Weepings of the Moss: Ghosts on the Floor (Chapter 2, Part 5)

Image: Chapel of Ease on St. Helena Island. Image taken by myself. 

*FICTION*

Almost unconsciously Gabriel took his smart phone out and was nearly about to tap on a social media app, when he had forgotten he deleted them all. With a sigh he set his phone on the table and ran his hands down his face. What did people do before social media when they were alone? For a moment he sat there, the noise around all blending together into a dull background noise. In his mind, he was all alone as all drowned out around him. It’s okay. There’s only pictures on there I’d rather forget. And friends who would rather forget me. Anyone except for his parents had yet to call. No neighbors, no coworkers, no high school friends. It shows how meaningless it all is. Conversation. Really knowing anyone. Everyone is here, everyone says they care, but it’s all because they get something in return. They get validation, they get money, a place to stay, whatever it is. You can’t wait for someone to save you. Because no one is coming. We’re just bits of flotsam on an indifferent sea, destined to wander the abyss endlessly. There are no gods above us, because they’ve drowned in the depths of our selfishness and neglectful inattention.

Part of him felt bad for thinking that, knowing his parents were at his home now, worrying about him. Never once had he felt they had a selfish bone in their body. But what made his home so different from everywhere else? Where had his life gone wrong, where had he chosen so poorly? Why did home feel like a distant star once visited but never again could he return? Now he was surrounded by the endless darkness, and he was starting to become part of it. They wouldn’t want me anyway if they knew. If they really knew.

Soon his shrimp and grits were in front of him and he devoured it hastily, before paying with the voucher and heading out the door. Walking back to his 1995 Toyota Tacoma, he unlocked it and stepped inside. The black truck with a gold colored slash coming from the front wheel wells across the door was nearly as old as he was. For a moment he caressed the dash, thinking of his dad, rubbing off some dust. He could remember picking up his first girlfriend in this truck. Not much had changed. Empty Gatorade and SoBe bottles rolled across the floor. A crumpled high school hoodie sat on the back seat along with an empty Zaxby’s bag and paper from a Publix sub sandwich. Copies of divorce documents lay on his floor in a manilla envelope, a Glock 19 sat in his center console. I guess those last two are new, he thought with a small, defeated sigh. His hand touched the seat where she used to sit; he could hardly remember her face now. It felt like something that was slowly disappearing from his life. Gabriel stared for a moment, then abruptly put the keys in the ignition and pulled out of the dirt lot and headed down Port Republic Street before taking a right onto Carter Street and onto the Woods Memorial Bridge.

Down By the River by The Dirty River Boys blew out Gabriel’s open windows as he crossed the bridge, the salty, humid wind filled with the sulphury smell of pluff mud and old fish buffeted his clothes and dark hair, his dark sunglasses hiding any feeling in their shadows. The blue of the sound shimmered in the sunlight while shadows of undergrowth lurked beneath, patches of vibrant green smooth cordgrass grew in their tidal marshes, each marsh lined with the thick pluff mud. A large blue heron passed over the bridge, buffeting its large wings. The white painted steel beams of the bridge whipped past him; it made him think of one of the workers at the hotel who mentioned the film Forrest Gump had been filmed here, and this bridge was in one of the scenes. The many shrimp boats sailing on the water with their tall nets seemed to fit that story. To distract himself he tried to remember what scene the bridge was in, but he couldn’t recall.

Gabriel crossed the bridge and onto Lady’s Island where he passed through their quaint town center before proceeding onto St. Helena’s Island and Frogmore, then turned north toward Pine Island. The larger homes of Beaufort and Lady’s island began to give way to the small but well kept single story brick homes; these familiar sites too became less and less as he drove. The homes became a mix of manufactured houses with old cars and boats on the lawn to the next lot being a massive refurbished 19th-century plantation home. The sea smell was replaced by the smell of moss, pine, underbrush, and sand. The palmettos and beach scrub became less frequent with the live oaks and their morose drapery of Spanish moss, like many ancient beings in tattered robes with their arms open, welcoming him back into their shade. The Spanish moss robes hung from the tunnel formed from their winding, twisting, moss covered limbs and fingers of oak that lined the roads. Gabriel drove into their embrace, chasing the shadows where he could rest forever.

Temporarily Gabriel had to stop just where the sandy road to Pine Island began, as not far off the asphalt there was a red gate that made the road impassable to any vehicle thanks to the dense foliage on either side of the road. Numerous signs were nailed and stabled to the pines, ‘no trespassing’, ‘stay out’, ’24 hour surveillance’, ‘you’re being watched’. The Walkers had explained originally Mr. Young many years ago had put those signs up, apparently having had issues with vagrants and teenagers coming onto the island and causing trouble on his land. Though the Walkers had not been too concerned with others doing things they shouldn’t on their land, they had nonetheless put up some solar powered flood lights and security cameras and didn’t take down the signs, as they found it did well in keeping solicitors and unwanted guests away. They courteously gave Gabriel a copy of the key to the lock for the gate. Yet another reason this was the perfect place, Gabriel thought with a small half smile as he pulled the chain off the gate and after pulling his truck through shut and locked it behind him.

Gabriel pulled his truck up to the house, where many contractors trucks were parked with their ladders, tools, and materials. The Georgian style home was now looking very much resurrected. Its new coats of white paint and modern glass windows glinted in the sunlight. The well that had once been overgrown now had a new roof over it and a wood cover on top. The rusted rails had been sanded and repainted. Any warped boards had been replaced. The roof over the porch and balcony had been painted haint blue, the colonial style shutters being a darker navy blue. The door was similarly painted a dark hue of blue. The whole house reminded him of the blue heron he had seen over the bridge, but this one rested on the edge of a tidal marsh, the white sands and deep blue of the sound and beach not too far off. This heron had shaken the moss from its bleached bones, and now spread her wings beautifully, the faux gas lamps on the porch shimmering like amber stones for eyes.

Echoes of power tools and shouts of managers sounded through across the small grassy lawn and into the trees where Gabriel was parked. He stepped onto the pine needle covered, sandy soil and breathed in the humid air. A light cool breeze carried the sound of an early cicada hiding somewhere in the shadows of the trees, hailing his approach to the house. Though I don’t need much to get by, I will admit this is the most beautiful home I have ever been in, he thought, staring up at the white home like many bleached bones stacked atop one another.

“Mr. Blackwoode!” Darius Freeman, his head contractor, called out from behind a large pickup truck. Gabriel turned to greet the black man wearing a flannel and a large grin.

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Gabriel arrives at his newly restored home on Pine Island, ready for the tour. But what secrets lie within its resurrected bones? Follow the blog for the next installment.