Guide to Abigail’s letters
January, 1920
1. Save the Oak/Hope is the key
2. The Oak is an extraordinary place
3. Commitment
4. Take care of each other
5. Who is the woman in white flowing robes
February, 1920
1. The White Rabbit
2. The dark shadow
3. Marry well, my Daughters
4. Keep hope alive
5. Teach your children well
March, 1920
1. The Oak as it was
2. Give consideration to your heart
3. The final battle
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Letters Home, Guide to Christina's letters
Guide to Christina’s Letters
1. July 1, 1999—The Oak is haunted by memories
2. July 2, 1999—Katrina remembered/girls at age 4-Whiskers arrives
3. July 3, 1999—girls at age 8, lost in the fields
4. July 4, 1999—Thank you to those who sacrifice for freedom
5. July 5, 1999—the wounded rabbit/if walls could speak
6. July 6, 1999—spring/What is love?
7. July 7, 1999—letters sent to troops/war
8. July 8, 1999—finding joy and purpose
9. July 14, 1999—family portrait
10. July 15, 1999—the courtship of Mother and Father
11. July 16, 1999—Betsy’s life before the Oak
12. July 20, 1999—the responsibility of giving back
13. July 22, 1999—Christina wants others to learn from her mistakes
14. July 25, 1999—take opportunities for joy
15. July 26, 1999—girls at age 17, Father goes to war
16. July 28, 1999—the Oak
17. July 29, 1999—following our dreams while we have the chance
18. August 1, 1999—Katrina’s wedding to Robert
19. August 3, 1999—box of recipes
20. August 4, 1999—the elements of the Earth work together
21. August 5, 1999—alchemy of the human condition
22. August 6, 1999—Forgiveness flows in two directions
23. August 7, 1999—Mother’s final days
24. August 8, 1999—angel seemed to come to life
25. August 12, 1999—1960’s, Oak opened to visitors
26. August 13, 1999—changes through the century, chance for change
27. August 14, 1999—hope whispers to all, “I am here for you”
28. August 23, 1999—Christina at age 21, George
29. August 25, 1999—age 29, Betsy’s death, final time Katrina was seen
30. August 29, 1999—waiting to change/time is precious
31. September 3, 1999—an angry storm
32. September 4, 1999—drinking at Joe’s Tavern
33. September 8, 1999—the box found inside the wall
34. September 11, 1999—girls at age 7, receiving the rag dolls
35. September 15, 1999—items hidden/buried about property and house
36. September 17, 1999—how people listen
37. September 23, 1999—Christina at age 27, attack by Steven
38. September 28, 1999—children are born good
39. October 1, 1999—Katrina, age 6, is ill
40. October 3, 1999—humans seek answers to the unanswerable
41. October 7, 1999—girls at age 10, trip to the fall carnival
42. October 10, 1999—Life requires teamwork
43. October 15, 1999--Truth
44. October 16, 1999—balancing business and life
45. October 17, 1999—Spring is time for change/hope in every moment
46. October 18, 1999—Fifteenth Halloween/the stained dress
47. October 25, 1999—Christina at age 38, Thomas
48. November 2, 1999—Thanksgiving/having been blessed
49. November 7, 1999—inner strength/interconnectedness
50. November 10, 1999—the openness of hearts during winter
51. November 15, 1999—the need for pride/the two faces of pride
52. November 21, 1999—Hope comes to the Oak/leave the past behind
53. November 23, 1999—we all need someone to believe in us
54. December 8, 1999—winter/the future is in each moment
55. December 9, 1999—Speaking up for those who cannot
56. December 12, 1999—Whispers in the room
57. December 13, 1999--Forgiveness
58. December 28, 1999—final wishes
59. December 29, 1999—What is death?
60. December 30, 1999—final letter
61. December 31, 1999—final letter
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
1. July 1, 1999—The Oak is haunted by memories
2. July 2, 1999—Katrina remembered/girls at age 4-Whiskers arrives
3. July 3, 1999—girls at age 8, lost in the fields
4. July 4, 1999—Thank you to those who sacrifice for freedom
5. July 5, 1999—the wounded rabbit/if walls could speak
6. July 6, 1999—spring/What is love?
7. July 7, 1999—letters sent to troops/war
8. July 8, 1999—finding joy and purpose
9. July 14, 1999—family portrait
10. July 15, 1999—the courtship of Mother and Father
11. July 16, 1999—Betsy’s life before the Oak
12. July 20, 1999—the responsibility of giving back
13. July 22, 1999—Christina wants others to learn from her mistakes
14. July 25, 1999—take opportunities for joy
15. July 26, 1999—girls at age 17, Father goes to war
16. July 28, 1999—the Oak
17. July 29, 1999—following our dreams while we have the chance
18. August 1, 1999—Katrina’s wedding to Robert
19. August 3, 1999—box of recipes
20. August 4, 1999—the elements of the Earth work together
21. August 5, 1999—alchemy of the human condition
22. August 6, 1999—Forgiveness flows in two directions
23. August 7, 1999—Mother’s final days
24. August 8, 1999—angel seemed to come to life
25. August 12, 1999—1960’s, Oak opened to visitors
26. August 13, 1999—changes through the century, chance for change
27. August 14, 1999—hope whispers to all, “I am here for you”
28. August 23, 1999—Christina at age 21, George
29. August 25, 1999—age 29, Betsy’s death, final time Katrina was seen
30. August 29, 1999—waiting to change/time is precious
31. September 3, 1999—an angry storm
32. September 4, 1999—drinking at Joe’s Tavern
33. September 8, 1999—the box found inside the wall
34. September 11, 1999—girls at age 7, receiving the rag dolls
35. September 15, 1999—items hidden/buried about property and house
36. September 17, 1999—how people listen
37. September 23, 1999—Christina at age 27, attack by Steven
38. September 28, 1999—children are born good
39. October 1, 1999—Katrina, age 6, is ill
40. October 3, 1999—humans seek answers to the unanswerable
41. October 7, 1999—girls at age 10, trip to the fall carnival
42. October 10, 1999—Life requires teamwork
43. October 15, 1999--Truth
44. October 16, 1999—balancing business and life
45. October 17, 1999—Spring is time for change/hope in every moment
46. October 18, 1999—Fifteenth Halloween/the stained dress
47. October 25, 1999—Christina at age 38, Thomas
48. November 2, 1999—Thanksgiving/having been blessed
49. November 7, 1999—inner strength/interconnectedness
50. November 10, 1999—the openness of hearts during winter
51. November 15, 1999—the need for pride/the two faces of pride
52. November 21, 1999—Hope comes to the Oak/leave the past behind
53. November 23, 1999—we all need someone to believe in us
54. December 8, 1999—winter/the future is in each moment
55. December 9, 1999—Speaking up for those who cannot
56. December 12, 1999—Whispers in the room
57. December 13, 1999--Forgiveness
58. December 28, 1999—final wishes
59. December 29, 1999—What is death?
60. December 30, 1999—final letter
61. December 31, 1999—final letter
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Letters Home, Notes
Notes: Section 1
The myth of Pandora, mentioned in Section 1, is an ancient myth with varying meanings. Although a multitude of works have been created regarding Pandora, including literature and art, for additional information one may wish to review the following:
Answers.com. http://www.answers.com/topic/pandora
Bulfinch, Thomas. The Age of Fable. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: Courage Books, 1987, 1990.
Wikipedia. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pandora
Notes: Section 2
Although several versions exist throughout the world and in different languages, The Lord’s Prayer, recited, in part, in Section 2, can be located in the New Testament of the King James Version of the Holy Bible, in the books of Matthew and Luke.
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
The myth of Pandora, mentioned in Section 1, is an ancient myth with varying meanings. Although a multitude of works have been created regarding Pandora, including literature and art, for additional information one may wish to review the following:
Answers.com. http://www.answers.com/topic/pandora
Bulfinch, Thomas. The Age of Fable. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: Courage Books, 1987, 1990.
Wikipedia. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pandora
Notes: Section 2
Although several versions exist throughout the world and in different languages, The Lord’s Prayer, recited, in part, in Section 2, can be located in the New Testament of the King James Version of the Holy Bible, in the books of Matthew and Luke.
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Letters Home, Section 3, Lisa's letter, April 3, 2007
April 3, 2007
To my daughters, my husband, and any who shall read these words,
When you don’t really know where to start, anywhere will do. Otherwise, you’ll never begin. Someone once told me that and, as years have passed, I have learned what good advice it is. Here, in the house garden, as I write this, I look up periodically to see my children and husband napping in the shade of an old oak tree and the sight of them brings a smile to my face. And, I know, that if I had never began, I wouldn’t be lucky enough to have them in my life.
I was born in this little town and raised here at The Oak. But, at the time, I never truly appreciated the beauty and serenity of my home or the lessons it had to teach me. But, I’ll save that story for later and tell it bit by bit. Right now, what’s important is that I’ve rediscovered the peace within this property, and I have learned to keep it in my heart and carry it with me always, no matter where I may go.
Writing was never really my thing. I’ve always preferred measurements and corners. Yet, if you’ll have patience with me, I will do the best I can to find the words that I want to say to you, words that will tell you of my life and help you to avoid making the same mistakes I’ve made. Life is about learning and growing, and we’ll all make mistakes no matter what, but life is also about sharing and that’s what I hope to do with this.
I am Lisa Michaels Russell, a woman, a mother, a wife, and an architect, with dreams that I had once forgotten but have since remembered and realized. And, as I write these letters with words destined for your heart, I hope to encourage you to find your own dreams, and pursue them with passionate determination and the gentle light of hope….
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and entirely unintentional.
To my daughters, my husband, and any who shall read these words,
When you don’t really know where to start, anywhere will do. Otherwise, you’ll never begin. Someone once told me that and, as years have passed, I have learned what good advice it is. Here, in the house garden, as I write this, I look up periodically to see my children and husband napping in the shade of an old oak tree and the sight of them brings a smile to my face. And, I know, that if I had never began, I wouldn’t be lucky enough to have them in my life.
I was born in this little town and raised here at The Oak. But, at the time, I never truly appreciated the beauty and serenity of my home or the lessons it had to teach me. But, I’ll save that story for later and tell it bit by bit. Right now, what’s important is that I’ve rediscovered the peace within this property, and I have learned to keep it in my heart and carry it with me always, no matter where I may go.
Writing was never really my thing. I’ve always preferred measurements and corners. Yet, if you’ll have patience with me, I will do the best I can to find the words that I want to say to you, words that will tell you of my life and help you to avoid making the same mistakes I’ve made. Life is about learning and growing, and we’ll all make mistakes no matter what, but life is also about sharing and that’s what I hope to do with this.
I am Lisa Michaels Russell, a woman, a mother, a wife, and an architect, with dreams that I had once forgotten but have since remembered and realized. And, as I write these letters with words destined for your heart, I hope to encourage you to find your own dreams, and pursue them with passionate determination and the gentle light of hope….
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and entirely unintentional.
Letters Home, Section 3, The Present
The Present
No one really knew the truth about what happened, and what has no witnesses has many interpretations. Henry’s body had been found upon the land, and the rumors began that he had been pushed out of the window, another victim of the haunted Oak, while other rumors ruled the death as suicide, Henry preferring to take his own life rather than face the truth of the loss of his development deal. But, no one had seen him fall and the sheriff could never determine one scenario over another.
When the sheriff came out to continue the investigation of the fallen porch that had claimed two lives, he found Henry’s body beside a vacant field. The Oak was gone, disappeared without a trace, the green grass free of any sign that a house had sat upon it for over a century. Yet, there, beside the place where the grand house had stood, remained the flower garden, brilliant hues of reds and yellows, purples and blues, greens and pinks filling up beds of Earth and ceramic pots, rows of life dotted with oak benches, stone angels, and, in the center of the garden, an Oak tree, living but carved into its trunk a brilliantly accurate life-size replica of a gardener, a limb growing from the tree appearing as his water hose.
The restaurant, the restoration building, and the other structures built by the State had burnt to the ground shortly after Henry’s death, each one struck by lightning during a storm that, according to the townspeople, hovered over the Oak for most of a day, lightning repeatedly striking from the sky in angry bolts aimed directly for the structures. Over the years, the ash that remained sunk into the Earth and fertile fields of plants and young oak trees returned to their rightful places.
Though years had passed, the gates still stood to the entrance of The Oak, a paved drive winding its way to an open field, circling at the top in such a way so that upon leaving the heart was led back, letting anyone who entered know that they were welcome. The fields of clover still led down to a lake that reflected the sun in all its glory, beams of yellow and white playfully dancing on the surface of the water. Woodland animals strolled in and out of the barn, though there was no longer any one about to clean the stalls or place feed in the troughs, and many of the newer walls had fallen, caved in from their own weight.
The fields were alive again, reeds waving to greet the sun each morning and the trees moving about their branches in the breeze as if speaking to each other, sharing the tales of centuries gone by, rustling leaves sounding as the laughter of old men just having shared a story from long ago. The birds returned, gliding through the air across the property with hope beneath their wings and happiness in their hearts, singing to the Earth and delivering messages amongst the living beings upon the land. The birds seeded the land here and there, stalks of corn and grain growing without human aid, and the orchards began to thrive.
“Mrs. Russell, you have a call on line one. Mrs. Russell, line one,” Mike said as he came through the small office door, placing his cap on a file cabinet and dusting his pants one final time of any loose soil before sitting in the chair near the desk. Leaning back as he laughed, he continued, “How often do they say that in a day anyway?”
“Many,” she replied with a smile, checking the lights on the phone to make certain Mike had only been teasing, “and each one is a call that grows this business and will help put our children through college.” Putting away a file in a cabinet and looking over the desk she gently asked, “Did you just get the floor dirty?”
“No,” he said, looking about the floor, “clean as a whistle. I’m good about leaving the dirt outside, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are! I was just making sure. We have clients that will be here in an hour or so.” Returning to her seat, she straightened her blouse and jacket and looked about the office as she rubbed the crucifix hanging about her neck. The walls were filled with signs of accomplishments, degrees and thank you notes, and family photographs sat upon her desk, pictures of outings with Mike and the kids, amongst files and paperwork, pencils and pens and canisters.
“Mrs. Russell, you have a call on line one. Mrs. Russell, line one,” the voice over the intercom said.
Mike laughed quietly. “It’s not me this time.”
“Hello,” she said into the phone. “Yes, one o’clock,” she paused. “We’ll see you then.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird,” Mike began, crossing his arms and leaning them on the desk for emphasis, “that we keep dealing with a secretary who makes appointments for these people, but we don’t have any idea what they want or who they are?”
“Well,” she paused, “they’re calling us, so apparently they want some type of construction.”
“Well, I know that, but usually people give us some idea ahead of time as to what they’re looking for, price range, something.”
“Let’s just wait and see. Anything could happen, I guess.”
“Lisa,” Mike began.
“We can always tell them no if we don’t want the project. We both have to agree to take a project. Remember? That’s the deal we made when we started this business.”
“I thought the deal was you design them, I build them,” Mike asked with a grin, his teeth white beneath the tanned, leathery skin.
“That, too,” Lisa smiled back, her eyes roaming to the window as they had so often in these recent days.
Mike watched her for a moment before beginning. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you,” he asked in nearly a whisper, never truly understanding her fascination with it all. “It was just a house.”
“I know, but it was home and sometimes it just calls to me like it’s calling me back. I don’t know why I’d be thinking about it now,” she exhaled. “We’ve been busy lately and, usually, when we’re busy the Oak doesn’t cross my mind.”
Mike sat quietly, never exactly certain what to say in these matters. “Do you think it would help if you went back? You know, for a visit or something? Just to see how everything is?”
Lisa continued to look out the window at the sun beaming down upon the street and bouncing into the tiny office like a child’s rubber ball, though her spirit seemed to see further than the city street, past the people and the walls and the buildings, across the fields and state lines, over the mountains, through the valley and onto the property.
“You spent your whole life there. So much happened to you there.”
Lisa returned her concentration to the office. “Uh,” she began.
“We’ve got some money saved. The trip may settle some questions for you.”
“I’ll think about it.” She exhaled and repeated herself. “I’ll think about it.” And, she returned her gaze to the window.
“You want to go get some lunch before the one o’clocks get here?”
“Yes,” Lisa said quietly, still battling her thoughts from returning at will to The Oak, the angels in the windows, the roses in the garden, and the crystal blue eyes of the rabbit. “I keep having the strangest craving for sourdough bread.”
“Uh, craving,” Mike asked with wonder. “Are you trying to tell me something? The last time you craved sourdough bread,” he began.
“No,” Lisa interrupted, a small laugh in her voice, gathering her purse and heading around the desk, “it’s just a memory.”
But, lunch at the shoreline had not helped her to focus, Lisa’s mind returning to The Oak and all there that had occurred. She thought of Hope, up north in her clinic counseling the troubled, and she remembered the expression on Hope’s face as it had been on that first day they had met when Hope came walking up the drive towards the house. Lisa thought of Monica, of the advanced nursing degree she had earned since leaving the Oak, of Monica’s spring wedding to Joseph Walden and the heartwarming toast that Monica’s sister had made about getting to know Monica again and wishing her the best of happiness, and she remembered how kind and patient Monica had been with Christina on the night Christina died.
It felt so strange to her, focusing so much on The Oak. Since the day that she had driven away, Lisa’s life had been so different from those last few months at the house, first earning her degree and then marrying, having children. She had found herself over the last few years happy, content, and hopeful, unafraid to take a risk now and then, able to focus on the positive, and looking forward to the future instead of merely waiting for it.
Except on those few rare occasions when someone of similar build or facial characteristics passed her on the street, Henry and Spike no longer crossed her mind, buried in the dark recesses of the mind like the forgotten lyrics to songs or the sound of a certain storm. Yet, she thought often of Christopher and Mary Alice, their advice, their natures. And, yes, she remembered Christina talking of the past as she sat at the old oak desk, looking out the window over the fields of clover and down towards the lake.
Lisa looked up from her desk towards the office door when she heard someone clear their throat, trying to get her attention. “Well, we do have a one o’clock appointment,” Monica boasted as she stood in the office door, exhaling dramatically and putting her hand to her forehead. “And, we are such overworked ladies, aren’t we,” she asked, her tone as if she were on a stage as she walked in to the office, met halfway by Lisa, for a hug.
“What are you doing here,” Lisa asked, a smile in her eyes and a tear in her voice, barely able to form the words from the surprise of seeing Monica there.
Monica simply laughed, her voice returning to normal as she sighed. “We wanted it to be a surprise since it had been so long since we’d seen you, but we really are the one o’clock appointment.”
“We?”
“Well, friends don’t let friends travel alone,” Hope said as she entered behind Monica. And, Hope embraced Lisa.
Mike bounced into the room and grinned broadly.
“Did you know about this?”
Mike shook his head. “Somebody had to arrange all this. Besides, it is business. They actually have a project for us to consider.”
Seeing Lisa’s confused expression, Hope explained. “Why don’t we have a seat and we’ll answer all the questions.” Informally, they sat about the small office as Hope began. “Getting straight to the point, my clinic has been doing well. So, I think it’s time to open a bigger clinic, something I’ve dreamed of for a long time.” Hope paused, wondering how Lisa would take the news. “I’ve bought the Oak, and I’d like to build a new clinic there. Twin Oaks, is what I intend to call it.”
“Is this the type of clinic you’ve spoken about before? What kind of clinic will it be?” Lisa spoke with excitement as she requested more information.
“Something of a foundation of healing. That place is so special. It helped me a lot when I was there and I think if other people can stay there for a few weeks or so that it may help them too. In-patient, very minimum security, counseling, and the freedom to roam about the property. I really think it could help people to begin to heal some difficult wounds.”
“Wounds of battle, huh? That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“And, Monica has agreed to come on board as the nurse in charge.”
