Tracks Beneath the Clay, page 8
And there it sat.
The box.
The one she had found behind the cedar panel, tucked deep beneath the stairs where the risers dropped much lower than expected. Even now, hours later, it seemed to hum with its own presence. She had stayed up late into the night, combing through its contents: the embroidered cloth, the yellowed clippings, the map, and the letter.
Especially the letter.
On the outside, it read in looping script: To Meredith, In Case I Do Not Return.
Inside, Natalie’s handwriting stretched dense and emotional, her words pulsing with urgency. Though the letter was not dated, Janice felt the weight of finality in every line. Words like “truth,” “forgiveness,” and “witness” clung to her mind. She did not yet understand all of it, but she knew she held something far heavier than paper.
She leaned against the back of the chair, her gaze drifting toward the rear window. Out there, past the waist-high grass and twisted piles of brick, was the orchard. Was that where the map pointed? Was that what Natalie and Lucy, too, if the embroidered cloth was any sign, had wanted someone to find?
Not just patching a house, Janice thought, pressing her palm against the letter as though she could still feel the heat of Natalie’s hand through time. She was stitching together a history she had only known in fragments.
She set the letter aside and decided to walk through the house in full daylight.
The house had already revealed its fragments: the dust-heavy sofa, the crooked dresser with its cracked mirror, the penciled grocery list fading in the kitchen drawer. Now, when Janice thought of them, they no longer seemed like relics of neglect but pieces of a story. She imagined the hands that had touched them, her grandmother’s hands, her mother’s as a child, threads of history both loved and forgotten. Somehow, having them here felt like part of her own legacy, though she could not quite explain why.
The daylight showed what she hadn’t noticed before. Upstairs, the air thickened beneath the pitched roof. In the back bedroom, a crooked dresser stood, with a mirror cracked in a jagged line that split her reflection. Inside its drawer, she found a single child’s sock balled in the corner, stiff with age.
In the hall, she paused. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling in places, and something faint caught her eye. She leaned closer.
There, just above the baseboard, were pencil lines.
Her breath caught.
She crouched down, fingers brushing the wall as if afraid the marks might vanish at her touch. Names and numbers were written in a careful hand. Benjamin – age 6. Benjamin – age 7. Another just above: Benjamin – age 8.
Her breath caught. Oh, was this the same Benjamin she had found on the ancestry website? The graphite was faint but steady, etched into the house itself. She ran her fingertip over the grooves, feeling a strange intimacy, as though she were trespassing on a family’s private ritual. A lump rose in her throat. Whoever Benjamin had been, he had lived here, had grown here, and had left proof of himself in a place no one had thought to erase.
Janice whispered the name aloud, tasting it. “Benjamin.”
The sound of it lingered in the stillness of the hall. She gave a small nod, as if acknowledging him.
She stood there longer than she meant to, her palm pressed against the faded wall before finally stepping back. The marks remained, quiet witnesses, wanting someone to remember.
When she circled back downstairs, her phone buzzed. Her mother.
“Janice? Are you there yet?” Ruth’s voice was thin, carrying a distracted edge.
Janice’s heart sank. “Yes, Mom. I called last night when I pulled up.”
There was a pause, then a soft chuckle. “Yes, yes, I remember now. Silly me, it’s these meds. They make me feel like I’m always two steps behind.”
Janice swallowed against the knot in her throat. “That’s all right. How are you feeling today?”
“I wish everyone would stop asking me that.” Ruth coughed lightly, then softened, her tone gentler. “I’m fine, darling. Send me pictures of the house.”
Janice leaned against the porch post, choosing her words with care. She remembered the podcast: Offer something specific, not vague. “Mom, what if I called your doctor about the prescriptions, so you don’t have to juggle it all yourself?”
A silence followed, long enough that Janice worried she had overstepped. Then Ruth exhaled, her voice weary but grateful. “That might be useful. I hate being placed on hold. And Janice, don’t forget to send me those pictures.”
