Dancing Naked in Dixie (20 page)

“Wow,” I say, truly happy for PD.

“Even Mama and Daddy don’t know,” she adds. “It’s kind of a secret right now.”

“Of course,” I rush to agree. This means, I assume, that Mary Katherine isn’t privy to the project, either. I’m a bit puzzled by this, but considering it’s family—not my family—I don’t interrupt.

“For the big picture, the long term, I’d like to expand and grow. Maybe hire someone, a few people, actually. I’d really like some of the local restaurants to partner with me—maybe feature some of the pastries on their dessert menu? There’s always the coffee shop option, too.” She clasps her hands tight to her middle. “I don’t know. I have so many plans and ideas that I’m a little overwhelmed.”

With a deep breath, I hug my arms to my body and gaze around the room. It’s warm and cozy, in serious need of a paint job, but has lots of potential and room to expand. PD’s bursting with excitement and I can hardly believe a sibling would be so generous as to take care of all of this for his sister.

Deep down, the nagging problem of Phase III is still poking at me, like an annoying stitch in my ribs on a long run. I tamp down my questions, not wanting to dampen PD’s enthusiasm.

“All right,” she says suddenly, “onto the next stop.”

The small building is locked up and we’re back in the car before I can count to ten.

“What’s next on the agenda?” I ask, poking an elbow out of the window and enjoying the rays of sunshine as they sparkle through the trees.

“We’ll save the library for last,” PD decides. “And take a drive by the cemetery. There are several in town,” she adds. “Fairview and Shorter are the largest. Shorter is named for Alabama’s governor during the civil war—John Gill Shorter. Some of the graves date as far back as the 1840’s.”

“And that’s the same Shorter as the Mansion?”

PD nods. “Very good. Same family,” she confirms. “Fairview, though, is the largest cemetery, and the most unusual in the city. You’ll notice—when we get there—there’s a distinctive fence that sets it apart from the area’s other burial places. The iron work around the property was once used at the city’s Union Female College.” She nods and points over the steering wheel as she parks next to the curb.

Our shoes make a crunching noise as we step over pebbles and make our way inside the entrance, which is lush and covered with foliage. The sloping ground is marked in long, rectangular sections with brick edging. Gravestones, weathered and worn, mark the resting places for a multitude of Eufaula families.

“Here, read this,” PD stops at a marker and stands back to let me get closer.

The earliest burials in this cemetery date from Eufaula’s pioneer days in the late 1830’s and early 1840s. Formerly known as the “Old Cemetery,” this public burial ground has been expanded through land purchases and the consolidation of other cemeteries including the Jewish, Presbyterian, Masonic, Odd Fellows, and Negro. At the suggestion of his daughter, Claude Hill, Mayor P. B. McKenzie named the cemetery “Fairview” about 1895.

PD touches my arm, steering me to the other side of the iron sign, which, across the top, reads “Old Negro Cemetery.”

I catch my breath as we both read in silence.

Interred on this gently sloping hillside are the remains of many of Eufaula’s early black citizens. Their names are known only to God because the wooden grave markers which located the burials have long since vanished. This burying ground was used until about 1870 when black interments were moved to Pine Grove Cemetery.

“It’s so sad,” I say and look off into the distance. “To not even know where your grandparents are buried. Or their grandparents. I can’t imagine.” My voice catches and I clutch at my chest, feeling it tighten like a rope’s been wrapped around me and pulled tight.

In that instant, I see families, all in mourning, wandering the acres of land, in search of a sign or a clue. My own mother is buried, and it’s awful to think of her lying in the cold, dark earth, but I have a place to go. I can visit. And it’s more comfort than not to know that her spirit was there, if just for a short time.

“Okay,” PD takes a hold of my arm. “Let’s take a little break.” We walk back to the car at a brisk pace. “For the article, or anyone who asks, there’s a Ghost Walk and Tales from the Tomb at the Pilgrimage in the spring. But, we don’t have to worry about that now.”

She opens my door and helps me inside. PD leans over me and buckles my seatbelt. “Are you okay?” Not waiting another second for my reply, she cranks the engine and drives off, spinning gravel and dust in our wake.

