Out of the Mist (14 page)

The light bulb swung
from the rafter. It dimmed, and then flickered. The wind howled.
She glanced through the window. Along the driveway, the old
Lombardy poplars bent at a sharp angle in the driving rain. The
barn door had lost one hinge and hung half-open. A sudden gust of
wind banged it back against the barn wall. In the dim outline of
the barn interior was a tall-wheeled shape. From here it looked
like a buggy.

Vera pushed the
mirror away from her, hurriedly pulled off the old clothing, and
got dressed in her jeans and tee-shirt.

“
I’m imagining
things,” she told herself. “Too much time on my hands. Wouldn’t it
be great to get that job at the Spicer Inn! I’d be busy and around
lots of people. Maybe I could earn enough that Arnold wouldn’t have
to work so far away.”

She slipped the cameo
into her jeans pocket, and ran downstairs to find a kerosene
lantern, candles and matches, in case the power went
out.

In the evening,
Arnold called to say he would not be coming home this weekend. Bad
weather meant he had lost a day’s pay, so he would work Saturday to
make up the time. Vera sighed. Maybe she was alone too much. Arnold
was a rock. He would reassure her that she wasn’t going crazy. He
had an analytical mind, and would surely come up with a reasonable
explanation for the strange events that had gone on in the
house.

She spent the rest of
the day fiercely cleaning and making whole-wheat bread. House
chores were a form of meditation, she thought. Nobody needs to
think while vacuuming. By late afternoon, she was tired and ready
for a break. Another solitary meal and a quick phone call to
Norbert were the only markers in her day. Norbert had nothing new
to offer about the cameo, but said he’d ask around the village
about whatever happened to Lucy and Evelyn Wilbur.

The next morning
brought some good news. Mary Reid, owner of the Spicer Inn, called
to offer her a waitress job starting in a week.

“
We’ve had a lot of
reservations for the fall, and we need more staff,” she said. “As
usual, it’s retired people who like to travel when it’s not so busy
on the highways and the weather’s still nice. Even got bookings by
some people in Germany. I was impressed that you’d taken German at
university. They’ll love having someone to serve them in their own
language. The fall visitors tend to tip generously,” she continued.
“So even though we don’t pay much, you’ll still do
well.”

Vera accepted the job
offer gladly. The extra money would help a lot. Maybe in a few
years, she and Arnold could fix up the Bennett house and open a
bed-and-breakfast. She hurried to call Norbert.

“
Why, that’s
wonderful news, Vera. I’ve heard good things about Mary Reid. Runs
a tight ship, but she’s good to her staff. Most of them have been
with her for years. Jobs are hard to find around here, especially
ones that last long enough to get employment insurance in the
winter.”

Norbert had some news
for her as well.

“
I’ve asked around
the village about Lucy and Evelyn Wilbur. Folks remember they had
relatives in the Boston States, William’s younger brother, Wesley,
and his family. Wesley Bennett would be Lucy’s uncle. His widow,
Lily, and two of the boys spent a summer here back in the early
‘20s.”

Norbert learned that
the Boston Bennetts suffered the same devastation from the Spanish
Flu as their cousins in Nova Scotia. As it had in Canada, the
epidemic occurred in waves, racing through the population for
several months, dying down, and then starting up again.

“
The flu broke out
just weeks after the boys came back from the Great War,” he said.
“Spread with the troop trains carrying all those discharged
soldiers home. All the shipping traffic in and out of the Port of
Boston—that carried the flu as well,” Norbert said with a sigh. He
paused a moment before continuing.

“
I remember in the
Halifax paper, they had stories about what happened in Boston. You
know, there was a lot of back-and-forth traffic between Boston and
Nova Scotia, going back to the early days.”

Wesley Bennett was
born in Canada, a few years after his parents and brother, William,
emigrated from England. As an adult, Wesley moved to the outskirts
of Boston, where he lived with his wife Lily and six children, two
daughters and four sons. Only Lily and two boys were left after the
flu hit. With the help of employees who survived the epidemic, they
managed to carry on the family import-export business. Local people
remembered Lily and her sons coming to Nova Scotia to spend a
summer with Lucy and Evelyn, in the early 1920s.

