Southern Hospitality
My eyes slowly opened to see the first rays of the morning sun peeking in through the cabin window. I sat up, being careful not to wake Amber-Leigh, not wanting to spoil the peace of the moment by her crying. The silence here was complete. Not only were the sounds of the city nonexistent, but those of the country were absent as well. I miss the chirping birds I used to hear when I woke. Nature was something I used to take for granted. I take nothing for granted anymore.
How our lives have all changed since that day Ron and I set out on our long-awaited vacation! There had been a minor argument when we first made our plans. I wanted to take a relaxing cruise to a Caribbean island, a sort of second honeymoon. My husband, however, wanted to reconnect with his old friend, Judson Belmont, whom he had not seen in nearly a decade.
"We've keep trying to get together," my husband explained, "but every time one of us is free, the other is in the middle of a trial. This is the first time we can both take off."
Like the good-natured, loving wife that I am, I gave in. We were still young, after all. There would be other opportunities for romantic cruises, or so I thought.
If only ....
It was a short, two-word prepositional phrase: "if only." Yet the expression held immeasurable sadness and regret. If only we had gone to the Bahamas or Jamaica. But we didn't. So, here I am with Amber-Leigh, somewhere west of Charleston, South Carolina, on an old plantation that had been in the current owner's family since the late seventeenth century.
The first Craddock, Theophilus Craddock, was a British subject-turned patriot who fought in the Revolutionary War and won. His grandson, Theophilus III, fought on the side of the Confederacy in the Civil War and lost, but the family survived and held on to their land. They were good at adapting to change. When rice ceased to be a money-making crop, they planted pecan trees; when the pecan trees were destroyed by a hurricane, they switched to another crop and then another after that. Eventually, they supplemented their income by opening the house and gardens to tourists, offering them the well-known Southern hospitality.
This history lesson of the Craddocks was given to me by Zeke Craddock, who has become my main source of information. I have not met any of the other family members yet. Perhaps I will never get the opportunity to do so despite the fact that I am their "guest."
Soon, I could discern the faint sounds of a handful of plantation workers beginning their labors in the fields. The blight—that's apparently how they refer to the recent agricultural crisis—destroyed all the crops that the family relied on for food. Thankfully, they had stored seeds for the following season's planting, which they were now sowing. They were also fortunate in having canned fruits and vegetables in sealed mason jars safely put away where the blight had not gotten to them. Those provisions and a fresh supply of meat, they hoped, would sustain them until conditions improved.
* * *
I suppose I ought to explain how I, a third-grade schoolteacher from Concord, Massachusetts, wound up in a cabin near Charlestown with a former Miss South Carolina. As I said before, my husband and I were planning a vacation with Judson Belmont, his childhood friend and college roommate, who after going on to Harvard Law School, was now working for one of the foremost law firms in the South. Since Judson had the use of a two-hundred-foot yacht for the summer, Ron and I flew to Savannah where we would all embark on a three-week cruise.
When the chauffeur-driven limo that picked us up at the airport stopped in front of the Belmonts' Monterey Square house, my eyes widened.
"This is where Jud lives?" I asked, impressed by the grandeur.
"Apparently, getting people out of jail pays a lot better than putting them in," Ron replied sheepishly.
Judson was a high-priced defense attorney whereas his boyhood friend worked for the prosecutor's office.
"But money isn't everything. You're doing a public service: keeping the streets of Boston safe."
It was the kind of naïve statement only a lovestruck woman would make to cheer up her man. Both of us knew how the legal system worked. The poor, aided only by public defenders right out of law school, were the ones who did time. Those criminals who could afford lawyers like Judson Belmont invariably got off.
When a uniformed African-American housekeeper answered the door, I felt as though we had stepped onto the set of The Help. I had to remind myself this wasn't Mississippi in the Sixties.
"You must be Mr. Judson's friends from up north, Mr. and Mrs. Traven," she said in a heavy regional accent. "Come on in. Miz Amber-Leigh will be right down."