Janice’s fingers tightened around the porch post, the weathered wood digging into her palm. The second request landed heavier than the first, threaded with the fear her mother might not remember much else.
Ruth cleared her throat. “And how’s the family tree coming along? Have you added anything new?”
The question caught Janice off guard, though she forced a smile into her voice. “A little. I found something yesterday that I think belongs there. I’ll tell you more once I’ve sorted through it.”
Ruth hummed softly, content with the answer. “Good. Keep at it, darling. Someone has to remember for all of us.”
Janice let out the breath she had been holding. “Then I’ll handle the calls. I’ll keep a notebook of everything they tell me, so you don’t have to remember.”
“You always were the practical one,” Ruth murmured. A beat passed, then she added, “Your grandmother used to keep roses on the kitchen sill. Maybe you’ll see if any bushes are left.”
Janice’s throat tightened. “I will check.”
“That’s good,” Ruth said softly, her voice drifting toward weariness. “I should make some coffee for Ed before he heads out, or maybe I’ll lie back down. Either way, I love you, darling.”
“I love you too, Mom,” Janice whispered.
She sat there a moment longer, the phone cooling in her hand. Ruth’s words lingered, simple, ordinary things like roses and coffee, but beneath them, Janice heard the strain. It made her ache with worry, yet at the same time, it drew her closer, as if each conversation was stitching something between them that had frayed too long.
At last, she slipped the phone into her pocket and headed toward the yard.
The shed stood crooked at the far end of the property, boards grayed and warped. Its door resisted before finally giving way with a shriek, releasing a bloom of musty air and a cascade of cobwebs. She coughed, waving her hand as her throat stung. Tiny feet scurried into shadow.
“Please do not let there be spiders. Please do not let there be spiders,” she muttered.
The shed was barely five feet square, its roof sagging but intact. Tools leaned against one another in tired poses: a shovel, a pickaxe, a wood axe, and trimming shears. In the corner rested a wheelbarrow with one sagging tire. She dragged it into the sun with a grin. The tire was spongy, and rust gnawed at the frame, but it would do.
Along the axe handle, someone had carved faint letters: WL. She traced them absently, the grooves shallow and uneven, worn down by time. Whoever had pressed them there was long gone, their story forgotten. The house had a way of keeping pieces of people, even when the family tree did not. Janice let her hand fall away, struck by the weight of it all. So many hands, so many names, and now hers among them. The history of this place was tangled and dark, but it was hers, and she felt a strange, fierce pride in claiming it.
Above the doorway, a bent horseshoe had been nailed for luck. She touched it lightly. Whatever luck it had promised had long since run out.
As she stood there, cicadas began their droning chorus. The sound pressed against her eardrums, an unbroken buzz that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of her bones. She shaded her eyes and looked toward the orchard again. Moss hung like curtains from the pecans, and the pile of bricks near the center looked almost purposeful. The map came to mind, and with it, a prickling awareness that something out there waited. She shivered and turned back toward the house.
By the time she reached the porch, a truck pulled into the drive. A young man in a company shirt and ball cap climbed out, grinning crookedly.
“Guy, Lawn Guy Maintenance,” he introduced himself.
“Is that really your company name?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He flushed under the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
She laughed. “Clever. But why not just The Lawn Guy?”
“Because we do more than lawns,” he said, puffing up a little. Behind him, two workers unloaded equipment.
“Well, I may need more than lawns done around here. Can I get a card?”
He handed her one, simple and white, with a list of services scrawled on the back. “And we do even more,” he added. Then his tone softened. “My grandma says not to walk in that orchard at night. She says the land remembers.”
Janice stilled, caught by the seriousness in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, pocketing the card.
By noon, the AC repairman had come and gone, leaving the unit humming steadily. She sat at the green-topped kitchen table, the box of relics spread before her again. Her fingers hovered over the map. She lifted it, held it against the window light, and turned it this way and that. The landmarks were sketched faintly: the orchard, the line marked "root cellar," the cryptic words "where the land splits."
