“No, you don’t, little succulent, and that’s the dangerous part.” He says as he puts his lips to my hair and inhales. “I think it’s time for me to head home.” He pulls away, leaving too much space between us. “I’ll leave the records. Call me when you are up in the morning, and I’ll show you around Racine if you’d like. The bridge is something you’ll want to see in person…Goodnight, Jade.”
He kisses my hand in farewell, and just like that is out the door. Leaving me breathless, wound up, and so completely in need of more.
11
WILLOW WARNING
RACINE 1978
After Ry leaves, his absence is felt immediately. An open void. When he was here, my body pulsed with a recognition I couldn’t unwrap in my mind. It seemed buried deep within, much like tree roots knotted beneath old earth. No matter how hard I try to pry this silent sense of knowing out, it remains stuck. The roots too deep and comfortable in their position to release any bit of information.
I lock up the house and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. A snag in my periphery that I can’t ignore is the basement door, because it somehow has become cracked open yet again. The lock must be faulty, and I curse my luck at that.
I run over to it, faster because my comfy socks let me slide across the hardwood floor, slamming it shut. Long, thin, dried purple petals float up with the gust of air. The strong musty smell that blasts out from behind it floods my nostrils. It isn’t a good or bad smell, but it makes me uneasy. Dark, damp, earthy, and eerie like an old warren. One that used to be home to a rabbit family, but now only their bones remain beside a very full fox.
I turn and rest my head against the door. For a minute, I am swayed to open it and head into its depths. My good sense proves toostrong, and I talk myself out of it. How a basement even remains intact in this part of Louisiana baffles me.
I look down at the floor. One lone feather sits softly at my feet. But this feather isn’t from one of the many luxurious down pillows on the estate. This feather stands out. It doesn’t belong inside. It belongs to a bird I’ve seen soar through the property skies. A hawk.
Once upstairs, I throw on my nightshirt, and glance out the window toward the swamp. It is a half-moon tonight, and looking out at its reflection on the watery glass is a scene of magic. The moon dusts the bayou with a shimmer, as if fireflies dance beneath its surface. It is breathtaking, and I still cannot believe that all this is mine.
I think of Detroit, the city I’ve claimed as my own all these years, its hold on me slipping as if it were never really my home at all. The longer I stay down here, the harder time I have imagining going back. The willow outside seems to respond to my thoughts by sweeping its branches along the water’s edge, as if it has some say in the way I’m feeling about this place.
I fall under the covers easily. Today was unexpected, but I found I wanted whatever Ry was feeding me while we danced to the song that felt like our own. It would have taken everything I am not to have kissed him if that was what he wanted, and it seemed, for a moment, he may have. I close my eyes, and for a brief time imagine that kiss happening. And that feeling of comfort comes again, because it feels as if our lips are calling out to meet each other after being apart for so long.
My dreams flow fluidly that night. Dreams of Ry morph to me standing next to the old hickory from my youth. I feel at home, but my mother is there, and then her hugs wrap around me with the grace of willow branches. Each dream is like the next,but more vivid. Then something shifts, and gone is the calm as panic stirs up within my mother’s voice.
She is pulling me away from the old hickory. Terror in her eyes and words faint, but growing. By the last one, I can finally hear a whisper that expands to a shrill as it continues building intensity. My mother’s voice, whose words I will never forget.
There is no heart in hickory. There is no heart in hickory. There is no heart in hickory. There is no heart. He has NO HEART. RUN.
I wake up, my own heart racing with the odd sense that my mother’s words hold a hidden truth. And I cannot think of anything but the man with Heart as his last name.
12
THE PROPERTY
RACINE 1978
After a week of torrential rain here and the ongoing process of going through the house, I still haven’t ventured to the basement or out to explore the property. The rain is the cause of the latter, but it is anxiety that keeps me from opening the basement door again.
Fortunately, today the rain finally clears, as do the cobwebs of disillusion that it may never stop. As I step outside, the warm and still damp air fills my lungs. I welcome the sun’s heat wafting the smell of waking florals. I find myself wearing a relaxed smile as I take a step down towards the wraparound porch.
Visions still plague me since coming here. Growing more and more constant since finding the ring and the box it belongs in. The ring sits up in my room on the desk overlooking the willow near the pond. A part of me wants to slide it on my finger to see if it fits. Another part of me knows it will. But at least with the weather change, I can feel less consumed by its looming presence and more devoted to exploring this beautiful land.
I planned a meeting with Ry to discuss how to allocate my finances. My goal being to keep this house, while also maintainingmy shop. Even though the topic of discussion is rather boring to me, I am giddy to see him again.
Yesterday was a turning point in the realization of how strong my attraction is to him. He is dark, serious, but magnetic all the same. He will meet me here within the hour, leaving me a good amount of time to get to know the layout of the property.
The moment my feet step off the last step, I know exactly the direction I am heading. The walk there is maybe five or so minutes even though I can already see it from here, standing tall and superior. And the excitement it invokes when I see it there is not one I’ve felt in a while. Not that inheriting a house isn’t exciting, but I have a kinship toward trees, so this part of the inheritance feels more like second nature. And one type of tree in particular has been calling to me ever since I fully took it in from out the attic window.
I take a deep breath of warm, rich air that still smells of the wet earth soaking up the rain. A smell that is wholly unique to the bayou here. I curl my hand above my eyebrows, blocking the sun as I look up, my smile extending to my heart.
There in front of me is the largest hickory tree I have ever seen in my life, sitting deep on top of a small hill. Its roots have a mind of their own as they dip high and low, above and below the ground that the tree birthed from. The smallest purple thistle plant grows underneath, seeming almost out of place amongst its knotted roots.
I have never seen anything so magnificent. And it doesn’t take long for the magnificence and wonder of it to seep slowly into me, fixing itself to the depths of my bones. But just as my bones soak in the beauty of that feeling, there is another feeling fighting to replace it. A hollow sadness curls its way into my chest. I felt this in my shop just weeks ago, and here it sits again at the pit of my stomach.
I collapse to the ground as tears fall without warning down my cheeks. This sadness shouldn’t belong to me, but it covers me like a weighted blanket closing down on my chest. I wipe my eyes, and tryto take a few steps closer to the tree. But with every step, the heartache grows stronger.
