Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (6 page)

To: WENDY CHOY

From: GILDA JOYCE

 

I'm now writing to you in secret—from the backseat of Eugene Pook's car!! The car is very tidy, but it smells like old wood in here.

 

Just one word: mustache. I'm not talking about a regular old mustache; I'm talking about a very unique, showstopping mustache with old-world personality. A mustache that looks as if it has been pampered and spoiled. A mustache that has been shampooed, fluffed, and possibly even blown dry and styled with a curling iron or tiny rollers before it was thoroughly waxed into position. As you can tell, I was so amazed when I first saw the mustache, I almost forgot to take in the other details, which could be summed up as follows: older, plump, walruslike. Definitely NOT the kind of guy you want to see in a bikini on the beach. In short, he's no looker, although he had made some attempt with the old-fashioned mustache wax and a shiny new tie that sloped over his belly.

One question: Did Eugene grow his mustache
before
or
after
his first engagement ended? Clearly, that mustache could have been a deal-breaker for his fiancée: “Eugene, either your mustache goes or I go!” Maybe Eugene thought about it for a very long time and decided to keep the mustache. After all, he had finally figured out how to style it. Maybe Mom is the first woman who has really liked the mustache. Or does she think she'll convince him to shave it off after they're married?

 

NOTE TO SELF: Ask Mom what she thinks of Eugene's mustache.

 

Eugene beamed at my mom when he spotted us waiting for him at the airport baggage claim. I mean, he really looked
entranced
, which made me wonder whether he and Mom see each other through what my dad used to call “beer goggles.” Granted, Mom looks cute for her age, and she even had some makeup on for once. But still.

For the first time I could understand how Mom must feel: It must be nice to have someone stare at you as if they're gazing at a gorgeous painting. Especially for someone like Mom, who's always thought of herself as a “Plain Jane” (which is mostly her own fault due to her learning disabilities in the area of fashion).

“Hey, beautiful!” Mr. Pook kissed my mom on the cheek, then grabbed her hand and held it up to examine the engagement ring (which she had finally decided to wear). “It's a beauty! I love seeing that ring on you,” he said.

Interesting observation: Mr. Pook did NOT try to butter me up or attempt to win me over as I suspected he might. He didn't try to act like my new stepdad. If anything, I got the feeling that he secretly wishes Mom didn't have kids at all.

He gave me a swift once-over. “Nice hat,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

“My favorite vintage clothing shop in Detroit.”

“Looks like a good find.”

“Gilda, you and Eugene have something in common,” said Mom, who was clearly eager for us to hit it off. “He has quite a collection of vintage clothing along with all those antiques in his shop.”

I CAN'T BELIEVE MOM DIDN'T TELL ME ABOUT EUGENE'S VINTAGE CLOTHES! I did my best to act nonchalant, but I was pretty intrigued. As you know, I love old clothes from the 1920s and 1940s and dressing up in general, and it sounded like old Eugene actually had some fun stuff in that shop of his. As we loaded our suitcases into the car, Eugene told me all about his Charlotte's Attic antiques shop and how he spends a lot of his time appraising the value of old pieces of furniture, art, china, toys, and even old tools—kind of like the guy on that Antiques Road Show we sometimes end up watching when there's nothing else on television.

Mr. Pook is also quite the history buff, and as he gave us a driving tour of the city, he also provided a little history lesson that was way more interesting than Mrs. Rabido's worksheets.

Okay, I admit it. Despite the mustache, Mr. Pook
may
have a couple good points.

More info to come: I'd better start my “special homework” assignment for lovely Mrs. Rabido now.

To: MRS. RABIDO, HISTORY TEACHER EXTRAORDINAIRE From: GILDA JOYCE, FAITHFUL STUDENT ORDINAIRE RE: TRAVELOGUE ASSIGNMENT ENTRY #1:

 

On the road to the historic city of St. Augustine, my chauffeur drives past miles of green forest, his waxed mustache flapping gently in the wind. Here and there, I spot a few businesses through the car window—a lonely antiques shop, an auto repair shop, a funeral parlor. I must admit feeling VERY disturbed by a billboard that announces: IF YOU MOVE DOWN HERE, YOU'LL HAVE MORE FUN THAN YOUR KIDS!

