Shadows — Chapter Three

A story of everlasting love — Ghosts, romance, death, life lessons

Augie and Miss Lillian painted their house PINK like a showgirl’s smile. It was a warm and glorious shade. It was the color the gods splash across the horizon just before they let the sun slip out of the sky for the night. — From Sirena’s journal

I was stunned by the mention of The Pink House. Not because they said it was haunted, but because it had been years since I’d heard anyone say those words out loud. Surely it was our Pink House they were talking about. The one I had lived in as a child with Roy and Ruthie. Could it be that it’s still standing after all these years?

With my mind wrapped around memories of a sheltering structure, I also became vaguely aware that this was the slowest moving elevator I’d ever ridden. We must have been only halfway up to the fifth floor when the doors slowly groaned themselves open. The box we were in didn’t stop moving; it kept right on going, inching its way upward while the doors crept all the way open. They revealed a solid wall of streaked concrete sliding downward as we moved slowly up.

Rupert didn’t flinch, but the bellhop took a different tactic. He panicked. With arms akimbo, the kid who had been entirely too cool to be civil to me before was now looking to me for help. “W-what am I supposed to do now?” He shouted at me as if he was sure I knew.

A fresh breeze brushed across my face and a feeling of comfort came over me. Even though I was dripping wet, I felt warm. I was with two strangers who obviously hated the sight of me, yet I felt wanted. “Just hold on a minute,” I told the bellhop. “A couple I met on the beach must be getting in with us. I knew them before I was born. It won’t take them long to get settled.”

“Nobody’s there, you freak!” the bellhop yelled as if I was missing the point.

“It’s all right,” I assured him. “Some of us just can’t see.”

As the doors slid closed again, the bellhop reacted to this information exactly as he would have if I had lit my nose on fire and told him to stand back and watch this. He scrambled into the corner and tried to make himself as small as possible while glaring out at me through narrowed eyes. “Are you crazy?” he shrieked in the cracking voice of youth.

“I think so, yes,” I told him softly. “It’s hard to be really sure, but all the signs are pointing to it.”

He pierced our little space with a scream.

After that, no one said a word until finally the elevator doors opened again. This time we’d reached our destination and Rosebud got her seat off my feet and lumbered out into the dim light of the fifth floor hallway.

“Here,” the bellhop said poking a plastic card key at me from between the bars of the luggage rack. He did his best to avoid touching me. “Find your room by yourself. It’s down that hall. Hook a right by the ice machine.” He fanned the key frantically. “Take it!”

I took it. “Thank you,” I said, glancing down to see my room number.

“You’re weird, lady! That’s what you are! You’re possessed or something! I don’t know how you did that but … well, here!” The bellhop gave the metal rack with my suitcase on it a shove and hit Rosebud in the ribs. She coughed, and moved a half a step out of the way, but as the rack hit the dog, the bellhop panicked again and lunged out of the elevator.

He was barely out when Rupert jabbed at the button and the doors closed in front of him, and he was gone. The last I saw of the bellhop, he was loping down the hallway toward the sign marked Fire Exit. I slapped my hands together and he hauled it.

Finally, Rosebud and I were on our own. Once I had wrangled us into Room 505 with my suitcase and backpack, it didn’t take me long to step into the shower — clothes and all. Determined to wash away the mysterious events of the past hour, I closed my eyes and felt warm water cascading over my face and down my chest.

Standing there peeling off layers of salty, sandy clothes that were clinging to my skin, I thought of Ruthie. Even now, 27 years after my mother’s death, I thought of her by that name, the only one I ever called her.

Roy said he and my grandmother, who died of “summer fever” shortly after Ruthie was born, named her after Ruth in the Bible. You know, the one who said, “Whither thou goest, I shall go. Whither thou live, I shall live,”? But that didn’t turn out too well in our Ruthie’s case, because whither we wentest, she didn’t go.

Our Ruthie was a wanderer not a follower. Roy said he never figured out why his daughter couldn’t put her feet on the ground. He said he didn’t know what she was looking for, but as far as he could tell, she never found it — “unless it was waiting for her somewhere at the bottom of the bay that night.”

I shuddered at the memory of Roy’s bitter words and slammed off the water jets. As I stepped out of the shower, I picked up my clothes and tossed them in a pile on the honeycomb tiles. Instead of drying off, I threw on the heavy white robe that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door and let the sash hang loose at my sides.

The room was dusky dark. I pulled back the heavy curtains as rain fell in silent waves against the window. Trying not to think of what happened to me on the beach, I eased my small box of mementos from my backpack and flopped on the bed. I was too tired to be hungry now. All I wanted was my memories, and sleep.

