Remembrance

Remembrance

The clouds, pregnant with moisture, held back their birthing ritual leaving only their sullen grayness to bear witness. The raw, red Georgia clay peeked out from under the green tarp that had been spread around the grave site.

"The ground is stained with the blood of our ancestors." Forrest could still hear the voice of his Grandmother, even after all the years that had past.

He remembered fondly spending summers with her. Her ... obsession, yes that's the word with the Confederacy was always a mystery. He knew that her great-grandfather had been on General Lee's staff but she never talked much about it which seemed strange for someone who still put out the Confederate flag on holidays. "It's in our blood," was as expansive as she ever got when reciting the proud lineage of the McLeod's. "Someday, you'll understand." He never had.

Forrest looked around at the small gathering. Three elderly women stood together. Forrest recognized them as "Daughters of the Confederacy." Frances Collister-McLeod was proud of her southern roots and had been a member for as long as he could remember. A middle-aged man stood apart and wasn't familiar. After eighty-nine years, you'd think more would be here to remember you, Grandma.

"There are memories and histories. Never confuse the two," he recalled her saying. I'll remember, Grandma.

The priest intoned, ""May the soul of Frances and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace."

He closed his book of rituals, crossed himself, and the walked over to Forrest. Extending his hand he said, "You're Forrest, right? Frances spoke of you often. If there's anything I can do, please, let me know."

"Thank you," he hesitated, unsure how to continue.

"Father Tom Kelley," the priest smiled. "Tom will do."

"Thank you, Tom. I just spoke with her last week. This all seems so ... sudden."

"Some things we're never prepared for."

"No, I guess we're not."

"Forrest?"

Forrest turned to face the unidentified man he had seen earlier.

"Hi. I'm Jim Sloyer, Frances's attorney. I know this isn't the best time but Frances left everything to you." He pulled out a card. "Give me a call. There's some paperwork we need to take care of at some point."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Sloyer. I'll give you a call and we can set up a time."

"I understand. Are you staying local?"

"I just got into town last night. I haven't ..."

"Well, here are the keys to Frances's ... well, your house now," he said, handing over a small ring of keys. "I'm sorry about her passing. She was ... one of a kind," he said with a small smile.

Forrest returned the smile. "Yes, Grams was that. I'll give you a call."

They shook hands and Forrest was left standing alone. One of a kind. Did you hear that Gramma? He could almost hear her laughing as he turned and left.

Forrest let out a long sigh. I'm gonna to miss you, old gal, passed through is mind as he pushed open the front door of his Grandmother's house.

The funeral had been ... unsatisfying. He hadn't really processed it all yet. The lingering smell of rose water floated in the air as if to remind him that she was still here in spirit. He flipped on the light switch and was pleased to see the hallway lights come on. Note to self. Start a list of things you'll have to do like make sure the utilities stay on. He almost laughed. Frances was a "list person" and always kept a pad and pencil handy. He was sure he'd have no trouble finding one.

He refocused on the task at hand. He was the de facto executor of the estate and so he found himself invading the home of the woman he had loved since childhood. Forgive me, Gram. He knew she did; she was the one that had chosen him for this last task.

He entered the kitchen. It was just as he remembered it with its laminate and chrome table and matching chairs. He laid the keys down, intending to make a pot of coffee. One of the keys caught his attention. It was an old skeleton key that he had never seen before. He thought back, trying to think of what it ... and the memory surfaced.

What was I then? Twelve, maybe thirteen? I had found the old door in the hallway locked and asked where it led. Grandma had said it went to the attic. "Can I go see what's there?"

Grandma had laughed. "Not now. You're not ready to see all my secrets," she had teased me.

"I don't think we need any more secrets now, Grandma," Forrest said. Picking up the keys, he went down the hall and unlocked the door.

Peering through the dancing dust motes sparkling in the dying rays of sunset, he saw a pull chain and clicked on the bare bulb. "Well, Gramma, let's see what treasures you've kept hidden all these years."

Surprisingly, there were only a few boxes. He glanced through them, seeing stacks of papers. An old trunk was sitting at the back of the space. He made his way through the discarded memories and, grabbing the leather straps, pulled it under the light and opened it.

Well, I'll be darned! There, neatly folded, was a Confederate officer's uniform. Next to it was a wooden box with "Captain Forrest McLeod" engraved on a brass plate.

"That's who I was named after," he muttered. He slipped the coat on and was surprised by how well it fit. Curiosity drove him to see what other relics of his ancestor had been kept all these years. Opening the small box, he was startled by the waxen face staring back at him – the death mask of his namesake.

"This is too weird." He studied the face, recognizing some of his own features in the silent visage. Gingerly picking it up, Forrest carefully turned it over. Even in the dim light, the details revealed in the casting were remarkable. I wish I had a mirror. We must have looked a lot alike. Without thinking, he lowered his face into the depression.

The sound of a cannon going off came from the right, causing him to duck. Heavy clouds of smoke swirled across the field and he stifled a cough, not wanting to give away his position. He knew that the Yankees would be charging soon. Loosening his sword, he began to prepare. A looming shadow caught his eye and he turned, a blue blur moving toward him, the gleam of a bayonet flashing in the light. He dodged and grabbed the soldier, tumbling to the ground and spinning the soldier away. He felt the rough woven coat tear as his fingers tightened ...

Forrest opened his eyes, finding that he was sitting on the floor panting, feeling the adrenaline rush through his body. "What the hell?" he managed to gasp out.

He sat trembling, trying to orient himself, confused and scared by his ... vision? memory? I must have cut off my air off and blacked out. He turned, looking about, but the room was just as it had been. The mask lay on the floor, staring at him.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm his shaking. He became aware that his hands were clenched in tight fists. Relaxing his hand, he saw a small piece of blue fabric and the gleam of a gold button with an embossed eagle and the letters U.S.A. lying in his palm.

An entry for the June Round of "Journey Through Genres: Official Contest"  [E]
Challenge: Use the mystery genre as inspiration for a short story.
Word Limit: 2,000
Word Count: 1,274