Micanopy in Shadow (7 page)

“I’d love to see your father’s notes. Surely, after all these years no one but her family cares how Ada Losterman died.”

He paused. Years of habit, she thought: divulge a little at a time, study the other person—what do they know?—find the advantage. “Seems to me I remember reading “
The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon their children
,” he said. But, tell you what. Dad had theories. I’ll make a few discreet inquiries. Rattle a few cages.”

“Any names? I plan to interview people who might know something. The dry goods store owner met her, and the town marshall, Ezekiel Wilson, saw her. Their descendents may know something. Any suggestions?”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ll do what I can. This is Saturday. Come back Tuesday morning, okay? Say 10:00 again.”

Brandy had no choice. She tucked her notepad back into her bag. Not much to write down yet. “Tuesday it is, then.”

As she walked around the house to her car, she heard the plaintive strains of Duke Ellington’s
My Solitude
start up under the gazebo. She climbed behind the wheel.

Sins of the fathers. She needed to remember that.

* * *

John was home by noon. Once he was reconciled to Brandy’s Cassadaga trip, he threw himself into planning time with his son. Brandy knew he had stocked the cupboard and refrigerator with evening delicacies, but one supper of treats should do no harm to either.

Brandy left Micanopy about 3:00 P.M. She barely noticed the small, light-colored car that cruised along about a block behind her—maybe a Chevrolet or Ford—but not distinctive. It pulled into a gas station when she turned onto I-75. After several miles, she veered off onto U.S. 27 to pass through the outskirts of Ocala and followed the directions east on FL 40, under twisted branches of live oaks and by the skinny, gray trunks of cabbage palms.

She passed small settlements and churches before she reached the Ocala National Forest. Here the air seemed to grow more still, the ospreys more plentiful, the myrtle and runner oak thicker along the roadside. Blackened pine stumps and blistered grass spread over long stretches of controlled burns. A weak sun glowed in the west.

She focused on what she’d read the night before—how mediums claimed to communicate with the dead. People generate a form of energy that survives death, they said; according to the conservation of energy principle, energy cannot be either created or destroyed. It produces vibrations, spiritualists believe, and skilled mediums sometimes can connect their own vibrations with the deceased’s surviving energy. Living bodies do produce vibrations, but what is the exact nature of that energy?

At the small town of Astor, she crossed the St. Johns River. Boats huddled at a marina below. But John had been right. She saw no people, until she turned south toward the university town of Deland.

Brandy couldn’t sort out the science. She hadn’t enough information. All she could do in Cassadaga was observe and listen.

When she reached a pine woodland beside a county road, she mourned its invasion by developers. Bulldozers had cut ugly gashes in the soil to create a new subdivision. Here was a different kind of dying—that of Old Florida. Gloomy skies were appropriate. Micanopy was one of its last survivors.

She turned at last onto the final leg of the drive, Route 4139. Pines, oaks, and a few evergreens lined a two-lane road that led over hills and around curves into Cassadaga. She saw signs advertising psychics as she neared the Spiritualist Campground. All psychics, she’d read, were not mediums, but all successful mediums claimed to be psychics.

Across from the tiny post office, a pair of white stone pillars welcomed her to the the
Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp.
She wheeled past the white frame building that housed the Bookstore and Information Center and parked in the lot by the Cassadaga Hotel, a two story, mustard-colored stucco. It dated back almost a century. On one side of its enclosed front porch hung a copper-colored awning with the hotel’s name. The other one announced the
Lost in Time Café
, a name that captured the atmosphere. A side veranda, furnished with aging wrought iron tables and chairs, faced the bookstore.

Cassadaga’s early twentieth century homes were tucked among small lakes and pines and along wandering, often unpaved roads.

Brandy checked her watch—almost 5:00 P.M. The faint October sunlight was fading. Outside she caught the sweet scent of newly mowed grass. At a desk in the hotel she stared at New Age books, crystals, prisms, post cards, and signs advertising the services of hotel mediums. Those who advertised tarot cards, were not certified by the spiritualist campground association. It did not endorse cards or fortune telling. They did not believe in a predestined future or in the supernatural. To them, survival after death was a natural process.