“That’s great,” Lisa added, turning her smile to Monica.
“And, my husband, Matt, is going to serve as the facility’s attorney.”
“Keeping it in the family, I see.”
“And, Monica’s husband has agreed to serve as the psychiatrist.”
“Really keeping it in the family.”
“But, we need a building. A good building. A building that has the type of atmosphere that the Oak did when I was there, a building that feels like home to everyone, you know what I mean?”
“You need a place of healing,” Lisa replied. “You need another Oak.”
“Yes,” Hope answered. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the property lately, but the house is gone and there is plenty of room to build a facility, regardless of the size, but I’d prefer something smaller, something that doesn’t feel like a huge hospital or something like that. I want a place that feels like home. And,” Hope paused to look towards Mike, “there is one more thing.”
Mike smiled as he looked at Lisa. “The property is huge, more than they would need even for a clinic like this. So, Hope had divided off part of the property for the clinic and the rest has been divided into three large sections for private ownership.”
“We’ve bought one. Joseph and I intend to build a little cabin on it,” Monica added.
“And, my kids love the country, so we’re building a house on the second,” Hope said.
“And, of course, they need an architect,” Mike added before continuing.
“Who bought the third,” Lisa asked.
Mike grinned. “I thought we’d take a look at it. Talk about it. See what we think.”
“And, the project,” Hope asked.
“Okay.” Lisa looked towards Mike and saw his nod. “I’ll need a little time, but I think I can come up with something,” Lisa paused, her eyes drawn back to Hope and Monica, noticing the sunlight streaming in through the windows, highlighting Monica’s hair and the face of Hope, brightening the room as if the answers to prayers were cascading in. “Hope, I’ll need to see the property again to really understand how it looks right now and what type of building would work with the landscape.” Turning her attention to Mike, Lisa continued, “It’s time to go home.”
“True small towns never change too much,” Lisa thought as the family drove past the city limit sign, fields on both sides of the road. Looking out the window, Lisa viewed the newly born sprouts of spring lined up neatly in long rows that stretched out across the rolling hills and around an occasional tree or pond, new life emerging from the encouragement of life much older. “It still looks the same,” she thought, her gaze held through the window as the fields slowly became wooded areas accented with a stream here and there.
The car seemed quiet, the radio playing softly and even the toddlers playing quietly with their toys, the sound of the wheels against the road sounding like a tune being hummed by the Earth calling Lisa home. Seeing Lisa’s lost expression as he drove, Mike rubbed her shoulder but said nothing. Words were of no use now, Lisa understanding his tender touch and placing her own hand upon his, lightly grabbing hold but never removing her eyes from the landscape.
The school was the first building to come into sight, sitting on the left side of the highway as it always had, advertising the tryouts for the next season of athletics. The baseball fields to the right were freshly lined, anxiously awaiting for night to fall so games could begin, the cheering of the crowds could be heard, and the lively heart of trying could be felt across the park. Driving along, Lisa could already hear sounds from the past, the loud speakers announcing the score or excitedly describing a home run, she could smell the popcorn and the sweat of summer fun, she could hear the conversations in the small crowd about a particular play, how a child was doing in school, or who had just gotten married.
A bit further down the road, the car drove through the area where Lisa had first seen Spike in that old Charger with the gun pointed towards her, but the memory no longer haunted her as it used to. The pharmacy was still there, fresh paint upon its side, and Lisa could recall the sounds of the boards creaking as she had stepped upon them. Some of the smaller businesses remained along the little stretch of road, though others had closed, large pieces of wood boarding up windows, planks crossing doors to prevent entry. The old co-op had burned to the ground years earlier when antique wiring could no longer maintain the strain of the building, and a new one had been built on its foundation to serve the farmers about the area, a shiny new sign above its doors.
And, just a short distance from the co-op sat the old train station. Though long since closed and out of use, the depot and the old platform still stood proudly by the tracks, open to visitors as a welcome center with pamphlets of tourist attractions in the area and operated by the volunteers from the historical society. One shiny, bright red caboose sat in the glare of the sun next to the small depot, ready for children of all ages to walk through and enjoy, pretending to be the engineer or acting as though they were shoveling coal.
Then, past the train station, fields alternated with wooded areas, passing for miles with an occasional body of water living upon the land, a stream twinkling in the sun or a pond or lake reflecting the sky.
“Here it is,” Mike said as he saw the gate to The Oak approaching, his words barely a whisper though they seemed to ring through the air, catching the attention of Lisa and the children as everyone looked toward the entrance. The old guardhouse was still there, sitting just outside of The Oak, but vines had grown up about the unused little building and the limbs of the trees had wrapped themselves around the upper portion in a tight hug as if trying to pull it back to the other side of the gates.
“Stop for a moment,” Lisa whispered as she leaned toward Mike, her mouth dry as the car waited just outside of the entrance. Surveying, Lisa studied the towering arch where the name of the property was written, the living tall oak banisters on either side of the drive cradling in their arms the black iron sign. Wooden areas, trees with intertwined roots and branches sat on each side of the drive and pastures of green sat across the road. Though the blacktop continued on into the distance, providing a choice to travelers to travel on, to return when whence they had came, or to enter The Oak, Lisa felt the old familiar pull into the drive, down the path, and up towards the house that used to be.
“Are you okay,” Mike quietly asked Lisa as the children, in their broken speech, pointed and exclaimed at the deer walking next to the line of trees just inside the gate. The deer, sensing no danger, continued to sniff about the grass, looking at the happy children in the backseat with curious eyes and friendly smiles.
Lisa shook her head at Mike, soothing his concern as they turned their attention to the children in the backseat and to the deer at the side of the road.
“Yes, we see them,” they both agreed.
“Can you count how many there are,” Mike asked the kids as he noticed a fawn lift a leg in such a motion as to appear to be waving directly at the children. “No, couldn’t be,” he thought, turning back around.
Lisa unlocked and opened the black iron gates beneath the property sign, her key still fitting after all these years. Motioning for Mike to enter, she closed the gates behind him once the car was safely inside and reentered the vehicle. Closing the door behind her, her gaze was drawn just past Mike toward a tree stump at the edge of the drive. The children had already seen the white rabbit, one of his crystal blue eyes winking at them as they pointed and happily cried out to hold the furry creature. Mike noticed the interaction, shaking his head. “No, couldn’t be,” he whispered to Lisa, almost beneath his breath as he sat in astonishment.
“It can be at The Oak,” she replied.
“I thought you were just joking about all of this,” he questioned, but she simply nodded in return with a smile.
Slowly, they inched on, taking in the beauty of the oaks and the animals as they made their way further down the drive. Shortly, a blue bird landed upon the hood, balancing on the motionless windshield wiper, stretching out a wing now and again as he sang as if he were guiding a tour, pointing out important facts along the drive and introducing the family to the trees and sharing the stories of the past soaring upon the wind.
As the drive left the wooded area and entered the fields of green, Lisa felt the protective watch of the mountain reigning over the valley. She saw the small reminder of winter at the top of the mountain peaks and she saw the stone reminder of history resting at the bottom of the mountain beneath engraved concrete slabs. Looking across the property to the lake, the sun smiled upon the water, a special ray of light cascading down upon the graves of two sisters buried near the old oak tree, separated only by a stone angel saying a prayer above them, guarded by two stone lions nearby.
Mike parked at the top of the circle drive, near where the front doors to the house had once stood tall and proud, facing the fields of clover leading down to the lake, the mountain behind them. The fountain still sat in the center of the circle drive, some birds bathing in its flowing water and a squirrel standing atop for a distant view. Though the house garden still grew blazes of color amongst stone and oak sculptures, wildflowers were in the fields where they had always grown and wildflowers had now also grown where the house once stood.
“Okay,” Mike began as he got out, turned around, and pulled up the seat, “I bet you two are ready to get out of this car for a while.” The toddlers unfastened the buckles of their car seat, jumping to the floorboard and making their way in tiny steps to their father, excited to be able to explore. “Stay close to us, okay,” Mike told them as he put each down on the ground.
Lisa shut her door, standing outside the car and looking about at what she saw before her and remembering what had been. Walking into the house garden, she stood before the oak tree carrying the likeness of Christopher, touching his face with her hand and receiving the sensation of a smile coming from within the wood. Don’t look back, she thought she heard it whisper. And, bending down beneath the white rose near the bench, using her finger as a pencil and the Earth as a canvas, Lisa sketched Twin Oaks, the future, a place where souls wounded in the battle of life could begin to heal in a home filled with windows inviting in the sun, guarded by angels and surrounded by walls able to reach out and embrace the heart, with hope leading the way.
“What an amazing place. It’s like Heaven or something,” Mike said, returning to Lisa’s side after walking through the fields and down to the lake.
“Yes,” Lisa whispered, looking back towards the oak, “Heaven or something.”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind having a house out here. Maybe a vacation cottage or maybe even relocate nearby if there’s enough around here to support the business. It’s so peaceful here.”
“I like that idea. We should give it some consideration. It’s a wonderful place to write. And, suddenly, I feel a need to do a lot of writing, letter writing,” she smiled. Then, returning her attention to the nearby field, she called to her children, “Christina, Katrina, don’t wander too far now.”
And, as the gentle breeze of spring danced across the fields, carrying in its sails the sweet fragrances of new beginnings, and the sun playfully sent beams of light to the Earth to sway through the applauding trees, two young girls, two sisters dressed as one, with sparkling eyes of green and hair of gold, ran laughing through fields of wildflowers.
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
No one really knew the truth about what happened, and what has no witnesses has many interpretations. Henry’s body had been found upon the land, and the rumors began that he had been pushed out of the window, another victim of the haunted Oak, while other rumors ruled the death as suicide, Henry preferring to take his own life rather than face the truth of the loss of his development deal. But, no one had seen him fall and the sheriff could never determine one scenario over another.
When the sheriff came out to continue the investigation of the fallen porch that had claimed two lives, he found Henry’s body beside a vacant field. The Oak was gone, disappeared without a trace, the green grass free of any sign that a house had sat upon it for over a century. Yet, there, beside the place where the grand house had stood, remained the flower garden, brilliant hues of reds and yellows, purples and blues, greens and pinks filling up beds of Earth and ceramic pots, rows of life dotted with oak benches, stone angels, and, in the center of the garden, an Oak tree, living but carved into its trunk a brilliantly accurate life-size replica of a gardener, a limb growing from the tree appearing as his water hose.
The restaurant, the restoration building, and the other structures built by the State had burnt to the ground shortly after Henry’s death, each one struck by lightning during a storm that, according to the townspeople, hovered over the Oak for most of a day, lightning repeatedly striking from the sky in angry bolts aimed directly for the structures. Over the years, the ash that remained sunk into the Earth and fertile fields of plants and young oak trees returned to their rightful places.
Though years had passed, the gates still stood to the entrance of The Oak, a paved drive winding its way to an open field, circling at the top in such a way so that upon leaving the heart was led back, letting anyone who entered know that they were welcome. The fields of clover still led down to a lake that reflected the sun in all its glory, beams of yellow and white playfully dancing on the surface of the water. Woodland animals strolled in and out of the barn, though there was no longer any one about to clean the stalls or place feed in the troughs, and many of the newer walls had fallen, caved in from their own weight.
The fields were alive again, reeds waving to greet the sun each morning and the trees moving about their branches in the breeze as if speaking to each other, sharing the tales of centuries gone by, rustling leaves sounding as the laughter of old men just having shared a story from long ago. The birds returned, gliding through the air across the property with hope beneath their wings and happiness in their hearts, singing to the Earth and delivering messages amongst the living beings upon the land. The birds seeded the land here and there, stalks of corn and grain growing without human aid, and the orchards began to thrive.
“Mrs. Russell, you have a call on line one. Mrs. Russell, line one,” Mike said as he came through the small office door, placing his cap on a file cabinet and dusting his pants one final time of any loose soil before sitting in the chair near the desk. Leaning back as he laughed, he continued, “How often do they say that in a day anyway?”
“Many,” she replied with a smile, checking the lights on the phone to make certain Mike had only been teasing, “and each one is a call that grows this business and will help put our children through college.” Putting away a file in a cabinet and looking over the desk she gently asked, “Did you just get the floor dirty?”
“No,” he said, looking about the floor, “clean as a whistle. I’m good about leaving the dirt outside, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are! I was just making sure. We have clients that will be here in an hour or so.” Returning to her seat, she straightened her blouse and jacket and looked about the office as she rubbed the crucifix hanging about her neck. The walls were filled with signs of accomplishments, degrees and thank you notes, and family photographs sat upon her desk, pictures of outings with Mike and the kids, amongst files and paperwork, pencils and pens and canisters.
“Mrs. Russell, you have a call on line one. Mrs. Russell, line one,” the voice over the intercom said.
Mike laughed quietly. “It’s not me this time.”
“Hello,” she said into the phone. “Yes, one o’clock,” she paused. “We’ll see you then.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird,” Mike began, crossing his arms and leaning them on the desk for emphasis, “that we keep dealing with a secretary who makes appointments for these people, but we don’t have any idea what they want or who they are?”
“Well,” she paused, “they’re calling us, so apparently they want some type of construction.”
“Well, I know that, but usually people give us some idea ahead of time as to what they’re looking for, price range, something.”
“Let’s just wait and see. Anything could happen, I guess.”
“Lisa,” Mike began.
“We can always tell them no if we don’t want the project. We both have to agree to take a project. Remember? That’s the deal we made when we started this business.”
“I thought the deal was you design them, I build them,” Mike asked with a grin, his teeth white beneath the tanned, leathery skin.
“That, too,” Lisa smiled back, her eyes roaming to the window as they had so often in these recent days.
Mike watched her for a moment before beginning. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you,” he asked in nearly a whisper, never truly understanding her fascination with it all. “It was just a house.”
“I know, but it was home and sometimes it just calls to me like it’s calling me back. I don’t know why I’d be thinking about it now,” she exhaled. “We’ve been busy lately and, usually, when we’re busy the Oak doesn’t cross my mind.”
Mike sat quietly, never exactly certain what to say in these matters. “Do you think it would help if you went back? You know, for a visit or something? Just to see how everything is?”
Lisa continued to look out the window at the sun beaming down upon the street and bouncing into the tiny office like a child’s rubber ball, though her spirit seemed to see further than the city street, past the people and the walls and the buildings, across the fields and state lines, over the mountains, through the valley and onto the property.
“You spent your whole life there. So much happened to you there.”
Lisa returned her concentration to the office. “Uh,” she began.
“We’ve got some money saved. The trip may settle some questions for you.”
“I’ll think about it.” She exhaled and repeated herself. “I’ll think about it.” And, she returned her gaze to the window.
“You want to go get some lunch before the one o’clocks get here?”
“Yes,” Lisa said quietly, still battling her thoughts from returning at will to The Oak, the angels in the windows, the roses in the garden, and the crystal blue eyes of the rabbit. “I keep having the strangest craving for sourdough bread.”
“Uh, craving,” Mike asked with wonder. “Are you trying to tell me something? The last time you craved sourdough bread,” he began.
“No,” Lisa interrupted, a small laugh in her voice, gathering her purse and heading around the desk, “it’s just a memory.”
But, lunch at the shoreline had not helped her to focus, Lisa’s mind returning to The Oak and all there that had occurred. She thought of Hope, up north in her clinic counseling the troubled, and she remembered the expression on Hope’s face as it had been on that first day they had met when Hope came walking up the drive towards the house. Lisa thought of Monica, of the advanced nursing degree she had earned since leaving the Oak, of Monica’s spring wedding to Joseph Walden and the heartwarming toast that Monica’s sister had made about getting to know Monica again and wishing her the best of happiness, and she remembered how kind and patient Monica had been with Christina on the night Christina died.
It felt so strange to her, focusing so much on The Oak. Since the day that she had driven away, Lisa’s life had been so different from those last few months at the house, first earning her degree and then marrying, having children. She had found herself over the last few years happy, content, and hopeful, unafraid to take a risk now and then, able to focus on the positive, and looking forward to the future instead of merely waiting for it.
Except on those few rare occasions when someone of similar build or facial characteristics passed her on the street, Henry and Spike no longer crossed her mind, buried in the dark recesses of the mind like the forgotten lyrics to songs or the sound of a certain storm. Yet, she thought often of Christopher and Mary Alice, their advice, their natures. And, yes, she remembered Christina talking of the past as she sat at the old oak desk, looking out the window over the fields of clover and down towards the lake.
Lisa looked up from her desk towards the office door when she heard someone clear their throat, trying to get her attention. “Well, we do have a one o’clock appointment,” Monica boasted as she stood in the office door, exhaling dramatically and putting her hand to her forehead. “And, we are such overworked ladies, aren’t we,” she asked, her tone as if she were on a stage as she walked in to the office, met halfway by Lisa, for a hug.
“What are you doing here,” Lisa asked, a smile in her eyes and a tear in her voice, barely able to form the words from the surprise of seeing Monica there.
Monica simply laughed, her voice returning to normal as she sighed. “We wanted it to be a surprise since it had been so long since we’d seen you, but we really are the one o’clock appointment.”
“We?”
“Well, friends don’t let friends travel alone,” Hope said as she entered behind Monica. And, Hope embraced Lisa.
Mike bounced into the room and grinned broadly.
“Did you know about this?”
Mike shook his head. “Somebody had to arrange all this. Besides, it is business. They actually have a project for us to consider.”
Seeing Lisa’s confused expression, Hope explained. “Why don’t we have a seat and we’ll answer all the questions.” Informally, they sat about the small office as Hope began. “Getting straight to the point, my clinic has been doing well. So, I think it’s time to open a bigger clinic, something I’ve dreamed of for a long time.” Hope paused, wondering how Lisa would take the news. “I’ve bought the Oak, and I’d like to build a new clinic there. Twin Oaks, is what I intend to call it.”
“Is this the type of clinic you’ve spoken about before? What kind of clinic will it be?” Lisa spoke with excitement as she requested more information.
“Something of a foundation of healing. That place is so special. It helped me a lot when I was there and I think if other people can stay there for a few weeks or so that it may help them too. In-patient, very minimum security, counseling, and the freedom to roam about the property. I really think it could help people to begin to heal some difficult wounds.”
“Wounds of battle, huh? That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“And, Monica has agreed to come on board as the nurse in charge.”
“That’s great,” Lisa added, turning her smile to Monica.
“And, my husband, Matt, is going to serve as the facility’s attorney.”
“Keeping it in the family, I see.”
“And, Monica’s husband has agreed to serve as the psychiatrist.”
“Really keeping it in the family.”
“But, we need a building. A good building. A building that has the type of atmosphere that the Oak did when I was there, a building that feels like home to everyone, you know what I mean?”
“You need a place of healing,” Lisa replied. “You need another Oak.”
“Yes,” Hope answered. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the property lately, but the house is gone and there is plenty of room to build a facility, regardless of the size, but I’d prefer something smaller, something that doesn’t feel like a huge hospital or something like that. I want a place that feels like home. And,” Hope paused to look towards Mike, “there is one more thing.”
Mike smiled as he looked at Lisa. “The property is huge, more than they would need even for a clinic like this. So, Hope had divided off part of the property for the clinic and the rest has been divided into three large sections for private ownership.”
“We’ve bought one. Joseph and I intend to build a little cabin on it,” Monica added.
“And, my kids love the country, so we’re building a house on the second,” Hope said.
“And, of course, they need an architect,” Mike added before continuing.
“Who bought the third,” Lisa asked.
Mike grinned. “I thought we’d take a look at it. Talk about it. See what we think.”
“And, the project,” Hope asked.
“Okay.” Lisa looked towards Mike and saw his nod. “I’ll need a little time, but I think I can come up with something,” Lisa paused, her eyes drawn back to Hope and Monica, noticing the sunlight streaming in through the windows, highlighting Monica’s hair and the face of Hope, brightening the room as if the answers to prayers were cascading in. “Hope, I’ll need to see the property again to really understand how it looks right now and what type of building would work with the landscape.” Turning her attention to Mike, Lisa continued, “It’s time to go home.”