It was as though Judson's wife had deliberately staged her entrance. She paused momentarily on the second-floor landing in order for us to get a good look at her before she descended the sweeping staircase. My husband was as impressed by his friend's wife as I was with the house. I wasn't surprised, but I admit I was slightly jealous. Amber-Leigh, one-time second runner-up in the Miss America pageant, was stunning. Her professionally coiffed hair, expertly made-up face and form-hugging designer outfit all enhanced her natural beauty. I, with my clean-scrubbed freckled face, could best be described as "cute" and was thus no match for our hostess when it came to appearance and feminine charm.
"Welcome, y'all," she said in a Southern accent nearly as thick as her housekeeper's. "Judson will be down in a few minutes. He's in his office on the phone."
By the time she made it down the stairs and across the foyer, her husband appeared on the landing.
"Ron!" he cried with excitement, taking the steps two at a time. "How long has it been? Let me see, the last time I saw you was at your wedding. That was how long ago?"
"Nine years," my husband replied.
Judson leaned over, kissed my cheek and asked, "No little Travens yet?"
"Not yet," I answered. "Hopefully in another year or two."
Our host led us to a large, airy sitting room and made us cocktails. Amber-Leigh did not simply sit down but rather seemed to pose upon the chair.
"Judson tells me you're a schoolteacher," she said, before taking a sip of her drink, taking pains not to smudge her lipstick as she did.
"Yes. I teach third grade. What do you do?"
"I'm the lady of the house; I don't work."
It was obvious from the tone of her voice that she found the idea of having a job quite distasteful.
"I imagine a place this size takes up a lot of your time."
"You don't think my wife does housework!" Judson laughed. "When she's not organizing a dinner party or a charity event, she spends her time playing tennis at the country club."
"How nice."
It was the only thing I could think of saying. In truth, I thought such frivolous pursuits were a waste of valuable time. But then, I had been raised on the good old Yankee work ethic.
After we finished our drinks, our host took us on a brief tour of Savannah. We then stopped at the Old Pink House for dinner. Throughout the evening, Ron and Judson happily reminisced about their childhood and college days. I, on the other hand, struggled to make conversation with a woman who was as different from me as night was from day. Unlike my husband, I was glad when the evening came to an end and we returned to the Monterey Square house.
"Anyone for a nightcap?" Judson asked.
"I'll have one," Ron replied, putting himself over his customary two-drink limit.
I declined the offer.
Leaving the two old friends to continue to rehash their youthful escapades, Amber-Leigh and I said our goodnights and retired to our respective rooms.
* * *
When I heard the soft whimpering coming from the opposite end of the cabin, I knew Amber-Leigh was awake.
Oh, God! I thought. Here we go again.
After the whimpering would come the silent tears, followed by the sniffles and finally the sobs. It was always the same.
"Breakfast will be here soon."
I made the announcement not to inform my companion of a fact she was well aware of; I said it to hear my voice drown out her pitiful sounds.
"I don't know how you can eat after ... after all we've been through."
Then the tears came, and I wished I had kept my mouth shut. The whimpering was better than the crying.
"I have to keep up my strength."
"In God's name, why?"
I turned and looked in her direction. The light in her corner of the room was dim, and she preferred remaining in the shadows. Yet, despite the poor illumination, I could see how she had changed since that day Ron and I saw her on the second-floor landing of her grand home. The hair, which had been so carefully styled, was matted and in need of a good shampooing. What little remained of her makeup left dark smudges on her cheeks and around her eyes. Her nails, once uniform in size and shape, were now jagged—some long; some short—and the acrylic polish was nearly all chipped off. There would be no more beauty titles for Amber-Leigh. She looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, as my mother used to say.
"Why did you and your husband have to visit us?" she said in a bitter, accusatory tone.
This was a new behavior for her. Up until that point, she wallowed in self-pity; now she was casting blame.
"Judson and I would never have left Savannah if it hadn't been for the two of you!" she spat.
"And just what do you think would have happened to you in Savannah?" I argued. "The same thing that happened to the people of Charleston and every other city up and down the Eastern Seaboard, not to mention the West Coast and Middle America."
