switch, a muted light shone through the old linen shade.
“Success!” The bulb in the ceiling fixture must have burnt out. I removed the lampshade to amplify the light. “Good enough for tonight.”
The room was quite large, covering the width of the downstairs. The ceiling sloped at various heights due to the roof’s slant, and four dormer windows protruded over the front of the house. There was a small fireplace and two doors on opposite walls.
The first door revealed a small room, about ten feet by ten feet, with mountains of stuff piled up to the ceiling. I flicked my flashlight around for a few seconds. Whoa. I could have my own little studio… or a walk-in closet. Suddenly the task of cleaning everything out didn't seem so arduous. I nearly skipped as I closed the door and crossed the room to door number two.
I pulled the long ball ’n chain dangling from the ceiling. A single bulb flickered on, and I shrieked, “WHY have I been sharing a bathroom with my father for all of these years when there is one up here?” I pressed the flusher on the toilet and marveled at the working plumbing.
The dust was so thick on the oval mirror above the pedestal sink that I struggled to see my own reflection. Feeling slightly nosey, I opened the glass door of a tall, narrow cabinet, disrupting the long-settled dust, which in turn disrupted my sinuses and caused me to sneeze three times.
Stacks of towels long past their prime. A heavy, silver hairbrush. An assortment of vintage cosmetics. I ogled at a collection of perfume bottles made of multicolored, unlabeled glass. A few were marked with the word “Paris.”
Who did you all belong to? They were way too old to have belonged to my mothe r . The little objects begged me to make them shiny again.
I pulled out the rotting linens. They were far from salvageable, but my affinity for fabric caused me to poke through them anyway. A misplaced square of lace lay among the tattered terrycloth. The dry-rotted Chantilly fell apart at my touch, revealing a piece of silver. At a glance, it looked like an old coin, but on further inspection it seemed to be a medallion of some sort . One side was rough, as if something had broken off and left behind a scar in the metal. There was something familiar about the shape – an eight-pointed star. The other side was flat and smooth except for an ornate border. It looked sad. Unfinished. Like a canvas someone had given up on. I wondered if something was missing from the piece or if this was the artist’s intended design.
I slipped it into my pocket and sighed at the tragic state of the disintegrated loops of lace. After a nother minute mourning the textiles, I started a trash pile, telling myself I couldn’t get attached to every inch of vintage something-or-the-other I found while cleaning.
* * *
The smell of bleach permeated the air as I wrung the mop into the sink. My fingers ached from scrubbing. I caught a glimpse of my watch and was surprised to find more than two hours had passed.
Break tim e .
The air in the lamp-lit bedroom wasn’t any better. I struck a wooden match and lit one of the Voodoo shop’s sage bundles, unsure whether it would help or hinder the dusty and now chemical-filled air.
At least now the room will be free of evil spirits.
Chuckling , I left the smoking herbs in a glass dish on the fireplace mantle. The dust began to tickle the back of my throat, making me cough.
With some force, I managed to wriggle open one of the windows. In the darkness, there was nothing to look at but the moon, but I rested my elbows on the sill and breathed in some of the cooler, cleaner air.
No tourists, no screaming drag queens, no horse hooves clacking down the street. The perfect still of the night – this was something I would never get used to. Not in New Orleans. The quietness freaked me out.
My mind drifted back to the Ursuline Convent. I could almost feel the swoosh of energy that had moved past me after th e
“Success!” The bulb in the ceiling fixture must have burnt out. I removed the lampshade to amplify the light. “Good enough for tonight.”
The room was quite large, covering the width of the downstairs. The ceiling sloped at various heights due to the roof’s slant, and four dormer windows protruded over the front of the house. There was a small fireplace and two doors on opposite walls.
The first door revealed a small room, about ten feet by ten feet, with mountains of stuff piled up to the ceiling. I flicked my flashlight around for a few seconds. Whoa. I could have my own little studio… or a walk-in closet. Suddenly the task of cleaning everything out didn't seem so arduous. I nearly skipped as I closed the door and crossed the room to door number two.
I pulled the long ball ’n chain dangling from the ceiling. A single bulb flickered on, and I shrieked, “WHY have I been sharing a bathroom with my father for all of these years when there is one up here?” I pressed the flusher on the toilet and marveled at the working plumbing.
The dust was so thick on the oval mirror above the pedestal sink that I struggled to see my own reflection. Feeling slightly nosey, I opened the glass door of a tall, narrow cabinet, disrupting the long-settled dust, which in turn disrupted my sinuses and caused me to sneeze three times.
Stacks of towels long past their prime. A heavy, silver hairbrush. An assortment of vintage cosmetics. I ogled at a collection of perfume bottles made of multicolored, unlabeled glass. A few were marked with the word “Paris.”
Who did you all belong to? They were way too old to have belonged to my mothe r . The little objects begged me to make them shiny again.
I pulled out the rotting linens. They were far from salvageable, but my affinity for fabric caused me to poke through them anyway. A misplaced square of lace lay among the tattered terrycloth. The dry-rotted Chantilly fell apart at my touch, revealing a piece of silver. At a glance, it looked like an old coin, but on further inspection it seemed to be a medallion of some sort . One side was rough, as if something had broken off and left behind a scar in the metal. There was something familiar about the shape – an eight-pointed star. The other side was flat and smooth except for an ornate border. It looked sad. Unfinished. Like a canvas someone had given up on. I wondered if something was missing from the piece or if this was the artist’s intended design.
I slipped it into my pocket and sighed at the tragic state of the disintegrated loops of lace. After a nother minute mourning the textiles, I started a trash pile, telling myself I couldn’t get attached to every inch of vintage something-or-the-other I found while cleaning.
* * *
The smell of bleach permeated the air as I wrung the mop into the sink. My fingers ached from scrubbing. I caught a glimpse of my watch and was surprised to find more than two hours had passed.
Break tim e .
The air in the lamp-lit bedroom wasn’t any better. I struck a wooden match and lit one of the Voodoo shop’s sage bundles, unsure whether it would help or hinder the dusty and now chemical-filled air.
At least now the room will be free of evil spirits.
Chuckling , I left the smoking herbs in a glass dish on the fireplace mantle. The dust began to tickle the back of my throat, making me cough.
With some force, I managed to wriggle open one of the windows. In the darkness, there was nothing to look at but the moon, but I rested my elbows on the sill and breathed in some of the cooler, cleaner air.
No tourists, no screaming drag queens, no horse hooves clacking down the street. The perfect still of the night – this was something I would never get used to. Not in New Orleans. The quietness freaked me out.
My mind drifted back to the Ursuline Convent. I could almost feel the swoosh of energy that had moved past me after th e
Similar Books
The Billionaires Hired Baby Mother: When the wife and surrogate are two different people
BWWM Club, Tyra Small