As usual, Rosebud had ensconced herself in the most comfortable place in the room — right in the center of the queen-size bed — and she was sound asleep. I shoved my way in beside her, propped myself up on three pillows, and opened the rose scented box.

With dog snores soothing me, I picked up a faded photograph of Ruthie holding my hand. There we were in that long-ago image, mother and daughter, standing side-by-side, on the front porch of The Pink House.

With only the soft glow of daylight to illuminate the subject, stared at the woman whose face was so like mine. The fixed expression on my face told the world my four-year-old self was doing her little-girl best to appear proper in a pale satin dress with a ridiculous oversized bow that only unskilled hands could have stuck in my hair at such a surprising angle. Ruthie was dressed in frayed shorts and a gauzy, almost see-through blouse that must have attracted men like bees to the hive. We were obviously not going in the same direction that day.

As Ruthie gazed out of that photograph with her wide-eyed expression, I saw she was barefoot, and standing, as always, with her heels slightly off the ground. She looked ready to release me and tiptoe out of the picture at any second.

I tossed the photo aside and picked up a silver ring that bulged red in the center with a teardrop stone. It was for a small finger,. Roy said a man had given it to Ruthie, a good man who had begged her to marry him, but she refused.

I held the ring under the lamp light and peered down into the setting. It had no fire. I rubbed the band. It didn’t shine. As far as I could remember, Ruthie always wore this ring, and she wore it on her wedding ring finger.

After she died, Roy never let the ring out of his sight. He carried it on his key chain, and once when I asked him why, he said, “In this world, Child, you hold on to your past any way you can. Shattered dreams are still dreams. Don’t throw them away.”

Strange words from a man who never let us go back home.

I slipped the ring easily onto my left hand and realized it fit me perfectly. Ruthie was the only other person I’d ever known who wore a size 4 ½ ring. Stirring the contents of the box it had been in, I saw a lock of Ruthie’s wispy hair. It was bright red, not auburn like my naturally curly hair, and it was tied with a white grosgrain ribbon.

I saw the swimming medal she earned at Camp Mystic and a yellowed newspaper clipping announcing my birth — Sirena Texanna Vestal. Born: Sunday, January 1, one a.m. All Souls Hospital. As I closed the lid and slid the box under my pillow, I told myself I would call Mr. Vail, just as Roy told me to, as soon as I woke up. But for now — sleep.

I gave Rosebud a nudge and nestled my face into the pillows. Sleep covered me like a warm blanket as soon as I closed my eyes. The dream came right away. It was brighter than morning light, and it was full of blues and bronzes and shades of dusty gold. The smell of salty sea air swirled around me. The voices I heard were clear, but not loud, and they were accented by rhythmic dings of a trolley from somewhere in the past.

In the past, in the past — I felt my body conform to the crests of the waves and I saw myself surging forward, rolling over myself, and coming back up to do it all again. I felt I was becoming a part of the rhythm of the tide and my eyes were opening to the secrets that drift among the darkest, deepest shadows in the sea.

In my dream, The Pink House is shining in the sun.

The Galveston Daily News is on a little marble top table in the parlor-area across from the kitchen. Squinting, I read it out loud: “August 8, 1900.” One month to the day before the hurricane that carried away a thriving throng of over 6,000 living, breathing souls.

Far down on the page I see a headline: Storm Brewing in Warm Waters off the Coast of Cuba. And I think of a man named Silas. My heart gives an extra beat.

Peeking out at myself from behind a door, I look across the room and there is Miss Lillian, in the flesh this time. Not a ghost, but a full bodied woman standing in the center of her high-ceiling house facing a smoking potbellied stove she uses for cooking and heating her Pink House.

She is stirring a kettle of ebony chocolate. It is her pots-de-crèmes that Augie and I love to devour. Miss Lillian wears a taffeta gown the color of freshly sliced peaches and her bronze colored hair is piled in cockeyed disarray on top of her head. Wavy-glassed windows are all opened from the top down, and from somewhere outside I hear the tinkling notes of a piano. A woman’s sweet voice sings, “Beautiful dreamer! Wake unto me!”

In a dim corner of my dream, I see Augie and Miss Lillian standing together looking out a door. A man they call Herk stands in a cloud of his own pipe smoke. I see him clearly enough to know he’s a thin-legged sailor with a bloated face, sun-scorched cheeks, and little bitty black beetle eyes. The salt and grime of years at sea cling to his black woolen clothes.

