By Tess Perdue
There were three hydrangeas in the arrangement. Blue, slightly tinged purple. My favorite. They rested in a blue vase, wreathed by clouds of baby’s breath and sprays of fern leaves, languishing in the late summer heat beside my field-dusted work boots, directly in front of my front door. I was meant to find them here this morning.
I lived alone on my family’s farm, and any trace of beauty usually came from visitors and was given directly to me. But no warning had accompanied these flowers.
I supposed there was nothing particularly curious about a surprise, especially since my birthday was in three days. They were probably delivered by a florist from Cypress Hall, the town a couple miles away. There was a note attached. Just as I suspected – the words “Happy birthday” were scrawled in a messy cursive. But no name.
Maybe I’d forgotten someone was sending me flowers – then again, probably not. A surprise, then, from a friend who had noticed all the Agatha Christie novels throughout my house. Except, I didn’t have friends who would send me flowers. Unsatisfied with the explanation but unwilling to consider it anymore, I brought the vase in, set it on my kitchen table, downed my coffee, and began my daily duties.
Running a farm, even one as small as mine, took a lot of work. The farm sat on a few acres, but since the rest of my family left, I’ve only used a few acres for raising corn and cotton, half of the western field for each. The eastern field, sidling up against a gloomy coastal swamp, had gone to seedling pine. The swamp lay dark and murky, the water lagging through tree roots. I remember the trees spooking me when I was a child, especially when the breeze blew through the Spanish moss. Mama told me it was the ghosts of people who’d wandered in and gotten lost. I was never tempted. I knew the warnings.
My family left the farm years ago. My two older brothers moved away for college, then stayed away for work. Mama and Daddy wanted something smaller; Mama didn’t care for being suffocated by the miles of emptiness. When she got a cellphone, she didn’t like not having service, so they moved to town. They were going to sell, but I couldn’t part with my home, not after all the years of work my family had put into it. I made an agreement with them – I’d live here and make enough money to pay for everything. The farm would still be in their names until I saved enough to buy it, but I would be the one doing all the work. I’ve lived here alone for years. The only visitors are my family, and the workers who come help me several times a week. It gets lonely sometimes, but home is worth it.
The barn, my first stop that morning, was only a couple hundred yards from my porch. The padlock on the door always stuck but I’d learned how to twist the key just so. Flipping on the incandescent lights revealed floating dust particles dancing above various piles of debris and mounds of moldering hay.
My cat, Clarice, sauntered past me with a mouse in her mouth. She kept the barn clear of pests for me, which was an arrangement that worked well for both of us – she ate whatever she caught, so I didn’t feed her as much, and my barn didn’t become overrun. We kept our distance from one another. We were content with the arrangement, more or less.
Yawning, I climbed into the tractor to start the day, but it seemed the day’s surprises weren’t over yet. Only this surprise didn’t make me feel quite as happy as the flowers. It felt like an ice cube was trailing down my spine as I stared in disbelief. In the seat of my tractor, almost as if he were going to work himself, was a teddy bear.
I knew it was my bear because my grandmother made it for me – it had a homemade sort of look. It had been my favorite toy; I brought it everywhere. The years of play had resulted in a missing eye and several thin patches of fur, but it was cleaner than I ever remember it being.
Perhaps the same friend who sent me the flowers had decided to reunite us. Except, I remembered the day I lost it like it was yesterday.
I can still see the inky black water mirroring my face back at me. I remember clutching my bear to me as I stepped in the water, mesmerized by the mysterious lights dancing just above the water, calling me… Then the jerk in my arm as my mother pulled me away, making me drop the bear in the water. Tears rolled down my face as mother dragged me back to the house, my hand continually reaching for my lost toy as it slowly sank into blackness…
I stumbled into the barn bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I was breathing hard and fast as though I’d been running. I turned on the cold tap, splashed my face with water, and stared into the grainy mirror at my reflection. I had noticeably paled, no doubt from having an unexpected guest in my tractor. With quavering hands, I smoothed back my hair, forcing myself to breathe.
There was a reason my mother was so adamant about me not going near the swamp. I’d had a morbid fascination with it that went beyond normal childhood curiosity. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but the lights I had seen that day had appeared more than once, though not for years. I’d buried them in my memory the way a child buries treasures in the sandbox.
I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway. Amid my confusion about the teddy bear, I’d forgotten my field hands were coming. With an effort, I walked out of the bathroom past the tractor, where my long-lost toy was sitting, staring into nothingness with his one remaining eye.
Giving my workers their instructions helped me feel more normal. I forgot everything else; the only thing that mattered was caring for the crops.
