Magnolia Lane, where the pavement turns to dirt. The trees at either side bend over the road, creating what looks like a tunnel, which I stare along the length of, hands gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles burn. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six …” The count is interrupted by a deep breath through my nose, and I pick up again, “Five, four, three …”
The trees themselves don’t jar any memory of my time here, it’s merely the anticipation building inside of me. Preoccupations over how I’ll react when I do stumble upon something vividly familiar. The edginess thrums a nervous beating in my chest. Breathe. Just breathe.
After another minute, I throw the truck in drive and turn onto the road named for its abundance of magnolias, most of which, as I understand, grew on my father’s property. Beneath the canopy of oak trees, the overcast sky dims even more than before, the air oddly cooler, unless it’s just my own body temperature dropping with my anxiety. The place should be easy to spot, seeing as there are no other houses along this road and the closest neighbor is about a mile away.
At the end of the road stands the iron gate to the dreary Charpentier House, one of the older plantations in Chevalier, and the home where I was born. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see the days when that gate was the proud sentry, the very first line of defense in keeping others out. Now, it stands cocked and bent, hanging by its broken hinge.
Truck still running, I grab my camera from behind the seat, and hop out. Jagged chunks of gravel press into my knees as I kneel down and capture a few angular shots. Ones set against the looming trees overhead. After a few good snaps, I hop back into the truck and drive right through the opened gate, taking note of the busted angel sculpture over where Charpentier House is etched into the iron.
Overgrown with grass and weeds, the expanse of the estate stretches out before me, where unseen borders give the appearance that this territory that once belonged my father is endless. As the only psychiatrist on the island, he certainly could’ve afforded it on his own, but he’d also come from money, having inherited his father’s estate.
The canopy of leaves gives way to open sky, where the trees at either side of the driveway stand scattered about the yard, save for a majestic spidery oak, with its long threads of Spanish moss, situated smack in the middle of the yard. Vague speckles of memory paint it as the one my childhood friend, Gabrielle, or Brie, as everyone called her, and I would often climb in play.
Statues of animals, and angels with half-busted wings, hide in the unkempt lawn, many of which are broken and chipped.
Vibrant green leaves of the few magnolia trees peppered throughout the property add a glimmer of life to the surrounding decay, even if the blossoms have disappeared for the summer. I vaguely remember their short-lived, crisp white petals and lemony fragrance. How beautifully tragic they must look now, when fully bloomed against this time-ravaged backdrop. A wordless testament that life goes on, no matter what.
And in the distance, waits the house.
My heart catches in my throat at the unsightly condition of the place that, at one time, was the most beautiful in the parish. That much I do remember--feeling like a princess in a castle. In my reading, I learned the home was architecturally unusual for its time period, with cruciform hallways on both upper and lower floors, and each end aligned with the four cardinal directions. Essentially a cross.
Two outdoor winding staircases at either side of the main entrance converge up on the top level, at a second entrance. The once stately house now stands boarded up, with its weak bedraggled roof and disheveled porches at both levels.
I park the truck off to the side of the house, where vandals have graffitied the wall with what I’d guess are bible verses, given the numbers that follow. Also from my reading, I learned that the house was thought to be haunted, even before what happened when I lived here, based on a massacre that took place in the late 1800s, when a white paramilitary group attacked African plantation workers after tensions rose. Hundreds were murdered, some of whom hid on the grounds of this plantation, only to be hunted down and slaughtered.