“
That’s all I
learned,” Norbert finished. “The house was empty much of the time
afterwards, though I do remember Evelyn spending a few summers
here.”

After making plans
with Norbert for a visit the following week, Vera hung up the
phone.

She suddenly had an
idea. While going through a trunk in the attic, she had found a
bundle of letters with Boston postmarks. Taking a small lamp, she
climbed the worn attic stairs, and opened the trunk which held the
letters. They bore cancellations dating from the early 1900s to
1923. She pulled out a letter from Mrs. Lily Bennett dated February
1919.

My dear
Lucy,

We received your
telegram with its terrible news. I am so sorry for your trouble. It
is devastating to lose your dear sisters and both your parents so
suddenly. We are still in shock after losing Wesley, my two
precious girls and two of our dear boys, all just in a few months.
It has shaken my trust in God. How could He want to take Papa and
four innocent little children to Him? Everyone in Boston is asking
these questions. So many are suffering.

In our city, we saw
such sights as you could hardly imagine. The streets were silent.
No one dared go out for fear of contamination. The telephone
exchanges are closed, since so many operators are sick or have
died. Theatres, workplaces, restaurants—all closed. The churches
have even limited funerals to 15 minutes, since there are so many
every day, and also out of fear of contagion.

Dear Lucy, try to
have faith that we will get through this awful epidemic. We can
only hope to see our loved ones again in a better place.

Our house feels
lonely now, without the children’s laughter and Wesley’s cheerful,
“Hello!” when he arrives home from work. Do give a thought to come
to us for a long visit, perhaps even to stay permanently. It would
do my heart good.

Wishing you comfort
in your sorrow,

Your loving aunt,
Lily Bennett.

The last letter was
dated 1923 and postmarked Boston. In it, Lucy Wilbur wrote to her
cousin in Parrsboro, with directions to advertise the house for
rent to long-term tenants.

Vera slowly put the
letter down, and re-tied the ribbon around the bundle. She hoped
the two widows had been able to comfort each other.

Later, she carried
out her usual evening ritual. She wiped down the table, the counter
tops and stove, rinsed and wrung out the cloth, and left it to hang
on the stove door handle. Vera wondered how many women before her
had repeated the same familiar chores. The house dated to the
mid-nineteenth century, so it could be six or seven generations. In
her mind’s eye, she saw a parade of women who had lived in this
house, birthed their children, laughed and loved much, cared for
the ill and dying, mourned their dead, and grew old
themselves.

She glanced at the
window above the sink, and noticed a full moon shining through
broken clouds. Maybe Lucy Wilbur had stood at this counter-top,
perhaps in the same clothing she herself had tried on. Dreamily,
she pulled the cameo from her pocket, and held it up to her throat.
In the window, an image formed. Someone was standing behind her.
She whirled around.

Between her and the
stairs stood a woman, her eyes wide in horror. The woman raised a
hand across her mouth. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She stared
uncomprehendingly at Vera. She looked as if…she’d seen a
ghost.

Vera stared back. The
woman wore a high-necked shirtwaist and a long wool skirt. Her fair
hair was pulled back from her face with little tendrils escaping
around her ears. A black velvet band circled her neck. Pinned to it
was a rose cameo. Its twin pulsed in Vera’s grasp, scorching her
fingers. It slipped from her hand, clattered across the floor, and
tumbled into a gap by the wall.

