How
like ghosts we all are. How like the living dead we float through our day, our
feet never touching the floor boards, our actions never disturbing the ether,
our light never penetrating the true darkness that surrounds us. How we exist,
without living, without drawing a true breath on most of our days. Perhaps once
in our lives, long ago—maybe—those golden memories locked up, treasured and
kept in the safety of our collective recollections, we truly lived and, oh, the
tragedy that when we were drinking fully from the cup of life, we knew it not.
We wandered through those sun dappled days oblivious to what we had, ignorant
of what we were wasting and now, in our maturity, we put those days behind us.
Because if we were to acknowledge what we have lost and what we may have grown
too old to ever return to, we may lose the last of our hope and have to wake up
to our spectral state once and for all.
I
know of what I speak. Because I have walked in the sunshine and have sung with
such joy that to remember it now fills me with such sorrow that tears have
replaced the laughter I once knew. I cannot remember the past without the
sadness debilitating me, making me weak in the bones, a shell, a ghost of what
I once was. I can no longer sing those songs, they are lost to me, their Lyrics
have vanished. The chorus has left only scorched ruins in my melancholy brain.
My new existence is all consuming. Much like the virus that only grows stronger
inside me every day and weakens me, transforms me, until in life, or what now
passes for it, I look like an animated corpse. And it is a corpse, an
ambassador of the undead that has come home today. I am the last of the
Marigold line and today I have come, half walking and half carried, by my
lawyer with his own agendas and obligations to the wrought iron gate that
formerly declared the power of my once great family.
The
line began with some distant ancestor, a grandfather with too many greats
before his name to remember. He was a slaver and built this house with the
blood and sweat of slaves whose bones reside throughout these valleys and
woods, some maybe even beyond Georgia and many laying, uneasily, beneath the
willows of this very house.
He
set the laws, the tone and laId the groundwork, both for his home and his
family. For the next 200 years the Marigolds would rule this land and they
would broach no government, no war and no slave revolt. The loss of the civil
war and the slaves seemed, in time, to even strengthen the family. Many forays
into politics and world affairs would follow. The family could boast of gold
strikes in the Klondike, silver mines in Colorado, Canadian whiskey brought
into Boston Harbor during prohibition and even an astronaut; one of Derek's
favorite uncles. Everywhere the Marigolds left their bones and sent home money.
The empire must be maintained.
“Mr.
Marigold I think the key is breaking in the lock,” Mr. Collins said. What a
helpful chap, driving me here after liquidating my property in New York. Now as
he retrieves a pair of bolt cutters from the trunk of his Mercedes I wonder how
many times he has helped the idle rich liquidate their worldly goods once they
hit the skids. How many times has he maintained the deathwatch for one who,
when gone, will finally release their death hold on all their filthy lucre. Why
else would he keep bolt cutters and work gloves in his trunk, better to keep
your hands clean while swimming in death for fun and profit.
First kill all the lawyers, I thought
and couldn't help laughing.
“What's
so funny Mr Marigold?”
“Oh
nothing Mr Collins,” I said trying not to make eye contact. “I suddenly
remembered a joke.” I have always been such a terrible liar.
So
today the last of the Marigold family comes home. It was a sad epilogue I
think. The old mansion is not the way I remember it. Although I can't say that
I remember it fondly. The place had fallen by the waist sides, much the way I
had. Bad investments in the nineteen
thirties had drained the coffers of my once powerful family and the house had
followed the fortunes. Running down as the money dried up. The once stately
palace was now just an old dilapidated house.
A
series of wills and final requests had kept the descendants from selling it and
a meagre trust was the only reason the house was still standing. The house sat
alone and abandoned now. The servants came only on tuesday, more out of a sense
of duty than an obligation of employment. The house has had had no visitors,
until today.
Mr.
Collins cut the rusty padlock on the ivy grown fence. The old hasp gave with a
groan and the ancient fence opened with a screech of protest. We sidestepped
the spray of rust and walked into the jungle like garden.