The dimly lit lobby consisted of a few small tables and straight chairs, a television set, a couch, and comfortable, well-worn armchairs. Brandy found her room mid-way down a narrow hallway. She laid her bag on the four-poster bed and took in her surroundings: sink, wardrobe, bedside table, thin but serviceable carpet. The adjoining bath had a claw-footed tub. Not the Ritz, but clean. She decided to leave the precious brooch and prayer book in her suitcase. She would not need them until morning.

Cassadaga had no restaurant—not even a Wendy’s or McDonald’s or grocery store. At a snack dispenser she managed to crank out cheese crackers, an apple, and a soft drink. In the lobby she finished her meager dinner before taking a walk around the nearby streets, past frame houses with steep, pitched roofs, more native to New England than Florida.

Back in her room, she left a call for 7:00 A.M. and looked over her notes again, preparing for her first experience with a medium.

* * *

Brandy awoke before the phone rang. She took a quick shower, and having no idea what was appropriate to wear to a reading, pulled on linen slacks and a tailored white blouse. She lifted the prayer book and jewelry box out of her suitcase and slipped them carefully into her canvas bag. The hotel served a continental breakfast of pastries, cereal, and coffee, and she ate with an eye on her watch.

Soon her little car was threading its way past the Temple, around a small, circular lake, and up a sloping hillside. On either side of the road stood more tall, frame houses with roofs peaked like witches’ hats. Almost all bore inconspicuous signs alerting passersby to the medium within. A few minutes before 8:30, she parked in the driveway of a white house with green trim and a front bay window. Dormers jutted from its steep red roof. It sat far back on the lot, behind three towering cabbage palms. The lawn, like others in the neighborhood, was environmentally friendly. Not unkempt, but a little ragged. She had noticed few flowering shrubs in the town. These residents were not the meticulous gardeners of Micanopy.

The weather still had not lifted. A light rain fell, and Brandy pulled on a windbreaker before she trotted up the porch steps and rang the bell. Although she’d seen Adele Marco’s photograph on her website, she was not prepared for the medium’s appearance when she opened the door. It was not that she didn’t have the jet-black plaits or the petite figure—she did. But she gave an impression of softness and warmth that the picture did not capture. She wore a simple cotton housedress and sandals. Brandy judged she could be anywhere between forty and sixty.

“You must be the mysterious ‘B,’” Ms. Marco said, smiling. Brandy’s evasiveness did not seem to annoy or surprise her, but Brandy flushed. She supposed mediums got this reaction all the time—people wanting to stump them, to prove them frauds.

“Yes, my name’s actually Brandy.”

Ms. Marco nodded and led her past the living room into a smaller room with a bay window. Bookshelves lined one wall. Brandy noted several volumes on Eastern religions and yoga. The morning sun gave only a dim light, and Ms. Marco switched on a lamp. Unlike accounts she had read about mediums operating in semi-darkness, this one seemed to welcome illumination.

Brandy had planned not to provide much information. “I hope you can help me learn the truth about an event—something that happened in my family’s past.” This statement shouldn’t give many clues. Everyone who came for a reading must want to know something about the past, probably about someone who had died.

Ms. Marco gestured to an armchair in the center of the room and took a seat in front of Brandy. “I make no promises,” she said. “I can only tell you what comes to me.” Her dark eyes fixed Brandy with a gaze that was both pleasant and searching. “First, I would like us both to get comfortable and quiet. Close your eyes and meditate for a few minutes.”

Brandy obeyed. She tried to stop the chatter in her thinking mind and remember her yoga deep breathing. After the calming interlude, Ms. Marco asked, “Would you like me to record the reading?” Brandy nodded. She would be glad to have the record. It would be more accurate than notes written later. The medium punched on the recorder beside her. “You are a person who organizes your day carefully,” she said. Brandy thought of the notations on her desk calendar at home, and was surprised. She did start each new page with a list of tasks to be accomplished that day. A smile flickered at the corners of the medium’s lips. “But you don’t organize everything in your household so well.” Brandy remembered arguments with John about untidy rooms, and found herself nodding again.

