Kelly Keaton - Darkness Becomes Her

My hand tightened around the door handle, the other holding the box tightly. “Um, Crank?”

The radio blared to life and Crank straightened, taking the steering wheel with her and veering to the left side of the road, where a chunk of the guardrail had vanished. Without missing a beat, she settled back into her driving stance and slowly guided the vehicle into the center of the road.

Twenty-four miles of bridge, minus the last hair-raising few, stretched out low and mostly flat over the calm waters of the lake. Twenty-four miles of zydeco music as every one of my stomach muscles grew sore and my fingers began to stiffen around the door handle. By the time we reached land, I felt like I’d done a hundred sit-ups and heard enough zydeco to last a lifetime.

Crank navigated through the suburb of Metairie, which was dark and quiet this time of night, only a few random lights where there should’ve been thousands, then onto Route 61, which led to Washington Avenue. The street changed names a few times before it intersected with St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District. Crank didn’t slow down to check for traffic, just shot out into the intersection, veering left onto the street. Not that it mattered; there wasn’t anyone else on the road. There were a few streetlamps working, and I could see the double tracks of the St. Charles Avenue trolley running parallel with the road.

The Garden District had become a semi ghost town, a beautiful lost place where once-manicured gardens surged over their cast-iron fences and spread across the community in a tangle of vines and weeds.

Crank turned down First Street, and it was like we’d gone a hundred years back in time. Despite the chipped paint, rotted boards, busted railings, and cracked, broken, or boarded-up windows, the houses stood like dignified street sentinels surrounded by ancient live oaks draped in the gray, ragged shawls of Spanish moss.

The truck turned onto Coliseum Street and then stopped suddenly, brakes whining, sending me flying forward until my seat belt clicked and stopped me from going through the windshield. I flew back against the seat, heart pounding as Crank shoved the gear into neutral, pressed the parking brake, and turned off the engine.

Leftover vibrations from the rumbling truck continued through me, and my ears felt like they were encased in muffs.

“Home sweet home,” Crank said loudly. “Come on.”

I hopped out with the box and slung my backpack over my shoulder. My feet hit solid ground. The impulse to drop to my knees and thank God I’d made it out alive went through me, but I stayed still, taking a second to regain my equilibrium.

“This way,” Crank’s voice echoed in the darkness.

I stepped onto the broken sidewalk and craned my head back at the tall shadow looming above us. Wow.

The house on the corner of First and Coliseum was set in a jungle of trees and overgrown lawn, surrounded by a black iron fence. It was tall and rectangular, two stories high with faded mauve paint, lacy wrought-iron railings and scrollwork along the double porches, and black plantation shutters framing the large windows. A few dim lights shone through the panes, muted by dark curtains, dirt, and grime.

I loved it immediately — beauty shadowed by time and decay, but still standing proud. Yeah, this was my kind of place.

Feeling a little better about my spontaneous decision to come to New 2, I followed Crank through the main gate, which supported a thick, climbing tangle of small, fragrant white flowers— the same kind that wound up the side of the house and twined through the second-floor railing. A black lantern hung suspended from the roof of the second-story porch above us.

“Cool, huh?” Crank said over her shoulder as she opened the front door.

“You live here?”

“Yup. Well, we don’t technically own it, but no one ever came back to claim it, so now it’s ours. There’s a bunch of empty ones in the GD — that’s what we call the Garden District. The better ones have all been snagged by squatters, but this one ain’t half bad. Some rooms are worse than others, but otherwise it’s good.” She held out her hand. “Twenty for the ride and forty for the room.”

“Oh, right.” I set my backpack on the porch and fished for my wallet, pulling out three twenties and placing them in Crank’s open hand.

We entered into a large hardwood foyer with a wide staircase along one wall, the bottom half of it curving gently toward the front door. The base fanned out like honey spilled from a jar. Hanging on a long chain attached to the second-floor ceiling was a large wrought-iron chandelier, so fine and detailed it looked like it had been spun from some magical metalworking spider. The walls on either side of the foyer had wide openings leading to other rooms.

To the right was a massive dining room with a long, stately table and ten high-backed chairs. There was a faded mural on the ceiling, and burgundy-and-gold wallpaper that was faded and peeling in places. Black sconces burned, minus the two that didn’t work, in spaced intervals around the room, and two tall windows were framed with cornices and heavy old burgundy curtains.

“Neat, huh?” Crank stood beside me. “We call it The Crypt ’cause it looks like something from a vampire movie.”

“Nice,” I murmured.

Some of the floorboards were rotting. I avoided those as we headed for the stairs. The wallpaper in the foyer was missing or peeling in places just like in the dining room, but, like Crank said, it wasn’t half bad. In fact, I thought it was just as beautiful on the inside as it was on the outside.

“I’ll show you your room first.”

Across the foyer from the dining room was the living room. It ran the entire left-side length of the house. Tall ceilings. Two dusty chandeliers. And two fireplaces along the far wall, with gilded mirrors over each mantel. Like the dining room, and probably every other room in the house, the room was framed with serious crown moldings and plasterwork. One of the windows had been boarded up with random pieces of lumber and nails.

“You can stay in the room across from mine,” Crank said, already on the stairs. “Oh, and be careful on the sixteenth step.”

I counted, making sure to skip number sixteen, and then followed Crank down a wide hallway. She stopped at the first door on the left and then stood back to let me through first. “Here you go.”

The bedroom was dark and smelled of damp wood. Crank hit a light switch and a small chandelier glowed above us, hanging from a plaster medallion on the ceiling. The floors were wide, planked hardwood, and there were two tall windows. I entered with careful steps. The floor creaked but held.

“Yours overlooks the side garden. The mattress was growing mold, so we threw that out a long time ago, but I can bring you my old sleeping bag. We’ve got running water, but I wouldn’t drink it if I were you. Just use it for showering and the toilet and you should be fine. Toilet is through that door; every room has its own. The Novem put all their money into fixing the French Quarter first, but eventually we’ll get things back to the way they should be out here. I’ll tell my brother you’re here.”

Crank was gone before I could turn around and say thanks, so I stood there in the middle of the old room, taking in the iron bed frame with no mattress, the faded oval rug on the floor, the marble fireplace, and the mantel, which held a bunch of candles, all in different stages of use.

An oil painting of a mother and two children hung over the bed, and on either side of the painting were gilded sconces that didn’t seem to be working.

There was a tall bureau in the corner, and a long matching dresser and mirror on the same wall as the fireplace. I walked over, drawn by a human skull snuggled in a bed of colorful Mardi Gras beads, a black top hat on its head. It looked — I gulped— real . An old cigar was wedged between its teeth. There were other things on the dresser too — a silver hand mirror and brush, a small jewelry box, and an empty wine bottle with a candle shoved into the neck.