"It would have been preferable to ... this!"
Having vented her wrath, Amber-Leigh then succumbed to a torrent of tears. As I listened to her blubbering, I found it hard to call to mind the exquisite beauty who first welcomed my husband and I to her home. She had made the best of the gift nature had given to her—her physical appearance—and risen high, from being the daughter of a single mother living on welfare to a pampered, wealthy trophy wife. I could well understand her despair at the bathos and disappointment in her changed circumstances.
For the first time since meeting the former beauty queen, I agree with her. Ron and I should never have gone to Savannah. We should have taken that Caribbean cruise instead. Admittedly, the three weeks we spent on the yacht were not exactly the worst of my life. Although my husband spent a good deal of that time with Judson, he did not ignore me. There were romantic moments when it felt like that second honeymoon I dreamed of.
I mustn't think about Ron now. If I do, I might be reduced to a weeping wreck like Amber-Leigh, and I take pride in being made of sterner stuff.
"I will persevere," I told myself over and over.
Maybe if I say it enough times, I will convince myself of this.
* * *
The fish had been the first sign that something was amiss. As the captain of the yacht sailed into Charleston Harbor, passing Sullivan Island on the starboard side and Fort Sumter on the port, I noticed a number of dead fish floating on the water's surface. My first thought was that there had been an oil spill or some other accident. Then, as we neared the marina, I noticed the fishing boats were still moored at the docks.
"Today isn't Sunday, is it?" I asked my husband.
"It's not like you to lose track of time," he laughed. "No, it's Friday."
"Where is everyone then?"
"It's early yet."
"Something must be wrong," I insisted. "My uncle was a fisherman in Gloucester. He was out every morning before the sun came up."
"Maybe people sleep late in the South."
Once the four-man crew managed to get the yacht secured, the captain came down from the bridge.
"I haven't been able to get anyone on the radio," he said, as we got ready to disembark. "You folks want to try your cell phones?"
All four of the passengers, as well as the captain himself, had fully charged phones. Although the signals were strong, no one we called answered.
"Ron, let's you and I go into town and see what's happening," Judson suggested, immediately taking charge. "You women stay here."
"I'm coming with you," I said, bristling at the insinuation that we were being excluded by virtue of our sex.
"I wouldn't advise that. It might be dangerous."
"I'm not a damsel in distress. If there is something wrong, I want to be at my husband's side. Are you coming, Amber-Leigh?"
"I suppose so," she replied, more out of boredom than concern for what was happening. "They're bound to have a Starbucks. And the coffee on the boat is horrible!"
The two men took the lead, and we women followed behind. As we headed North on East Bay Street, Ron, Judson and I knocked on doors and rang bells. No one answered. We got the same results as we made our way west through the historic district of the city. We walked north on Meeting Street and then south on King. Not a single coffee shop, not even Starbucks, was open.
"Can't we stop for a while?" Amber-Leigh moaned. "My feet are killing me in these shoes."
Trophy wives did not do much walking, and there were no taxis or chauffeured limos to take her back to the pier.
"Why don't you take them off and go barefoot?" I suggested.
The idea was so ludicrous that it did not warrant a verbal reply, only a scathing look.
As we headed east on Broad Street, we continued to search for signs of life.
"This feels like an episode of The Twilight Zone," I said, keeping the mounting fear out of my voice.
"What I wouldn't give for a vanilla chai latte right now," Amber-Leigh said wistfully.
Was she serious? How could she think of tea at a time like this?
"What'll we do now?" Ron asked, deferring to Judson.
"I say we return to the yacht and head back to Savannah."
"But I haven't gone shopping yet," his wife whined.
"You can wait until we go to ...."
Three sets of ears perked up at the familiar sound of an internal combustion engine.
"Did you hear that?" I asked, relief flooding over me.
"Yeah. It was a car, and it sounds like it's coming nearer."
