time, the windows were hung with heavy blue curtains embellished with gold threads. Now they stood bare, naked. Despite the warm afternoon, I shivered. Walking to the alcove where I had witnessed the unwanted kiss, I amateurishly attempted to open myself emotionally to feel a remnant of life, to experience the boy’s turmoil again. But I felt nothing, only sadness at seeing a veil of dirt on the wall and grooves in the wooden floor made by dragging heavy furniture.
According to TD, Seven Sisters was at first built in a T-shaped, Greek Revival style, perfect for keeping the home cool even during Mobile’s hottest subtropical summers. Over time, rooms had been added, expanding the size of the home for entertaining. I longed to open the doors and windows and allow fresh air to flow through the home. I promised myself I would do that someday. I strolled down the hall to the room where I had witnessed the house slaves lining up for inspection. It was smaller than the rest of the rooms, and it also had a sliding door that connected it to the music room. Just beyond that, at the front of the house, was the banquet hall. None of the original furniture remained on-site, but I had some leads on the table.
My stomach rumbled, and I glanced at my watch. It was past one; Chip, the IT guy, the maintenance team and Hollis Matthews would undoubtedly be returning from lunch at Mama’s, a nearby eatery on Dauphin Street. I secretly hoped that they had ignored my earlier protest and had taken the initiative to bring me back a snack, but I didn’t count on it.
I felt in my pocket for my tiny but powerful LED flashlight and climbed up the wooden staircase. The contractor had assured me that the staircase was in good condition and could be safely used. The occasional twinge on my scalp hoped he knew what he was talking about.
I stepped lightly on the bare wooden floors, ignoring the squeaks and complaints of the old staircase. My sweaty ponytail hung limp in the stifling heat of the upper floor. TD promised that cool air would be flowing up here by tomorrow, and I hoped he was right. I couldn’t ask my team to work in this oppressive heat. I quickly climbed to the top of the stairs and walked to the two large windowed doors that overlooked the back of the property.
I was surprised to find that the locks were modern, and I opened them without much fuss. I didn’t feel brave enough to step out on the veranda; instead, I stood in the hallway breathing in the fresh but humid air and examining the forgotten gardens below. It was a dismal sight.
Forlorn rows of shrubby trees, half-hidden statues and a few small dilapidated buildings dotted the landscape. It looked less hopeful than the house. Large magnolia trees spilled white blossoms all over the ground and obscured what appeared to be a large sundial. Not good planning there, I thought. A massive wisteria vine crawled over whatever it could find, covering camellias with cascades of purple flowers and thick, brown vines. Was that a grave or a stump? I looked closer, keeping my sneakered feet safely in the hallway. Clustered in the center of the main yard was an abandoned rose garden with scrawny bushes and clumsy limbs. Despite the sound of a nearby car horn and the hum of the generator below, I felt very lonely standing on the second floor of Seven Sisters. A thick aroma of decay rolled up from the gardens, an unsettling fragrance of rotten leaves and wood. This was certainly not the pleasant view that the young woman in my dream had enjoyed. In her time, smooth lawns, flowering hedges and white-painted benches and lattice filled the landscape. It was disappointing that what was once elegant and ordered was now overrun and lost beneath a solid layer of chaos. Sadness washed over me. I couldn’t help but think of Muncie, so young and hopeful despite his bleak reality.
With a sigh, I turned my attention to the stacks of boxes and plastic tubs that lined the walls and filled some of the rooms. Walking from room to room, I could see it was a work in progress, but TD and his crew were obviously talented. I loved the colors they had chosen. One of the bedrooms, the one closest to the left side of the stairs, was painted a vivid blue. The massive windows were surrounded with intricate wood molding, obviously new and painted a rich cream color. The floors were a dark walnut wood, and a chandelier sparkling with crystals hung from the ceiling. Of course, electrical lights instead of candles crowned the fixture. Except for allowances for modern building standards, it was as authentic as it could be.
I pulled on my cotton gloves and rifled through a few boxes. I unwrapped a fine porcelain piece, a perky bird resting on a branch. “This will look lovely on a mantelpiece,” I said to myself. Wrapping it back up carefully, I put the lid back on the storage box. I rummaged around like a child at Christmas, careful not to undo the cautious work someone had done packing these precious artifacts. Each one had a story, a reason for being included in the collection. I continued my wandering until I came to a small box in a corner of a small bedroom. I had to prop the door open; it was heavy and wanted to swing closed. This was one room that had intact shutters, and there wasn’t much natural light. I pulled my flashlight from my pocket and tossed the beam on the box. It was dusty and cardboard, and it didn’t seem to belong with the neat plastic tubs and crates.
I pulled back the flaps and saw a box of papers. Digging through the box, I found letters from the late Mrs. Stuart to the Tennessee State Museum, inquiring after several items. I set the letters to the side and kept digging. At the bottom of the box were several leather-bound journals. I lifted one and rubbed my gloved hand across the cover. The engraving was worn away, so I couldn’t read it in the low light. Suddenly, a shadow passed across the doorway.
“Hello? Hey, I’m in here!” I called out. I assumed it was Chip or maybe even Matthews. It was impossible to hear a car approach up here. I placed the book back in the box and stepped into the hallway. As I crossed the doorway, the door to another bedroom down the hall slammed shut. Surprised, I called again, “Hello?”
I took the gloves off and clutched the flashlight, then tried to walk quietly (and bravely) to the closed door. The creaking floorboards gave me away. I stopped at a loud creak and said a little more quietly, “Chip? Mr. Matthews?” Nobody answered, but I could hear the shifting of furniture and the soft jangling of music from behind the closed door. I took a deep breath and walked quickly to the door, turning the knob with force. It wouldn’t budge. “Chip? TD?” I asked as I fought with the knob and tapped on the door. The music stopped, and suddenly the knob turned easily.