I
smelled the past. The aromas of childhood, visiting grandmother, delicate
butter cookies and happier times. I drank in those memories as I kicked up dead
leaves in the front walk.
For
me it was all coming to an end. The garden parties where my mother would
entertain the hoity-toity and gather Marigolds in bunches
from all corners of the globe, getting them to talk of their achievements to
the amusement of her guests. All those people for her collection, all that
greatness, power and fame like a heavenly constellation built around a bright
center; and in that center was wandering Venus, my mother, Esther Marigold, nee
Duchesne, of the Atlanta Duchesnes, the queen of the ball. Even if beneath her
pancake makeup was the rosy stain from ruptured blood vessels, one did not
speak of alcoholism in the house, or of a husband tortured by a crippling
depression that would lead both to financial ruin and a lonely suicide hanging
in a pool house; found by a servant while his wife was skiing the pristine drifts
in Switzerland and a son who spent his days stoned in a succession of parties
that did nothing to make up for a lost childhood.
But
those days are gone and the memories of Bryan, my Caleb, who played with me in
these woods, laughed with me as we swam naked in the private lake on the estate
and opened doors to a young man who lived in luxury but never owned a single
drop of love. Brian is still alive in my thoughts. I keep him there very well.
Eternally young and laughing. Eternally beautiful and desirable. Nothing like
the skeletal remains that lie beneath a highway overpass in a forgotten
cemetery in a run down part of the city I will never return to.
Perhaps
my memories of Brian and of happiness are all that still keep me alive. Maybe
despite my plummeting T cell count, my joy stored deep inside like a miser's
gold will keep the reaper at bay, or it may fade and open the door to oblivion,
open the wrought iron gates with the filigreed M that have kept the estate from
the looters hand for six long years now.
Maybe
this is where I belong? My broken down body in this broken down house and once
I am dead the gate will be torn off at it's hinges, like a scab, and the house
will be razed. I have already seen at least one artist's sketch from the real
estate firm that wants to develop the property. Maybe the land will at long
last heal. Children will one day play under the willow where Brian and I shared
our first kiss and swim in the lake where my mother met her cold end during a
drunken swim. Maybe her suicide, everyone knew it to be suicide, has not left
the stain I think it has, maybe this place can finally heal from the cancer of
the Marigolds and become a bright center once again.
The
house was just as it had been left. Tall, dark and imposing. A ramshackle of
loose siding and fallen roof slates. The windows were dark, even in sunlight,
as if they had the ability to absorb the light around them.
“Would
you like me to help you in Mr. Marigold?”
“No
thank you Mr. Collins,” I said. I needed some time alone with the place. “I
will of course see you on Monday to sign the last of the contracts.”
“Of
course Mr. Marigold.” He was already turning to leave. “I took the liberty of
asking Mr. Wayne, the caretaker to stop by in the morning to check on you and
find out about more supplies. He told me he had left a stocked larder and that
the electricity and water are on and working.”
“Thank
you Mr. Collins.” Oh please leave.
He
left without another word. One of the more pleasant things about him is his
ability to know when to leave and when not to speak. How many hundreds of rich
families must have conditioned that into him over the years? How much he must
despise us all.
I
walked up the brick path and I was a little short of breath by the time I
negotiated the circular drive. The main door was still in place, a monstrous
thing of oak and brass that was unlocked but I still had to put my shoulder
into it to get it open. The house breathed a sigh, I'm sure of it, when I went
in. I was assailed by the musty smell of
a forgotten home. Dust, mildew and something else. If I didn't know better I
would think that the Marigolds had actually left more than their memories here.
But the bones were, of course, safe in the family graveyard in the woods behind
the house.
The
furniture, covered in white sheets, looked like a coven of ghosts assembled for
some macabre reception. I knew that few servants still worked the house. It was
a miracle the place was still standing. Vermin and the ever encroaching wood
rot made the house nearly uninhabitable. I was starting to doubt that it would
be ready for sale in a month even though I knew it was the property the buyers
wanted anyway, so there was little to do but say good bye.