Chapter 22

“Okay, so no more graveyards,” PD attempts a smidge of humor as we put the acres of Fairview Cemetery into the rearview mirror.

My breathing eases the further we get from the iron fence surrounding the property.

Shug’s sister doesn’t ask me anything—I chalk it up to her good Southern breeding—but I can tell by the way she keeps glancing over at me that she knows something is not right.

In that moment, all I want to do is head straight to Roger’s B&B, work on my story, and return to the comfort of my apartment in the City. A place devoid of ghosts, history, and hard questions.

I roll down the window and try to enjoy the breeze in my face as we drive back downtown, but the silence hangs between us. It’s oppressive and deafening. The unspoken truth pushes at my conscience. I don’t have to share my sorrows, but today, for some reason, they’re seeping out of my mind and mouth.

“It’s my mother,” I blurt, exhaling the words. “She passed away two years ago. I feel cheated. There are so many questions I want to ask her.”

PD nods, keeping her eyes on the road. “It sounds like you miss her a bunch. My own mother—well, you’ve seen her—she’s a piece of work. We’ve never been really close, and I’ve never understood her. She didn’t have a bad life. She had everything growing up right here in Eufaula. Aubie was beautiful, popular, became the Pilgrimage Queen. Then she married TJ and started a family.”

We stop at a red light, both counting the beats until the glowing circle turns green.

“From what everyone says, Aubie promptly went off the deep end.” PD is tapping on the steering wheel as if her life depended on it.

“Something about marriage—or maybe the men they marry,” I muse aloud. “I think my father broke my mother’s heart,” I say with another sudden confession. “And that’s what killed her.” I shift in the seat. “Of course, she did have ALS,” I include, “but the realization that my father had a secret life the entire time?” My voice reaches a high-pitched octave that might break glass. “I think she stopped fighting.”

PD slows down to a crawl, locked on every word. We stop at an intersection and let the cars blow past. I burst into tears. The sobbing, gushing sort of crying that makes your nose run and your eyes rimmed with red. PD hands me a few tissues and I blow hard, the force a person uses when she’s held back emotion for years.

“It’s family,” PD says, her mouth twitching when I catch a breath. “Isn’t it our parents’ job to mess us up?”

The statement strikes me funny—being that I’ve spent years trying to avoid David, my own father, and now he is my new boss. I don’t share this, but we both laugh until my shoulders hurt from shaking. I’m not sure where we’re parked, but I hope that there isn’t a tourist group in sight.

When the hilarity subsides, PD looks me square in the face. “I can tell that you’re hurting.”

“It does hurt,” I admit. “I’m sad, and I’m angry that she’s gone. And, I really miss her.” The statement is so raw and honest I feel like someone’s ripped a band-aid off the inner lining my heart.

PD turns her body toward me, puts an elbow up on the seat back, and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. “Don’t you think she knows that? And she wants you to be happy? And wouldn’t she tell you to really live—because she can’t?”

The idea she presents is so simple, I gasp. The truth is this: I’ve spent the time since my mother’s death running away from life, not toward it.

And it took traveling one thousand miles from home to figure it out.

Yet, coming here, being here, and living in the moment, everything makes sense.

After making sure that I was in possession of functional, sturdy heels, and a glitch-free outfit, Roger went on ahead—an hour early—to the dinner. I assure him that I have a few calls to make, work-related emails to return, and important notes to type up. While my to-do list was accurate, and I diligently tackled each item in turn, what I really needed was solitude.

When I finally emerge from my room, step onto the sidewalk, and make my way up North Eufaula Street, I am struck by the beauty of the city’s historic district.

It’s not that I haven’t noticed the fresh pine garland and wreaths strung with red velvet ribbon. It’s not that I haven’t seen the flicker of candles gracing every window. It’s not that the city hasn’t been dressed and ready in its finest splendor since I arrived a few days ago.

Every home on the street is decorated in similar fashion, and the streetlights provide a soft ambiance as I walk.

Tonight, though, I slow down. Deliberately walking at half my caffeine-charged pace. The sky is a midnight blue pricked with pinpoints of stars. They glitter overhead, scattered like jewels on a sea of fine silk. A few are so bright and close, I feel that I could almost catch them in a butterfly net.

