They sat stiffly on the wide antebellum porch, oblivious to all but the elements that encapsulated their controlled world. The humid early summer air, stifling in it’s intensity, was not as much of a nuisance to them as it was to those outside of their borders. When others complained loudly and frequently, and begged for the slightest respite from the muggy heaviness of the day, they merely sat, saucer eyed and android-like, and allowed the days and nights to unfurl around them with little or no fanfare. Their world was their own, a world ostensibly with little feeling, devoid of free thought, and profoundly lacking in inspiration. What occurred outside their boundaries meant next to nothing to them. Their reality, the very essence of their lives, was played out at the sprawling compound off the beaten path at 328 Crabtree Cove. There was nothing to keep them from departing their self-imposed confines and venturing out into the breathtaking unknown save for their apprehensions at what lay just beyond the tiki bamboo privacy fence, which seemed oddly out of place in the sparsely populated area.
Harvest House, where Rafe Robinson held court in all his pomp and circumstance, was once upon a time a magnificent, yet ostentatious, mansion that was the former homestead of a noble landowner who held fast to the agrarian society of the south. What was once the finest house in the land, resplendent with smooth alabaster columns as stark white as a fresh snowfall, had now become a retreat for wandering and lost souls. They called it home. And even though home was where the heart was, their minds had long since been relegated to a far off, remote place where few dared, or cared, to tread.
Their reasons for being at Harvest House were just as varied as their individual intrinsic natures. Long ago, Harvest House had opened its doors wide to embrace those whose lives had been derailed in one way or another. Drug addicts, runaways, the homeless, and many more had come through those doors, all seeking a place of refuge. Harvest House was their safe haven.
To the outside world, they were nameless, faceless beings to pass on the street without giving a second glance, but to Reverend Jackson they were people worthy of his time, love, and dedication. To the shock and dismay of everyone, Reverend Jackson died unexpectedly three months earlier while on a much deserved and long overdue vacation hiking the Inca Trail to
With the death of Reverend Jackson, Harvest House had been thrust into an altered state. The residents had lost the one person who championed for them. Not even their own families, who vowed time and time again to ‘see them through things’, showed as much concern for their total wellbeing. In their eyes, caring equated to funding their stay at Harvest House for as long as necessary and pacifying them with offerings of gifts or other material things, as long as it got them out of their hair. Broken promises were inconsequential and meant nothing to them.
Janice, the youngest of the residents and, ironically, the more consistent voice of reason amongst the others in the house, took Reverend Jackson’s passing the hardest. Trust of men did not come easily for her, but she had an unyielding trust in the good reverend. The victim of incest at an early age, Janice was wise beyond her years, yet she still retained a sense of childlike innocence and naiveté. She was very quiet by nature, made all the more so by the trauma she had suffered unduly at the hands of uncles and cousins who would show up unannounced on her father’s doorstep on a regular basis. Harvest House was Janice’s reprieve. Her father, who immersed himself in his career after his divorce and spent a great deal of time traveling on business, rarely saw his only daughter these days, but in his eyes, he more than made up for his absentee status by showering her with expensive trinkets and blank checks to placate her.
When she had first received word of Reverend Jackson’s death, Janice sobbed for two days, then she simply shut down. She wouldn’t speak for days on end. She had lost her appetite almost completely and the pounds began to melt away, adding to her already gaunt and tired appearance. Janice had locked herself away from the world and became a prisoner of her room. She had little concern for what took place outside of those four walls, and had even less concern for what was taking place inside of them. Her whole existence became that tiny box at the end of the hallway on the east wing of the house. For a time, not even Natalie, her closest friend at Harvest House, could coax her from her confines.
The polar opposite of Janice, Natalie was the proverbial chatterbox. Statuesque and beautiful, her total wellbeing was marred by her obsession with her heightened sexual gratification. By the age of twenty-five, she had admittedly slept with close to one thousand men, and those were just the ones she could recall. Her exuberant and giggly nature at times gave the impression that she was slightly touched in the head or was an easy target to be taken advantage of. Although not a senseless woman, she did give of herself freely and often.
While Natalie was quite fond of Reverend Jackson, she subscribed to the live and let live philosophy. “Everyone’s time will come sooner or later,” she had said, “and I guess it was his time. God needed him more than we did.” Her seemingly nonchalant approach to death, while unsettling to Janice, masked the pain that she kept buried deep inside, along with the demons of her past that tormented her relentlessly. Her body was her weapon of choice, and her persona was her armor to shield against the pain.
Janice, Natalie, and the others in the house had coped as best as they could in the absence of Reverend Jackson. Before long, another would come along to fill in the gaps, pick up where he left off, and all would be right with the world. However, with each passing day, as one invitation after another was declined to oversee Harvest House and help restore order, their hopes and dreams waned and finally disappeared altogether. Reverend Jackson’s immediate blood line had been forever broken with his death, and the fate of Harvest House hung in the balance. No longer was there room for aspirations, dreams didn’t live there anymore, and hope just up and left and had the audacity to leave the damn door open.
There was room, however, for a redeemer of the damned, a liberator of lost souls, a champion for the heavy of heart. He came not astride a galloping white stallion brandishing a gleaming sword to do battle, but rather driving a dilapidated Gossamer Blue ’75 Cadillac Eldorado convertible with dingy whitewall tires that vibrated horribly whenever he dared go any faster than 50 miles per hour. The vibration was so strong he could feel it through his feet. This savior of sorts just showed up out the blue. Poof! And just like that, there he was.