“True small towns never change too much,” Lisa thought as the family drove past the city limit sign, fields on both sides of the road. Looking out the window, Lisa viewed the newly born sprouts of spring lined up neatly in long rows that stretched out across the rolling hills and around an occasional tree or pond, new life emerging from the encouragement of life much older. “It still looks the same,” she thought, her gaze held through the window as the fields slowly became wooded areas accented with a stream here and there.
The car seemed quiet, the radio playing softly and even the toddlers playing quietly with their toys, the sound of the wheels against the road sounding like a tune being hummed by the Earth calling Lisa home. Seeing Lisa’s lost expression as he drove, Mike rubbed her shoulder but said nothing. Words were of no use now, Lisa understanding his tender touch and placing her own hand upon his, lightly grabbing hold but never removing her eyes from the landscape.
The school was the first building to come into sight, sitting on the left side of the highway as it always had, advertising the tryouts for the next season of athletics. The baseball fields to the right were freshly lined, anxiously awaiting for night to fall so games could begin, the cheering of the crowds could be heard, and the lively heart of trying could be felt across the park. Driving along, Lisa could already hear sounds from the past, the loud speakers announcing the score or excitedly describing a home run, she could smell the popcorn and the sweat of summer fun, she could hear the conversations in the small crowd about a particular play, how a child was doing in school, or who had just gotten married.
A bit further down the road, the car drove through the area where Lisa had first seen Spike in that old Charger with the gun pointed towards her, but the memory no longer haunted her as it used to. The pharmacy was still there, fresh paint upon its side, and Lisa could recall the sounds of the boards creaking as she had stepped upon them. Some of the smaller businesses remained along the little stretch of road, though others had closed, large pieces of wood boarding up windows, planks crossing doors to prevent entry. The old co-op had burned to the ground years earlier when antique wiring could no longer maintain the strain of the building, and a new one had been built on its foundation to serve the farmers about the area, a shiny new sign above its doors.
And, just a short distance from the co-op sat the old train station. Though long since closed and out of use, the depot and the old platform still stood proudly by the tracks, open to visitors as a welcome center with pamphlets of tourist attractions in the area and operated by the volunteers from the historical society. One shiny, bright red caboose sat in the glare of the sun next to the small depot, ready for children of all ages to walk through and enjoy, pretending to be the engineer or acting as though they were shoveling coal.
Then, past the train station, fields alternated with wooded areas, passing for miles with an occasional body of water living upon the land, a stream twinkling in the sun or a pond or lake reflecting the sky.
“Here it is,” Mike said as he saw the gate to The Oak approaching, his words barely a whisper though they seemed to ring through the air, catching the attention of Lisa and the children as everyone looked toward the entrance. The old guardhouse was still there, sitting just outside of The Oak, but vines had grown up about the unused little building and the limbs of the trees had wrapped themselves around the upper portion in a tight hug as if trying to pull it back to the other side of the gates.
“Stop for a moment,” Lisa whispered as she leaned toward Mike, her mouth dry as the car waited just outside of the entrance. Surveying, Lisa studied the towering arch where the name of the property was written, the living tall oak banisters on either side of the drive cradling in their arms the black iron sign. Wooden areas, trees with intertwined roots and branches sat on each side of the drive and pastures of green sat across the road. Though the blacktop continued on into the distance, providing a choice to travelers to travel on, to return when whence they had came, or to enter The Oak, Lisa felt the old familiar pull into the drive, down the path, and up towards the house that used to be.
“Are you okay,” Mike quietly asked Lisa as the children, in their broken speech, pointed and exclaimed at the deer walking next to the line of trees just inside the gate. The deer, sensing no danger, continued to sniff about the grass, looking at the happy children in the backseat with curious eyes and friendly smiles.
Lisa shook her head at Mike, soothing his concern as they turned their attention to the children in the backseat and to the deer at the side of the road.
“Yes, we see them,” they both agreed.
“Can you count how many there are,” Mike asked the kids as he noticed a fawn lift a leg in such a motion as to appear to be waving directly at the children. “No, couldn’t be,” he thought, turning back around.
Lisa unlocked and opened the black iron gates beneath the property sign, her key still fitting after all these years. Motioning for Mike to enter, she closed the gates behind him once the car was safely inside and reentered the vehicle. Closing the door behind her, her gaze was drawn just past Mike toward a tree stump at the edge of the drive. The children had already seen the white rabbit, one of his crystal blue eyes winking at them as they pointed and happily cried out to hold the furry creature. Mike noticed the interaction, shaking his head. “No, couldn’t be,” he whispered to Lisa, almost beneath his breath as he sat in astonishment.
“It can be at The Oak,” she replied.
“I thought you were just joking about all of this,” he questioned, but she simply nodded in return with a smile.
Slowly, they inched on, taking in the beauty of the oaks and the animals as they made their way further down the drive. Shortly, a blue bird landed upon the hood, balancing on the motionless windshield wiper, stretching out a wing now and again as he sang as if he were guiding a tour, pointing out important facts along the drive and introducing the family to the trees and sharing the stories of the past soaring upon the wind.
As the drive left the wooded area and entered the fields of green, Lisa felt the protective watch of the mountain reigning over the valley. She saw the small reminder of winter at the top of the mountain peaks and she saw the stone reminder of history resting at the bottom of the mountain beneath engraved concrete slabs. Looking across the property to the lake, the sun smiled upon the water, a special ray of light cascading down upon the graves of two sisters buried near the old oak tree, separated only by a stone angel saying a prayer above them, guarded by two stone lions nearby.
Mike parked at the top of the circle drive, near where the front doors to the house had once stood tall and proud, facing the fields of clover leading down to the lake, the mountain behind them. The fountain still sat in the center of the circle drive, some birds bathing in its flowing water and a squirrel standing atop for a distant view. Though the house garden still grew blazes of color amongst stone and oak sculptures, wildflowers were in the fields where they had always grown and wildflowers had now also grown where the house once stood.
“Okay,” Mike began as he got out, turned around, and pulled up the seat, “I bet you two are ready to get out of this car for a while.” The toddlers unfastened the buckles of their car seat, jumping to the floorboard and making their way in tiny steps to their father, excited to be able to explore. “Stay close to us, okay,” Mike told them as he put each down on the ground.
Lisa shut her door, standing outside the car and looking about at what she saw before her and remembering what had been. Walking into the house garden, she stood before the oak tree carrying the likeness of Christopher, touching his face with her hand and receiving the sensation of a smile coming from within the wood. Don’t look back, she thought she heard it whisper. And, bending down beneath the white rose near the bench, using her finger as a pencil and the Earth as a canvas, Lisa sketched Twin Oaks, the future, a place where souls wounded in the battle of life could begin to heal in a home filled with windows inviting in the sun, guarded by angels and surrounded by walls able to reach out and embrace the heart, with hope leading the way.
“What an amazing place. It’s like Heaven or something,” Mike said, returning to Lisa’s side after walking through the fields and down to the lake.
“Yes,” Lisa whispered, looking back towards the oak, “Heaven or something.”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind having a house out here. Maybe a vacation cottage or maybe even relocate nearby if there’s enough around here to support the business. It’s so peaceful here.”
“I like that idea. We should give it some consideration. It’s a wonderful place to write. And, suddenly, I feel a need to do a lot of writing, letter writing,” she smiled. Then, returning her attention to the nearby field, she called to her children, “Christina, Katrina, don’t wander too far now.”
And, as the gentle breeze of spring danced across the fields, carrying in its sails the sweet fragrances of new beginnings, and the sun playfully sent beams of light to the Earth to sway through the applauding trees, two young girls, two sisters dressed as one, with sparkling eyes of green and hair of gold, ran laughing through fields of wildflowers.
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
Letters Home, Section 3, Abigail's Letters, 1920
Abigail’s letters
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I have taken to mind to write letters. They shall not, however, be letters to post but letters to leave behind. There is much I wish to say, so much to share. To my darling, Katrina, down on the coast with your husband and child, I miss you terribly. To Christina, it has been you who has learned to tend to the Oak. Your father, how I miss him, my heart still aches for him.
Have I been a good mother to you both? Was I a good wife? I find myself pondering these questions more with each passing day as though forces beyond my imagination are messaging me that the time for review is nearing. Beware, live your lives carefully for you, too, shall fall upon these questions.
Here, at your father’s old oak desk, I look through the window down to the lake. There I see Christina, standing at the edge of the ice, contemplating the Earth and Sky as she so often does. At the edge of the mountain, I see your father’s grave, the tomb where he sleeps peacefully until eternity arrives, now covered in snow. I do miss him so. And, from down the drive, I see Betsy returning with the household supplies as the workers tend to the animals on this sunny, winter day.
Katrina, I look to you to save The Oak though Christina has tended to it. For it is you, Katrina, who has married and bore children, who shall carry on the family legacy. When my time for death arrives and the two of you shall take ownership of the land, do not sell our precious Oak unless you must. This is no ordinary house and it is built upon extraordinary land. Your father built the Oak from hope, working hard to see that hope sustained the walls and the oaks. Selling the property would only invite in unwelcome guests, destroyers of hope, and, surely, that would mean the destruction of us all. Maintain hope, in your heart and in our home. Hope is the key, my Dearest Daughters, to the greatest treasures of the world.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
You must be certain to treat The Oak, the property, the house with the respect it deserves. This is no ordinary place. Rather, this is a place of hope and dreams, a place where the veil between this world and the next is very thin, transparent at times as if it is just on the other side of the surface of the lake. Look in to the swirling water and see faces from the past and future returning your gaze. They wait for us.
No, this is no ordinary place. The animals walk about with us, unafraid, comfortable in our presence, comfortable because this is their home. The birds here can speak, so I’m told, though I’ve heard no words within their singing. Yet, since your father died, I’ve heard them singing very little. Deafness, I have taught my ears, unwelcoming the happy tones which we used to listen to together when he was here, home, at our Oak, our little corner of Heaven.
No, this must surely be an extraordinary place for when I peer out the window into the night sky, wondering if your father’s spirit can soar past the moon, I take my finger and move about the stars as I write a letter to him with their light, reminding him that I wait to see him again. I wait, as I always have, here, at The Oak, for his return to me. Will he come for me when it is my time to die? Will his spirit glide up the drive of The Oak and whisper in my ear how much he’s missed me? Will he be with me, holding my hand as I close the final door that cannot be reopened?
The Oak is a very special place, a place where the sun can shine brightly if you wish for it to or the sky can turn dark with clouds upon a single thought. It is a place where voices from people unseen can be heard, where the angels upon the shelves and surrounding the house will watch over us, protect us, and remind us of the happy moments we have shared. The angels will protect this house, they will protect each of us as they protect the world, if we simply ask them to do so.
This place, our Oak, so beautiful, so peaceful, so full of hope and prosperity, surely must be the place that God calls home, the thrown from which he reigns. So, the walk through the door separating this life from the next must be a short one, just through the front door, and over to the edge of the mountain.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Times are different than they were when I was of a younger age. Women have more choices than they used to. The war has seen to that. But, I regret not the life I’ve led. How fortunate I have been in my life, especially where my marriage to your father was concerned.
I wish so much for you both to be able to experience the good fortune I have had, in life and in love. Katrina, so far away yet always in my heart, only a few years into your new life of wife and mother, you seem so happy, so in love. And, in Robert’s eyes I see a great love and admiration for you, a look similar to the one I saw in your father’s eyes for me. Christina, should you finally marry, I wish for you to experience the joy of being of wife, the joy of running a household.
Remember, daughters, that marriage is a commitment that begins before the elegant ceremony, the gown of dreams, or the ordering of the flowers. A commitment begins in the heart, in the mind, long before then. And, death will not suddenly break such a commitment as if selling off a piece of property, simply rewriting a deed. A commitment builds over time, growing with a life of its own, and is not written off so easily.
Commitment is that energy within that makes you want to stay, makes you want to work, make things, even good things, better than they are. Commitment is about standing your ground, remaining a team through the good times and the bad, looking to each other before any other for support, for praise and laughter. Commitment is about striving, striving to make someone else happy, striving to be happy yourself, striving to see things through to the end. Commitment is not always easy, but it is a skill that can be acquired just as I have learned, over the years, from your father about how to manage this property, watching over the workers and making certain that the land, the house, is tended to properly.
Be good women, be strong and godly, and chase the dream to be good wives, to be good mothers. Remain solid in your convictions of faith, hope, and commitment. And, always do your best to keep a home where people are comfortable, at peace, and welcomed. Yes, a home like the Oak, where hope and peace reign and, in my heart, I still hear your father’s laughter and his voice reminding me how much he loves me, his daughters, and his precious Oak.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I wonder at night how much longer I shall be upon this Earth, and I wonder what legacy I have truly left behind. Have I taught you to be good ladies? Have I taught you manners and the art of fine living? Yes, I think I have. Have I taught you your schooling, books and art, mathematics and languages? Yes, I feel I have done that too, and well, I dare say, since you both have grown to be well-spoken and well-educated.
Yet, a part of my heart wonders if I have taught you all you really need to know, if I have taught you about the joy of living. Have I? Only the two of you can truly answer that question. I hope that I have taught you that there is joy to be had, laughter to be felt and heard, and, yes, that there is always hope about you, in these walls, in the faces of the angels, and about the world. I hope that you look back upon your childhood with fondness and not with sorrow or regret. I hope that you have learned that you each have a place in this world as everyone does. But, mostly, I hope that, when I’m gone, you know how I feel about you both, my daughters, my only children, my legacy to the family and to The Oak. It will be your responsibility to carry on this incredible legacy of which we have been a part.
You were born sisters and sisters you shall be for always, no matter of life or death, marriages or address. You are sisters, and sisters should look after one another, laughing together and sharing secrets as you always did as children. Take care of each other, my Daughters, and look out for one another. Together you share a history, and there are parts of your hearts that only the two of you shall ever know, as that is how sisters are.
Could there be any closer sisters than the two of you in your youth, running about the house and fields after your lessons, enjoying all the Oak had to offer? Remember those days as you grow old, and they shall comfort you and remind you to comfort each other. For you are sisters, and there can be no closer friend.
My final wish may be that the two of you always take care of each other and of this wonderful Oak.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I write this letter in these few moments when I find myself strong enough to sit up somewhat in bed. Upon the bible do I place the paper upon which I write, and a fine foundation of words it shall make.
There is a young lady who helps Betsy care for me these days. Though she appears familiar to me, I neither recognize her nor do I know her name. I begin this letter in the manner that I have seen prior letters I have written addressed, though I am uncertain of my daughters. Often, I cannot recall their names and other times I doubt how many children I birthed. Perhaps it is the medication or the fever or, perhaps, my memory is fading or I am simply going mad as the young lady says. She reads to me, this creature, of bible verses I wish for her to read and, when I am unable to write but still strong enough to speak, she writes the words I wish for her to write.
How many children did I mother? For, in my dreams, I see three, though one is a bit curious to me and seems much older than I. Two of the children appear alike, dressed the same in dresses of blue and are quite young, toddlers perhaps. Though I can hear their laughter, I do not know their names. And, the third stands tall, standing behind the younger girls as if a caretaker. Long hair, she has, the color of fertile soil, and dressed in long, flowing robes of fine cotton with ropes of gold tied loosely at her waist. On stones she stands, stones that have enclosed a well. In her right arm, she holds the white rabbit with blue eyes, and held between the front paws of the rabbit is a red rose. Her eyes are dark but kind, and I do not fear her presence. I know not her name, but she speaks to me without words, without a voice, speaking to me with her loving eyes. Is she my daughter? Or, perhaps, my mother? Will my memory return to me when the sun rises again?
When alone with Betsy, and sometimes around the young lady who assists her, I ask for the details of my life. Often, Betsy brings to me photographs and the family bible listing the births and deaths of relatives. The young lady is calm, but nearly in tears during these moments, perhaps saddened that a lady such as I should ask such questions. In the photographs, I have but two children. So, who is the third that hovers, patiently smiling over my children?
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
There is a rabbit living upon the property that you may remember from your youth, a white rabbit with eyes so blue that they are almost translucent as if he can see into your soul, as if his soul is open to the world, as if he can send you his thoughts, his wishes and warnings, sharing his hope and his strength. Take heed, as your father told you in your childhood, to never harm this rabbit for he is believed to hold the key to the great prosperity of this land, of The Oak.
The rabbit once appeared as your father and I walked through the fields when the house was being built. Twins, we thought it had said as it looked to us with those beautiful blue eyes while sitting upon a tree root. Your father and I laughed, so in love we were that we would imagine a word together. Yet, how surprised we were when twins came to us, a blessing doubled when we held you in our arms.
I have seen this rabbit on the property in other years, on a couple of occasions when I felt lost amongst the trees when I strayed too far from home on a summer walk, and he appeared, pointing me back towards the Oak. Now, he appears to me in dreams, waking my spirit while my body is deep in sleep and walking me through the winter fields though I feel no cold, no ice or snow chilling my skin though it falls about me in showers of winter. In these dreams, he shows me a great many things, things that have past and things yet to come.
The images do not always make sense, flashes they are at times of words and events that I do not understand, people I do not know. Images, they are, of many strangers walking about the property and of darkness falling against the windows. And, Christina, he shows to me Christina as she is now and in times to come, a tearful heart sitting alone at the window, a spirit questioning her place in this world, her faith, though I do not understand why. The rabbit encourages me to speak, but why? Certainly, my daughters know how I feel about them. Need I tell you both?
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
My daughter, Christina, writes this, my body too weak today to leave my bed. But, there are things I must say.
There is a dark man who comes and goes, a dark shadow appearing in my weakest moments, whispering in my ear tales of despair, reminding me of the times that I’ve failed in my life, of the times I have known pain within my heart. He is powerful, but I try to turn away, turning, instead, to look at the angels upon the mantle in my room and remember the sun.
Times gone by, he shows me, though I sometimes wonder of their accuracy, and promises he makes, mighty promises of vengeance as he reminds me of my anger, my hurt, from long ago. I sense that he is not godly, yet he has a powerful pull of ten thousand horses riding before ten thousand more, but I try to focus on the angels, on the happy memories, and on the God I have tried to follow.
Pain I have known and remember, such as the days and months that your father would be away from home, when he was taken forever from us. Yes, pain I have known. And, pain such as that of a daughter uncertain of her mother’s care and concern, uncertain of her mother’s love, the pain of a father seldom home, business and money luring him away with their pockets full of promises, yet empty of laughter. Yes, and I have bore the pain of learning my lessons alone, looking out my window into a city street filled with people smiling and fluttering about, a city street that seemed so far away though separated only by glass and fears of rebellion. But, I have tried to see that neither of you knew of those pains.
It was your father, a kind and decent man, a man of great patience and commitment, who taught me of love, of hope, of happiness beyond hollow smiles and courteous laughs. How easy it would have been for him to learn of my deficiencies of the heart and turn away. Yet, he remained, hopeful that my spirit would brighten and bloom in the light of his love, and it did.
But, the shadow wishes not for me to remember the love, rather wishing me to focus on the sorrow, the losses of my life. I wish not to follow him, but he is strong and knows my weakest defenses, knows my fears and greatest, deepest, the oldest heartaches. Will I continue to find the strength to continue to keep those negative thoughts at bay, to keep the shadow from overwhelming me in darkness? Heaven help me.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Christina shares with me stories from my youth that I have told to my children over the years. Yet, those are not the questions to which I need answers. My childhood I remember and some recent faces I can recall. Yet, I wonder about other information from my life.