After giving out the instructions, my attention was caught by another vehicle kicking up dust along the driveway. This one was not unexpected, but I had hoped she would put it off until my actual birthday. The prominent “Thank you Jesus!” bumper sticker confirmed my fears. It was my mother.
Linda was an eccentric woman. Like a child, she went through phases of devout interest in different things. Throughout my childhood, she had decided to be a devout Christian, or use crystals and homeopathic remedies for sicknesses. It appeared she was back in her Christian phase because she wore an ornate, gaudy cross around her neck.
Her greeting was characteristic: a loud “Hey, y’all!” that bounced off the side of the house and reverberated over the fields. Then, after a bone-crushing hug and several obvious hints to flirt with my foreman, I ushered her in the house before she could damage my self-image any further.
“I don’t know how you live out here, Sophia. How do you even use Facebook?” Her eyes swept around my kitchen pointedly as though she were looking for something.
“I have a modem, mom,” I explained patiently, “but it’s for business only. Anyway, Facebook isn’t-”
“Oh, my Lord! Who sent you these flowers? They’re beautiful!”
I clenched my jaw slightly at the interruption – patience! – but her exclamation answered one question:
“They’re not from you?”
“I wish I could take credit for them, but, no, that wasn’t me. There wasn’t a name on the card? They’re not from a man, are they?” Her tone was playful, hopeful, but I shook my head. Her disappointment was palpable. We were silent for a moment.
“Do you have any plans for your birthday? You can at least go get a drink in town, can’t you?”
“I don’t really like drinking,” I said flatly. What was there to celebrate about aging?
“You’re no fun.” Her smile was jocular because she didn’t realize how much those comments got to me. Was not enjoying going out drinking some major character flaw?
I fell into silent thought. If she hadn’t sent me the flowers, she might have been responsible for the bear, though it seemed far-fetched. “Do you remember that teddy bear Mamaw made for me when I was little?”
Her eyes narrowed, staring off to the side. “Yes,” she answered shortly. “You lost it, didn’t you? I remember you crying for days about it.”
“I guess I was just wondering where it was.” It was clear that she remembered, too, but was unwilling to talk about it. We sat for a moment in pregnant silence before the subject changed. Before an hour had passed, she had to go, leaving me with a gem of wisdom:
“You need to let this old place go, Soph. Move to town, find a man, get married. I heard Ezra Cotes has been talking about you again, and I want grandkids. Happy birthday!”
I watched her car roll down toward the road, my chest tight. She knew something I didn’t. Moreover, she had dug up a memory I’d wanted kept buried: Ezra Cotes, the son of Edward Cotes, an extremely wealthy man who owned most of Cypress Hall. After Edward died, Ezra continued his father’s legacy of buying up any available land so he could charge people to use it, generally squeezing every cent out of people he could.
We had also dated for three years during college before he proposed. Not feeling ready to accept, I returned home and found out who he really was. Mama had been so excited I was actually going out with someone, she had conveniently forgotten to mention the numerous times Edward Cotes had offered to buy the farm. Ezra only wanted to marry me for my parents’ property. I ended things with him when the truth came out and he trashed my reputation to all our friends. In that curious way of Southerners, though, he never deviated from treating me with saccharine sweetness in public and I pretended not to know he was gossiping behind my back. I would have paid him back in kind, except I didn’t have anyone to gossip with.
My mother’s visit had unsettled me again, but though two strange occurrences in one day was unusual, there was no reason to believe it was anything devious. The flowers had probably come from another family member. The bear was harder to explain, but perhaps one of my field workers had found it while working near the edge of the swamp. I couldn’t deny being unnerved, though. Determined to get to the bottom of it, I gathered my address book, pulled up a chair, and called every person who could have possibly sent me flowers.
It wasn’t my grandparents in Florida. It wasn’t Aunt Barbara, Uncle Frank, or any of my cousins, neither of my brothers. I even tried my high school best friend, Mary. The flowers had simply appeared on my doorstep with no explanation.
Defeated, I gazed out the window. To my shock, my errand had taken me nearly all day; dusk was falling on the farm. I had been too engrossed in my task to notice my workers had left. Moving to stare out the glass door, I was abruptly stricken by how remote I was. My eyes followed the gravel driveway down to where the road lay, snaking its way through the swampy forest. The trees towered blackly against the sunset, and a chill ran through me as I thought of how far my closest neighbor was. Who had sent those damn flowers?
