The Woman at the Light
Prologue
Prologue
Key West
April 6, 1883
It is my day to honor the dead.
As Charles brings the victoria to a halt outside the Key West cemetery, I feel a certain pride—it almost borders on vanity—when I reject his arm and step down, making my way through the main entrance without his assistance. Yet, he follows me closely, carrying my ?oral tributes in his strong brown hands; once inside, he lays them carefully near my family’s markers.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay, now?”
I wave away his suggestion. “No, no. I’ll be ?ne.” It is the same conversation we have every week. “Go on ahead and see to your errands. Come back for me in an hour.”
“Yes, ma’am. You just take your time. I’ll be waiting for you right outside the entrance, over there. On Margaret Street.” He draws out this street name slowly.
I suppress a smile. We have performed this charade every Friday morning for … how long? I can no longer keep track. As my years advance with alarming determination, Charles worries that my state of mind is deteriorating in lockstep with my withering body. We both know that instead of tending to errands, he will be watching my progress protectively from the carriage. Then he’ll wheel up to the entrance when he sees that my visit is over.
He leaves, and I survey the ?eld of angels and crosses. Fresh graves remind me that life, and especially death, go on with relentless ferocity. And those stone angels spread out before me … are they breeding when not under our watchful eye? There appear to be more of them this week. Many of the new markers are tiny, reserved for our babies, those poor little ones with no resources to ?ght the fever.
I exult in the delicious solitude of this peaceful sanctuary. Domingo, the caretaker, who usually nods with a cheery “G’mornin’, Miss Emily!” has left to work in a cigar factory, so no one is around to distract me early on this spring day. Only those hiding under stones remain: Their silence speaks volumes of island stories yet untold.
My two husbands have been slumbering here these many years. I tend their graves dutifully, placing ?owers as I softly intone spiritual murmurings for their souls, perfunctory words I manage to summon from the well of my pantheistic heart.
I lay the traditional generic wreaths before my spouses’ markers. But for my only sister, Dorothy, I have brought freshly cut ?ery red gingers and heliconias in a blazing orange color. She was always fond of them. Another bouquet is placed before Gran’s vault, which I fashioned from her favorite purple cattleya orchids. Crotchety old Gran, who, I can admit, is far more cherished by me now than ever she was in life.
My duties performed, I move on eagerly to the remote grave at the farthest corner of the cemetery, the real reason for my weekly visit. For this sacred plot have I reserved the wildest, most fragrant ?owers and the lyrical hymns of my own authorship.
It is just after daybreak on this Key West morning, already sultry, and I kneel before the grave under the canopy of a mahogany tree whose sheltering arms reach out to offer shade. A cooling breeze occasionally stirs the air; the throaty ripple of mourning doves stabs the silence. And the pungent dampness from recent rains on the leaf-scented ground assaults my aging knees. I place my ?owers and whisper softly as I arrange their showy blooms. Against the bleakness of the darkening gray stones, their vivid color brings the air to life, like joyful wedding confetti scattered on church steps.
The day grows increasingly hot, with the sun scorching the early mist, and my hair curls into damp tendrils around my neck as my clothing begins to cling to my skin. Feeling lightheaded, I sit on the coral stone bench beside the grave—the grave of the one man I truly loved.
I think back on all that has happened these past ?fty-four years. Condemned to have lived on, alone and wiser, I recall the bitter and the sweet, the grief and the rapture—for in my life, the one cannot be chronicled without the other.