#6–Mourning Dove
After forty minutes of driving in the dark, I couldn’t see we were getting anywhere. Fifteen minutes had passed without a car passing us from the other direction. The road climbed and dipped, rising more than it fell. Trees pressed close to the road and I hadn’t seen a street light in twenty minutes. I tried to voice my concern.
“Yeah,” said Lyndi, “Really authentic. This was an old carriage road. Whoops!”
She made one of her last-minute turns and tendrils of ivy scraped along the passenger side window.
The long gravel drive ended in a brick-paved courtyard next to a gaunt old house, built in a severe Federal style of narrow brick. In summer it must have been pretty, judging by several beds of withered flowers, but now the dim signboard creaked overhead in a freshening wind.
“We should have called first,” I said, “What if they’re closed?”
“They’ll have room.” Lyndi bounced up the steps, my rolling bag hitting every riser.
“Lyndi, this isn’t going to work. I haven’t had dinner yet.”
A gust of wind blew a clatter of dried leaves across the courtyard. Lyndi dragged my bag through the door and I had to follow.
My vision rippled as I stepped through the door. Time split. A strong sensation of déjà vu shivered down my spine. I felt as if I struggled through a heavy curtain emerging breathless into a room infused with the pleasant scent of potpourri, beeswax candles and pine decorations. It was lovely, a set waiting for Scarlet O’Hara to flounce in: a narrow table stood on the left side of the entry, with a silver tray awaiting the visiting cards of ladies in crinoline and hoop skirts. None had called in some time. The parlor to the right had been fitted with a counter like a smaller version of a hotel check-in desk. Behind it, a young lady wearing a Muslim headscarf sat at a modern computer with chunky textbooks arrayed beside it.
“Suli,” said Lyndi “I’ve brought my aunt. She hasn’t had dinner yet.”
Suli quit typing and rose. Her modest dress, in beige and grey like a mourning dove, emphasized the slenderness of her figure. She studied me with sparkling brown eyes and said:
“Looks too young to be an aunt. Have you come to try our unique American heritage experience?”
Her mouth smiled but a melancholy lingered. Despite the electric light which reflected brilliantly on the gold brocade wallpaper, one had the feeling of shadows hovering. It was she, not the house, who was haunted. I felt bruised by the events of the day. The last thing I wanted was a ‘heritage experience’ whatever that was but I didn’t want to hurt Lyndi’s feelings or those of her friend.
Keeping my voice neutral, I said, “This is a lovely old house. Do the rooms have internet access? I will need to check my email.”
Both girls seemed disappointed by this outburst of materialism.
“The rooms in the bed and breakfast provide an authentic Antebellum Era experience, but you could come to the carriage house apartment to access our wireless. If you are hungry, I can make a sandwich for you,” answered Suli.
“That’s very kind of you.” My resistance collapsed in the face of this sincere offer. Best I’d had all day. This is where being stubborn about using my brother’s guest room got me. Karma sucks.
Standing next to one of those slotted cases that hold tourist brochures, Lyndi said, “Where’s the pamphlet about the Winslow family and Mourning Dove Plantation? I don’t see it here.”
