Flash Fiction Friday

The Homecoming © Cora Zane, 2007 Hot sun beat down on Caroline's back as she unloaded the last of the boxes from the back of her dusty blue pickup. She stacked them one on one, the boxes with "linens" scrawled on the side in black marker, and carried them up to the porch where she set them on the top step. She pushed them back out of the way so she could sit down in the shade, and flopped down onto the step, aware of the damp tug of her shirt as it stuck to her back. Ten thirty in the morning, and already it was hot as blue blazes. Caroline ran the back of her wrist over her forehead, and touched the downy fringe of blonde hair that had pulled free of her ponytail. The humidity made it curl about her face like a halo of fluff. She frowned at that, but at least she had everything out of storage now. That was one less thing to eat on her mind at the end of the month; one less bill. She checked her knee where she'd scraped it on the tear in the screen door a little while earlier. Blood tinged the skin, but it wasn't too bad. It stung like hell, but she'd live. A good thing too, since the nearest hospital was a good forty minute drive to Natchez, and any hope of an ambulance was out. There wasn’t a neighbor for miles, and the phone wasn't even connected in the house yet. Sighing softly, she figured it was time to get off her duff and finish up; take the last of the boxes into the house so she could cool off and fix a sandwich for lunch before she went about sorting all the boxes she'd left scattered in living room. As Caroline stood up, she stretched, raised her slender arms high over her head and gazed out across the yard. A warm fuzzy feeling settled in her heart every time she looked out across the overgrown property choked with wildflowers. Mine. This is mine. My home. A smile curving her mouth, she turned and picked up the boxes, and pushed her way through the squeaky screen door into the cool, airy house. She looked around her shady den, at the glossy hardwood floors and peeling wall paper—and at the dozens of boxes she had to unpack. If her grandfather were alive today, he would have cried. Caroline pictured him as she last remembered seeing him, hunched over and frail in his rocking chair, his hands work-worn and age spotted. He'd kept them folded in his lap all the time toward the end of his life because they shook. He would have raised them for a day like today, would have covered his face while he cried. "It's fate, Caroline," she could imagine him saying, his soothing voice like sandpaper. To him, the return of the house and the land would be like hallmark the end of a family tragedy. The house pre-dated the Civil War, and at one time it had been a thing of real beauty. It stood in shambles now, flaking paint, the roof bald in patches, and a sagging porch. The gazebo and stables had long ago fallen to ruin, but regardless of the state of the place, it was a small victory for her family. After a hundred and forty some odd years, the house once again rested in the possession of a blood-born Radcliff. Their family had lost everything in the years of struggle following the Civil War. Newly widowed, her great-great-great grandmother had sold the house to a wealthy Carpetbagger, a man who came into the community from the North and began buying up land bit by bit. The sale had caused a nasty rift in the family for many years to follow. Some said the original Caroline Radcliff, whom she had been named for, had sold the family land in an attempt to salve her broken heart...which, scandalously enough, had nothing to do with the loss of her husband. According to family rumor, Caroline had been secretly in love with the owner of a neighboring plantation. When her husband Charles had died in battle, she had believed that after her imposed mourning period she and Gabriel Navarro would finally be together. However, that union never happened. For reasons no one other than Gabriel ever knew, he left for New Orleans on business, and when he returned, he had his new bride with him—the daughter of prominent politician. Heartbroken and in shock, Caroline was unwilling to live next door to her ex-lover and his new wife. Less than a year after his betrayal, she sold off all the Radcliff property and moved out West. Caroline looked up at the portrait of her great grandmother, which leaned against the far wall by the bookcase. The woman in the portrait was blonde haired, blue-eyed, and rosy cheeked. Caroline recognized the similarities between herself and her ancestor—and they had more in common than just looks. "Don't worry, Grandma. The family might've been pissed with you, but I understand completely. If it had been me, I wouldn't have stayed, either," she admitted. Even though what she said was true, it had been her family's dream to get the house and land back for generations. She'd heard stories about births and deaths that occurred in the house. Moonlight courtships and weddings that had taken place in the backyard arbor. Good times and bad, the house had a history, and that appealed to Caroline very much. When the last of a long line of Abernathy's passed away and the homestead came up for sale, Caroline was right there. She'd jumped at the chance to buy it, no matter what the cost. In some ways, it felt like she was buying back a lost birthright. She dropped the box of linens on the sofa, and rummaged around through the other boxes, until she found the one with "kitchen" written on it. She was just turning to make her way out from the center of the maze of boxes, when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. A streak of white, like an electric flash, slipped from the doorway to the dining room so sudden and unexpected, Caroline jumped, her nerves bunching all over. She gasped in alarm, whipping around so fast she nearly fell over the stack of boxes situated behind her. The "kitchen" box tumbled from her arms in the process, spilling out a metallic shower of forks and spoons and plastic cups. She let it fall, her gaze riveted on that doorway in stunned horror. Heart hammering against her ribs, she waited—for what she didn't know, just for something else to happen. Nothing did. Rattled, her senses on high alert, Caroline made her way out of the maze of boxes toward the doorway, shaky and listening for even the slightest sound of movement from another room. The house remained silent. Birds twittered in the yard, and the wind chimes tinkled quietly on the porch, but the house remained silent. "H-hello?" she whispered hoarsely, and licked her dry lips. No one answered—of course, they didn't. She was completely alone. No one lived around her for miles. And yet she got the distinct impression that someone waited for her just beyond that doorway in the dining room. Caroline stopped in the doorway, and glanced into the room. Seeing no one, sharp relief came over her—only to be replaced by startling numbness a second later as her gaze fell on the dining room table. She lifted a trembling hand to cover her mouth, and shook her head. It's not possible… she told herself. They can't be real. But they were real—all twelve of them. She gazed at the bouquet of roses, their heavy fragrance wafting in the room like an entity of its own. Each Red Splendor rose had come fresh from the overgrown garden behind her house—Caroline recognized the blooms from her walk through the back yard the day before. She'd inspected them, admired their potency. And now, someone had cut them, hand bound them with baby's breath and leafy fronds, and tied them with pale blue ribbon before leaving them here on her table. She stepped further into the room looked around, toward the front parlor, the kitchen before moving over to the table. Whoever left the roses had also left a card. Her hands were shaking when she picked it up and read the inscription: To my beloved Caroline—welcome home. * * * * *