She whispered, “Where the land splits… what does that mean?”
Her eyes drifted to the backyard. The orchard loomed, its tangled branches a barrier and a beckon. An eerie feeling crept over her as if someone stood just beyond the tree line, watching. She shook her head, telling herself not to be ridiculous, but the unease clung like humidity.
Janice folded the map carefully, slid it back into the box, and tied the bootlace around it. She sat for a long moment, the hum of the AC filling the silence, the taste of the energy drink still sharp on her tongue.
For the first time in years, she felt a calm settle deep inside her chest, something steady and grounding. But there was still something else too. Something unspoken. The calm was only half the truth. The other half was the gnawing sense that the house had chosen her for a reason.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
◇◇ PEACHTREE PLANTATION
1859, Georgia
Autumn
By the time Natalie finished answering questions about her family’s store and their place in the community, the carriage turned off the main road onto a smaller tree-lined path. Oaks arched overhead, their limbs draped with heavy moss that swayed like gray ghosts clinging to the branches. The air cooled in their shade, but the humidity clung to her skin like wet linen. Resin scented the breeze: pine and earth and something sweet that she could not name. Sweat gathered at her temple and slipped past her ear despite the drift of air that moved through the open window.
The cicadas screamed so loudly that they drowned the clatter of wheels and the steady clip-clop of hooves. The sound was a blanket that settled over everything until even her thoughts seemed to hum. Natalie leaned out of the carriage window, eyes wide, trying once again to take in the landscape. The trees whispered in a language she did not understand. The wild, tangled green stretched in every direction, thick with vines and the rich, damp smell of soil that had been turned and turned again. Ferns crowded the trunks. Sunlight dropped through in coins that blinked and vanished. There was beauty in its strangeness, but also unease. The deeper they drove, the more the air seemed to shift, as if they had passed through an unseen veil into another world where the rules would be different, and the house might breathe when it slept.
Then she saw it. A gleam of white through the trees, and then the full splendor of the house revealed itself, grand and unapologetic, set at the end of a circular carriage path. Flowers bloomed in the roundabout’s center: roses and something pale that lifted its face to the heat. The vast porch, wrapped around the house like open arms, held tables and empty chairs that waited for guests who were not there. The shutters were a clean dark green, and the roof shone faintly in the sun. The place did not look built so much as posed.
“She is a beauty, is she not?” Uncle William asked, breaking the silence.
Natalie startled, realizing her mouth had fallen open.
“It is stunning,” she whispered.
The house stood in whitewashed grandeur, fronted by towering Greek columns and a staircase that spilled down like a gown. It looked less like a home than a statement. Something plucked from a dream, or a dream that might sour if you stared at it too long.
She glanced back and saw that the tree-lined entrance had hidden broad fields of cotton. Beyond the house, rows stretched toward the horizon, endless white bolls glowing in the afternoon sun. The plants looked like snow had fallen and refused to melt. It was the first working plantation she had ever seen. Distant figures moved in a slow line under the light. Heads bent. Shoulders lifted. The rhythm of labor was older than the house itself. Her hand twitched on the window frame, part of her wanting to wave, part of her unsure if a wave would comfort or wound.
“You only grow cotton?” she asked, her voice thinner than she intended.
“Well, Momma and Miss Patty tend the vegetable garden out back,” Henry offered quickly, eyes darting between her and his father. “The workers have one too.”
“Oh, how lovely,” Natalie said, hands clasped near her chin. She was not sure what else to say. The word lovely felt wrong in her mouth. The field shone prettily, and the edges of it felt sharp if you looked straight on.
Isaac pulled the reins gently. “Whoa.” The horses slowed, answering more to his quiet presence than the word itself. He touched one on the neck, and it shivered as if relieved.