Why, you ask, do I feel disturbed by this sign? Well, Mrs. Rabido, as I tried to inform you, the reason for my little trip is that my mom is getting remarried, which means that we
might
actually move down here. The idea that someone feels that it's a good idea to encourage parents to have more fun than their kids in Florida does not bode well for my life or for that of kids in general here. (And incidentally, Mrs. Rabido, I sincerely hope that you aren't pointing out this last paragraph to a group of cackling colleagues in the teachers' lounge.)

 

Mrs. Rabido, like many Northerners (or “Yanks,” as the old-timers would say), you might be under the impression that the Pilgrims up in Massachusetts, with their black-and-white outfits and turkey dinners, were the first colonists ever to settle on the North American continent. Well, I'm here to tell you that you're wrong!

In fact, the Spanish landed on the Florida shore way back in 1565, led by an ambitious and puffy-sleeved conquistador named Pedro Menendez de Aviles. And when they got off the boat, what do you think those Spanish sailors did first?

“Have a snack?”

Nope.

“Give each other high fives?”

Nope.

“Write a research paper with footnotes to send back to the king in Spain?”

All wrong, Mrs. Rabido.

Really, you should know better. The very first thing they did was go to church. That's right, they set up an altar and, being good Catholics, they said the first Mass in Florida and named the settlement they had discovered St. Augustine after one of everyone's favorite saints (St. Augustine, in case you didn't realize that).

Of course, the Spanish weren't actually the “first” people in St. Augustine. The Timucua Indians were a peaceful community of farmers who had been living there for quite some time. Well, the Spanish settlers didn't waste any time doing their best to convert those Timucua to Christianity.

I'm sorry to tell you, Mrs. Rabido, that it did not end well for the Timucua tribe. Unfortunately, there aren't any more Timucua Indians left because along with church, the Europeans brought terrible diseases, like yellow fever, that completely wiped them out.

However, it is interesting to note that the bones and artifacts of the Timucua are buried on land throughout the city and in places like the historic Tolomato Cemetery. In fact, some people believe that the bones of the Indians are one of the reasons that St. Augustine is rumored to be one of the most haunted cities in the entire United States!

Mrs. Rabido, I know you like to present yourself as a sensible lady dressed in support undergarments and low- heeled loafers, but you can't fool me. Something tells me you might share my personal belief in ghosts,
n'est pas
? Am I right?

Okay, even if you don't believe in ghosts (but I hope you do), you may be intrigued to know that the past has a strange way of
lingering
here in St. Augustine. I can FEEL it.

Is it the aromas of traditional woodstove cooking wafting through the air from restaurants and bakeries? Is it the employees dressed in historical costumes who spend their days making candles and horseshoes to entertain tourists? Or is it simply the memories of the many families who have lived here for generations? Some of the oldest families came over with Menendez, some against their will as slaves who were sold in the old “slave market.” Others are descendants of Greeks and Italians who set sail from the port of Minorca, near Spain, in the year 1768. Now considered “the Minorcans”—a label they cherish with pride—they first arrived in Florida as the indentured servants of a man named Andrew Turnbull, who hired them to clear the land and build a settlement in a town called New Smyrna, Florida.

Well, when they got to Florida, the Minorcans were greeted with sweltering heat and clouds of mosquitoes thick enough to choke cows. Hundreds of the workers fell sick and died from malaria. To make matters worse, Andrew Turnbull turned out to be a candidate for the “Bad Employer of the Year” award. Eventually, the surviving Minorcans /s were “freed” from Mr. Turnbull and moved to St. Augustine, where they eventually built a vital community, known for its shrimping and datil peppers.

 

GRAND FINALE CONCLUSION:

Thus, it can be seen that the past and its many ghosts continue to lurk around in the St. Augustine community today.

THE END

 

I hope you've enjoyed my first travelogue entry, and that you're coping with the school week despite the complete lack of my scintillating personality in your classroom.