I tore my eyes away from the door, glancing around my empty house. Perhaps my mother was right, maybe I should let this place go. It was far too big for one person and there were no prospects of filling it with other people. After I broke things off with Ezra, I hadn’t bothered dating – there was no point. I tried ignoring the emptiness around me, but now I had noticed it, it was like another person was standing right behind me. I didn’t like that person.
The house creaked around me as a deeper darkness fell around it. Dinner had tasted like ash in my mouth, and I wasn’t much interested in watching the news. The best thing to do was to let the sun set so I could wake up in the morning with a fresh perspective.
At first, I didn’t know what had woken me up. I lay silently, tensed, my ears picking up each odd sound the old farmhouse made. As the seconds stretched on, I thought a frightening dream had caused my wakefulness. But there it was again – this time, I recognized the noise as the sound of my storm door creaking open, hinges whining for WD-40. I sat bolt upright and looked at my alarm clock. 2:27. This wasn’t an evening caller.
I started to panic. People don’t accidentally end up at a farmhouse at 2:27. My father had taught me what to do when I thought there was a break-in. But for a half-second, I was frozen, before my father’s words cut through the flurry of thoughts. “Get the gun.” I landed lightly on the floor of my upstairs bedroom and pulled the shotgun from under the bed, shaking with adrenaline as I loaded it.
Downstairs, everything was now silent, but I crept quietly anyway. Whoever it was could be anywhere, even inside my house this very second. As I entered the hallway leading to the front door, I saw the door was shut and still locked. Feeling suddenly furious at the thought of someone attempting to enter my house, I unlocked it and threw it open, expecting to confront a masked man picking the lock on the front door.
But there was no one.
My breath came in fast, shallow bursts as I stepped outside, feeling the cold air on my skin. The gun in my hand felt silly now that I looked at it. I scoffed, staring out into the night. It was unusually quiet. No crickets or cicadas broke the calm, no whir of bat wings pierced the silence. It had to have been Clarice, wanting to come inside. Feeling altogether silly, I turned to go back inside.
Without warning, several lights appeared in the swamp, vague, hovering slightly above the water. Terror seized me momentarily before I realized what they were. Just foxfire, swamp gas. I had seen it before. It wasn’t supernatural. But I felt a chill all the same.
I don’t think I slept another wink that night. Every branch rustling in the wind, every creak from the house settling made me jump out of my skin as I sat in bed, hugging my knees to my chest. At last, though, the sun crested above the tree line, and I felt my strength return. Watching the light spill over the trees to cover the fields filled me with pride. I had kept this farm going throughout the years. I hadn’t let it die off when my parents left, or when the tornado tore up all the crops four years ago. No matter how frightened I felt, I wouldn’t let the experiences of yesterday drive me away. It meant too much to me to let it go. This would be my final resting place once my life ended; it didn’t matter to me that I didn’t have children to take the farm when I was gone. What mattered was the present, and how proud I was of my work.
I was bolstered by gazing out the window over my fields and felt strong enough to start the day. I would be alone on the farm today. I could only do so much by myself, but I also couldn’t afford to pay full-time workers. Running the farm was a delicate operation, especially regarding money. To get the day started, I decided to walk through the fields.
The morning was misty, a light dew resting on the elbow-high stalks and leaves of corn. Walking the fields reminded me of wading through water. The breeze set the plants to wafting, turning them into gentle waves in a deep green sea. All was filled with the noisy peace of a country morning.
The peace was shattered by the growing sound of rock music, the purr of an expensive engine. I cursed thoroughly. I was set upon by hexes, cursed to never find peace, surely. My indignation was redoubled, then doubly masked by a sugary sweet smile as I saw the plague – Ezra.
Of course, he drove out here today. Of course, he chose his most beautiful, expensive car to show off, though I noted with a stab of savage pride the dust from my driveway coating the red Corvette. He parked haphazardly in front of my house and stepped out. I was stricken for a moment –he wasn’t the slender, handsome young man who had almost swept me off my feet all those years ago. He had filled out, muscular, powerful, though traces of the boy I had once loved remained in the shiny brown hair, the ice-blue eyes, the easy, confident smile.
“Why, Ezra,” I said. “To what do I owe the visit?”
“Isn’t the pleasure of seeing me good enough?” He placed a kiss on the back of my hand, a suave gesture. It did nothing to convince me he wasn’t here for nefarious purposes. “Seeing a beautiful lady is enough for me, especially on her birthday.”
“You must have bad sources,” I simpered. “That’s tomorrow. Did you know the Germans consider it bad luck to wish someone ‘happy birthday’ before their birthday?” I hoped breaking the superstition would make a piano fall from the sky to crush me; it would be far preferable to spending another second speaking to him.