Kevin I always remember, his name, the look in his eyes, the wave of his hair in the wind. Oh, how I miss him. My daughters, Katrina, Christina, I remember as children, as young adults, their names engraved upon my heart forever. But, pieces are missing from my mind. Are my daughters happy? I sometimes wonder where they live, and then recall than one, though I am not sure which at times, lives here with me at The Oak. Are my daughters married? Are they mothers? Would it pain them too much for me to ask such questions? Did I instruct you well in the information you would need in life?
Marry well, my Daughters, as I did, for your husband shall rule over your life and determine, in part, what type of life you shall lead. Your father was a good man, with a kind and generous heart, and a strong work ethic. Never a day needed I worry of how he would care for me, for our family. Never marry a drinking man, one who drinks to excess, my daughters, for he shall swallow your fortunes and spend his days sleeping in fields of regret. And, never marry a gambler, one who risks that which he does not yet have, for he shall steal your pride and play you as the joker. And, never marry the man with angry eyes and a voice of steel, for his fists shall rain over you in storms of hatred and his will will break your spirit.
Marry well, my Daughters, as I did. Marry a man who recognizes the difference between protection of his family and control of them, and then chooses protection. Marry the man who wishes you to continue growing and learning, gently encouraging you and himself to become more today than you each were yesterday. Marry the man with the light in his eyes and your name in his heart, the man who will do what he says and says what he shall do, the man who is good to his word and tender in his speech, the man holding the finances to care well for you but not enslaved to the dollar. Marry the man, my Daughters, who holds your heart in the palm of his hands and holds it up to the sun. Marry, my Daughters, when you find the man who makes you feel as though the sun is above you always and you feel in your heart that there shall be no other.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Hope, my daughters, is the greatest asset there is. Able to buy more luxury than money, able to fill the soul more than accomplishments of business or marriage or life, hope can fill the heart with an unmistakable peace and goodness, a genuine longing for life. Keep hope within your hearts, surround your lives with it as if your very soul depended upon it, because it does.
Hope can be the answer to prayers, the light within the darkness that leads you home. Hope can be what sways you to one decision or another, opting for something positive that can help yourself, something that can help one another. Hope can effect your voice, radiating positive words to others amongst you. And, hope, at its most desperate, can be the difference between life and death, between finding the courage within to commit yourself to another day of life or not.
But, in its most fundamental voice, hope can be your weapon, a sword against the dark shadow, a sword of God forged in the heart of unbreakable strength that can cut through any cloak of negativity, little by very little at times, until you see the sun in its full glory.
Your father built the Oak of walls of hope, a fort of golden wishes designed to protect our family, our dreams, and the hope we found within our hearts. The Oak is a house of light, designed so that the sun can shine in through the windows and dispense through the house to warm the walls, to speak to our souls, and brighten our lives. A constant reminder, this house, of the power of hope, a reminder to keep hope within us and all around us. For as long as there is hope, we have everything. But, if hope is allowed to die, so shall we die with it and the chance for peace.
Always keep hope alive. And, to keep hope alive, one need only feel a small splinter of it in their heart, a tiny light barely noticeable in the darkness. For, hope is like a seed, able to grow from nearly nothing into fertile fields.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Mother is not herself, Katrina. She mumbles at times, though I cannot understand what she says. I read aloud her favorite bible verses as this is her request and it seems to calm her somewhat. Betsy is doing all she can as well, and between the two us we help Mother to rest as much as possible. Her health is poor and her mind is not as it was. She speaks of shadows in the mirror and in the room, though there is nothing there that I can see. She asks me to write these letters, to commit her words to paper, and so I do because this eases her agitation somewhat. She asks for you, and she does not always know who I am. Katrina, when you shall be able to read these letters Mother writes or dictates, you shall see that Father’s death effected Mother greatly. Is this what death is, this process she goes through each day, repeating Hail Marys and the Lord’s Prayer until she finally rests for a while?
Teach your children well, my Daughter. Teach them of hope and of faith and of love. Be certain that they know that you love them and be certain that they know they are valued. Be certain to help them find their place in this world and be comfortable there. Let them know of their history, but help them to chart their own course. Let them know of books and of education and decision-making, but let them develop their mind, form opinions and find answers, decide their own desires, their own dreams.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, of values and principles and ethics. Watch over them and protect them like a shepherd would his sheep, but know that there will come a time when you must set them free, allowing them to decide their own path, looking back upon your lessons yet looking forward to their own future.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, of the value of life and the limits of time so that they will never waste a moment by recklessly giving it away to yesterday, to sorrow, to the well of broken dreams.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, so that they may seek out happiness and find the joy of the world. Be kind so that they will learn kindness. Show mercy so that they will learn to show the same. Have strength and share it with them, so that they will learn by your example. And, always show your love so that they learn to share their heart.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, for they are the future.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
At the entrance to the property sit two oak trees, twins it would seem, the locations and angles of their branches appearing the same though the trees are separated by space and Earth and their roots are buried deep beneath the surface. Yet, it is impossible, is it not, for trees to be twins, two born of the same seed?
Your father noticed the unique trees when he acquired the land, long before he showed them to me. But, together, we found the pairing far too encouraging to remain unrecognized. Therefore, we acknowledged and honored their specialty by having them frame the entrance to the Oak, holding the nameplate between them, separating them only by the path leading to the house. And, what a path it was, compared to today. Dirt tracks formed by retraced paths, it was, and often difficult to maneuver in the heavy autumn rains, until the brick was laid.
But, The Oak is today as it was the day building was completed, with the angels guarding the windows and the wood engaging the light. Though furniture, pottery, shiny items of gold, and plush fabrics have been added to the house since its conception, the walls remain the same, strong and full of light, full of hope, allowing the rays of the sun to enter in through the windows and warm the rooms and the hearts of those within.
We built the house here, where it sits, not out of randomness, but of faith. The house sits within sight of the mountain which shades us during part of the summer days, sitting there like royalty watching over the kingdom, and is also near to the fields that provide nourishment to our family. But, primary, the house was built here, where it sits, next to the house garden that was growing upon the land when your father first surveyed the property. Though we have distinguished it somewhat by adding walking paths and stone angels, the flowers, the roses, were here long before us, growing of their own will and adding beauty to the land. How strange, I thought, the first time your father brought me here and I saw the garden, that such incredible blossoms could flourish without assistance. Though I thought, at first viewing, to see an oak tree growing at the center of the garden, its trunk seeming to bear the face of a man, I later realized that there was no sign of an oak tree there at all upon my second visit. And, by then, we had employed a wonderful gardener to be certain the house garden continued to flourish as it always had.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Live your lives, my daughters, so that you have no regrets as I have now, worries over decisions made, sorrow over options not chosen. Have I been a good mother? Was I a good wife? Was I a good daughter when my parents were living?
Painting, I wanted in my youth, to add color to canvas to immortalize a face, an expression, a gleam in the eye. Yet, never once did I pick up a brush, listening instead to the voices surrounding me that felt it improper, an insignificant pursuit unworthy of my time. Yet, what harm would have come? Bury it, I did, far beneath the surface of my mind by the time I met your father, instead focusing on my responsibility to The Oak, to my husband, to my children. Did I err in my decision? Did I fail all of you by neglecting the truth hidden deep within? Here, waiting on death to walk me into the next world, I think I did. How can one fulfill others if they lack fulfillment in their own heart?
In motherhood, in being a wife, I found great fulfillment. Yet, a piece of my heart, from time to time, especially when your father was away, tugged at what never was, at what I thought could never be, as what I thought was buried returned to haunt my desires. But, I dared not invite the dream to life by reaching for a brush, though I think not now that your father would have disapproved. Yet what is said upon the surface often has meanings hidden deep beneath the voice, confusing what is said with what was actually meant, intended, like the subtle shadows of a painting, a second layer of interpretation sometimes going unseen.
Have I encouraged you, my daughters, to be independent thinkers able to form opinions of your own, yet willing and able to fulfill your role as women? Have I helped you to pursue appropriate goals and to be good mothers? Have I taught you to care for The Oak and protect its future? Only time can answer those questions, I suppose.
Should you take any final knowledge from these letters, I should hope that you know that I want you both to be happy, that when it is your time to greet death, I hope that you shall do so without regret, with contentment in your soul and peace within your heart. Be good women, as women should, and do not neglect your destined roles, but also give consideration to your heart.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
My death draws nigh. My daughter, Christina, writes these words while I speak as I find my body too weak to sit, my hand too weak to write. Eternity nears, yet I still find myself with so much left to say.
In dreams I have walked, allowed to watch from a distance as great battles are won and lost, as truth and darkness have fought amongst the skies yielding swords of justice, dripping blood of determination. I should think that the darkened reds that cross the horizon at the beginning and end of each day are the streaks of blood from one or the other as the battle continues. Are they real, these images that I see? Are they images past or yet to come? Christina feels I am mad, my mind gone to waste in these final hours. Could it be?
And, The Oak, our precious Oak. There is nothing usual about this land, my Daughters. For, this is a sacred land with great power about it, and I have seen battles of good and evil fought upon this land, our land, and in our house. But, remember, the true legacy of our home does not rest upon the flooring or upon the walls, but with what is left inside, the hope. Never lose sight of the hope, my Daughters, never lose hope or evil shall befall you.
Hope reigns over our land, over the mountains and the trees. It has blessed our house and our lives. But, make no mistake, evil is always nearby, waiting for opportunity to arise from the pit. A great Well of Sorrow sits within our land, a Well unseen, beneath the topsoil, in the depths of the Earth, a great Well that can be opened with the key of despair. Hope is the key that shall keep watch over the evil like a guard minding the cell. And, though evil, despair, can not be completely bottled and kept away from the world in this age, evil seeping out as hardened hearts summon it from the depths, Hope shall keep it at bay and leave you safe from harm.
And, I have been shown in dreams great storms that have past or are to come. Can I really know the difference? These storms, and storms they are, of fierce winds and darkened skies battling with white clouds and yellow roses for possession of our land, of the Well. But, who shall win is up to us. I see the fields, blanketed in blue skies and peace, with birds sweetly singing in the trees and the white rabbit upon the land. I see The Oak, blackened and burnt, darkened, sitting above a swirling ground of ash and beneath a stormy sky of twisters carrying hateful laughter.
And, in the sky are bloodied swords, drops of evil that fall further darkening the house or killing the spot upon the Earth where they land, drops of peace seeding an oak that grows quickly, reaching its branches to the Heavens in gratitude and respect. And, a final blade is passed, severing the dark hand holding its evil grip upon the house and swirling the storms, and a great wailing was heard across the Earth.
And, the hands of hope extend downward through a stormy sky one final invitation.
And, the land beneath the house cracks and creaks as the ashy Well opens, violently shaking the land and swallowing the house with a crunch of each board, unseen teeth crushing into each plank as the house lowers into the bowels of the Earth. The fierce winds are forced downward upon the house, carrying the sounds of screams of fear and rage, howling and moaning and wicked laughter until the house and the blackened winds are buried deep beneath the surface, and the swirling Earth rests, the ash returning to soil, the spot upon the land green with grass, and blue skies quietly smiling above. And, peace shall reign again upon the land.
But, all living beings will decide who wins.
Never lose hope, my daughters. Always, have hope. Always.
Your Mother,
Abigail
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I have taken to mind to write letters. They shall not, however, be letters to post but letters to leave behind. There is much I wish to say, so much to share. To my darling, Katrina, down on the coast with your husband and child, I miss you terribly. To Christina, it has been you who has learned to tend to the Oak. Your father, how I miss him, my heart still aches for him.
Have I been a good mother to you both? Was I a good wife? I find myself pondering these questions more with each passing day as though forces beyond my imagination are messaging me that the time for review is nearing. Beware, live your lives carefully for you, too, shall fall upon these questions.
Here, at your father’s old oak desk, I look through the window down to the lake. There I see Christina, standing at the edge of the ice, contemplating the Earth and Sky as she so often does. At the edge of the mountain, I see your father’s grave, the tomb where he sleeps peacefully until eternity arrives, now covered in snow. I do miss him so. And, from down the drive, I see Betsy returning with the household supplies as the workers tend to the animals on this sunny, winter day.
Katrina, I look to you to save The Oak though Christina has tended to it. For it is you, Katrina, who has married and bore children, who shall carry on the family legacy. When my time for death arrives and the two of you shall take ownership of the land, do not sell our precious Oak unless you must. This is no ordinary house and it is built upon extraordinary land. Your father built the Oak from hope, working hard to see that hope sustained the walls and the oaks. Selling the property would only invite in unwelcome guests, destroyers of hope, and, surely, that would mean the destruction of us all. Maintain hope, in your heart and in our home. Hope is the key, my Dearest Daughters, to the greatest treasures of the world.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
You must be certain to treat The Oak, the property, the house with the respect it deserves. This is no ordinary place. Rather, this is a place of hope and dreams, a place where the veil between this world and the next is very thin, transparent at times as if it is just on the other side of the surface of the lake. Look in to the swirling water and see faces from the past and future returning your gaze. They wait for us.
No, this is no ordinary place. The animals walk about with us, unafraid, comfortable in our presence, comfortable because this is their home. The birds here can speak, so I’m told, though I’ve heard no words within their singing. Yet, since your father died, I’ve heard them singing very little. Deafness, I have taught my ears, unwelcoming the happy tones which we used to listen to together when he was here, home, at our Oak, our little corner of Heaven.
No, this must surely be an extraordinary place for when I peer out the window into the night sky, wondering if your father’s spirit can soar past the moon, I take my finger and move about the stars as I write a letter to him with their light, reminding him that I wait to see him again. I wait, as I always have, here, at The Oak, for his return to me. Will he come for me when it is my time to die? Will his spirit glide up the drive of The Oak and whisper in my ear how much he’s missed me? Will he be with me, holding my hand as I close the final door that cannot be reopened?
The Oak is a very special place, a place where the sun can shine brightly if you wish for it to or the sky can turn dark with clouds upon a single thought. It is a place where voices from people unseen can be heard, where the angels upon the shelves and surrounding the house will watch over us, protect us, and remind us of the happy moments we have shared. The angels will protect this house, they will protect each of us as they protect the world, if we simply ask them to do so.
This place, our Oak, so beautiful, so peaceful, so full of hope and prosperity, surely must be the place that God calls home, the thrown from which he reigns. So, the walk through the door separating this life from the next must be a short one, just through the front door, and over to the edge of the mountain.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Times are different than they were when I was of a younger age. Women have more choices than they used to. The war has seen to that. But, I regret not the life I’ve led. How fortunate I have been in my life, especially where my marriage to your father was concerned.
I wish so much for you both to be able to experience the good fortune I have had, in life and in love. Katrina, so far away yet always in my heart, only a few years into your new life of wife and mother, you seem so happy, so in love. And, in Robert’s eyes I see a great love and admiration for you, a look similar to the one I saw in your father’s eyes for me. Christina, should you finally marry, I wish for you to experience the joy of being of wife, the joy of running a household.
Remember, daughters, that marriage is a commitment that begins before the elegant ceremony, the gown of dreams, or the ordering of the flowers. A commitment begins in the heart, in the mind, long before then. And, death will not suddenly break such a commitment as if selling off a piece of property, simply rewriting a deed. A commitment builds over time, growing with a life of its own, and is not written off so easily.
Commitment is that energy within that makes you want to stay, makes you want to work, make things, even good things, better than they are. Commitment is about standing your ground, remaining a team through the good times and the bad, looking to each other before any other for support, for praise and laughter. Commitment is about striving, striving to make someone else happy, striving to be happy yourself, striving to see things through to the end. Commitment is not always easy, but it is a skill that can be acquired just as I have learned, over the years, from your father about how to manage this property, watching over the workers and making certain that the land, the house, is tended to properly.
Be good women, be strong and godly, and chase the dream to be good wives, to be good mothers. Remain solid in your convictions of faith, hope, and commitment. And, always do your best to keep a home where people are comfortable, at peace, and welcomed. Yes, a home like the Oak, where hope and peace reign and, in my heart, I still hear your father’s laughter and his voice reminding me how much he loves me, his daughters, and his precious Oak.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I wonder at night how much longer I shall be upon this Earth, and I wonder what legacy I have truly left behind. Have I taught you to be good ladies? Have I taught you manners and the art of fine living? Yes, I think I have. Have I taught you your schooling, books and art, mathematics and languages? Yes, I feel I have done that too, and well, I dare say, since you both have grown to be well-spoken and well-educated.
Yet, a part of my heart wonders if I have taught you all you really need to know, if I have taught you about the joy of living. Have I? Only the two of you can truly answer that question. I hope that I have taught you that there is joy to be had, laughter to be felt and heard, and, yes, that there is always hope about you, in these walls, in the faces of the angels, and about the world. I hope that you look back upon your childhood with fondness and not with sorrow or regret. I hope that you have learned that you each have a place in this world as everyone does. But, mostly, I hope that, when I’m gone, you know how I feel about you both, my daughters, my only children, my legacy to the family and to The Oak. It will be your responsibility to carry on this incredible legacy of which we have been a part.
You were born sisters and sisters you shall be for always, no matter of life or death, marriages or address. You are sisters, and sisters should look after one another, laughing together and sharing secrets as you always did as children. Take care of each other, my Daughters, and look out for one another. Together you share a history, and there are parts of your hearts that only the two of you shall ever know, as that is how sisters are.
Could there be any closer sisters than the two of you in your youth, running about the house and fields after your lessons, enjoying all the Oak had to offer? Remember those days as you grow old, and they shall comfort you and remind you to comfort each other. For you are sisters, and there can be no closer friend.
My final wish may be that the two of you always take care of each other and of this wonderful Oak.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I write this letter in these few moments when I find myself strong enough to sit up somewhat in bed. Upon the bible do I place the paper upon which I write, and a fine foundation of words it shall make.
There is a young lady who helps Betsy care for me these days. Though she appears familiar to me, I neither recognize her nor do I know her name. I begin this letter in the manner that I have seen prior letters I have written addressed, though I am uncertain of my daughters. Often, I cannot recall their names and other times I doubt how many children I birthed. Perhaps it is the medication or the fever or, perhaps, my memory is fading or I am simply going mad as the young lady says. She reads to me, this creature, of bible verses I wish for her to read and, when I am unable to write but still strong enough to speak, she writes the words I wish for her to write.
How many children did I mother? For, in my dreams, I see three, though one is a bit curious to me and seems much older than I. Two of the children appear alike, dressed the same in dresses of blue and are quite young, toddlers perhaps. Though I can hear their laughter, I do not know their names. And, the third stands tall, standing behind the younger girls as if a caretaker. Long hair, she has, the color of fertile soil, and dressed in long, flowing robes of fine cotton with ropes of gold tied loosely at her waist. On stones she stands, stones that have enclosed a well. In her right arm, she holds the white rabbit with blue eyes, and held between the front paws of the rabbit is a red rose. Her eyes are dark but kind, and I do not fear her presence. I know not her name, but she speaks to me without words, without a voice, speaking to me with her loving eyes. Is she my daughter? Or, perhaps, my mother? Will my memory return to me when the sun rises again?
When alone with Betsy, and sometimes around the young lady who assists her, I ask for the details of my life. Often, Betsy brings to me photographs and the family bible listing the births and deaths of relatives. The young lady is calm, but nearly in tears during these moments, perhaps saddened that a lady such as I should ask such questions. In the photographs, I have but two children. So, who is the third that hovers, patiently smiling over my children?
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
There is a rabbit living upon the property that you may remember from your youth, a white rabbit with eyes so blue that they are almost translucent as if he can see into your soul, as if his soul is open to the world, as if he can send you his thoughts, his wishes and warnings, sharing his hope and his strength. Take heed, as your father told you in your childhood, to never harm this rabbit for he is believed to hold the key to the great prosperity of this land, of The Oak.