Instinctively, Vera
flung her apron over her face to shield her eyes from the
apparition. She stood rigidly for several minutes. Slowly, she
dropped her apron. The woman was gone. The clock struck 11 p.m. The
house was quiet. There was no sign of the cameo.

~~~***~~~

The House on the
Hill

Janet
Doleman

On a cool, late April
night, while the moon shone weakly through a veil of clouds, seven
of us crowded into the confines of a ’67 Ford station wagon with
worn upholstery, an intermittent heater and a stubborn clutch.
Phil, the sole holder of a driver’s license in the group, managed
to get his father’s car on Friday nights. Along with one other boy,
Eddie, were five girls: me (Janey), Rosemary, Maria, Eliza, and
Patty, Phil’s younger sister. All of us were forbidden to date
solo, or to drive in cars with boys, or attend unsupervised
parties. The exceptions to the “boys” rule were Phil, who was the
Baptist minister’s son, and Eddie, whose dad was the new CO of the
nearby Air Force base, and thereby approved as suitable company.
Our parents believed that both boys’ every action was safely
approved and monitored by the respective fathers, and any untoward
behaviour was sniffed out and duly dealt with. Our collective
parents appeared to have agreed upon an acceptable code of conduct
for their assorted offspring, and seemed to possess a telepathic
knowledge of our actions and whereabouts. We called it telepathic
but we knew that the old busybodies of the village, like Mrs.
Dawse, made it their life’s goal to know everyone else’s business.
There was no escaping.

Except for us. We deemed ourselves under the
radar as long as we didn’t blab to our parents or, heaven forbid,
to our younger siblings. They took it as their family duty to
report every action to our parents, unless, of course, they held
back juicy tidbits to use as blackmail for their own advantage.

On this chilly April
night, safe, stalwart Phil, eager as the rest of us for an
adventure at the end of a dull week of school and homework, parked
the car at the head of the beach road on the landward side of the
island, doused the headlights, and left us in near darkness,
illuminated slightly by the moon’s glow.

The beach curved in an outward arc towards
the mainland, its tip pointing at the rocky causeway connecting the
island to the mainland. That was where our village strung out along
both sides of a two-lane road, bordered by the railway tracks along
the shoreline on one side and woods on the other.

“
Are we going to check out
the parking lot?” piped up Eddie. “Or maybe we can jump the
dunes?”

The dunes were our version of a playground,
especially on nights like this, with each of us feeling the need
for freedom from restrictions, when we could act childishly without
being criticized by anyone outside our circle.

“
I don’t know,” said
Maria. “It’s too dark to see the path.” Maria often dampened our
enthusiasm with expressions of caution and restraint.

Adventure in our world was tempered by the
fear of getting caught if we dared to commit a rash act. Stealing
property, breaking windows, or inadvertently hurting someone was
declared off-limits. Borrowing property, on the other hand, was
acceptable, as long as the said item was restored to its former
owner and location at the end of the night.

Rosemary spoke up. “We could sneak up on Bud
Smith and Marilyn and give them a good scare. I think they’ve gone
parking down by the dunes tonight.”

Tucked behind the sand
dunes at the end of the gravelled road, lay a sandy clearing big
enough to hold half a dozen cars. On a sunny day, it would be
filled with mothers unloading their assorted children, folding
chairs, picnic baskets and beach toys for an afternoon on the
beach. It was nearly empty after five o’clock, except after dark on
weekends, which was a popular time for couples to park at the end
farthest from the lone street lamp, the feeble glow unable to reach
into a car’s interior.

That end of the lot could be treacherous for
cars whose tires would spin helplessly, digging deeper into the
sand. This was common knowledge in the area. Even so, the risk of
becoming marooned with no one to help push the car out if it got
stuck was tempered by the promise of privacy for parking
couples.

“
How do we scare them? And
what with?” asked Eliza who could be counted on to equip our
“team”. We had forgotten to establish a plan that night, much to
Eliza’s disappointment.

“
Why don’t we get a barrel
of fish bait over at Long Wharf, creep up to the car, and dump it
over the windshield?” offered Eddie.

Our little community gained its livelihood
from the fishing industry of Cape Sable Island and surrounding
villages, hence the prolific presence of boats, fishing gear, and
barrel upon barrel of smelly, disgusting fish bait. Usually, we did
not dare go near wharves or wharf buildings, under threat of
grounding from our parents, who warned us repeatedly with stories
of young children drowning off the end of wharves. We respected
their experience and directives after hearing those tragic
tales.