Herk is the kind of man children make up stories about — stories that make them hide under the covers at night, and stories grownups only half-believe. Island gossip has it that Herk was born during a hurricane — one that swept up from Cuba, killing thousands of people, and spawning only one. Herk was that one. Legend also has it Herk leads people to their graves.

When he opens his mouth, his words are thick as if his lips are coated with sea salt and his accent is thick with tongues of a hundred other languages.

“I’m telling you Capt’n, the storm is a fiery bitch. A wild-eyed fiery bitch of a blow job. She got no heart. I seen her and I talk to her from the depths of the sea. Listen to Cuba. Storm’s coming ashore, Capt’n. Hear me when I say it. The hurricane bitch is coming here and she going to take your island back home with her. She going to drag it down to hell! And your girl, your sweet-eyed lady of a girl child — she be the first to go!”

I jumped as the sound of waves crashed and Miss Lillian melted out of my dream. Augie and Herk face each other. Augie says, “The weather bureau tells me not to worry, Herk. We’re expecting rain. That’s all. And they don’t want Cuba to tell us anything. Our folks say this country can handle business just fine on our own.”

I watched as black smoke from Herk’s pipe billowed around them, but Augie’s words continued as if they were laced to the breeze.

Augie leaned in. “These are modern days, Herk. We predict nature now. Science, sir! Dr. Cline, just down the street at the Weather Bureau, says Galveston has nothing to fear. I breakfasted with him at Tremont House just yesterday and he assured me, over coffee and butter eggs, this island is safe.”

A growl came up from Herk’s belly and out his mouth. “Cline be a fool and anyone who think they safe from the wrath of the sea be one too! Water on the brain!” He ground out the words through clenched teeth. “Cline pretend to know what he don’t! And you!” Herk jabs a bony finger at Augie’s shoulder. “You believing a damn fool’s dream!”

The two men turn away from each other and stand silently as smoke from Herk’s pipe swirls around their heads. After a while, Augie said calmly, “Galveston’s the second biggest port in the whole nation, Herk. Only New Orleans sees more ships and cargo coming in and going out than we do, and do you think they’d let a storm come in here and just carry us all away?”

“Let? Ain’t no letting where nature is concerned. Man ain’t as mighty as you’re making him out to be,” Herk said.

My heart beats fast in the silence. I reach out to make sure Rosebud is there. She snuggles closer to me in sleep.

Then Augie says, “We predict nature now, Herk. We don’t run from it.”

“You better run,” Herk growls. “You best haul ass and anything else you can carry and make tracks up and out of here.” He turns to go, then stops and turns back.

“You right about one thing though, Capt’n. You dead wrong about everything else, but I give you this. Things change, sure enough. Death don’t. Death — it stay the same forever. It’s only fools who don’t know that.”

Herk’s words made me tremble and I sat up, wide awake. Time to call Mr. Vail, the man who’s going to show me a house can be a home.

Cold sweat dripped between my shoulders and made its way down my spine. Rosebud waited for me by the door. Judging by her trembling, she was as anxious as I was to get out of this room and away from the shadows huddled in the corner.

I looked at the clock. It was almost three in the afternoon. Time is so unpredictable in sleep. How could a dream seem so short and be so long? Not bothering to even run a comb through my damp hair, I rubbed it with a towel, gave it a good shake and hurried to get dressed.

I wanted to get out into the light. Not bothering to call for the bellhop, I zipped my suitcase, grabbed my backpack and purse and made my way to the main elevator.

Rosebud and I took it and strolled casually through the grand lobby. Fresh from my nap, I was ready for any wise comments anyone might have for me, but none came and soon Rosebud and I were standing outside the hotel.

Galveston was awash in a hazy glare of afternoon sun. As we made our way across Seawall Boulevard, I realized my haunting dream had left me feeling surprisingly revitalized. A sense of newness made me quicken my step in my breezy sundress and sandals.

I dialed the number for the man Roy left instructions for me to call as I walked past an old-fashioned bathhouse-looking building that rested atop leggy supports and jutted far out over the shallow water. I watched as gentle waves lapped at spindly uprights and splashed around the boulders below.

As the phone gave its first chirp, someone answered my call and the voice of an old man said, “It’s Pop here. Is that you, Sirena?”

“Uh, yes, I was trying to reach a Mr. Vail. A Mr. Martin Vail. Roy Vestal told me to call. Do I have the right number?”

“Yes! It’s me, Sirena. They call me Pop. You have the right number.”

I cleared my throat. “Oh, well then, I hear you have a key for me. A house key,” I said looking around and feeling lost.

The man chuckled. “I’ve been taking care of that house most of my life, ever since Ruthie died.”

I stopped walking. “You knew my mother? You knew Ruthie?”