The rabbit once appeared as your father and I walked through the fields when the house was being built. Twins, we thought it had said as it looked to us with those beautiful blue eyes while sitting upon a tree root. Your father and I laughed, so in love we were that we would imagine a word together. Yet, how surprised we were when twins came to us, a blessing doubled when we held you in our arms.
I have seen this rabbit on the property in other years, on a couple of occasions when I felt lost amongst the trees when I strayed too far from home on a summer walk, and he appeared, pointing me back towards the Oak. Now, he appears to me in dreams, waking my spirit while my body is deep in sleep and walking me through the winter fields though I feel no cold, no ice or snow chilling my skin though it falls about me in showers of winter. In these dreams, he shows me a great many things, things that have past and things yet to come.
The images do not always make sense, flashes they are at times of words and events that I do not understand, people I do not know. Images, they are, of many strangers walking about the property and of darkness falling against the windows. And, Christina, he shows to me Christina as she is now and in times to come, a tearful heart sitting alone at the window, a spirit questioning her place in this world, her faith, though I do not understand why. The rabbit encourages me to speak, but why? Certainly, my daughters know how I feel about them. Need I tell you both?
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
My daughter, Christina, writes this, my body too weak today to leave my bed. But, there are things I must say.
There is a dark man who comes and goes, a dark shadow appearing in my weakest moments, whispering in my ear tales of despair, reminding me of the times that I’ve failed in my life, of the times I have known pain within my heart. He is powerful, but I try to turn away, turning, instead, to look at the angels upon the mantle in my room and remember the sun.
Times gone by, he shows me, though I sometimes wonder of their accuracy, and promises he makes, mighty promises of vengeance as he reminds me of my anger, my hurt, from long ago. I sense that he is not godly, yet he has a powerful pull of ten thousand horses riding before ten thousand more, but I try to focus on the angels, on the happy memories, and on the God I have tried to follow.
Pain I have known and remember, such as the days and months that your father would be away from home, when he was taken forever from us. Yes, pain I have known. And, pain such as that of a daughter uncertain of her mother’s care and concern, uncertain of her mother’s love, the pain of a father seldom home, business and money luring him away with their pockets full of promises, yet empty of laughter. Yes, and I have bore the pain of learning my lessons alone, looking out my window into a city street filled with people smiling and fluttering about, a city street that seemed so far away though separated only by glass and fears of rebellion. But, I have tried to see that neither of you knew of those pains.
It was your father, a kind and decent man, a man of great patience and commitment, who taught me of love, of hope, of happiness beyond hollow smiles and courteous laughs. How easy it would have been for him to learn of my deficiencies of the heart and turn away. Yet, he remained, hopeful that my spirit would brighten and bloom in the light of his love, and it did.
But, the shadow wishes not for me to remember the love, rather wishing me to focus on the sorrow, the losses of my life. I wish not to follow him, but he is strong and knows my weakest defenses, knows my fears and greatest, deepest, the oldest heartaches. Will I continue to find the strength to continue to keep those negative thoughts at bay, to keep the shadow from overwhelming me in darkness? Heaven help me.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Christina shares with me stories from my youth that I have told to my children over the years. Yet, those are not the questions to which I need answers. My childhood I remember and some recent faces I can recall. Yet, I wonder about other information from my life.
Kevin I always remember, his name, the look in his eyes, the wave of his hair in the wind. Oh, how I miss him. My daughters, Katrina, Christina, I remember as children, as young adults, their names engraved upon my heart forever. But, pieces are missing from my mind. Are my daughters happy? I sometimes wonder where they live, and then recall than one, though I am not sure which at times, lives here with me at The Oak. Are my daughters married? Are they mothers? Would it pain them too much for me to ask such questions? Did I instruct you well in the information you would need in life?
Marry well, my Daughters, as I did, for your husband shall rule over your life and determine, in part, what type of life you shall lead. Your father was a good man, with a kind and generous heart, and a strong work ethic. Never a day needed I worry of how he would care for me, for our family. Never marry a drinking man, one who drinks to excess, my daughters, for he shall swallow your fortunes and spend his days sleeping in fields of regret. And, never marry a gambler, one who risks that which he does not yet have, for he shall steal your pride and play you as the joker. And, never marry the man with angry eyes and a voice of steel, for his fists shall rain over you in storms of hatred and his will will break your spirit.
Marry well, my Daughters, as I did. Marry a man who recognizes the difference between protection of his family and control of them, and then chooses protection. Marry the man who wishes you to continue growing and learning, gently encouraging you and himself to become more today than you each were yesterday. Marry the man with the light in his eyes and your name in his heart, the man who will do what he says and says what he shall do, the man who is good to his word and tender in his speech, the man holding the finances to care well for you but not enslaved to the dollar. Marry the man, my Daughters, who holds your heart in the palm of his hands and holds it up to the sun. Marry, my Daughters, when you find the man who makes you feel as though the sun is above you always and you feel in your heart that there shall be no other.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Hope, my daughters, is the greatest asset there is. Able to buy more luxury than money, able to fill the soul more than accomplishments of business or marriage or life, hope can fill the heart with an unmistakable peace and goodness, a genuine longing for life. Keep hope within your hearts, surround your lives with it as if your very soul depended upon it, because it does.
Hope can be the answer to prayers, the light within the darkness that leads you home. Hope can be what sways you to one decision or another, opting for something positive that can help yourself, something that can help one another. Hope can effect your voice, radiating positive words to others amongst you. And, hope, at its most desperate, can be the difference between life and death, between finding the courage within to commit yourself to another day of life or not.
But, in its most fundamental voice, hope can be your weapon, a sword against the dark shadow, a sword of God forged in the heart of unbreakable strength that can cut through any cloak of negativity, little by very little at times, until you see the sun in its full glory.
Your father built the Oak of walls of hope, a fort of golden wishes designed to protect our family, our dreams, and the hope we found within our hearts. The Oak is a house of light, designed so that the sun can shine in through the windows and dispense through the house to warm the walls, to speak to our souls, and brighten our lives. A constant reminder, this house, of the power of hope, a reminder to keep hope within us and all around us. For as long as there is hope, we have everything. But, if hope is allowed to die, so shall we die with it and the chance for peace.
Always keep hope alive. And, to keep hope alive, one need only feel a small splinter of it in their heart, a tiny light barely noticeable in the darkness. For, hope is like a seed, able to grow from nearly nothing into fertile fields.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Mother is not herself, Katrina. She mumbles at times, though I cannot understand what she says. I read aloud her favorite bible verses as this is her request and it seems to calm her somewhat. Betsy is doing all she can as well, and between the two us we help Mother to rest as much as possible. Her health is poor and her mind is not as it was. She speaks of shadows in the mirror and in the room, though there is nothing there that I can see. She asks me to write these letters, to commit her words to paper, and so I do because this eases her agitation somewhat. She asks for you, and she does not always know who I am. Katrina, when you shall be able to read these letters Mother writes or dictates, you shall see that Father’s death effected Mother greatly. Is this what death is, this process she goes through each day, repeating Hail Marys and the Lord’s Prayer until she finally rests for a while?
Teach your children well, my Daughter. Teach them of hope and of faith and of love. Be certain that they know that you love them and be certain that they know they are valued. Be certain to help them find their place in this world and be comfortable there. Let them know of their history, but help them to chart their own course. Let them know of books and of education and decision-making, but let them develop their mind, form opinions and find answers, decide their own desires, their own dreams.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, of values and principles and ethics. Watch over them and protect them like a shepherd would his sheep, but know that there will come a time when you must set them free, allowing them to decide their own path, looking back upon your lessons yet looking forward to their own future.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, of the value of life and the limits of time so that they will never waste a moment by recklessly giving it away to yesterday, to sorrow, to the well of broken dreams.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, so that they may seek out happiness and find the joy of the world. Be kind so that they will learn kindness. Show mercy so that they will learn to show the same. Have strength and share it with them, so that they will learn by your example. And, always show your love so that they learn to share their heart.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, for they are the future.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
At the entrance to the property sit two oak trees, twins it would seem, the locations and angles of their branches appearing the same though the trees are separated by space and Earth and their roots are buried deep beneath the surface. Yet, it is impossible, is it not, for trees to be twins, two born of the same seed?
Your father noticed the unique trees when he acquired the land, long before he showed them to me. But, together, we found the pairing far too encouraging to remain unrecognized. Therefore, we acknowledged and honored their specialty by having them frame the entrance to the Oak, holding the nameplate between them, separating them only by the path leading to the house. And, what a path it was, compared to today. Dirt tracks formed by retraced paths, it was, and often difficult to maneuver in the heavy autumn rains, until the brick was laid.
But, The Oak is today as it was the day building was completed, with the angels guarding the windows and the wood engaging the light. Though furniture, pottery, shiny items of gold, and plush fabrics have been added to the house since its conception, the walls remain the same, strong and full of light, full of hope, allowing the rays of the sun to enter in through the windows and warm the rooms and the hearts of those within.
We built the house here, where it sits, not out of randomness, but of faith. The house sits within sight of the mountain which shades us during part of the summer days, sitting there like royalty watching over the kingdom, and is also near to the fields that provide nourishment to our family. But, primary, the house was built here, where it sits, next to the house garden that was growing upon the land when your father first surveyed the property. Though we have distinguished it somewhat by adding walking paths and stone angels, the flowers, the roses, were here long before us, growing of their own will and adding beauty to the land. How strange, I thought, the first time your father brought me here and I saw the garden, that such incredible blossoms could flourish without assistance. Though I thought, at first viewing, to see an oak tree growing at the center of the garden, its trunk seeming to bear the face of a man, I later realized that there was no sign of an oak tree there at all upon my second visit. And, by then, we had employed a wonderful gardener to be certain the house garden continued to flourish as it always had.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Live your lives, my daughters, so that you have no regrets as I have now, worries over decisions made, sorrow over options not chosen. Have I been a good mother? Was I a good wife? Was I a good daughter when my parents were living?
Painting, I wanted in my youth, to add color to canvas to immortalize a face, an expression, a gleam in the eye. Yet, never once did I pick up a brush, listening instead to the voices surrounding me that felt it improper, an insignificant pursuit unworthy of my time. Yet, what harm would have come? Bury it, I did, far beneath the surface of my mind by the time I met your father, instead focusing on my responsibility to The Oak, to my husband, to my children. Did I err in my decision? Did I fail all of you by neglecting the truth hidden deep within? Here, waiting on death to walk me into the next world, I think I did. How can one fulfill others if they lack fulfillment in their own heart?
In motherhood, in being a wife, I found great fulfillment. Yet, a piece of my heart, from time to time, especially when your father was away, tugged at what never was, at what I thought could never be, as what I thought was buried returned to haunt my desires. But, I dared not invite the dream to life by reaching for a brush, though I think not now that your father would have disapproved. Yet what is said upon the surface often has meanings hidden deep beneath the voice, confusing what is said with what was actually meant, intended, like the subtle shadows of a painting, a second layer of interpretation sometimes going unseen.
Have I encouraged you, my daughters, to be independent thinkers able to form opinions of your own, yet willing and able to fulfill your role as women? Have I helped you to pursue appropriate goals and to be good mothers? Have I taught you to care for The Oak and protect its future? Only time can answer those questions, I suppose.
Should you take any final knowledge from these letters, I should hope that you know that I want you both to be happy, that when it is your time to greet death, I hope that you shall do so without regret, with contentment in your soul and peace within your heart. Be good women, as women should, and do not neglect your destined roles, but also give consideration to your heart.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
My death draws nigh. My daughter, Christina, writes these words while I speak as I find my body too weak to sit, my hand too weak to write. Eternity nears, yet I still find myself with so much left to say.
In dreams I have walked, allowed to watch from a distance as great battles are won and lost, as truth and darkness have fought amongst the skies yielding swords of justice, dripping blood of determination. I should think that the darkened reds that cross the horizon at the beginning and end of each day are the streaks of blood from one or the other as the battle continues. Are they real, these images that I see? Are they images past or yet to come? Christina feels I am mad, my mind gone to waste in these final hours. Could it be?
And, The Oak, our precious Oak. There is nothing usual about this land, my Daughters. For, this is a sacred land with great power about it, and I have seen battles of good and evil fought upon this land, our land, and in our house. But, remember, the true legacy of our home does not rest upon the flooring or upon the walls, but with what is left inside, the hope. Never lose sight of the hope, my Daughters, never lose hope or evil shall befall you.
Hope reigns over our land, over the mountains and the trees. It has blessed our house and our lives. But, make no mistake, evil is always nearby, waiting for opportunity to arise from the pit. A great Well of Sorrow sits within our land, a Well unseen, beneath the topsoil, in the depths of the Earth, a great Well that can be opened with the key of despair. Hope is the key that shall keep watch over the evil like a guard minding the cell. And, though evil, despair, can not be completely bottled and kept away from the world in this age, evil seeping out as hardened hearts summon it from the depths, Hope shall keep it at bay and leave you safe from harm.
And, I have been shown in dreams great storms that have past or are to come. Can I really know the difference? These storms, and storms they are, of fierce winds and darkened skies battling with white clouds and yellow roses for possession of our land, of the Well. But, who shall win is up to us. I see the fields, blanketed in blue skies and peace, with birds sweetly singing in the trees and the white rabbit upon the land. I see The Oak, blackened and burnt, darkened, sitting above a swirling ground of ash and beneath a stormy sky of twisters carrying hateful laughter.
And, in the sky are bloodied swords, drops of evil that fall further darkening the house or killing the spot upon the Earth where they land, drops of peace seeding an oak that grows quickly, reaching its branches to the Heavens in gratitude and respect. And, a final blade is passed, severing the dark hand holding its evil grip upon the house and swirling the storms, and a great wailing was heard across the Earth.
And, the hands of hope extend downward through a stormy sky one final invitation.
And, the land beneath the house cracks and creaks as the ashy Well opens, violently shaking the land and swallowing the house with a crunch of each board, unseen teeth crushing into each plank as the house lowers into the bowels of the Earth. The fierce winds are forced downward upon the house, carrying the sounds of screams of fear and rage, howling and moaning and wicked laughter until the house and the blackened winds are buried deep beneath the surface, and the swirling Earth rests, the ash returning to soil, the spot upon the land green with grass, and blue skies quietly smiling above. And, peace shall reign again upon the land.
But, all living beings will decide who wins.
Never lose hope, my daughters. Always, have hope. Always.
Your Mother,
Abigail
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
Letters Home, Section 3, June, 2000
June, 2000
With new and fierce intensity, Lisa fought the possibility of Henry gaining ownership of The Oak, avoiding his presence to maintain her hope and trying to block out the sound of his voice as memories of things he had previously said and done returned to her mind like reoccurring nightmares that would appear at whim. “Don’t listen,” she would tell herself, sometimes aloud, as she tried to push his voice away. “Be strong, just hold on,” she would whisper so that only she could hear. At moments, she would look out the window, being reminded by the beauty of the house garden of the power of kindness, of caretaking, and the walls about her seem to lighten somewhat. Though the shadow continued to appear in The Oak, following her at times, the distance it kept was greater than before, as if hope was a serum that would destroy him.
Lisa tried all that she could think of, but her phone calls to the governor, the county commissioner, and old business acquaintances of Christina had gone unanswered, and the letters written would never reach their destination before the deadline. Before realizing that she had lost track of time, Henry had called together a gathering of Oak employees to the grand entranceway.
Looking about the room, Lisa only saw a handful of employees, people who had not yet decided to walk away from Henry, from what The Oak had become. In the chairs lined beside each other to face the staircase, Lisa saw young Mary Hawthorne who had helped to clean the house for the past few months, barely nineteen and sending most of her check home to her mother to help care for the infant son of whom Mary had lost custody. Then, there was Danny Price, who had tended to the animals for over thirty years, his wife having died just last year from cancer, his children grown, his son and daughter-in-law having left the Oak in the earlier exodus. And, old Bob Thompson who was still checking on the fields after being at the Oak for over fifty years, a person of great knowledge on how to tend to the crops, childless and alone since his wife had died in childbirth and the babe was stillborn, but someone who had been content here at The Oak until this year. But, amongst the small group, she did not see Mr. Gates. Lisa ran outside before Henry arrived to address the group, wondering if Mr. Gates was still in the garden and to make certain he realized the time, noticing more than ever the darkness that had settled within the structure and how it differed from the brightness of the house garden and the sun that shown above it.
“Aren’t you coming,” she asked him as he tended to the garden.
“No,” he calmly and casually replied, shaking his head a bit as he watered the roses, “I have no desire to go into his house. If he has anything I need to hear, he’ll come out here to this beautiful garden to tell me.” Christopher smiled at her. “But, I can’t tell you what to do, Lisa. You have to choose for yourself.”
Lisa reached her chair just before Henry positioned himself at the top of the grand staircase like a god standing on top of a darkening world. “Well,” he began, raising his arms and extending them dramatically, “welcome to my new kingdom.” Henry laughed as he put his right hand in his pocket and began to descend the staircase, its luster no longer apparent, its shine gone. “I’m sure all of you are wondering what this is about and I’ll get right to the point. As of,” Henry looked at the watch on his left wrist, “two hours ago, all papers were filed and legalized to make me the new owner of the Oak, every weed, every timber.” Henry noticed the small group looking a bit confused, save Lisa who simply looked defeated. Henry smiled. “The State could no longer make any money off of the property,” he said, “so they sold it to me.” Henry noticed the vacant chair. “Where is he, Lisa,” he said, pointing to the chair.
“Tending to the garden.”
“Oh, well, I’ll deal with him later. As for the rest of you, you have a few choices to make. Danny, old boy, all of the animals are to be sold by the end of the week. If you know someone or can find someone who will buy them that quickly, then I’ll give you a couple of days to make that deal for me. If you can’t, then all of the animals, the cows, the horses, the chicks, all of them, will go to slaughter.”
“I’ll find someone,” Danny said urgently, knowing that they were good animals that other farms in the area would be lucky to have.
“Good. I want top price for them. I’ll leave that up to you. Check in with me tomorrow morning on how it’s going. When I say the end of the week, I mean I want all of the animals gone, paid for and off the property by then.”
“Yes, sir,” Danny replied, his favorite old, worn Chicago Cubs hat in his hands and sitting on his lap, a questioning expression turned to Bob.
“Now. I have no intention of farming this land. So, there won’t be any more animals to take care of, Danny, but I will have some other work if you want it. Bob, this is where you come in, too. Whatever has been planted in those fields, I want it stopped. Do whatever you have to do to prevent the seeds from sprouting or growing or whatever it is they do. Then, if you two men are up for it, the property needs some places to be cleared of trees and the land needs to be prepared in other places so that building can occur on it. I’ll need your answers by the end of the week as to whether or not you want those jobs.” Henry continued to circle around the line of chairs, patting a shoulder now and again as if trying to choose, but landing his hand on Mary’s shoulder. “The Oak, the house that is, will be torn down. I expect that process to begin this month. The other structures on the property, the barn, that restaurant the State built, the worker’s quarters, all of it, will be destroyed. I had first thought I’d just put all the rubble in that lake so that we’d be rid of it but may be I’ll actually keep the lake there. It’ll draw people to the area. But, in either case, by the end of next month, none of this will be here.” Looking in the direction of the garden, he muttered with contempt, “And, that damn garden will be gone too. So,” he said looking at Lisa and Mary, “I won’t have any need for housekeepers. Now, if you wish to remain in my employ, I’m sure I can find other things for you to do for me.”
Lisa shuddered, the sound in his voice both repulsing and worrying her, and she worried about Mary.
“Now,” Henry addressed the group, “if you join my team, there will be good wages and a few other benefits. But, and let me make this very clear,” his voice became stern, “I’ll have no talk or reference to the Allgood family or the Oak. Ever.” He paused and looked them over. “You’re dismissed,” he said, wondering why he had bothered. “Remember, the end of the week. I will have your answer by the end of the week or you’ll be terminated.” Henry turned and walked back up the stairs. “I might actually miss this staircase,” he said, on his way to returning to his office.
