"Visiting the Past to Find a New Life"
Reviewed by Ellen Hogan
Posted August 7, 2013
Fiction
Tandi Jo Reese and her children are starting over. However,
in the beginning things are not going well. It isn't until
Tandi finds Iola Poole's dead body that things start to
change. She and her children are living in the cottage on
Iola's place, so she is asked to look after and clean up the
big house. Tandi and family could use the money and the
groceries she finds in the house help too. But as she is
cleaning she finds a bunch of boxes in the closet. After
getting one down she finds that it is a Prayer Box. Tandi
starts to read the letters that Iola wrote to God and learns
not only things about Iola but also about herself and her
relationship with God and with her children. Tandi also finds work as a handywomen at Sandy's Seashell
Shop. All the times she went to work with her Dad paid off
and Tandi is able to earn a living for her family. She also
makes friends with all the ladies at the shop, which is
something she has never had. Trying to save Iola's house
brings Tandi and her children together in a way they have
never been before. The Prayer Box by Lisa Wingate is a thought provoking book.
It tells the story of not only Tandi Jo and her family but
of the love and friendship between Iola Anne Poole and
Isabelle Benoit. Also the relationship between Iola Anne and
the Lord. How she wrote letters to God telling him about
what is going on in her life and how there were things that
she just didn't understand. Tandi's revelation is: "Prayers
are answered in ways we don't choose. The river of grace
bubbles up in unexpected places." I had not read a book by Ms. Wingate before and have to say
that I thoroughly enjoyed this one. The story is one of
redemption and finding peace in the main character's life.
The use of the prayer boxes to teach Tandi Jo was inspired.
Lessons she learned about trusting God and learning to
forgive herself can be applied to everyone's life. I highly
recommend THE PRAYER BOX and guarantee that when it's started you
won't be able to put it down.
SUMMARY
When Iola Anne Poole, an old-timer on Hatteras Island,
passes away in her bed at ninety-one, the struggling young
mother in her rental cottage, Tandi Jo Reese, finds herself
charged with the task of cleaning out Iola’s rambling
Victorian house. Running from a messy, dangerous past, Tandi never expects to
find more than a temporary hiding place within Iola’s walls,
but everything changes with the discovery of eighty-one
carefully decorated prayer boxes, one for each year,
spanning from Iola’s youth to her last days. Hidden in the boxes is the story of a lifetime, written on
random bits of paper--the hopes and wishes, fears and
thoughts of an unassuming but complex woman passing through
the seasons of an extraordinary, unsung life filled with
journeys of faith, observations on love, and one final
lesson that could change everything for Tandi.
ExcerptChapter 1
When trouble blows in, my mind always reaches for a
single, perfect day in Rodanthe. The memory falls over me
like a blanket, a worn quilt of sand and sky, the fibers
washed soft with time. I wrap it around myself, picture the
house along the shore, its bones bare to the wind and the
sun, the wooden shingles clinging loosely, sliding to the
ground now and then, like scales from some mythical sea
creature washed ashore. Overhead, a hurricane shutter
dangles by one nail, rocking back and forth in the breeze,
protecting an intact window on the third story. Gulls swoop
in and out, landing on the salt–sprayed
rafters—scavengers come to pick at the carcass left
behind by the storm.
Years later, after the place was repaired, a production
company filmed a movie there. A love story.
But to me, the story of that house, of Rodanthe, will
always be the story of a day with my grandfather. A safe day.
When I squint long into the sun off the water, I can see
him yet. He is a shadow, stooped and crooked in his overalls
and the old plaid shirt with the pearl snaps. The heels of
his worn work boots hang in the air as he balances on the
third–floor joists, assessing the damage.
Calculating everything it will take to fix the house for its
owners.
He's searching for something on his belt. In a minute,
he'll call down to me and ask for whatever he can't find.
Tandi, bring me that blue tape measure, or Tandi Jo, I need
the green level, out in the truck. . . . I'll fish objects
from the toolbox and scamper upstairs, a little
brown–haired girl anxious to please, hoping that
while I'm up there, he'll tell me some bit of a story. Here
in this place where he was raised, he is filled with them.
He wants me to know these islands of the Outer Banks, and I
yearn to know them. Every inch. Every story. Every piece of
the family my mother has both depended on and waged war with.
Despite the wreckage left behind by the storm, this place
is heaven. Here, my father talks, my mother sings, and
everything is, for once, calm. Day after day, for weeks.
Here, we are all together in a decaying
sixties–vintage trailer court while my father works
construction jobs that my grandfather has sent his way. No
one is slamming doors or walking out them. This place is
magic—I know it.
We walked in Rodanthe after assessing the house on the
shore that day, Pap–pap's hand rough–hewn
against mine, his knobby driftwood fingers promising that
everything broken can be fixed. We passed homes under
repair, piles of soggy furniture and debris, the old
Chicamacomico Life–Saving Station, where the
Salvation Army was handing out hot lunches in the parking lot.
Outside a boarded–up shop in the village, a
shirtless guitar player with long blond dreadlocks winked
and smiled at me. At twelve years old, I fluttered my gaze
away and blushed, then braved another glance, a peculiar new
electricity shivering through my body. Strumming his guitar,
he tapped one ragged tennis shoe against a surfboard,
reciting words more than singing them.
Ring the bells bold and strong
Let all the broken add their song
Inside the perfect shells is dim
It's through the cracks, the light comes in. . . .
I'd forgotten those lines from the guitar player, until now.
The memory of them, of my grandfather's strong hand
holding mine, circled me as I stood on Iola Anne Poole's
porch. It was my first indication of a knowing, an
undeniable sense that something inside the house had gone
very wrong.