“Is that so? Well, forgive me for bringing bad luck upon you. I’ll knock on wood.”
I wish he wouldn’t. When no falling instruments ended my life, my Southern raising forced me to invite him in. I needed to get work done today, but a second to observe the formalities would get my mother to stop lamenting my terrible manners.
I hated the way Ezra moved around my house, picking up family pictures at random, serving himself a glass of tea without asking.
“This house hasn’t changed a bit, has it? You’re such a creature of habit, you always have been.”
“You haven’t changed either. Still so… confident.”
He grinned. “When are you gonna move off this farm and into town? There’s not much going on out here, is there?” He settled into a chair at the kitchen table, propping his foot up on another chair.
I took a second before responding, my jaw grinding. “I love it out here. I’m proud of this farm.”
“If you say so.”
“So, what are you up to these days? Still in real estate? I’m surprised you haven’t been snatched up by some eligible bachelorette.”
“Nope,” he said, “I’m single. Still in real estate. I actually want to buy some land around here. Cypress Hall is expanding – I’m looking at putting in some apartments.”
I stared at him. “Well, my land isn’t for sale, if that’s what you’re after.” Mama wouldn’t be happy at my less-than-cordial tone, but she wasn’t here.
“What? Oh, no, that’s not why I’m here,” Ezra laughed. “I’m actually here…” He sounded bashful. I narrowed my eyes at him, immediately suspicious. “Whatever happened to us, Sophie? We were so good together.”
I snorted before I could stop myself. “What happened? You never loved me, that’s what. You were only with me because your father had some weird need to own every inch of land around here.” Was he seriously trying to get back with me? After everything?
He looked crestfallen. “I was stupid,” he said. “I did want to buy this place. For us. So we could live here, together.”
“Please,” I laughed. “You’ve never wanted anything more than to carry on your father’s legacy. Don’t insult me.”
His expression soured. “It’s your birthday tomorrow, Soph. I wanted to take you out to celebrate, talk stuff over. Get to know each other again. I miss you.”
“There’s nothing between us, Ezra. There never was, there never will be.”
Ezra gazed at me for a second, anger flashing in his eyes. Then, he sighed, shrugging. “You’re missing out. I don’t know what you see in this place, but it can’t be better than human interaction. Can I use your bathroom before I go?”
I turned to watch him leave the room. What did he think he was doing, coming here out of nowhere, trying to make amends with me? What was worse – I was tempted by his offer. The weak, lonely part of me wanted to believe he wanted me. Turning back to the table to sit down, my eye was caught by his phone, unlocked on the table. Morbidly curious, I stepped closer.
There was a new message on his phone. At first, I thought I had picked up my own phone – why would Ezra be texting my mother? I stared at the new message Linda had sent him: “She’s not relenting. I don’t think she’ll leave the farm, even if we burn it down.”
Reading the rest, everything became clear. “I went to the farm last night, made some noise. She came out with a shotgun!” Ezra had said that this morning. “I left the teddy bear in the tractor. I don’t think it worked – I don’t know why I bothered having her Mamaw make it.” “Hoping these flowers make her think she’s being stalked – hydrangeas are her favorite. I gave her some when we dated.”
I held the phone, trembling, even as I heard Ezra returning to the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, and I looked up at him, hating every inch of him.
“Get the hell out of my house. Right this instant, Ezra. Get out.”
He looked taken aback at the danger in my voice, his eyes shifting between my hand and my eyes. Then, he smirked. “I knew you couldn’t resist snooping. You always loved a mystery. We really were just trying to help you. But you didn’t want to be helped.”
“I don’t need your help, Ezra,” I snapped, stepping closer and thrusting the phone into his chest. “What I need is you off my property.”
Ezra chuckled. “It’s not your property, though, is it? Your mother still owns a majority share. She’s decided to sell.”
He took a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket and shoved it under my nose. The deed. His signature. “But don’t lose hope, Sophia. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you. You can stay here. Only, either you stay with me, or you don’t stay at all.”
My chest had caved in. The room was spinning, I couldn’t breathe. He’d played me like a fiddle, exploited my weakness for mystery. I’d forgotten what an excellent manipulator he was, what he was willing to do to get what he wanted.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning for your decision. With the sheriff, in case you get any bright ideas.”
After a long silence, I found my voice, and it was full of deadly calm. “If you don’t get off this property, I’ll shoot you.”