Lisa exhaled, amazed that her strength had held up as well as it had although she was worried that it might not, and Mary began to cry. Bob fatherly put his arm about Mary’s shoulder, reassuring her that it would be alright. Danny moved his chair, followed by Lisa, so that everyone could face the others.
“I don’t know what to do,” Mary cried. “I’ve hated working for him but I can’t afford to quit. I have a child to support.”
“I’m a little confused myself,” Bob added, nervously adjusting his suspenders holding up his dusty work pants. “I was born here at the Oak, lived here my whole life except when I went to war and for a while when I went to live on the coast after my Mrs. died. But, I always came home to The Oak. Always.”
“I don’t really think I have any place else to go,” Danny added to the conversation. “My kids are grown; they have their own lives now and I’m not sure there’s room for me.”
Lisa inhaled slowly, trying to reclaim her strength again, reminding herself it would all be alright, it would all be okay. “I don’t think we should be talking in here. Let’s go to the garden.”
Sitting on the benches in the sunshine, in the company of the colors and fragrances and the life, life seemed easier.
“Is this little one okay,” Mr. Gates asked as he put down his water hose and knelt beside Mary.
Mary shook her head, trying to dry her tears and compose her spirit.
Mr. Gates exhaled, “Doesn’t sound like it went so well in there,” he asked Lisa as she sat on the bench beside Mary.
“He’s destroying everything. We all, this includes you, we all have to let him know by the end of the week if we’re going to leave or work for him.”
“That’s a mean man,” Bob added, sitting on the bench to the other side of Mary while Danny sat on an adjoining bench.
“Well, folks,” Christopher began, “it seems that there are some decisions to be made.”
“I have to stay,” Mary said. “My mom doesn’t want me around, thinks I’m evil or something because I had my baby. I guess I disappointed her, wasn’t the daughter she wanted me to be, and I’ve got to keep money coming in. But, I hate it here since he moved in the house,” she continued. “He’s always making little comments and looking at me in ways that make me uncomfortable. He hasn’t done anything. I just don’t like it. And, the house is just so different, like it’s watching me.”
Lisa, not one to usually find herself nurturing, put her arm around Mary. “Go home,” Lisa gently said, the compassionate tone reaching Mary’s soul. “Go home. I’ll help you. I have some money saved to help you get there. I’ll talk to your mom and make her understand that you shouldn’t be here. It’s not healthy here. This place isn’t good for anybody anymore.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“We can all help,” Bob added.
“Sure we can. And, Bob and me here are so old that we should make good references for you when you get a new job,” Danny said.
“You’ll be safer away from here, Mary,” Lisa added. “If you stay, your spirit will go into ruins right along with this house.”
“What about all of you,” Mary asked. “What will you do.”
The old men looked at each other. “Well, if we’ve lived this long,” Bob began, “we’ll figure it out.”
As Bob and Danny took Mary back to the worker’s quarters to begin calling her mother and making arrangements, Lisa turned to Christopher, still kneeling beside the bench.
“And, you, what about you,” Christopher asked of Lisa.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know yet. And, you, Mr. Gates? When will you leave?”
Mr. Gates smiled, “I’ll leave when it’s time. Don’t you worry about that,” he playfully winked at Lisa. “I know where I’m going. But, you, well plans still need to be made for you.”
“I don’t know anything but this place and, even with the changes, I’m scared to leave. Whatever is out there on the other side of those front gates, well, it just seems a bit overwhelming. It’s the unknown factor, you know. What if whatever is out there, on the other side of those gates, is worse than what’s in here?”
“There’s nothing worse than what’s in that house, Lisa,” Christopher said. “Sometimes, you have to face your fears and turn away from what you know before you can find something better. Life’s never easy, but, like a house, you can build your life, make it into what you want or you can let others build it into what they want for you. Sometimes that’s a good thing and sometimes it’s not.”
Lisa felt a strange sensation when Mr. Gates mentioned building, knowing that he knew nothing of her return to her hidden box of dreams of architecture. “What do you think will happen to The Oak, Mr. Gates?”
Christopher adjusted his hat and looked up to Lisa. “Evil always destroys itself, Lisa, in time. Oh, people don’t always realize it because they see other people with fame or riches or big houses, they know of people who break laws or hurt others in one way or another to get ahead, and they don’t get caught and it looks like they’re living the lives that dreams are made of. But, in time, evil always destroys itself, and the dream will become a nightmare. Evil will always destroy itself because of exactly what it is, a destroyer of life, of hope.”
By the middle of the week, more changes had occurred. Danny found homes for the animals at nearby farms, saving them from Henry’s wrath. Then, Danny found himself a new home with his son in another state, packing and saying goodbye once he knew the animals were safely relocated. When Danny left The Oak, he took with him Mary, transporting her back to her son and to her mother, back to a safer life where she would be away from harm, and with heartfelt, thankful prayers that Mary’s mother was understanding of Mary’s situation and willing to work things out between them.
After watching Danny and Mary drive away, Lisa sat on the front porch, studying what was before her and what used to be and watching the birds that would fly nearby sit and stare into her eyes with questions. Shots rang out repeatedly, taking away Lisa’s breath with surprise as she turned toward the front oak doors to see Henry firing a shotgun at the birdhouse outside the office window. “Fly,” she thought, wishing the birds on to safety as she saw several fall, “fly.”
Lisa pounded her way over to Henry. “What do you think you’re doing? They’re just birds. They’re not hurting you.”
“I told you,” he said, continuing to fire until the birdhouse was destroyed, “they’d be gone.”
“I’m not gonna sit by and watch you destroy this place anymore.”
Lisa tried to take the gun away from Henry, the two struggling over the weapon. “Let go,” Henry said, “you think I won’t shoot you too?”
Lisa tore the gun out of Henry’s hands, the force swinging the gun through the air until it landed on the ground, one final explosion exiting the barrel and marking the fence.
Lisa, breathless, turned to Henry. “Do you realize how evil you are or do you just not care?” And, with those words, she walked off towards the fields.
“Do you really think you’re any better,” he asked in a sincere tone, just loud enough for her to hear as she was walking.
And, the words rang through Lisa’s brain.
Lisa walked for hours, up part of the mountain and across part of the valley where she had never been. “Mr. Bob,” Lisa asked as she saw him standing alone in a field. “Sir, are you alright,” she asked, putting her hand gently upon his arm.
Tears filled his eyes. “They are only plants, but I just can’t do it, Lisa. I can’t destroy these little seeds like he wants. I tried,” he paused, looking down towards the Earth, “but I can’t just do it. These little seeds just want to live. That’s all. And, I’ve spent my whole life trying to grow life, not end it.”
Lisa remembered how Bob used to be, his voice confidently talking about the seasons and the crops, his eyes bright when it came time to plant or harvest or when he was watching the plants change, grow. And, Lisa saw his eyes now, tearful and downcast, vacant and almost hollow, a look she had been before.
“I have no other place to go, Lisa,” he said, almost without emotion, without hope.
“There’s always a place to go, to turn to. We’ll find a place for you, Bob. We’ll work together on it. You can’t stay here. If you stay, he wins. You’re a good man. You don’t belong here. There will be life for you on the other side of those gates.”
“No, I’m an old man and there’s nothing left for me,” he said, patting her hand where it rested on his arm. “Nothing. Henry was right when we talked. There’s nothing left for me anywhere. No one will want me. I have no other choice other than to stay here and help him kill this life I’ve planted.”
“Well, sure there’s another choice. Look at all the knowledge you have. That’s valuable information that any farm would be proud to have access to.”
Bob almost laughed. “I thought I’d retire here, you know, near these fields. Christina always saw to it that people who worked here could grow old here and be taken care of. But, all that’s changed now. I’m too old for anyone to hire me, and I’m trained in the old ways.” Bob gently removed Lisa’s hand from his arm. “This is all I know and there’s no time to learn. It’s the end of the line for me.”
“No, no,” Lisa repeated. “We’ll figure it out together. We will.”
“Lisa, please go back to the garden.”
“No,” Lisa said, her voice worried. “I won’t leave you alone.”
“Please. If it’s the last thing I ever do…”
“No. Come on,” she put her arm around him. “We’re going back to the garden.”
He said not a word as she eased him back through the fields and up towards the living quarters though she continually tried to remind him of brighter days, of possibilities, reassuring him of positive outcomes, relating his experience to the fields. Refusing to sit in the garden, its colors a disbelief to his dimming eyes, Bob returned to his quarters where Lisa watched over him until he fell asleep.
In the moonlight, Lisa sat upon the porch outside Bob’s cabin, basking in the white beams of light. In the moonlight, she could remember the Oak as it used to be, the angels upon their perches blessing the people within and the animals that lived about. She could remember the prisms of light that would shine in through the windows and how the sun would display light upon the roof of the house as if sending The Oak its own special spotlight. And, she could remember her dreams of building houses just as special. When sleep came, she remembered the white rabbit and the letters as her mind reviewed the magazines in the plastic box.
The morning came quickly, and Lisa awoke with the sunrise. Peaking in on Bob see how he was doing, she found him beside a note he had written in the night that simply said I have no place else to go, an empty prescription bottle in his hand. Lisa checked, but he had no pulse, no breath, no life left in him. Henry had won that battle.
Lisa spent most of the morning in the garden, nothing said between herself and Christopher as she thought of all that had passed, watching Christopher pull the weeds from between the plants and give them a little fertilizer here and there. Sitting there on the bench, Lisa felt the need to draw, to sketch, to create a world of lines that was something more than what she knew now. And, in the loose soil beneath the white roses, Lisa found herself drawing, her finger a pencil, the Earth a canvas, drawing walls and ceilings, welcoming floors, open windows that let in the light, and rooftops that embraced the structure like a mother. Sitting there in the garden, she felt her hope restoring, her spirit breathing again. Though she ached from the losses, there was peace in the garden that gave itself to her, a peace that she wished back to it like a kiss blown on the breeze.
In the afternoon, Lisa wondered through the valleys and up into the mountains, sitting at times beneath the trees and listening, feeling soothing music played about her by the leaves that was carried upon the wind, across the mountain and through the valley. There was a gentleness about the mountain that she had never noticed, a gentleness that spoke to her without words. Realizing, there was no one left now at the Oak but herself, Mr. Gates, and Henry, Lisa contemplated what to do, knowing that she had to decide for herself. In a blend of hope and confusion, she closed her eyes and whispered for guidance, and she began to smell wildflowers drifting on the breeze. Upon opening her eyes, Lisa looked about the mountainside, some of the limbs seeming to take on the form of structures while others seem to hold wands that pointed to the structures like a teacher pointing to a chalkboard, the tangled roots almost appearing as people inside, and the leaves sounding, from time to time, as if they were speaking of corners and angles. Through her hair, a warm breeze would blow, whispering into her ears happy songs of smiles and laughter.
And, at the tree line was the white rabbit with blue eyes, sitting comfortably on a tree root and looking at Lisa like a friend in need. “Come here,” Lisa whispered carefully, and the rabbit hopped to where she sat, sensing no danger. “What should I do,” Lisa whispered. And, though the rabbit only looked into her eyes, Lisa understood. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes.” Gently, she picked up the rabbit, cradling it in her arms. And, though it was she holding on to the rabbit, Lisa felt a loving embrace about her body and a comfort within her soul.
Lisa opened up the suitcase, first taking the books from the nightstand and placing them in the corner. She took her favorites pieces from the closet, folding them neatly on the bed before packing them alongside the books. In cardboard boxes she packed up her life, piece by piece, clothing and romance novels and pictures from the wall, stationary and colorful writing pens and ceramic mugs, greeting cards and letters she had received and saved, old family photo albums, and all of those little things that add up over the years. The plastic box holding the reminders of her dream of architecture sat alone and added to the box for their own protection were portraits of her parents. Though before her she saw the material objects that she thought had added up to her life, she now knew there was much more.
A call to her cousin on the coast who worked for Katrina’s children and grandchildren provided her with a temporary destination and a job, and the plastic box before her was the beginning of her plan. Carefully she had completed the application for college, using Savannah as the return address, attaching the appropriate fees and transcripts they had requested before mailing it from town. An architect she had wanted to be and an architect she would work towards becoming. After all, as long as there was time, it was never too late.
“You don’t have to go,” Henry said, his voice more calm than Lisa had ever heard it before as he stood at her door.
“Yes, I do,” she simply stated, calmly but with certainty as she continued to pack.
Henry suddenly seemed nervous and alone, uncertain and unsure of himself, qualities Lisa had never known him to express.
“You know that you can stay as long as you want, you can even come back. We’d make a good team, you and me. I’d like to have you on my team.”
“I don’t want to be on your team and I don’t want to be in your house or on your property. Don’t worry,” she told him, “you’ll make your fortune and live,” she stopped, considering the next word, “well, ever after.”
Henry looked over his shoulder, the black shadow standing there, watching him, Henry swallowing hard at the feeling of cold hatred that he was now receiving regularly from a dark shadow with no eyes, no soul, no body, but with a mighty clutch. “You know,” Henry said sincerely, “I know we’ve never really gotten along, but,” he paused, “maybe we could learn to,” and paused again, a lengthier pause than before, “everyone has gone.”
Lisa stopped, turning to look at him, seeing something of fear in his eyes, or was it regret? “What did you expect,” her voice remained calm, her hope helping her to hold back the tears. “People at the Oak were once happy. This was their home. You’ve done everything in your power to change all of that. Almost like you set out to hurt everyone, like you enjoyed their hurt, their anxiety, their loss.”
“I,” he stopped, looking towards the floor and then about the room. Then, the familiar Henry surfaced. “You know what, I’m better off without all of you. You’re all a bunch of losers with no ambition to get ahead, no ambition to make any money. You all just wanted to sit on your lazy butts and stay at the Oak. Certainly, not the kind of people I want working for me. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be alone. There will be plenty of people keeping me company.” Henry almost turned around, but returned his gaze to Lisa, “Frankly, I did you all a favor and you should all be grateful. You owe me.”
“Not you,” Lisa responded with an uncommon calmness. “I owe you nothing.”
And, Henry walked away, the dark shadow following him.
After the car was packed, Lisa went to the garden to say goodbye. “When will you be leaving,” she asked Christopher as he stood from pulling weeds and tucking in flowers.
“When it’s time,” he nodded. “Don’t worry.”
“I’ll miss this place,” she said, looking only about the garden.
With one final embrace, Christopher whispered, “Don’t look back, Lisa. Just go forward with your life.”
And, with tears in her eyes, she said in a voice barely a whisper, “I’ll miss you.”
Pulling a rose from the garden and placing it in her hand, Christopher nodded in response. “I’ll always be here…tending to the garden. Now, you go on,” he gently stated, “your future awaits.”
As she slowly turned to leave, she felt a pull to turn around one final time, to look into his blue eyes and feel encouraged that he wouldn’t fall to Henry’s power. Yet, as he had instructed she repeated to herself, “Don’t look back. You must never look back.” And, swallowing hard, she got in her car, tears of excitement and fear, hope and remembrance streaming, holding the rose in her hand against the steering wheel, and driving away from the Oak and into a new life.
Christopher Gates looked into the skies above, seeing the blue skies with white dotted clouds happily sitting above the garden, the sun shining brightly, smiling upon the roses. He saw the rays of light that circled the grave sites of Kevin and Abigail, of Katrina and, yes, of Christina, too. The wind playfully coursed a path through the oak trees and up the mountain, collecting messages of history from all living beings to be shared with all who would listen as the wind made its way around the world. The birds sang songs of joy from their lofty perches in the oak trees and about the garden. And, as he always had, Christopher tended to the garden, watering and weeding and nurturing and praying.
“Yes, the time should be soon,” Christopher said to the white rabbit with crystal blue eyes sitting atop a stone platform amongst the roses of red and white, pink, purple, and blue. Christopher continued to water the flowers, the roses and daisies and lilies, the flowers of all shapes and sizes, colors and styles, each one receiving his special attention.
The white rabbit extended his foot, touching Christopher’s arm as they looked above the Oak. A black swirling tunnel of dark winds and angry clouds, energy, pouring from the sky to the house like a sheet of black rain engulfing the roof, the walls. In one moment, they saw a bright light from the sky shine into the house through a window, but it disappeared just as quickly. The outer walls of the Oak were becoming as black coal and the windows as black as tar, as hard as nails. The Earth upon which the Oak had sat for over a century began to soften, the brown soil turning to ash, emitting sounds of creaks and moans, separating, splitting, opening.
“Yes, soon,” Christopher said to the white rabbit. “The time should be soon, old friend.” And, together they looked up into the glory of the sun.
Henry passed by the mirror in his office, adjusting his collar and admiring the fit of the tailored suit, his head strong upon his shoulders, his eyes fixed to his own reflection. You’ve done well for yourself, Henry, his mind whispered to himself in a voice slightly different from his own. Very well, indeed. Henry straightened his tie and checked his hair. Think of how far you’ve come, how hard you’ve worked. People with less, people who haven’t done so much, they just don’t understand. Do they? Henry did not notice that as he turned from the mirror, part of his reflection remained.
“No, they don’t,” he answered himself aloud, thinking that the words seemed to echo in the silence of the room. A sigh exited his nose as he looked about the office he thought of now as his own, the office that came with a price, but with the dignity, power, and the status he had craved since childhood. Upon the walls were priceless pieces of art and on the shelves were hunting trophies of pure gold. So what if he hadn’t won them, though he felt that he had earned them. The ceramic angels of blue, pink, white, and crystal Henry had thrown out with the trash, except for those few that Lisa had earlier found and saved, placing them throughout other parts of the house so that the grouping would not be so noticeable on the tours that were led through the house at the time. The furniture was covered in fine leather, real leather that Henry would slide his hand across each time that he sat upon it. Priceless editions of literature still lined the walls since Henry had decided to allow their value to increase before selling them, but some of the antique ceramics he had already sold, using the money to purchase rich Cuban cigars and fine whiskeys.
Sitting down at the oak desk, looking out across the property that he had acquired, his mind again began to speak to him. Quite a piece of property. The land deal will make you millions.
“Maybe even billions,” he said aloud, kicking his feet on the desk and pulling a cigar proudly out of the box, smelling the rich scent of the tobacco before lighting it.
That’s right….matches, not lighters. You’ve learned so much. You’re so different now from that little boy you used to be. Henry always hated these moments, the moments he found himself unable to entirely erase his memory. Most of the time, Henry was strong-willed, able to repress years and force experiences into a little box, tuck it away in the back of his mind, and forget about it. Then, once in a while, there were moments like this, moments he felt out of self-control, moments when the past came back to him like a violent boomerang determined to find its sender. That’s right, Henry, remember, remember, remember. Henry tried to focus on other thoughts, the Oak, the money, his future plans, the dream house he would build for himself. No, Henry, don’t fight it. Let the memories return, and remember it all, the pain of the punches. So many times and you were such a little boy. Remember, Henry. Remember the blood? It was yours. Do you remember the smell of the sweat and the blood, the sting of your tears? Good, don’t forget any of it. The knife, be sure to remember the knife, Henry, and how it looked when he stabbed her in the chest. And, why, always remember why, Henry. She was trying to stop him from hitting you. It was all your fault, Henry. Do you remember hearing your mother’s final whispers, the blood spilling from her mouth? ‘Make something of yourself,’ she had said, Henry. The gunshot in the bedroom, Henry. Remember that sound. Yes, remember how it rang out. Remember what he looked like, Henry, lying there. Remember your parents carried out by those men in white. Remember you and your brother going to live with your father’s brother. He always set you straight, just like your father, didn’t he? Yes, he told you how it was, that it was all her fault, didn’t he? Yes, remember it all. Let it come back and swirl around in your heart. Remember the pain, Henry, remember it all.