A white vehicle, larger than an ordinary van but smaller than a bus, was heading toward us. As it neared, I read the name on the side: Chucktown Tours. When it came to a stop, the driver, wearing a KN95 mask over his mouth and nose, opened the doors for us.
"Hurry up and get inside," he urged in a voice slightly muffled by the facial protection.
"What's wrong?" Judson demanded to know. "Where is everyone?"
"Get in and I'll tell you. Be quick about it. I don't want to stay in the city any longer than necessary. And, here, put these on," he instructed, handing the four of us masks like his own.
We were no sooner in our seats than the driver sped away, heading toward the Arthur Ravenel, Jr., Bridge.
"So, what's going on?" Judson prompted.
"I guess you folks were out on a boat or something."
"Yes."
"Well, while you were gone, there was a terrorist attack."
I noticed he pronounced it "tearist," with two syllables, not three. Not that his speech mattered in such a situation, but once a teacher, always a teacher.
"What kind of attack?" Ron inquired.
"Biological. It was well-planned. I have to give the bastards credit for that! It must have taken months if not years to get everything in place. And then—pow! They hit every city and large town across America at once."
"What exactly did they do?"
"They released some kind of gas. It happened in the wee hours of the morning here in the East, in the middle of the night in the West, a time when they knew most people were asleep. It killed just about everyone."
"Where all the bodies then?" Judson argued, clearly not convinced of the veracity of the man's tale.
"Still in their beds, no doubt. Or at least in their homes. Another day or two, and the whole city is gonna stink of decomposing corpses."
I glanced in Amber-Leigh's direction. There was not a glimmer of fear on her face.
What's wrong with her? I wondered. How can anyone be so completely clueless as to what is happening around them?
"You're still alive," Judson pointed out, as though cross-examining a witness in court.
"People on farms are up before the crack of dawn. Lucky for us, there was a full moon. We could see the noxious green cloud hanging above the city, slowly drifting our way. We had these masks left over from 2020, and we quickly put them on and shut ourselves in the old bomb shelter that was installed back in the Sixties. That no doubt saved us. Of course, the animals and plants weren't so lucky."
"That explains the dead fish," Ron said.
"Where are you taking us?" I asked, more concerned with the present and immediate future than the recent past.
"The farm. You'll be safer there."
Was I foolish to believe him? I suppose not because we all did. In our own defense, what other choice did we have?
* * *
I heard Zeke Craddock approach with our morning meal. The cabin door opened, and he stood on the threshold with a tray. He wore no mask. The gas, though extremely deadly when first released, quickly dissipated. It no longer presented any danger to us.
"Mornin', ladies. Here's your breakfast."
"Grits and chicory coffee," I mumbled. "The breakfast of champions. Still, it's something to eat."
"Yes, ma'am. That's Southern hospitality. We believe in taking care of our guests."
"I want to go home," Amber-Leigh sobbed from her shadowy corner of the room. "I have a lot of money. I'll pay you anything you want, if you let me out of here."
"Where would you go?" he asked.
"Back to Savannah."
"You'd find the same thing there as you did in Charleston: a dead city. The same with Atlanta, Charlotte, Richmond—all the way up to New York and Boston. As I told you before, there ain't nowhere in the good ol' USA you can escape to. And there ain't no planes to take you out of the country."
"Are other countries sending us relief?" I asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine. We still can't get any TV or radio signals. But don't you two ladies fret none. You got a home right here now."
But for how long? I wondered.
* * *
When the Chucktown Tours minibus had driven up the long driveway, lined with Southern live oaks, my eyes were drawn to the Spanish moss hanging down from the branches. It felt as though we were approaching the Wilkes's Twelve Oaks plantation for a barbecue.
"Where are we?" I asked, when I saw the grand Greek Revival home at last.
"This is Laurel Grove," Zeke answered with pride. "It's been in the Craddock family since the late sixteen hundreds."
"It reminds me of Tara."
"It was one of the few places to survive the war. That's because the Yankees used it as a headquarters while they were burning Charleston to the ground. At least they didn't set fire to it when they left."
He drove past the main house and continued on to a row of small wooden cabins where the vehicle finally came to a stop.