Ms. Marco’s gentle voice continued. “I feel that you have been working hard on some dirty job, like planting flowers or maybe cleaning out a garage.”

Here the medium was off base, and Brandy shook her head. Many mediums asked the subject of a reading to verify correct statements and identify incorrect ones. Brandy knew this request provided clues. Still, indicating the truth of a statement might simply be a form of cooperation. She knew some mediums asked their subjects to withhold feedback until the reading ended.

Ms. Marco moved to a different topic. “You are a person who feels strongly about your work. You become deeply involved, perhaps too much so. Often you feel you have a duty to others. You are interested in talking to many people—not for conversation—for work. I associate you with paper, lots of it.”

Once again, Brandy was startled. Yet she knew that many people felt strongly about the importance of their work, and the observation would be accepted by almost everyone.

Again, Ms. Marco shifted emphasis and made her first reference to a person who had died. “Someone is here now who feels very warm toward you—an older man. He could be an uncle or a father. He wants to give you a hug. He carries a book. Does that mean anything to you?”

Brandy felt a tug at her heart. She thought of her father, a social studies teacher—gone now these twelve years.

“He’s a person who dealt with a great many people in his career and was highly respected.” Again, Brandy’s skepticism surfaced. Her father certainly filled that bill, but most subjects would believe their loved ones did. “He wants you to know he is with you, watching over you.” The medium paused, adding “If you want to make contact with a specific person, I’d like to hold something of theirs.”

Brandy reached into her bag and gave Ms. Marco the cameo brooch. The ivory face gleamed in the lamplight. As soon as Ms. Marco’s fingers closed over it, her eyes widened. She sat for a few seconds; then her hands began to shake. She gasped, “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible! Something’s very wrong. I feel enormous anxiety—a child in blue—and fear, terrible violence.” She lowered her penetrating gaze. When she raised her eyes again, the dark pupils were like the points of a chisel. “There’s danger in this piece of jewelry. Don’t use it. Don’t.” With a shudder, she handed back the brooch.

Brandy stiffened and her thoughts raced. Had Ada felt such terror? Bewildered, she laid the brooch back in its narrow box, returned it to her canvas bag, and lifted out the prayer book. “I brought another item. See if this works better.”

The medium still seemed flushed and disturbed. “I’ll try.” Her forehead contracted in a frown. “Let’s hope for something better.” She accepted the little volume and held it. No agitated reaction. Instead, her fingers caressed it. “Does the letter ‘A’ mean anything here?” she asked. “I can’t seem to get a full name.”

Brandy voice was tight. “It might.”

A tear slid down the medium’s cheek. “There’s danger here, too, but not the same kind. I sense awful grief.” She drew in her breath. “Danger and then this awful sadness.” Once more she waited a few seconds, her eyes moist. “I feel a longing, a yearning.” She shook her head. “It’s a very long time ago.” She lowered her eyes, then looked up. “This prayer book is almost too sad to handle.”

“Can you tell me the nature of this sadness? What caused it?”

Ms. Marco handed the little volume back. “Separation and loss, I think.” She leaned back with an air of finality and clasped her hands.

The reading seemed to be over. “Anything else? Please!”

Ms. Marco placed a finger on the recorder
off
button. “There are two people involved in the instances of the jewelry and the prayer book. One person seems involved in both, I think. The other two are different people.” She punched the off button. “Does that make sense to you?”

Brandy’s expression was blank. “I don’t know. Can you tell me who caused the terror?”

“My dear, I don’t think the one who’s so frightened even knows.”

She handed over the tape and stood. When Brandy took the fifty dollars from her wallet, Ms. Marco hesitated. “I don’t believe I was able to go the full time. When someone comes with a specific expectation, the reading is more difficult. This one was very difficult.”