Henry felt the sadness, the anger, the loss, and the numbness, but tears no longer came. He would tell himself that enough time had passed so that it bothered him less, but it wasn’t the truth. To no avail, he tried to push the memories away, trying to find other areas of life upon which to dwell, but there was no fighting it when it came to Evelyn.
Remember her, Henry, such a little tramp, she was, wasn’t she? Always giving you the eye and telling you how much she loved you. She didn’t mean a word of it, did she? Telling you that you were the only one. She was lying, that little whore. Remember her perfume, Henry, remember it well, how it would be ever so slight. And, that chestnut hair, Henry, remember how soft it was to the touch? Be sure to remember.
Evelyn was her name, a beauty with chestnut hair and hazel eyes from a good family in town. It was Henry’s intelligence in the classes they shared that had attracted her, and the broken spirit she noticed in him and from which she wished to save him kept her with him. Their love was true, but not always strong as Henry’s doubts born in the past would revisit his heart and cause difficulties between them. Through their last year of highschool and most of college they had remained together, sharing hearts and passion and secrets. It was Evelyn who had encouraged Henry to go to law school, to fight for kids like he had been. And, the goodness in him had sent in the applications, dreaming of days of using the law to fight so that no other kid had to suffer the evil that he had. And, in other dreams, he dreamed of Evelyn, a house, a family, and a life where he would be so different than his own father.
Remember, Henry. What did she say, Henry? Remember it now.
“I love you,” Henry whispered to no one. And, Henry remembered.
Remember. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ that’s what she said when you asked her about it. ‘I didn’t do anything,” what a pathetic little excuse. Yet, your own brother told you that he had had her. Why would he lie? He never liked having that tramp around anyway. She looked down on all of you is what he always said, that girl from the good side of town, the side with money. He couldn’t stand to be around her. Remember. Remember when you drove her out to the woods, that favorite spot by the pond, that final argument? Be sure to remember how she was crying, just repeating the same words over and over again about how much she loved you and that she didn’t know why your brother was lying. Feel the anger, the rage like you did then. That’s right, Henry, feel it all. Remember how good it felt, how powerful you were when you knocked her down? Remember how strong you were when you picked up that large stone? It was a big one, wasn’t it, Henry. So little effort it took from you to throw it against her head. Remember the blood, Henry, and those final little words of hers, ‘I love you, Henry.’ She was a tramp. Remember, Henry, she would have just gotten in your way, wanted you to do other work than business. If she were with you, you wouldn’t be where you are now.
Henry remembered Evelyn lying there, helpless, the love of his life dead and gone by his own hands, the shiny pendant that she always wore, the one he had given her with their initials inscribed, still lying against her chest.
But, you messed up, didn’t you Henry? Didn’t realize that Spike had followed you out there. And, him just a little kid at the time. Saw the whole thing, he did. Didn’t he, Henry? And, you explained the whole thing, going on about what your brother had said, explaining why you had to kill her. But, Spike, well, he had a different story to tell you, didn’t he? A story about having heard your brother laughing, planning on telling you all of that just to get rid of that little tramp because she was always looking down on all of you.
“She never said a word,” Henry said to himself.
Oh, come on, Henry, get the story right now. She was from the other side of town, and everyone on the other side of town looked down on all of you. Everyone, Henry. And, you had been working so hard to get through school, working at night at that little pharmacy with the creaky floor to put yourself through school. No one helping you, was there, Henry? But, this wasn’t your brother’s fault, now was it? No, couldn’t be. It was that little tramp. It’s all her fault. She deserved it. Remember the smell, Henry, of the blood and the sweat as you and Spike dug the hole and put her in it. It was a better burial then she deserved, Henry. You know that. Remember that. And, Spike wouldn’t tell a soul as long as you helped him out from time to time, when he needed it. Spike was probably lying about your brother’s plan anyway. You can’t trust any one. Remember that, Henry. And, that body, well, it still hasn’t been found. Better that way, Henry. You’ve got a reputation to protect now, a career that you’ve built. You don’t want that little tramp coming back and taking it all from you, now do you?
“No,” he said, in a voice barely audible and with lips that barely moved, the cigar hanging loosely from his fingers, its weight feeling too heavy to lift.
Come on now, don’t get sentimental on me. We can’t have that. Not now. We’re so close to having everything.
Henry dropped the cigar, never noticing that it had burned through his slacks and seared his skin. Henry looked out through the window, looking about the property again, lifeless.
Don’t back out on me now, kid. We’ve got work to do.
Henry remembered Evelyn’s hair, the way her eyes sparkled in the sun, the truth in her smile.
I need a little reassurance from you, Henry. You’re making me doubt your loyalty to the plan. Are you going to stick with me here, or do you want to lose everything you’ve worked for, everything I’ve helped you to get?
Henry straightened his back and picked up the cigar, laying it gently over the edge of the ashtray. Returning his gaze to the mirror, he saw the dark shadow in the glass.
Well, will you come with me, and I’ll make sure you continue to live in all this glory. I’ll make sure that you have all this and more, all you’ve ever dreamed of, all you’ve ever wanted. What do you say, Henry? You can’t find a better business deal than that.
Standing up from the chair, Henry smiled and began to walk towards the mirror. Then, a bright light shown through the window, catching Henry’s attention, the glare causing him to turn around to see what was happening, and in the light he heard a voice. And, Henry laughed at the light. “I’m a businessman,” he said, walking towards the mirror and continually speaking to the light, “you’d have to come up with a better offer than that.”
The mirror turned black and the light disappeared. Henry addressed the dark shadow in the mirror. “Money, prestige, everything. I want everything that I’ve got coming to me.”
And, though the shadow had no specific features, Henry saw it smile. As you wish. In the space of a heartbeat, a dark tunnel of wind forced itself through the house, lifting Henry from the ground, breaking him through the glass window, and crashing him into the ground, a piece of window glass piercing his skull in the same location where he had crashed the rock into Evelyn’s head.
He made a noise as of clearing his throat, but he didn’t have to. Christopher knew he was there, standing at the edge, just outside of the garden in the entranceway to the house.
“You killed him,” Christopher said, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” the shadow simply replied.
Christopher leaned on his hoe, the white rabbit sitting beside him.
The shadow pretended to have a gun aimed at the rabbit. “I’ll be glad when that thing is gone.” The shadow continued to stand at the edge of the garden, in the doorway of a black house.
“You’ll never be able to kill truth. You’ll never be able to kill hope, not completely,” Christopher said, “no matter how hard you may try.” A sincerity, a truthfulness remained in Christopher’s eyes. “Why don’t you come into my garden,” Christopher invited, sensing that it would never happened but his heart remaining open to the possibility. “Here, you may find a beauty you’ve forgotten, a sanctuary you once knew and can know again, if you’re willing.”
“You never came into my house, Christopher.”
“No, not your house. I never went into your house. But, the light was always in there, trying to find souls in the darkness that would listen. The light never surrenders, though it does have to accept that final answer. And, I’ve always been right here, waiting to encourage the spark that the light brought within. Many who have walked through your house have seen the light and followed it out here to the garden and beyond.”
The dark shadow looked upward at the dark, swirling skies above the house and below at the ashy Earth. Christopher remained calm, the light of the sun still above the garden, the oaks, the graves. And, between the two worlds, a thin veil of choice.
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
With new and fierce intensity, Lisa fought the possibility of Henry gaining ownership of The Oak, avoiding his presence to maintain her hope and trying to block out the sound of his voice as memories of things he had previously said and done returned to her mind like reoccurring nightmares that would appear at whim. “Don’t listen,” she would tell herself, sometimes aloud, as she tried to push his voice away. “Be strong, just hold on,” she would whisper so that only she could hear. At moments, she would look out the window, being reminded by the beauty of the house garden of the power of kindness, of caretaking, and the walls about her seem to lighten somewhat. Though the shadow continued to appear in The Oak, following her at times, the distance it kept was greater than before, as if hope was a serum that would destroy him.
Lisa tried all that she could think of, but her phone calls to the governor, the county commissioner, and old business acquaintances of Christina had gone unanswered, and the letters written would never reach their destination before the deadline. Before realizing that she had lost track of time, Henry had called together a gathering of Oak employees to the grand entranceway.
Looking about the room, Lisa only saw a handful of employees, people who had not yet decided to walk away from Henry, from what The Oak had become. In the chairs lined beside each other to face the staircase, Lisa saw young Mary Hawthorne who had helped to clean the house for the past few months, barely nineteen and sending most of her check home to her mother to help care for the infant son of whom Mary had lost custody. Then, there was Danny Price, who had tended to the animals for over thirty years, his wife having died just last year from cancer, his children grown, his son and daughter-in-law having left the Oak in the earlier exodus. And, old Bob Thompson who was still checking on the fields after being at the Oak for over fifty years, a person of great knowledge on how to tend to the crops, childless and alone since his wife had died in childbirth and the babe was stillborn, but someone who had been content here at The Oak until this year. But, amongst the small group, she did not see Mr. Gates. Lisa ran outside before Henry arrived to address the group, wondering if Mr. Gates was still in the garden and to make certain he realized the time, noticing more than ever the darkness that had settled within the structure and how it differed from the brightness of the house garden and the sun that shown above it.
“Aren’t you coming,” she asked him as he tended to the garden.
“No,” he calmly and casually replied, shaking his head a bit as he watered the roses, “I have no desire to go into his house. If he has anything I need to hear, he’ll come out here to this beautiful garden to tell me.” Christopher smiled at her. “But, I can’t tell you what to do, Lisa. You have to choose for yourself.”
Lisa reached her chair just before Henry positioned himself at the top of the grand staircase like a god standing on top of a darkening world. “Well,” he began, raising his arms and extending them dramatically, “welcome to my new kingdom.” Henry laughed as he put his right hand in his pocket and began to descend the staircase, its luster no longer apparent, its shine gone. “I’m sure all of you are wondering what this is about and I’ll get right to the point. As of,” Henry looked at the watch on his left wrist, “two hours ago, all papers were filed and legalized to make me the new owner of the Oak, every weed, every timber.” Henry noticed the small group looking a bit confused, save Lisa who simply looked defeated. Henry smiled. “The State could no longer make any money off of the property,” he said, “so they sold it to me.” Henry noticed the vacant chair. “Where is he, Lisa,” he said, pointing to the chair.
“Tending to the garden.”
“Oh, well, I’ll deal with him later. As for the rest of you, you have a few choices to make. Danny, old boy, all of the animals are to be sold by the end of the week. If you know someone or can find someone who will buy them that quickly, then I’ll give you a couple of days to make that deal for me. If you can’t, then all of the animals, the cows, the horses, the chicks, all of them, will go to slaughter.”
“I’ll find someone,” Danny said urgently, knowing that they were good animals that other farms in the area would be lucky to have.
“Good. I want top price for them. I’ll leave that up to you. Check in with me tomorrow morning on how it’s going. When I say the end of the week, I mean I want all of the animals gone, paid for and off the property by then.”
“Yes, sir,” Danny replied, his favorite old, worn Chicago Cubs hat in his hands and sitting on his lap, a questioning expression turned to Bob.
“Now. I have no intention of farming this land. So, there won’t be any more animals to take care of, Danny, but I will have some other work if you want it. Bob, this is where you come in, too. Whatever has been planted in those fields, I want it stopped. Do whatever you have to do to prevent the seeds from sprouting or growing or whatever it is they do. Then, if you two men are up for it, the property needs some places to be cleared of trees and the land needs to be prepared in other places so that building can occur on it. I’ll need your answers by the end of the week as to whether or not you want those jobs.” Henry continued to circle around the line of chairs, patting a shoulder now and again as if trying to choose, but landing his hand on Mary’s shoulder. “The Oak, the house that is, will be torn down. I expect that process to begin this month. The other structures on the property, the barn, that restaurant the State built, the worker’s quarters, all of it, will be destroyed. I had first thought I’d just put all the rubble in that lake so that we’d be rid of it but may be I’ll actually keep the lake there. It’ll draw people to the area. But, in either case, by the end of next month, none of this will be here.” Looking in the direction of the garden, he muttered with contempt, “And, that damn garden will be gone too. So,” he said looking at Lisa and Mary, “I won’t have any need for housekeepers. Now, if you wish to remain in my employ, I’m sure I can find other things for you to do for me.”
Lisa shuddered, the sound in his voice both repulsing and worrying her, and she worried about Mary.
“Now,” Henry addressed the group, “if you join my team, there will be good wages and a few other benefits. But, and let me make this very clear,” his voice became stern, “I’ll have no talk or reference to the Allgood family or the Oak. Ever.” He paused and looked them over. “You’re dismissed,” he said, wondering why he had bothered. “Remember, the end of the week. I will have your answer by the end of the week or you’ll be terminated.” Henry turned and walked back up the stairs. “I might actually miss this staircase,” he said, on his way to returning to his office.
Lisa exhaled, amazed that her strength had held up as well as it had although she was worried that it might not, and Mary began to cry. Bob fatherly put his arm about Mary’s shoulder, reassuring her that it would be alright. Danny moved his chair, followed by Lisa, so that everyone could face the others.
“I don’t know what to do,” Mary cried. “I’ve hated working for him but I can’t afford to quit. I have a child to support.”
“I’m a little confused myself,” Bob added, nervously adjusting his suspenders holding up his dusty work pants. “I was born here at the Oak, lived here my whole life except when I went to war and for a while when I went to live on the coast after my Mrs. died. But, I always came home to The Oak. Always.”
“I don’t really think I have any place else to go,” Danny added to the conversation. “My kids are grown; they have their own lives now and I’m not sure there’s room for me.”
Lisa inhaled slowly, trying to reclaim her strength again, reminding herself it would all be alright, it would all be okay. “I don’t think we should be talking in here. Let’s go to the garden.”
Sitting on the benches in the sunshine, in the company of the colors and fragrances and the life, life seemed easier.
“Is this little one okay,” Mr. Gates asked as he put down his water hose and knelt beside Mary.
Mary shook her head, trying to dry her tears and compose her spirit.
Mr. Gates exhaled, “Doesn’t sound like it went so well in there,” he asked Lisa as she sat on the bench beside Mary.
“He’s destroying everything. We all, this includes you, we all have to let him know by the end of the week if we’re going to leave or work for him.”
“That’s a mean man,” Bob added, sitting on the bench to the other side of Mary while Danny sat on an adjoining bench.
“Well, folks,” Christopher began, “it seems that there are some decisions to be made.”
“I have to stay,” Mary said. “My mom doesn’t want me around, thinks I’m evil or something because I had my baby. I guess I disappointed her, wasn’t the daughter she wanted me to be, and I’ve got to keep money coming in. But, I hate it here since he moved in the house,” she continued. “He’s always making little comments and looking at me in ways that make me uncomfortable. He hasn’t done anything. I just don’t like it. And, the house is just so different, like it’s watching me.”
Lisa, not one to usually find herself nurturing, put her arm around Mary. “Go home,” Lisa gently said, the compassionate tone reaching Mary’s soul. “Go home. I’ll help you. I have some money saved to help you get there. I’ll talk to your mom and make her understand that you shouldn’t be here. It’s not healthy here. This place isn’t good for anybody anymore.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“We can all help,” Bob added.
“Sure we can. And, Bob and me here are so old that we should make good references for you when you get a new job,” Danny said.
“You’ll be safer away from here, Mary,” Lisa added. “If you stay, your spirit will go into ruins right along with this house.”
“What about all of you,” Mary asked. “What will you do.”
The old men looked at each other. “Well, if we’ve lived this long,” Bob began, “we’ll figure it out.”
As Bob and Danny took Mary back to the worker’s quarters to begin calling her mother and making arrangements, Lisa turned to Christopher, still kneeling beside the bench.
“And, you, what about you,” Christopher asked of Lisa.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know yet. And, you, Mr. Gates? When will you leave?”
Mr. Gates smiled, “I’ll leave when it’s time. Don’t you worry about that,” he playfully winked at Lisa. “I know where I’m going. But, you, well plans still need to be made for you.”
“I don’t know anything but this place and, even with the changes, I’m scared to leave. Whatever is out there on the other side of those front gates, well, it just seems a bit overwhelming. It’s the unknown factor, you know. What if whatever is out there, on the other side of those gates, is worse than what’s in here?”
“There’s nothing worse than what’s in that house, Lisa,” Christopher said. “Sometimes, you have to face your fears and turn away from what you know before you can find something better. Life’s never easy, but, like a house, you can build your life, make it into what you want or you can let others build it into what they want for you. Sometimes that’s a good thing and sometimes it’s not.”
Lisa felt a strange sensation when Mr. Gates mentioned building, knowing that he knew nothing of her return to her hidden box of dreams of architecture. “What do you think will happen to The Oak, Mr. Gates?”
Christopher adjusted his hat and looked up to Lisa. “Evil always destroys itself, Lisa, in time. Oh, people don’t always realize it because they see other people with fame or riches or big houses, they know of people who break laws or hurt others in one way or another to get ahead, and they don’t get caught and it looks like they’re living the lives that dreams are made of. But, in time, evil always destroys itself, and the dream will become a nightmare. Evil will always destroy itself because of exactly what it is, a destroyer of life, of hope.”
By the middle of the week, more changes had occurred. Danny found homes for the animals at nearby farms, saving them from Henry’s wrath. Then, Danny found himself a new home with his son in another state, packing and saying goodbye once he knew the animals were safely relocated. When Danny left The Oak, he took with him Mary, transporting her back to her son and to her mother, back to a safer life where she would be away from harm, and with heartfelt, thankful prayers that Mary’s mother was understanding of Mary’s situation and willing to work things out between them.
After watching Danny and Mary drive away, Lisa sat on the front porch, studying what was before her and what used to be and watching the birds that would fly nearby sit and stare into her eyes with questions. Shots rang out repeatedly, taking away Lisa’s breath with surprise as she turned toward the front oak doors to see Henry firing a shotgun at the birdhouse outside the office window. “Fly,” she thought, wishing the birds on to safety as she saw several fall, “fly.”
Lisa pounded her way over to Henry. “What do you think you’re doing? They’re just birds. They’re not hurting you.”
“I told you,” he said, continuing to fire until the birdhouse was destroyed, “they’d be gone.”
“I’m not gonna sit by and watch you destroy this place anymore.”
Lisa tried to take the gun away from Henry, the two struggling over the weapon. “Let go,” Henry said, “you think I won’t shoot you too?”
Lisa tore the gun out of Henry’s hands, the force swinging the gun through the air until it landed on the ground, one final explosion exiting the barrel and marking the fence.
Lisa, breathless, turned to Henry. “Do you realize how evil you are or do you just not care?” And, with those words, she walked off towards the fields.
“Do you really think you’re any better,” he asked in a sincere tone, just loud enough for her to hear as she was walking.
And, the words rang through Lisa’s brain.
Lisa walked for hours, up part of the mountain and across part of the valley where she had never been. “Mr. Bob,” Lisa asked as she saw him standing alone in a field. “Sir, are you alright,” she asked, putting her hand gently upon his arm.
Tears filled his eyes. “They are only plants, but I just can’t do it, Lisa. I can’t destroy these little seeds like he wants. I tried,” he paused, looking down towards the Earth, “but I can’t just do it. These little seeds just want to live. That’s all. And, I’ve spent my whole life trying to grow life, not end it.”
Lisa remembered how Bob used to be, his voice confidently talking about the seasons and the crops, his eyes bright when it came time to plant or harvest or when he was watching the plants change, grow. And, Lisa saw his eyes now, tearful and downcast, vacant and almost hollow, a look she had been before.
“I have no other place to go, Lisa,” he said, almost without emotion, without hope.
“There’s always a place to go, to turn to. We’ll find a place for you, Bob. We’ll work together on it. You can’t stay here. If you stay, he wins. You’re a good man. You don’t belong here. There will be life for you on the other side of those gates.”
