A woman with a moon falling from her mouth,
roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss—
this woman is a consort of the spirits.
Ntozake Shange
Jessica Skye, a Thirties’ actress with Harlow looks, is not really dead. She haunts me continually—partly because her huge dark eyes stare at me from her portrait above the mantel—and partly because she inhabits a virtual wing of my house.
I access her abode through a portal in my basement that outwardly appears to be a wine cellar, but actually conceals a Thirties’ speak-easy. Behind some swing-out shelves lies a second door that leads to a part of the house that is not of this world.
And tonight I’ve made up my mind to go back and be with her.
I eat a light supper sitting in the front room by the light of the fire. It’s basic, if not a Spartan repast—Swiss cheese on rye and a glass of Shiraz.
I know—with my history of alcohol abuse I shouldn’t, but ever since I explored the basement speak-easy and stumbled upon that portal to the past, I’ve needed the occasional drink to calm my tremors.
No, they’re not DT’s—they’re more a distant thunder—a reverberation that pulses inside me every time I remember the dark surprise in Jessica’s eyes.
I can see her still.
Sometimes, I tremble so much, I have to squeeze my fingers tight into a ball and scrunch my eyes closed and try not to see that white petal in a dark sea—Jessica in the garden below, staring up at me.
A turreted, second-floor room that doesn’t exist in the time or space—how can it be?
But I was there! I know it’s real—as real and palpable as this longing for a woman that’s been dead half a century but has managed to ignite a conflagration within me.
The rain has stopped and I wander outside and stand on my front lawn.
It’s cool and there’s a slight breeze. I look up at the manse Jessica built—a monolith towering above me—a Cubist house with curving lines, now illumined with the aura of a full moon about to crest the roof line
It’s romantic standing here beneath the dark oaks, listening to the rustling leaves, and watching the Moon break free and beckon to me.
A wild delight surges through me. I can sense Jessica near. She’s on the grounds with me and the darkness provides just enough obscurity to soften the stark actuality of the everyday and liberate her spirit.
I begin to shiver and can take no more. I force myself to go in and shut the door on my fantasies, but it’s futile—I can’t shut her out completely, because nightly, she haunts my dreams.