"Sorry, but there's no room up at the big house. You'll have to stay in the slave quarters."
"Slave quarters!" Amber-Leigh exclaimed in horror.
"Yes, Ma'am. Normally, we give tours of the plantation and the gardens. We keep the cabins here on the property so that people can experience what the place was like before the war. Don't worry none. They're clean. We just repainted them last year. Step inside and have a look."
Judson led the way—naturally. Ron was next. I was on my husband's heels, and Amber-Leigh was behind me.
Two queen-sized mattresses were on the floor, one on either side of the small one-room structure. They were the only things in the room.
"No lights," I noted.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut, and we heard a bolt being drawn.
"What the ...?" Ron exclaimed.
"Let us out," Judson yelled, trying to force the door open.
"Sorry, folks," Zeke replied. "I can't do that."
After trying in vain to get free, we realized we had no choice but to accept the Craddocks' hospitality.
* * *
I finished my grits in silence, savoring every mouthful, while Amber-Leigh continued to bemoan her fate. She would eventually stop long enough to consume the first of our two daily meals.
"It's going to be hot today," I declared, more to myself than to my companion. "It's so humid you can practically cut the air with a knife."
The morning wore on. The day would be a repeat of the one before and the one before that. I would sit in the stifling cabin, perspiring and wilting like a flower without water until Zeke returned with our evening meal. (There was no midday meal, not with the shortage of food that came in the wake of the terrorist attack.) Once we were done eating our dinner, he would bring in two basins of hot water, a bar of soap and two towels. Those sponge baths were the best part of the day for me. It was the only time I still felt human.
It was late afternoon when I heard the Chucktown Tours vehicle coming up the long, tree-lined drive. Zeke was returning from his daily hunting expedition to Charleston. He was hoping a cruise ship crowded with tourists would return to port, but so far, he drove back to Laurel Grove every day empty-handed.
Although the air no longer posed a health hazard, Zeke wore a mask when he drove into the city. I would imagine the odor of close to one hundred and fifty thousand dead bodies was overwhelming.
There was a time in my life—not so long ago—when such a thought would have repulsed me. But I have grown accustomed to death. It was, after all, like a third person in the cabin. Unlike Amber-Leigh, it sat quietly in the shadows, waiting.
* * *
The four of us had been locked in the cabin for three days. Ron and I stoically endured our confinement while Amber-Leigh and Judson constantly argued.
"Why don't you do something?" the former Miss South Carolina cried.
"What do you want me to do?" her husband asked. "We tried to overpower him and make a run for it, and he zapped us with that damn cattle prod."
"You've gotten murderers and mob bosses out of prison, and yet you're incapable of getting your wife out of a slave cabin!"
"I don't think I can sway Zeke Craddock with my legal brilliance," Judson said sarcastically.
"If anyone tries to rape me, you better protect me."
I had no such fears since I was fairly certain we were not being held captive for sex. I almost wish that were the case.
On the fourth day, Zeke arrived in the morning with the usual four bowls of grits and four cups of chicory coffee. We no sooner finished breakfast than he returned, carrying a hunting rifle.
"Which one of you gentleman wants to come with me?" he asked.
My arms tightened around Ron, and I whispered in his ear, "Don't go!"
"What's all this about?" Judson said in a voice he often used when grilling a prosecutor's witnesses.
"I'm taking one of you up to the big house. My missus wants to see you."
"Why the gun?"
"I wouldn't want you to try to make a run for it."
No one asked the question that surely must be foremost in our minds: what did they want with us? Perhaps because, with the exception of Amber-Leigh, we instinctively knew the answer.
"Why does Mrs. Craddock only want one of us to come to the house? And if you're afraid of us running away, why doesn't she come here?"
"So many questions. Aren't you the curious one? Okay. You come with me."
Zeke grabbed Judson by the arm and pushed him out the cabin door. Ron made a futile attempt to save his friend and was rewarded with a zap from the cattle prod. He and I watched through the tiny cabin window as Judson was led at gunpoint, not toward the big house but into the barn. Moments later, the sound of a gunshot confirmed our worst fears. I clung to my husband as he cried, not just for his friend but for us as well.