As they drew near, the porch filled the front of her vision. At the top of the grand staircase stood a woman in a butter-yellow dress, posture regal, a little girl clinging to her side. Aunt Alice. Ribbons fluttered in the child’s braids as the warm air stirred. Somewhere on the side of the house, a wind chime lifted and fell and then stilled again.
Natalie stepped forward, hand outstretched, but Alice drew her into a firm embrace instead.
“Welcome home, niece,” Alice said, her voice a soft Southern lilt that settled around Natalie like a shawl. “This is Abbigail, your youngest cousin.”
Natalie blinked, startled by the warmth in the woman’s touch. Alice’s face was strikingly similar to her mother’s, the same high cheekbones and deliberate poise. But where her mother often seemed restrained, Alice’s eyes crinkled with genuine affection. Her smile carried ease. Lavender water clung to the fabric at her throat. For a moment, Natalie felt as if she had stepped into a gentler version of her mother, one touched with light rather than steel.
Abbigail peeked from behind her mother’s skirts, then launched herself forward, arms wrapping Natalie’s neck with the fierce joy only a child could muster. The girl smelled like sun and starch and a trace of sugar.
“Oh my,” Natalie said, laughing as she steadied her footing.
Only then did Natalie notice the figure standing just behind Abby. Not a child at all, but a girl nearer her own age, slender and tall enough that her presence seemed diminished only because she carried herself with deliberate quiet. Her apron bore a faint dusting of flour, and her cap shadowed dark eyes that flicked up once before lowering again. In that quick glance, Natalie sensed a steadiness beyond her years, a watchfulness that unsettled her.
Abby tugged Natalie’s sleeve. “And this is Lucy. She helps me with everything.”
Lucy inclined her head, the smallest of acknowledgments, her gaze sliding away as though such introductions were not hers to make. But Alice’s hand reached gently for her shoulder, a gesture of reassurance that lingered longer than it needed to.
“This house is livelier already,” Alice said warmly, drawing Natalie into an embrace again. Yet her fingers pressed lightly against Lucy’s shoulder a moment more before she let go, as though she needed to feel the girl anchored near her.
Natalie’s smile softened. “Hello, Lucy.”
Lucy’s lips parted as if to answer, but no words came. Abby quickly filled the silence with another burst of chatter, tugging Natalie further into the hall, Lucy following at an even pace, her quiet presence trailing like a shadow that knew its place.
The moment shifted quickly. Abbigail’s bright expression faltered, her gaze flicking past Natalie. She pulled away and slipped back to her mother’s side, fingers tucked into the folds of the yellow dress.
Natalie turned. A man had stepped forward, and the air drew taut. He was tall, broad shouldered, handsome in a bronzed way, and glaring. His sharp gray eyes locked on hers with disdain. Something in the space stilled. Even the cicadas seemed to thin for a breath.
Natalie lifted her chin and offered her hand. The gesture hung in the heat. Shame and anger rushed through her chest in equal measure. He did not greet her. Did not acknowledge her as family. Just looked her over as if measuring and finding her wanting, as if she were a parcel that had arrived with the wrong seal.
She lowered her hand slowly. Alice’s embrace evaporated in her memory, replaced with the weight of this silent refusal.
“Allow me to introduce our eldest,” Uncle William said quickly. “William the third. We call him Billy.”
Natalie drew herself up and arranged her voice. “How do you do.”
Billy scanned her from head to toe. The corner of his mouth pulled.
“This is the one from the North.” The words slid off his tongue like something spoiled.
“Yes, son. This is your cousin Natalie. She will be staying with us for a while,” William answered evenly.
Billy spat into the dirt, eyes still on her. The sound was small, but it landed like a stone.
William stepped between them. “Now, now, son. Natalie is family.” Whether warning or plea, Natalie could not tell.
Isaac had already dismounted. Head bowed, he moved with quiet efficiency. He lifted her traveling case as if it weighed nothing and passed it to a woman in an apron streaked with flour. Her gray-streaked hair framed a face softened by years of kindness and work.