* * *
Rafe seemed to appear out of thin air on that frosty winter day. The sun hung low in the sky, and shadows cast from the few trees that had not lost leaves bobbed and hovered about like frightening specters wafting in the wind. Dried and crunchy leaves blew across the hood of the car, making tiny plinking sounds as they swirled about. Rafe stared straight ahead as he drove through the center of town. When he came to a stop at a traffic light, he continued to stare forward, ignoring the annoying child in the back seat of the car next to his with the mop of wild hair and protruding blue eyes who poked his tongue out at Rafe. “Kids,” he muttered wryly under his breath.
He looked down for the third or fourth time during his journey at the wrinkled piece of paper that lay on the seat next to him. The address of the house was written in neat, block letters. Next to the address, also written in the same efficient handwriting, were directions. “follow saffron ave until you see bluebird café on your left, but turn right at the corner (no street sign).” Rafe glanced up and looked across the street at the faded “Bluebird Café” sign dangling precariously from a rusted chain. He made a sharp right turn, then looked back down at the piece of paper. “when you turn, you’ll be on crabtree cove. the road runs out after 4 miles or so. the house will be on the right, past the large tree that looks like a woman with outstretched arms, and the bamboo fence. take the driveway up to the house.” Fifteen minutes later, he had arrived. The Eldorado had left a remarkable cloud of dirt in its wake on the unpaved road, and by the time he reached the bamboo fence, closely followed by the drifting dirt cloud, it looked like a staged special effect straight out of the movies.
Unlike the drive along the bumpy dirt road, the enormous car made almost no sound as it drifted up the driveway and came to a stop in front of the house. Rafe studied the Greek Revival styled structure before him for a long moment before turning off the engine. His eyes took in the symmetry of the façade, the stately entry porch with massive columns, and narrow windows on either side of the doorway. He removed the plastic Wal-Mart shades he wore, squinted in the direction of the fading sun, and pushed the heavy door of the car open. The screech of the door’s hinges roused a rotund black cat with eerie green eyes that was sprawled out languidly on the porch. The cat raised its head slowly, gave Rafe the critical once over, yawned sluggishly, then turned his attentions back to napping on the sunny spot of the wooden porch.
Rafe stood and stretched his long, muscular legs. The loud crackling of his left knee was the only sound to be heard, and he winced from the sudden stab of pain as he grudgingly jerked his leg sharply to the right to realign the old injury in the socket. He was dressed in a dull and faded red sweatshirt with the word “GIFTED” emblazoned across his chest like Superman in raised yellow lettering. The washed out Wrangler jeans he wore had holes in various places, sagged miserably on his backside, and the left hem was frayed and torn, offering a peek at the sweat socks underneath. The sneakers on his feet were all the worse for wear, and looked to be not just second-hand, but possibly third- or fourth-hand castoffs from a garage sale.
What Rafe sorely lacked in fashion sense he more than made up for with his disarmingly seductive smile, charismatic demeanor, and hauntingly beautiful hazel eyes. His walk—a cross between a cowboy swagger and a curiously feminine sway—was slow and deliberate. He was a man on a mission. And despite his disheveled appearance, the determination in his eyes coupled with a velvety smooth, hypnotic voice that could make a hallelujah praising foot stomping saint shame the devil, was more than enough to cajole even the most rigid of souls.
He approached the porch, glanced down at the meowing pile of fur sprawled out at his feet, and rapped lightly on the rickety screen door which seemed absurdly unbefitting on the once grand mansion. The small hollow sound reverberated throughout the front of the house and was soon absorbed by the floors and walls that held secrets and memories of times gone by. A dark figure lurked in the shadows just beyond the ornately carved balustrade. There was no movement at first, only the light, almost imperceptible sound of strained breathing.
Rafe knocked a second time, then backed up, almost stepping on the cat as he did so, to gaze up at the majesty of the house once more.
Slowly, cautiously, the apprehensive figure approached the door.
“Jessamine ain’t here,” a craggily voice said.
An unspoken question hung in the air. Who in the world is Jessamine? Nonplussed, Rafe moved closer to the screen. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke, mold, and mildew, all rolled into one foul odor. He cupped his hands around the outside of his face to shield the daylight and peeked inside the house. The figure behind the screen moved, but only slightly.
“I said Jessamine ain’t here.” A raspy cough escaped the unseen lips. “She ain’t here, so you may as well go climb back into that big old car of yours and head on back the way you came.”
“Jessamine is not who I seek, my sister. I come for a very different reason.” Rafe was more pleased with himself than he had a right to be. The quiet confidence he exuded manifested itself in the silky resonance of his voice.
Somewhere inside the house, sandwiched in between the antique white walls and oak hardwood floors, music began to play ever so softly. Rafe immediately recognized Chet Baker’s stirring rendition of My Funny Valentine. Just inside the door, there came a small whoosh of air and an aggravated groan. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the music stopped, as if in response to the unknown figure’s burdened sigh. The house was again silent.
“Who you s’posed to be?” The question was dripping with indignation, followed by another round of smoker’s cough.
“Reverend Rafe,” he stated simply, “and I’ve come to do the Lord’s work.”
Without another word or a moment of hesitation, a long, delicate hand the shade of rich, dark cinnamon reached out and pushed the screen door open.