A week later, Zeke came for him.
"You're wanted at the big house," the gun-toting hunter declared.
"No!" I cried defiantly. "He's staying here with me."
Zeke ignored me and addressed Ron directly.
"You don't want your pretty wife's last memory of you to be lying on the cabin floor with your brains blown out, do you?"
"I'm going with you then," I bravely asserted. "Go ahead and kill me, too. I don't want to live without him."
"Sorry, ma'am. I can't do that. Once we've processed your husband, the freezer will be full."
For the first and only time in my life, I fainted. When I came to a few minutes later, Ron was gone. Regrettably, I had not even had the opportunity to say goodbye to him.
* * *
The following week, when Zeke returned from his daily trip to Charleston, he stopped by the slave cabin before going up to the big house. Since he didn't have the hunting rifle with him, I was not afraid for my life. (In all honesty, the thought of dying no longer bothered me. There were times I even longed for such a release.)
"I got a present for you," he told me, paying no attention to Amber-Leigh, who sat morosely on the mattress, refusing to acknowledge anyone.
The object in his hand brought tears to my eyes.
"A Hershey bar," I uttered through a constricted throat. "It seems like years since I've seen one of these."
"I figured you would like something other than grits for a change."
I ought to have screamed and thrown the candy bar in his face. After all, this man had shot my husband and butchered him like a prized black angus. But I didn't.
"Thank you," I managed to say before opening the foil-wrapped chocolate.
"The cavalry has finally arrived," he announced as I let a tiny square of milk chocolate melt on my tongue.
"What do you mean?"
"A humanitarian group from Canada has come to Uncle Sam's rescue. Volunteers—doctors, nurses and such—are going from city to city and the surrounding countryside, searching for survivors."
That meant Amber-Leigh and I would be rescued. Sadly, they were too late to save our husbands.
"Have they brought food with them?"
"I imagine so. They're taking people to refugee camps. I heard one of the doctors say there's one near Lake Moultrie."
"Then let's go."
"Hold on. You can't leave."
"Why not? Now that the Canadians have come, there's no need for us to die. They'll no doubt have food, water and medical supplies. Before you know it, we'll be living in something like a civilized society again."
"And societies have laws," Zeke reminded me. "One of the most important being against murder."
"And you're afraid there will be consequences for your actions," I assumed. "You don't have to worry. I won't tell anyone what you did. Besides, there were extenuating circumstances. It was like the Donner Party; you did whatever you had to do to stay alive."
"I wish I could open that door and let you out. Really, I do, but I can't. We Craddocks have been on this land since the late sixteen hundreds. We aren't about to leave it now. I imagine with you and her, we got enough food to last us until harvest time."
"You don't have to do this! I swear on my husband's life I won't tell anyone what you did."
"I want to believe you, but I can't take that risk. Besides, we've always been self-sufficient here at Laurel Grove. We aren't about to accept charity or foreign aid now."
Although I had lost my appetite, I continued to eat the Hershey bar as I watched Zeke head back to the big house.
The following week, he came back to the cabin with his hunting rifle and took Amber-Leigh to the barn.
* * *
I am alone. Except for Zeke's visits with my meals and the basin of hot water, I see no one. (At least I no longer have to listen to Amber-Leigh's whining.) My host no longer makes daily trips to Charleston in search of tourists. As he said, there will be enough food to tide the family over until the harvest is brought in.
I think about the Canadians who are lending a hand to their neighbors to the south. Have other countries joined them in their humanitarian mission? Will they eventually come to Laurel Grove, looking for survivors? Will they find me locked in this cabin and take me to the refugee camp near Lake Moultrie?
This hope will no doubt be enough to keep me sane until the day I see Zeke Craddock heading in this direction, carrying the hunting rifle at his side.
Salem learned his lesson not to climb live oaks covered in Spanish moss when he came down from the tree with chiggers crawling in his fur.