The room was bright and sunny but cool, cooler than the rest of the house. It was completely empty. I stood in the center of the room and spun around; there were no other doors except for the way I came in. “Okay, Carrie Jo, get real. It was a draft, or a crooked door that decided to swing closed.” I breathed deeply and realized I was squeezing the flashlight furiously. I tucked it in my pocket, unable to fight the fear that crept up my spine. I felt the urge to leave, and quickly. I walked around the boxes, kicking a music box that was lying on the floor. The toy issued a few complaining strains and quit. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. Okay, I thought, trying to calm my mind, I must have left this out because I was just in here. But I knew I had never seen it before. I set it on a nearby plastic storage tub and left, walking straight downstairs. I was happy to hear voices—voices of the living—in the foyer.
The incident upstairs shook me. I steered clear of the area for the rest of the day and worked on prepping some room layouts instead. By the end of the afternoon, I remembered the box with the leather-bound journals and (like a miserable coward) sent Chip upstairs to retrieve it for me. I declared it too heavy for me to carry and asked him to bring it to my makeshift office. He complied, happy to help with something besides computer work. He delivered it with a smile, obviously not chased by ghouls and goblins. On an impulse, I took a journal from the box and decided to take it home with me. I was curious to read it but more than ready to go home.
Later, I took a walk and snacked on the stuffed fried shrimp po’ boy I’d bought. As I walked, I felt a tinge of sadness. I had hoped that Mobile would be a new start for me. No dreams, no screams and no one to peer at me. I tried to shake off the feeling of regret, sure I was being too dramatic because I was tired. Certainly I had imagined half of what I thought I’d seen, right? I climbed the stairs to my apartment and waved at Bette (who seemed to witness all my arrivals and departures). On the porch was a box with my name on it. It was wrapped with shiny red paper and had a gold “Emogene’s” sticker taped to the front. A card lay on top, with my name printed in large, scrawling letters. I picked up my package and went inside, thankful that I was able to shut the door behind me for the day. I slid the elegant card out of the crisp envelope. A whisper of expensive cologne told me who it was from before I read the card. The card read: “Good luck on the new project. I know Seven Sisters is in good hands.” Instead of signing his name, Ashland had written a big, elaborate “A.” I opened the box to find a bouquet of exquisite flowers including Indian pinks, Irises and sweet tea roses. I breathed in the fragrances with a smile, locking the door and tossing my purse on the desk. I looked for a vase and found an empty Mason jar in the kitchenette. I filled it with water (still smiling) and slid the bouquet in. It was a thoughtful gesture, and I tried not to read too much into it, but it was the first time in my whole life that I had received flowers from a man. I set them on my nightstand and headed for the shower.
I needed to wash away the fear and anxiety. “I was the right woman for this job,” I told myself, wishing I felt as confident as I sounded. “Ugh, I hope I know what I’m doing.” As I slipped on my nightgown, I did feel a little better. I turned on the radio and listened to music until I began to feel sleepy. That was sooner than I expected even though the room was getting warm. I flipped off the radio and stretched out, feeling frustrated in more ways than one, kicking away the comforter. I slept probably a half hour, but I tossed and turned frequently and woke with snippets of dreams rolling around in my head. Some were my own, some were just memories, and there were others still that I wasn’t sure about.
Restful sleep eluded me. My cozy room was too humid and warm tonight. I flipped off the window air conditioning unit. It wasn’t blowing cool air at all. I opened the windows, but the warm air hung like a wet blanket. I had a long, hot summer ahead of me in Mobile. Sleeping in a flimsy nightgown had not cooled me down. Maybe ice water would do the trick; I padded to the kitchenette to get a glass. On my way back to my hot bed, I picked up the book I had left on the desk when I came in. It felt cool in my hand. I rubbed the edge of the worn book, knowing I should wear gloves but unable to bear it in this heat. I flipped on the bedside lamp and sat on the bed. Reading by the dull moonlight that streamed in from the porch was impossible. Although some of the ink had faded, the writing was intact, with delicate letters. I could see the author’s name penned in the upper right corner of the first page. The journal belonged to Calpurnia!
She was long gone now, like Muncie. I pulled the sleek brochure out of the folder that Hollis Matthews had sent me. This was her! She was Calpurnia Cottonwood, the girl on the cover. I looked at the picture closely under the lamp. It was certainly her. I would recognize those almond-shaped brown eyes anywhere. They had an innocent downward slant, making her appear even more youthful than she was. In the photo, which was obviously of an oil painting, her back was turned to the artist. She looked back with a slight smile. She held a book, but the print was too small to read. I studied the girl’s face, amazed that I had seen it warm and alive, flushed under the attention at a candlelit dinner party. The photo was a near likeness, a shadow of the nervous girl who struggled under the weight of an intricate hairstyle, voluminous skirts and (I suspected) the heaviness of life. I tucked the photo back into the folder, like she was a hidden treasure. “Calpurnia,” I whispered into the hot Alabama night. I wanted to devour the book, read it page by page, but I was suddenly very tired. Perhaps the humidity and heat had stolen my energy.
I remembered the oscillating electric fan in a nearby closet and placed it near my bed. I set it on high and pointed it in my direction. After pouring myself another glass of ice water, I went to bed with the book. Soon the fan had cooled me down, and I began to feel sleepy. I had no idea that in my hand was a key. A key that would take me back in time again, back to Seven Sisters, back to Calpurnia and Muncie. As I closed my eyes, I felt myself drifting to a different time and place. I did not feel afraid. Perhaps I should have.