I
began coughing again. The violent fit took my breath and brought me to my
knees. It abated and through the tears in my eyes I saw the red on my
handkerchief. Damn, I caught my
breath and stood. Cold sweat coated my forehead. This would be a long day.
I
went to my grandfathers desk, turned on the large bankers lamp and unpacked my
messenger bag. I laId out the reams of documents that Mr. Collins wanted me to
review. I would be the first Marigold to be allowed to sell the home. On the
front of the paperwork was a note from Mr. Collins about the real estate
developers that wanted the land and an explanation of how the auction would go.
I skipped to the part about the firm tearing down the house, the place still
had too many memories for me. My heart would always reside here, the place I
had spent a lifetime running away from.
I
went into the great hall and lit a cigarette.
It tasted awful and burned my sensitive lungs, but the nicotine brought
guilty pleasure and I began to relax. I watched the smoke swirling in the dusty
sunlight rising to the great ceiling. It was almost twenty five feet high and
contained a rather impressive fresco that had always fascinated me as a child.
The fresco was by an Italian, my grandmother had once told me the name, but now
it was gone from me. It was a scene from Wagner: Siegfried was wounded and lay
on a flat stone while a flight of Valkyries circled high overhead. I vaguely
remember the story that went with it. My great grandfather thought that Hitler
would eventually defeat the communists and make peace with England and the US.
So he commissioned the fresco, knowing it would take years to complete so he
could one day host a grand ball and invite the Fuhrer. Oh what unrepentant
sinners we Marigolds are. Not even the holocaust could persuade old grand papa
to have the horrid thing painted over.
The
smoke was deep in my lungs. It felt like death.
I
thought back to the day I went to my doctor with a mild cold that wouldn't go
away and came out of the doctor's office in a cloud of questions. The tests
answered them all. They found AIDS related tuberculosis. I walked out pale, not
quite believing what they had told me. Now with my skin still pasty white and
my lungs growing weaker by the day I was resigned to my own death. It brought
out a quiet dignity in me that I never knew I had. The days of asking myself
why were gone. A lifetime as a bachelor, never produced an heir and my brother,
the only hope for the line, died in a glider accident in Mexico. I was the last
of the Marigolds and I would help bring an end to this house.
End of the line, I thought.
The
money would go to charity, after my creditors were through and perhaps I could
leave the world a little better than I found it. Perhaps the old rat trap may still do some good before the roof comes
down under its own weight, I thought. The house gave a deep groan, as if in
response. It left behind a strange silence and I could feel the room getting
colder. I was worried it might be another fever, but then I saw her.
There
was someone in the house. I dropped my cigarette, stomped it out and walked out
to the hallway. I threw curtains aside and pushed open the large double sliding
doors in the parlor. Searching, for what I had no idea, the house was supposed
to be abandoned. I found no one. I stood in the silent room, listening. The
rustling of the leaves against the windows drew my attention and I ran outside.
At
the stairs—too quick—I slipped and came down hard. My head was muddled after
the hit and I had a terrible light feeling. I didn't know if I passed out but I
came up on my feet easily, so I assumed I wasn't hurt very badly. My vision was
still hazy and I could just make out the balcony and the woman standing at the
doorway.
She is beautiful, was the first thought
I could put together. I focused my eyes on her and climbed back up the stairs.
“Excuse
me,” I said.
She
turned and walked into the house and I followed. The feeling of the surreal was
thick and I felt like I was walking through a dream.
“Please
stop,” I called out.
I
followed this woman up the grand staircase and into the master bedroom. She
turned and caught me in the spell of dark, lustrous eyes, like black agate. I
tried to speak, but now words wouldn't come. She seemed to know me and in a
strange way I knew her.
“Who
are you,” I asked as she sat on the bed. “Are you living here?”