The air has grown chilly. Roger warned me a huge temperature drop was forecasted for tonight, but I don’t hurry. I pull my borrowed wrap a little tighter around my shoulders. Spending time, here in Eufaula, has helped me realize that barreling through life at a breakneck pace—while exciting, sometimes glamorous, and always loads of fun—has been, at best, a distraction. A useful tool in avoiding personal introspection or thoughts of the future.

It’s always been the next stop, the next flight, and the next assignment. There hasn’t been a day in the past decade that didn’t include stress-inducing tasks and multiple deadlines.

All in all, I conclude, my raw wanderlust and suitcase-required career has, in a way, prevented me from really seeing and understanding the magic waiting to be discovered—both in people and places.

That said—inside my brain—I promise myself that I will enjoy tonight and experience it fully, with no thought to my watch or the clock on the wall.

I arrive on the steps of Shorter Mansion. When I push the door open, a rush of warm air swirls around me. Roger immediately spots me and winks across the room. I wave, slip off my wrap, and hand it to the waiting coat-check girl. With careful steps, I meander through the parlor, stopping to chat with the mayor, his wife, and their closest friends.

In the next room, I share a giggle with PD, who’s still getting praise for sharing her latest inventive treats. There’s talk of holding a contest in the
Eufaula Tribune
to name them, and I second the idea.

“What fun,” I say, giving PD’s hand a squeeze. “What did your grandmother and the rest of the family think of them?”

“MeeMaw’s pretty much in love with them,” PD grins and looks down at the floor. “TJ and Shug will eat anything I whip up, so I’m planning to do a second ‘sampling’ and serve more after dinner with coffee.”

Ella Rae chooses that very moment to barrel through the crowd, holding two of the puffed, golden pastries in her right hand. There’s a telltale streak of white powdered sugar from her upper lip to her earlobe.

“Well, that answers that question,” I whisper as PD excuses herself to apprehend her daughter.

Suddenly, there’s a warm hand on my shoulder, and I flinch when several long fingernails dig into my skin. Without having to look, I realize that it’s Aubie. The pungent scent of her flowery perfume mixes with the distinct smell of hard liquor.

“S’c-cold outside, sugar,” she slurs, attempting to wave outside. “Temp-ture down to the thirties, s-someone said.”

“Have to bundle up tonight,” someone comments.

I want to take Aubie’s hand and drag her to the nearest bedroom, and lock her inside until she sobers up. When I scan the room for TJ, her husband, as usual, is nowhere to be found.

“If it fr-freezes, J-Julia sh-should be right at h-home, then,” Aubie leans to her left, her head lolling with her body. She attempts a smile, but the corners of her lips don’t move more than a millimeter.

“Sure,” I agree, trying to manage a bright smile.

The couple to my left exchanges a pitying look, and the two men front and center cast doubtful glances at Aubie’s much-deteriorated condition. She was fine at lunchtime, I seem to recall, but anything could have happened in the hours during my tour of town with PD.

Shug’s mother exhales deeply as her arm drops to her side, and a gust of strong whiskey floats past my nostrils. The odor, combined with the heat from the crowd, causes me to sneeze not once, but three times in succession.

This, fortunately, makes everyone around me laugh and takes the focus off Shug’s drunken mother. I cover my mouth with one hand and excuse myself, pleading a need for the ladies’ room before dinner.

As I make my escape, I catch a glimpse of MeeMaw in the corner with Ella Rae. For once, the child is quiet and sitting still. I wave over at them as I wind my way through small groups of women deep in conversation, knock on the closest powder room, but find it locked. There’s another upstairs, I think, so I round the corner and make my way up the red carpeting.

When I reach the top of the steps, I’m standing at the edge of a short hallway. The second floor of Shorter Mansion is just as large as the first, and the upstairs landing opens into at least five different rooms. Under the sound of my own breathing, I hear a man and a woman talking—or arguing—in hushed tones.

My first instinct is to turn and hurry back down the stairs. I press a hand to my abdomen and bite my lip. With a hand against the wall, I ease forward. The full sensation in my gut is making me uncomfortable, and now, a little desperate. I decide that the urgency of finding a ladies’ room significantly outweighs the embarrassment of being caught opening random doors.