Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (18 page)

To: MRS. RABIDO

From: GILDA JOYCE

RE: TRAVELOGUE ASSIGNMENT ENTRY #3

 

Dear Mrs. Rabido:

I hope you're doing well and managing to keep your spirits up during my absence.

What have I been doing, you ask? Where, pray tell, is my latest travelogue submission?

Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Rabido, but I happen to be embroiled in a very perplexing mystery that seems to involve several ghosts, not to mention some very unnerving wedding plans. I mean, it's not as bad as an in-class essay, but it's no picnic either, just in case you're picturing me sipping piña coladas down here on the beach. In fact, I have not been to the beach a single time since my arrival (which I don't really mind because I burn really easily). However, you'll be happy to know that this evening I did have the opportunity to dine with an older gentleman named Bob Furbo who is a descendant of the colonial

St. Augustine settlers, loosely grouped as “the Minorcans.”

Tonight I learned that the lives of this community have been closely tied to the natural Florida landscape. For example, during the Depression years when hardly anybody had money to spend, Bob Furbo's family found plenty of fish, gopher tortoises, and sea turtle eggs to eat for free—right in their own backyard. “In fact,” Mr. Furbo noted, “when I was a kid, we'd sometimes catch a gopher tortoise and take it down to the grocery store to trade it for some bread and meat. And sometimes the guy behind the counter would give us back a smaller tortoise as change because he didn't have any money either.”

Well, Mrs. Rabido, after a life of struggles many old-timers like Mr. Furbo feel that they've paid their dues and don't want anyone telling them what to do or what to eat. For example, if you happen to catch one of them sneaking a handful of sea turtle eggs from the beach to eat raw, you'll know it's not so much a sign of disrespect for the law as it is a declaration of love for the slimy reptilian flavors of their hometown. Nevertheless, the law is the law, Mrs. Rabido, so don't let me catch you or any of your friends sneaking some turtle eggs into the teachers' lounge if you get a job down here!

 

THE FREEDOM TRAIL IN ST. AUGUSTINE:

Mrs. Rabido, my report would not be complete without some mention of the important Civil Rights struggles that have taken place here in St. Augustine. (In this section of my paper, I'll refrain from quoting Mr. Furbo. Let's just say that a handful of the old-timers have a way of reminding us both how far we've come and how far we have to go when it comes to viewing each other as equals.)

As I write this entry, we're driving past the atmospheric “Old Market” in the city, where people of all nationalities and colors are just sitting outside, playing chess, talking, or walking hand in hand to the restaurants. It's weird to think that there was actually a time when this same place was called “The Old Slave Market”—a place where people could actually be bought and sold like objects in a store.

It's also hard to imagine that back in the year 1964, Martin Luther King was arrested just for trying to enter a “whites only” restaurant right here in St. Augustine.

I think it's hard to imagine how scary and downright unpleasant it must have felt to walk into a restaurant and be asked to leave just because of a simple fact of your appearance. The only personal experience I can compare it to is one time when my family was asked to leave a fancy restaurant in Grosse Pointe because my dad wasn't wearing a dinner jacket. (We didn't realize the restaurant had a dress code.) Mind you, Mrs. Rabido, I'm not saying that this was anything even close to being the victim of racist laws in the Jim Crow South! I'm just saying that I remember the feeling of shame and anger we all had as we filed out of that place with all the other customers just staring at us. It made me want to throw eggs at the building (which Dad also wanted to do, but Mom wouldn't let us).

Mrs. Rabido, I guess we're lucky to live in a time when people are free to pursue their dreams and go anywhere they want in this country. But some of us are not completely free, Mrs. Rabido. I'm beginning to see how the ghosts of a painful past still drag their chains through a few of these old houses.

On that somber note, I am signing off and retreating to my boudoir, Mrs. Rabido!

Sleep tight; don't let the bedbugs bite!

GILDA JOYCE

TO: GILDA JOYCE

FROM: GILDA JOYCE

RE: PSYCHIC DREAM REPORT

 

ALERT!!

NEW HYPOTHESIS FOLLOWING PSYCHIC DREAM!! IS IT POSSIBLE THAT CHARLOTTE FURBO IS DEAD?? IS IT POSSIBLE THAT THE FURBOS KILLED THEIR OWN DAUGHTER?!

 

The dream:

In my dream, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Furbo holding guns. They stared down at their daughter, Charlotte, who was lying on a table, apparently dead. She wore a bloodstained white dress.

When I awoke, I had two questions in my mind: 1) What if Charlotte never made it to Europe with her new boyfriend after all? 2) What if she was murdered?

The idea that the Furbos killed their own daughter is almost too awful to consider, but it's also true that the Furbos had a motive to kill Charlotte (albeit a disturbing one): They were furious with her for breaking off her engagement to Eugene right before the wedding. Maybe their racist feelings made the situation all the more volatile. On top of everything, they clearly have easy access to guns.

Of course, having a motive and owning a rifle doesn't necessarily mean they committed a crime, just as a psychic dream doesn't constitute hard evidence or proof. Still, it's a hypothesis that bears further investigation.

 

NEXT STEPS:

1. Find some hard evidence about Charlotte Furbo's whereabouts. Research needed.

2. Question the Furbos in more detail.

3. Ask Darla if she'll help me do a séance. I'm curious whether she would uncover anything about the Furbos in connection with the woman in white and Charlotte.

IS IT POSSIBLE THAT THE WOMAN IN WHITE IS THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE FURBO?