She
turned and without a word took a brush from the nightstand and began to comb
her raven hair. I sat on the bed and stared at her. She was like a beautiful
angel. The question of what she was doing in an abandoned house, or for that
matter why she was ignoring me didn’t seem to matter. The universe closed in at
that moment and all that mattered to me was the here and now. I felt a warm
feeling, the first in a long time and my pulse quickened in a way I only
vaguely remembered ever feeling before.
She
turned back to me and I was lost in her dark eyes. She put down the brush and
began to undress. My throat was dry as I swallowed but strangely it didn't
hurt. My lungs were not even bothering me. She stood before me, proud and so
sure of herself. She had a magnificent body like an ivory statue of an ancient
goddess. She was radiant with beauty. She reached out and put a hand on my
chest. I winced. It had been so long, and I wanted this woman so very much, but
love and sex was something I had pushed out of my life. Many things get pushed
out of your life when you prepare for death. I though of my blood as a deadly
poison, killing me. What she wanted I could not give her.
She
pouted with her full mouth and her velvet lips became more beautiful with the
gesture. I sighed as her eyes moistened. I tried to think of something to say,
but she gestured to me to keep quiet. She began to sing. It was a haunting
melody that caused shivers to run down my back and neck. My resolve was weakening
as she sang and came closer. I wanted nothing in this world as much as I wanted
this woman, not even my own life. All was forfeit.
“I
am dying,” I told her in a nervous stammer. “I have AIDS. I can not do this. I
could infect you.”
She
put her fingers to my lips to quiet me and I shivered at her touch. She stopped
singing and began to kiss me. Deep soulful kisses. I could feel desperation,
loneliness and desire from her. She took off my shirt while kissing my neck and
chest. The shirt came off and when I saw my nude skin it was smooth and clear.
None of the scabs and dry patches were there today. The itching was gone also.
Perhaps I am near death, I thought as
the girl leaned forward and clutched me
in a passionate embrace. I did not care if death was near, all I wanted was
this. My release came quickly and left me weak.
I
lay in her arms and wept because I was so happy. She gave me gentle kisses and
stroked my hair. The night went on forever. The pale moonlight shone in through
the tattered curtains as we made love all night. I was falling in love and did
not mind one bit. Every orgasm made me want life more and more. I could be
happy, if I could just hold this moment forever.
* * *
The
lazy sun streamed through the bedroom window and I came awake with a smile. I
didn't know how long I was asleep, but the sun was high so I figured close to
noon. I rose from bed and walked naked down the stairs. I felt so comfortable,
so sure of myself. The world was mine. I was looking for the girl. I wanted to
know her name and to tell her how much in love I was.
Was she 'positive' is that why she didn't
care? I thought and how did we know each other? It was all a dim memory as
if my life was an old movie I saw long ago. As if I was remembering things that
did not happen to me, as if I was someone else, or many someones. I saw that
the front door was open so I stepped outside. The sun shone on me with
glistening light, but it was not warm. I felt serene and at peace.
Then
I began screaming.
At
the bottom of the front steps, partially covered with dead leaves, was a dead
body—mine. The position of the neck told me the cause of death. I ran down and
noticed the missing step, but this time I did not trip. I felt strange as if I
was not really there. I looked closer and the pale look of the dead was
unmistakable. I was staring at my very own corpse.
I
ran to the gate. I ran to escape. I ran for my life, for my sanity.
The
gate was unlocked, but it would not open for me. It felt intensely cold to my hands.
It nearly burned me, I am sure, and I realized that I was trapped there by
something unseen.
Am I a ghost? I thought. It was all so
unbelievable, this was not how I envisioned death.
“You
will like it here,” the voice of the girl startled me and I turned to her, wide
eyed. She was beautiful in the morning sun. Naked, her hair streaming down her
shoulders. The sun reflected in her dark eyes. I wept and she took me in her
arms. She wept also, her loneliness of one hundred years was over.
“I
have found happiness Derek,” she whispered in my ear. “but why do you weep?”
“Because
I am happy,” I said. I looked deep into her eyes, “Because I am home,” I said
and the sun dappled the overgrown garden in golden hues in that haunted place
that would be forever my home.
No comments:
Post a Comment