“No, I’m an old man and there’s nothing left for me,” he said, patting her hand where it rested on his arm. “Nothing. Henry was right when we talked. There’s nothing left for me anywhere. No one will want me. I have no other choice other than to stay here and help him kill this life I’ve planted.”
“Well, sure there’s another choice. Look at all the knowledge you have. That’s valuable information that any farm would be proud to have access to.”
Bob almost laughed. “I thought I’d retire here, you know, near these fields. Christina always saw to it that people who worked here could grow old here and be taken care of. But, all that’s changed now. I’m too old for anyone to hire me, and I’m trained in the old ways.” Bob gently removed Lisa’s hand from his arm. “This is all I know and there’s no time to learn. It’s the end of the line for me.”
“No, no,” Lisa repeated. “We’ll figure it out together. We will.”
“Lisa, please go back to the garden.”
“No,” Lisa said, her voice worried. “I won’t leave you alone.”
“Please. If it’s the last thing I ever do…”
“No. Come on,” she put her arm around him. “We’re going back to the garden.”
He said not a word as she eased him back through the fields and up towards the living quarters though she continually tried to remind him of brighter days, of possibilities, reassuring him of positive outcomes, relating his experience to the fields. Refusing to sit in the garden, its colors a disbelief to his dimming eyes, Bob returned to his quarters where Lisa watched over him until he fell asleep.
In the moonlight, Lisa sat upon the porch outside Bob’s cabin, basking in the white beams of light. In the moonlight, she could remember the Oak as it used to be, the angels upon their perches blessing the people within and the animals that lived about. She could remember the prisms of light that would shine in through the windows and how the sun would display light upon the roof of the house as if sending The Oak its own special spotlight. And, she could remember her dreams of building houses just as special. When sleep came, she remembered the white rabbit and the letters as her mind reviewed the magazines in the plastic box.
The morning came quickly, and Lisa awoke with the sunrise. Peaking in on Bob see how he was doing, she found him beside a note he had written in the night that simply said I have no place else to go, an empty prescription bottle in his hand. Lisa checked, but he had no pulse, no breath, no life left in him. Henry had won that battle.
Lisa spent most of the morning in the garden, nothing said between herself and Christopher as she thought of all that had passed, watching Christopher pull the weeds from between the plants and give them a little fertilizer here and there. Sitting there on the bench, Lisa felt the need to draw, to sketch, to create a world of lines that was something more than what she knew now. And, in the loose soil beneath the white roses, Lisa found herself drawing, her finger a pencil, the Earth a canvas, drawing walls and ceilings, welcoming floors, open windows that let in the light, and rooftops that embraced the structure like a mother. Sitting there in the garden, she felt her hope restoring, her spirit breathing again. Though she ached from the losses, there was peace in the garden that gave itself to her, a peace that she wished back to it like a kiss blown on the breeze.
In the afternoon, Lisa wondered through the valleys and up into the mountains, sitting at times beneath the trees and listening, feeling soothing music played about her by the leaves that was carried upon the wind, across the mountain and through the valley. There was a gentleness about the mountain that she had never noticed, a gentleness that spoke to her without words. Realizing, there was no one left now at the Oak but herself, Mr. Gates, and Henry, Lisa contemplated what to do, knowing that she had to decide for herself. In a blend of hope and confusion, she closed her eyes and whispered for guidance, and she began to smell wildflowers drifting on the breeze. Upon opening her eyes, Lisa looked about the mountainside, some of the limbs seeming to take on the form of structures while others seem to hold wands that pointed to the structures like a teacher pointing to a chalkboard, the tangled roots almost appearing as people inside, and the leaves sounding, from time to time, as if they were speaking of corners and angles. Through her hair, a warm breeze would blow, whispering into her ears happy songs of smiles and laughter.
And, at the tree line was the white rabbit with blue eyes, sitting comfortably on a tree root and looking at Lisa like a friend in need. “Come here,” Lisa whispered carefully, and the rabbit hopped to where she sat, sensing no danger. “What should I do,” Lisa whispered. And, though the rabbit only looked into her eyes, Lisa understood. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes.” Gently, she picked up the rabbit, cradling it in her arms. And, though it was she holding on to the rabbit, Lisa felt a loving embrace about her body and a comfort within her soul.
Lisa opened up the suitcase, first taking the books from the nightstand and placing them in the corner. She took her favorites pieces from the closet, folding them neatly on the bed before packing them alongside the books. In cardboard boxes she packed up her life, piece by piece, clothing and romance novels and pictures from the wall, stationary and colorful writing pens and ceramic mugs, greeting cards and letters she had received and saved, old family photo albums, and all of those little things that add up over the years. The plastic box holding the reminders of her dream of architecture sat alone and added to the box for their own protection were portraits of her parents. Though before her she saw the material objects that she thought had added up to her life, she now knew there was much more.
A call to her cousin on the coast who worked for Katrina’s children and grandchildren provided her with a temporary destination and a job, and the plastic box before her was the beginning of her plan. Carefully she had completed the application for college, using Savannah as the return address, attaching the appropriate fees and transcripts they had requested before mailing it from town. An architect she had wanted to be and an architect she would work towards becoming. After all, as long as there was time, it was never too late.
“You don’t have to go,” Henry said, his voice more calm than Lisa had ever heard it before as he stood at her door.
“Yes, I do,” she simply stated, calmly but with certainty as she continued to pack.
Henry suddenly seemed nervous and alone, uncertain and unsure of himself, qualities Lisa had never known him to express.
“You know that you can stay as long as you want, you can even come back. We’d make a good team, you and me. I’d like to have you on my team.”
“I don’t want to be on your team and I don’t want to be in your house or on your property. Don’t worry,” she told him, “you’ll make your fortune and live,” she stopped, considering the next word, “well, ever after.”
Henry looked over his shoulder, the black shadow standing there, watching him, Henry swallowing hard at the feeling of cold hatred that he was now receiving regularly from a dark shadow with no eyes, no soul, no body, but with a mighty clutch. “You know,” Henry said sincerely, “I know we’ve never really gotten along, but,” he paused, “maybe we could learn to,” and paused again, a lengthier pause than before, “everyone has gone.”
Lisa stopped, turning to look at him, seeing something of fear in his eyes, or was it regret? “What did you expect,” her voice remained calm, her hope helping her to hold back the tears. “People at the Oak were once happy. This was their home. You’ve done everything in your power to change all of that. Almost like you set out to hurt everyone, like you enjoyed their hurt, their anxiety, their loss.”
“I,” he stopped, looking towards the floor and then about the room. Then, the familiar Henry surfaced. “You know what, I’m better off without all of you. You’re all a bunch of losers with no ambition to get ahead, no ambition to make any money. You all just wanted to sit on your lazy butts and stay at the Oak. Certainly, not the kind of people I want working for me. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be alone. There will be plenty of people keeping me company.” Henry almost turned around, but returned his gaze to Lisa, “Frankly, I did you all a favor and you should all be grateful. You owe me.”
“Not you,” Lisa responded with an uncommon calmness. “I owe you nothing.”
And, Henry walked away, the dark shadow following him.
After the car was packed, Lisa went to the garden to say goodbye. “When will you be leaving,” she asked Christopher as he stood from pulling weeds and tucking in flowers.
“When it’s time,” he nodded. “Don’t worry.”
“I’ll miss this place,” she said, looking only about the garden.
With one final embrace, Christopher whispered, “Don’t look back, Lisa. Just go forward with your life.”
And, with tears in her eyes, she said in a voice barely a whisper, “I’ll miss you.”
Pulling a rose from the garden and placing it in her hand, Christopher nodded in response. “I’ll always be here…tending to the garden. Now, you go on,” he gently stated, “your future awaits.”
As she slowly turned to leave, she felt a pull to turn around one final time, to look into his blue eyes and feel encouraged that he wouldn’t fall to Henry’s power. Yet, as he had instructed she repeated to herself, “Don’t look back. You must never look back.” And, swallowing hard, she got in her car, tears of excitement and fear, hope and remembrance streaming, holding the rose in her hand against the steering wheel, and driving away from the Oak and into a new life.
Christopher Gates looked into the skies above, seeing the blue skies with white dotted clouds happily sitting above the garden, the sun shining brightly, smiling upon the roses. He saw the rays of light that circled the grave sites of Kevin and Abigail, of Katrina and, yes, of Christina, too. The wind playfully coursed a path through the oak trees and up the mountain, collecting messages of history from all living beings to be shared with all who would listen as the wind made its way around the world. The birds sang songs of joy from their lofty perches in the oak trees and about the garden. And, as he always had, Christopher tended to the garden, watering and weeding and nurturing and praying.
“Yes, the time should be soon,” Christopher said to the white rabbit with crystal blue eyes sitting atop a stone platform amongst the roses of red and white, pink, purple, and blue. Christopher continued to water the flowers, the roses and daisies and lilies, the flowers of all shapes and sizes, colors and styles, each one receiving his special attention.
The white rabbit extended his foot, touching Christopher’s arm as they looked above the Oak. A black swirling tunnel of dark winds and angry clouds, energy, pouring from the sky to the house like a sheet of black rain engulfing the roof, the walls. In one moment, they saw a bright light from the sky shine into the house through a window, but it disappeared just as quickly. The outer walls of the Oak were becoming as black coal and the windows as black as tar, as hard as nails. The Earth upon which the Oak had sat for over a century began to soften, the brown soil turning to ash, emitting sounds of creaks and moans, separating, splitting, opening.
“Yes, soon,” Christopher said to the white rabbit. “The time should be soon, old friend.” And, together they looked up into the glory of the sun.
Henry passed by the mirror in his office, adjusting his collar and admiring the fit of the tailored suit, his head strong upon his shoulders, his eyes fixed to his own reflection. You’ve done well for yourself, Henry, his mind whispered to himself in a voice slightly different from his own. Very well, indeed. Henry straightened his tie and checked his hair. Think of how far you’ve come, how hard you’ve worked. People with less, people who haven’t done so much, they just don’t understand. Do they? Henry did not notice that as he turned from the mirror, part of his reflection remained.
“No, they don’t,” he answered himself aloud, thinking that the words seemed to echo in the silence of the room. A sigh exited his nose as he looked about the office he thought of now as his own, the office that came with a price, but with the dignity, power, and the status he had craved since childhood. Upon the walls were priceless pieces of art and on the shelves were hunting trophies of pure gold. So what if he hadn’t won them, though he felt that he had earned them. The ceramic angels of blue, pink, white, and crystal Henry had thrown out with the trash, except for those few that Lisa had earlier found and saved, placing them throughout other parts of the house so that the grouping would not be so noticeable on the tours that were led through the house at the time. The furniture was covered in fine leather, real leather that Henry would slide his hand across each time that he sat upon it. Priceless editions of literature still lined the walls since Henry had decided to allow their value to increase before selling them, but some of the antique ceramics he had already sold, using the money to purchase rich Cuban cigars and fine whiskeys.
Sitting down at the oak desk, looking out across the property that he had acquired, his mind again began to speak to him. Quite a piece of property. The land deal will make you millions.
“Maybe even billions,” he said aloud, kicking his feet on the desk and pulling a cigar proudly out of the box, smelling the rich scent of the tobacco before lighting it.
That’s right….matches, not lighters. You’ve learned so much. You’re so different now from that little boy you used to be. Henry always hated these moments, the moments he found himself unable to entirely erase his memory. Most of the time, Henry was strong-willed, able to repress years and force experiences into a little box, tuck it away in the back of his mind, and forget about it. Then, once in a while, there were moments like this, moments he felt out of self-control, moments when the past came back to him like a violent boomerang determined to find its sender. That’s right, Henry, remember, remember, remember. Henry tried to focus on other thoughts, the Oak, the money, his future plans, the dream house he would build for himself. No, Henry, don’t fight it. Let the memories return, and remember it all, the pain of the punches. So many times and you were such a little boy. Remember, Henry. Remember the blood? It was yours. Do you remember the smell of the sweat and the blood, the sting of your tears? Good, don’t forget any of it. The knife, be sure to remember the knife, Henry, and how it looked when he stabbed her in the chest. And, why, always remember why, Henry. She was trying to stop him from hitting you. It was all your fault, Henry. Do you remember hearing your mother’s final whispers, the blood spilling from her mouth? ‘Make something of yourself,’ she had said, Henry. The gunshot in the bedroom, Henry. Remember that sound. Yes, remember how it rang out. Remember what he looked like, Henry, lying there. Remember your parents carried out by those men in white. Remember you and your brother going to live with your father’s brother. He always set you straight, just like your father, didn’t he? Yes, he told you how it was, that it was all her fault, didn’t he? Yes, remember it all. Let it come back and swirl around in your heart. Remember the pain, Henry, remember it all.
Henry felt the sadness, the anger, the loss, and the numbness, but tears no longer came. He would tell himself that enough time had passed so that it bothered him less, but it wasn’t the truth. To no avail, he tried to push the memories away, trying to find other areas of life upon which to dwell, but there was no fighting it when it came to Evelyn.
Remember her, Henry, such a little tramp, she was, wasn’t she? Always giving you the eye and telling you how much she loved you. She didn’t mean a word of it, did she? Telling you that you were the only one. She was lying, that little whore. Remember her perfume, Henry, remember it well, how it would be ever so slight. And, that chestnut hair, Henry, remember how soft it was to the touch? Be sure to remember.
Evelyn was her name, a beauty with chestnut hair and hazel eyes from a good family in town. It was Henry’s intelligence in the classes they shared that had attracted her, and the broken spirit she noticed in him and from which she wished to save him kept her with him. Their love was true, but not always strong as Henry’s doubts born in the past would revisit his heart and cause difficulties between them. Through their last year of highschool and most of college they had remained together, sharing hearts and passion and secrets. It was Evelyn who had encouraged Henry to go to law school, to fight for kids like he had been. And, the goodness in him had sent in the applications, dreaming of days of using the law to fight so that no other kid had to suffer the evil that he had. And, in other dreams, he dreamed of Evelyn, a house, a family, and a life where he would be so different than his own father.
Remember, Henry. What did she say, Henry? Remember it now.
“I love you,” Henry whispered to no one. And, Henry remembered.
Remember. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ that’s what she said when you asked her about it. ‘I didn’t do anything,” what a pathetic little excuse. Yet, your own brother told you that he had had her. Why would he lie? He never liked having that tramp around anyway. She looked down on all of you is what he always said, that girl from the good side of town, the side with money. He couldn’t stand to be around her. Remember. Remember when you drove her out to the woods, that favorite spot by the pond, that final argument? Be sure to remember how she was crying, just repeating the same words over and over again about how much she loved you and that she didn’t know why your brother was lying. Feel the anger, the rage like you did then. That’s right, Henry, feel it all. Remember how good it felt, how powerful you were when you knocked her down? Remember how strong you were when you picked up that large stone? It was a big one, wasn’t it, Henry. So little effort it took from you to throw it against her head. Remember the blood, Henry, and those final little words of hers, ‘I love you, Henry.’ She was a tramp. Remember, Henry, she would have just gotten in your way, wanted you to do other work than business. If she were with you, you wouldn’t be where you are now.
Henry remembered Evelyn lying there, helpless, the love of his life dead and gone by his own hands, the shiny pendant that she always wore, the one he had given her with their initials inscribed, still lying against her chest.
But, you messed up, didn’t you Henry? Didn’t realize that Spike had followed you out there. And, him just a little kid at the time. Saw the whole thing, he did. Didn’t he, Henry? And, you explained the whole thing, going on about what your brother had said, explaining why you had to kill her. But, Spike, well, he had a different story to tell you, didn’t he? A story about having heard your brother laughing, planning on telling you all of that just to get rid of that little tramp because she was always looking down on all of you.
“She never said a word,” Henry said to himself.
Oh, come on, Henry, get the story right now. She was from the other side of town, and everyone on the other side of town looked down on all of you. Everyone, Henry. And, you had been working so hard to get through school, working at night at that little pharmacy with the creaky floor to put yourself through school. No one helping you, was there, Henry? But, this wasn’t your brother’s fault, now was it? No, couldn’t be. It was that little tramp. It’s all her fault. She deserved it. Remember the smell, Henry, of the blood and the sweat as you and Spike dug the hole and put her in it. It was a better burial then she deserved, Henry. You know that. Remember that. And, Spike wouldn’t tell a soul as long as you helped him out from time to time, when he needed it. Spike was probably lying about your brother’s plan anyway. You can’t trust any one. Remember that, Henry. And, that body, well, it still hasn’t been found. Better that way, Henry. You’ve got a reputation to protect now, a career that you’ve built. You don’t want that little tramp coming back and taking it all from you, now do you?
“No,” he said, in a voice barely audible and with lips that barely moved, the cigar hanging loosely from his fingers, its weight feeling too heavy to lift.
Come on now, don’t get sentimental on me. We can’t have that. Not now. We’re so close to having everything.
Henry dropped the cigar, never noticing that it had burned through his slacks and seared his skin. Henry looked out through the window, looking about the property again, lifeless.
Don’t back out on me now, kid. We’ve got work to do.
Henry remembered Evelyn’s hair, the way her eyes sparkled in the sun, the truth in her smile.
I need a little reassurance from you, Henry. You’re making me doubt your loyalty to the plan. Are you going to stick with me here, or do you want to lose everything you’ve worked for, everything I’ve helped you to get?
Henry straightened his back and picked up the cigar, laying it gently over the edge of the ashtray. Returning his gaze to the mirror, he saw the dark shadow in the glass.
Well, will you come with me, and I’ll make sure you continue to live in all this glory. I’ll make sure that you have all this and more, all you’ve ever dreamed of, all you’ve ever wanted. What do you say, Henry? You can’t find a better business deal than that.
Standing up from the chair, Henry smiled and began to walk towards the mirror. Then, a bright light shown through the window, catching Henry’s attention, the glare causing him to turn around to see what was happening, and in the light he heard a voice. And, Henry laughed at the light. “I’m a businessman,” he said, walking towards the mirror and continually speaking to the light, “you’d have to come up with a better offer than that.”
The mirror turned black and the light disappeared. Henry addressed the dark shadow in the mirror. “Money, prestige, everything. I want everything that I’ve got coming to me.”
And, though the shadow had no specific features, Henry saw it smile. As you wish. In the space of a heartbeat, a dark tunnel of wind forced itself through the house, lifting Henry from the ground, breaking him through the glass window, and crashing him into the ground, a piece of window glass piercing his skull in the same location where he had crashed the rock into Evelyn’s head.
He made a noise as of clearing his throat, but he didn’t have to. Christopher knew he was there, standing at the edge, just outside of the garden in the entranceway to the house.
“You killed him,” Christopher said, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” the shadow simply replied.
Christopher leaned on his hoe, the white rabbit sitting beside him.
The shadow pretended to have a gun aimed at the rabbit. “I’ll be glad when that thing is gone.” The shadow continued to stand at the edge of the garden, in the doorway of a black house.
“You’ll never be able to kill truth. You’ll never be able to kill hope, not completely,” Christopher said, “no matter how hard you may try.” A sincerity, a truthfulness remained in Christopher’s eyes. “Why don’t you come into my garden,” Christopher invited, sensing that it would never happened but his heart remaining open to the possibility. “Here, you may find a beauty you’ve forgotten, a sanctuary you once knew and can know again, if you’re willing.”
“You never came into my house, Christopher.”
“No, not your house. I never went into your house. But, the light was always in there, trying to find souls in the darkness that would listen. The light never surrenders, though it does have to accept that final answer. And, I’ve always been right here, waiting to encourage the spark that the light brought within. Many who have walked through your house have seen the light and followed it out here to the garden and beyond.”
The dark shadow looked upward at the dark, swirling skies above the house and below at the ashy Earth. Christopher remained calm, the light of the sun still above the garden, the oaks, the graves. And, between the two worlds, a thin veil of choice.
This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
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