Silence and then, “Yes, I knew her. In the ’70s and ’80s everyone around the island knew sweet Ruthie Vestal.” His voice was low. “What a fleeting joy she was, too. Like a firefly. Here then she was gone.” He paused and I wasn’t sure we were still connected. “Well,” he said, talking louder now, “that’s days gone by. So, you’ve come to move back into The Pink House, have you? It’s about time!”

“Y-yes,” I said, stunned that I was talking to a man who had known my family, who had taken care of our house, a house I didn’t even know was still standing until the smart aleck bellhop told me. I stared out at the wrinkled ocean. It had a glossy green tint today.

“Of course the pink is long gone. Roy never would let me paint it after Ruthie died.” His voice trailed off. “But the house is there. It’s more of a tired old gray, now.”

“Mr. Vail — uh Pop, Roy said you’re a caretaker for some of the people here. Is that right? What kind of a caretaker are you?” I asked.

“Child, I’ve taken care of most of their houses at one time or another, and some of their old folks, and then their grave sites. I’ve planted climbing roses all over this island in honor of one soul or another that’s passed on. Roses hold the fragrance of eternal souls, you know.

The BOIs see me as kind of a founding father of this overgrown sandbar. A keeper-of-the-gate that guards our past. I’m the last man standing on this sailing ship that refuses to go down.” Pop chuckled. “Not much good with exact dates, but people and places? I never forget them.”

“I see,” I said, as the gentle aroma of roses surrounded me, from where I wasn’t sure. “And what exactly is a BOI?”

“Lord have mercy, Child! You are one and you don’t know what it is! A BOI. A Born on the Islander. We’re a very special clan around here. I guess Roy forgot to mention it to you.”

“I guess he did.”

“Don’t you worry about that now. It doesn’t matter anymore. You can be part of a thing whether you know it or not. But you have some catching up to do. I’ll tell you more about it later,” he said. “Someday when you’re ready to hear it. It’s too early now.”

“What can you tell me about the house — my house?”

“Well, when the house was empty, Roy had me to live there, but I always insisted on paying him rent even though I must have strengthened or replaced every board and bolt in the place. I’m the only one he’s ever trusted to tend to its needs.

“I’ll tell you this, Sirena, it’s high time a Vestal moved back inside those four walls. That house was home to you Vestals for decades, but it’s been most of 30 years now, hasn’t it? Nearly 30 years exactly since little Ruthie left us?”

“Twenty-seven,” I whispered into the phone and scanned the brown beach as far in both directions as I could see. A slight breeze blew up behind me bringing in the smell of salt and sand. It pushed me forward. Resisting my urge to kick off my flip-flops and run, I repeated, “It’s been twenty-seven years this October since Ruthie died.”

As I headed toward the spot where I’d parked my Jeep, Pop gave me vague instructions for how to meet him. Maybe we suddenly had a bad connection, or maybe he was just not one for planning out details, but when our conversation was over, all I knew was that I was to meet a man, an old man, on the other side of the island near a round-about in a couple of hours. And then there was one more thing.

“You have to do something before I can take you to see your home,” Pop told me. “You have to stop by to see Miss Iola at her House of Shattered Dreams. Go there now. She’s not hard to find. Just drive to the docks and follow the railroad tracks until you see her sign. It points to the hull of a ship, a huge, hulking hull of a ship that’s dry docked there. You’ll see it and Miss Iola will be waiting for you.”

“But why?” I asked. “I don’t know any Miss Iola, and Roy didn’t say anything about her.” But it was no use. The phone had gone dead in my hand.

I stood still trying to absorb the news. The Pink House was still standing, however old and dilapidated it must be. And someone else in this world remembered Ruthie. Last night as I drove through the storm to get here, I was sure no one cared whether I lived or died. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Any artist will tell you — You have to paint your background first, lay in your horizon, and layer your strokes of light and dark on top of it. If you don’t, your creation will have no depth, no light, no soul. And now, after 32 years, I was finally able to start laying in the background of my life.

Dear Reader: My goal is always to make you feel good about yourself and your life as your journey here on earth unfolds. Uplifted is the feeling I hope to leave you with.

Chapter One: https://readmedium.com/637d9ca82770

Chapter Two, part 1: https://readmedium.com/bc88f7406773

Chapter Two, part 2: https://readmedium.com/771e7cad2ae2

Review: Readers’ Favorite gave it 5 stars and called it one of the best books of the year. Craver, Carol McClain. Shadow of the Final Storm (The Pink House Series) (Kindle Locations 93–117). Carol McClain Craver. Kindle Edition.