Ezra’s victorious expression slowly slid off his face, replaced by a sneer. “You are so stupid, Sophia. You put too much stock into this farm, and for nothing. You’ll die here, alone, and then I will get this land. You can get off the farm, or you can be dragged off. Your choice.”
He turned on his heel and left. I followed closely behind, stopping on the porch. “Get the hell out of here! Get off my property!”
I glowered after his dust-covered car as it ambled back to the road. He hadn’t changed. Still capable of razor-sharp words that cut right down to the bone. I had never mastered that skill. I didn’t want to – it would mean being like him.
But the ugly, neutral, logical part of my brain recognized the truth in his words. Without children to own the farm after I died, it would be broken up by the state. There would be no one to remember me after my death. And Ezra would be sure to burn any bridges for me.
I felt suddenly deflated, so I sank down into a white rocking chair, moving with the rhythm of thought. The more I mulled it over, the more it became clear my life hadn’t mattered. A person’s life is measured by the connections she makes with others – I had so little connection. There was no starting over, not with the unshakable Ezra Cotes in my way. Mama was hell-bent on getting me off the farm. Did I dig my heels in or let go?
Place had always meant more to me than most people; every person I had ever met had been distant, separated from me as though by an invisible wall. Impenetrable. The farm was, to me, more alive than any person. I loved its harsh corners and soft curves, the supple rolling hills of the fields, the pristine white boards of the house, the distressed metal roof, even the trackless border of the swamp. It had personality, life, depth. How could I ever leave?
The simple answer was I couldn’t, which meant I was cursed to be forgotten in the grey annals of history, inconsequential, unsubstantial, unremembered. Gone after my heart stood still and the blood thickened in my veins. I glanced to my right, noticing a mystery novel I had left on the porch table, its pages limp with humidity. Perhaps there was another path.
At length, an idea formed in my mind, dangerous but utterly romantic. I could live with my farm belonging to someone else if my shadow utterly eclipsed them. I saw the path opening before me. When I was done, no one would ever forget the name Sophia Mae Israel.
I felt a thrill of inspiration. Some people were called to serve the poor, to write, to sing. But the call I had always felt, would feel until the moment I died, was the call of home, beckoning me to stay; it was a well of pride deep within my soul, reminding me of all my hard work, asking with a child’s voice if I was willing to give it up.
I would never be willing.
Night fell as my plan formed and the night creatures came out in legion. But my fevered mind held me fast in place despite their buzzing and biting. I was dimly aware of time passing, the hours ticking by, until it occurred to me that it was my birthday. How fitting, for the end to be at my thirty-third beginning.
I drank up the refreshing night air momentarily before standing. I moved from my porch to the house, walked through every room, touching significant items, memorizing them though my memory’s minutes were numbered. I had some hours before dawn would break the spell. I wanted the time to last.
Wherever I went, I left a steady flow of gasoline.
I came to my bedroom, slowly pulling the pistol my father had given me for my twenty-first birthday from my bedside table, loading it with a single bullet. The final room doused, I went back outside. I flooded the barn and the margins of the western field too, working quicker to escape the danger of losing my nerve. There was still time to turn back now, wash everything, forget the petroleum smell that had seeped into the crevices, but I moved like a woman possessed.
The sound of a match striking never thrilled me more.
After my life was up in flames, I placed a note in the driver’s seat of my old pickup, then set out across the unburnt eastern field.
The night wasn’t silent like last night. It sang with crickets and bullfrogs. I even heard an owl hoot nearby. The wind blew softly from behind me, lifting my hair off my shoulders as if someone was playing with it and pushing me toward the swamp, which loomed ahead. Every detail I could make out by the faint moonlight was as I remembered.
The trees stood before me like massive guardians, draped with Spanish moss swaying in the wind. The water flowed sluggishly before me, and though I couldn’t see the bottom in the darkness, I needed to go further than the edge. I felt the call pull my soul and stepped into the water, my weight held by soft, solid earth at the bottom.
I walked for hours until my legs trembled from exhaustion. I sat down on the root of a tree, the deep darkness of the hour before dawn pressing against my eyes. This was far enough. Pointing my flashlight downward, I couldn’t see the bottom of the water. I had to be quick – I could feel dawn approaching and the sun would burn away my nerve. An absurd thought floated into my consciousness: if they found my body, the water would have bloated my corpse to dangerously hideous conditions. I hoped the News & Courier would print the picture.
The ethereal lights flickered suddenly into life several yards away and floated closer. I knew they would come, in the end. At first, I’d thought they were just foxfire. But as they came closer, within arm’s length, they reminded me of pulses. With trembling hands, I pointed the pistol at the beating heart.