With very best wishes,

Gilda Joyce

 

 

To: GILDA JOYCE

From: GILDA JOYCE

RE: UPDATE

 

Now approaching the home of Eugene Pook!!

W
e're getting close now,” said Eugene. He drove into a quiet old neighborhood near the St. Augustine waterfront where enormous Civil War–era houses sprawled, encircled by expansive porches and balconies and shaded by trees that dripped with gloomy Spanish moss.

“Here we are!” Eugene parked in front of a large yellow house.

Stepping out of the car, Gilda felt a distinct tickle in her left ear.
It's the house I pictured in my mind when I tried on Mom's ring!
Gilda felt simultaneously proud of her psychic abilities and frightened by the implications of her premonition, remembering the cold, ominous feeling that had accompanied it.

“Eugene! Hello there!” A woman, who wore her white hair pulled back in a bun, and a girl, who appeared to be about twelve years old, approached on the sidewalk as Gilda, Mrs. Joyce, and Eugene climbed out of the car. The woman wore a long sundress with a shawl. Her willowy, feminine silhouette contrasted with the girl's rumpled Bermuda shorts, deep tan, and tousled black hair. The girl had earbuds in her ears; she was listening to music on an iPod. “We haven't seen you in quite a while,” said the woman, while eyeing Gilda's plumed hat with interest.

“Well, I've been right here,” said Eugene. “Mary Louise, I'd like to introduce you to my fiancée, Patricia.”

Mary Louise's eyebrows flew up with surprise. “My goodness, Eugene,” she exclaimed, “I didn't know you were engaged! How surprise–I mean, how
wonderful
!” Mary Louise now turned her full, inquisitive attention to Mrs. Joyce and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Patricia.”

“Oh, and this is Patty's daughter, Gilda,” Eugene added.

“Nice to meet you, too, Gilda,” said Mary Louise. “We're Eugene's next-door neighbors. This is my daughter, Darla; she's in the seventh grade.”

Darla looked impatient. “Mom, I'm going to be late for rehearsal.”

“Darla, please say hello to Mr. Pook, and to his fiancée and Gilda.”

“Hello,” said Darla. She shot Gilda a quick smile.

“Hey,” said Gilda.

“Nice to meet you, Darla,” said Mrs. Joyce.

Something strange happened as Darla looked directly into Mrs. Joyce's eyes and shook her hand. Her brown eyes registered a spasm of confusion, as if she were about to exclaim in fright or surprise, but then stopped herself. She quickly looked away.

That was weird,
Gilda thought.
You'd think Darla had just seen a ghost.

Eugene seemed oblivious to the strange interaction between Darla and Mrs. Joyce. “How are those kids treating you over at the school these days, Mary Louise?”

“It's a mix, you know,” said Mary Louise, who was an elementary school teacher. “We have some families going through difficult times.”

Gilda noticed that Darla again searched Mrs. Joyce's face as if trying to gauge whether it matched some phantom in her memory.

“We're also doing a unit on the Civil Rights era, and it's awkward to bring up that pain,” Mary Louise continued. “Some of the kids have parents who are still afraid of the Klan when they walk around at night; others actually have a family member who was
in
the Klan back in the days of segregation. Some of them have grandparents who wanted Martin Luther King arrested when he visited our city. In my opinion, they shouldn't be made to feel bad; I mean, it isn't the
child'
s fault their family didn't know any different back then.”

“You teachers are always stirrin' up trouble,” said Eugene.

It was a joke, but Gilda sensed that he was at least half serious.

“Mom, I'm going to be late,” said Darla.

“If you'll excuse us, Darla has a dance rehearsal to attend. She goes to a performing arts school.”

“Doesn't that sound nice, Gilda?” said Mrs. Joyce.

Gilda thought it did indeed sound nice, but her mother's transparent attempt to generate excitement about moving to Florida annoyed her.

As Darla and her mother said good-bye and turned to head down the sidewalk, Darla glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Joyce once more, her brow furrowed with worry.