I pushed the door inward cautiously, admitting a slice of
early sun and a whiff of breeze off Pamlico Sound. The
entryway was old, tall, the walls white with heavy
gold–leafed trim around rectangular panels. A fresh
breeze skirted the shadows on mouse feet, too slight to
displace the stale, musty smell of the house. The scent of a
forgotten place. Instinct told me what I would find inside.
You don't forget the feeling of stepping through a door and
understanding in some unexplainable way that death has
walked in before you.
I hesitated on the threshold, options running through my
mind and then giving way to a racing kind of craziness.
Close the door. Call the police or . . . somebody. Let
someone else take care of it.
You shouldn't have touched the doorknob—now your
fingerprints will be on it. What if the police think you did
something to her? Innocent people are accused all the time,
especially strangers in town. Strangers like you, who show
up out of the blue and try to blend in . . .
What if people thought I was after the old woman's money,
trying to steal her valuables or find a hidden stash of
cash? What if someone really had broken in to rob the place?
It happened, even in idyllic locations like Hatteras Island.
Massive vacation homes sat empty, and local boys with bad
habits were looking for easy income. What if a thief had
broken into the house thinking it was unoccupied, then
realized too late that it wasn't? Right now I could be
contaminating the evidence.
Tandi Jo, sometimes I swear you haven't got half a brain.
The voice in my head sounded like my aunt
Marney's—harsh, irritated, thick with the Texas
accent of my father's family, impatient with flights of
fancy, especially mine.
"Mrs. Poole?" I leaned close to the opening, trying to
get a better view without touching anything else. "Iola Anne
Poole? Are you in there? This is Tandi Reese. From the
little rental cottage out front. . . . Can you hear me?"
Again, silence.
A whirlwind spun along the porch, sweeping up last year's
pine straw and dried live oak leaves. Loose strands of hair
swirled over my eyes, and my thoughts tangled with it, my
reflection melting against the waves of leaded
glass—flyaway brown hair, nervous blue eyes, lips
hanging slightly parted, uncertain.
What now? How in the world would I explain to people that
it'd taken me days to notice there were no lights turning on
and off in Iola Poole's big Victorian house, no window
heat–and–air units running at night when the
spring chill gathered? I was living less than forty yards
away. How could I not have noticed?
Maybe she was sleeping—having a midday
nap—and by going inside, I'd scare her half to
death. From what I could tell, my new landlady kept to
herself. Other than groceries being delivered and the UPS
and FedEx trucks coming with packages, the only signs of
Iola Poole were the lights and the window units going off
and on as she moved through the rooms at different times of
day. I'd only caught sight of her a time or two since the
kids and I had rolled into town with no more gas and no
place else to go. We'd reached the last strip of land before
you'd drive off into the Atlantic Ocean, which was just
about as far as we could get from Dallas, Texas, and Trammel
Clarke. I hadn't even realized, until we'd crossed the North
Carolina border, where I was headed or why. I was looking
for a hiding place.
By our fourth day on Hatteras, I knew we wouldn't get by
with sleeping in the SUV at a campground much longer. People
on an island notice things. When a real estate lady offered
an off–season rental, cheap, I figured it was meant
to be. We needed a good place more than anything.
Considering that we were into April now, and six weeks
had passed since we'd moved into the cottage, and the rent
was two weeks overdue, the last person I wanted to contact
about Iola was the real estate agent who'd brought us here,
Alice Faye Tucker.
Touching the door, I called into the entry hall again.
"Iola Poole? Mrs. Poole? Are you in there?" Another gust of
wind danced across the porch, scratching crape myrtle
branches against gingerbread trim that seemed to be clinging
by Confederate jasmine vines and dried paint rather than
nails. The opening in the doorway widened on its own. Fear
shimmied over my shoulders, tickling like the trace of a
fingernail.
"I'm coming in, okay?" Maybe the feeling of death was
nothing more than my imagination. Maybe the poor woman had
fallen and trapped herself in some tight spot she couldn't
get out of. I could help her up and bring her some water or
food or whatever, and there wouldn't be any need to call
911. First responders would take a while, anyway. There was
no police presence here. Fairhope wasn't much more than a
fish market, a small marina, a village store, a few dozen
houses, and a church. Tucked in the live oaks along Mosey
Creek, it was the sort of place that seemed to make no
apologies for itself, a scabby little burg where fishermen
docked storm–weary boats and raised families in
salt–weathered houses. First responders would have
to come from someplace larger, maybe Buxton or Hatteras Village.
The best thing I could do for Iola Anne Poole, and for
myself, was to go into the house, find out what had
happened, and see if there was any way I could keep it quiet.
The door was ajar just enough for me to slip through. I
slid past, not touching anything, and left it open behind
me. If I had to run out of the place in a hurry, I didn't
want any obstacles between me and the front porch.
Something shifted in the corner of my eye as I moved
deeper into the entry hall. I jumped, then realized I was
passing by an arrangement of fading photographs, my
reflection melting ghostlike over the cloudy glass. In sepia
tones, the images stared back at me—a soldier in
uniform with the inscription Avery 1917 engraved on a brass
plate. A little girl with pipe curls on a white pony. A
group of people posed under an oak tree, the women wearing
big sun hats like the one Kate Winslet donned in Titanic. A
wedding photo from the thirties or forties, the happy couple
in the center, surrounded by several dozen adults and two
rows of cross–legged children. Was Iola the bride in
the picture? Had a big family lived in this house at one
time? What had happened to them? As far as I could tell,
Iola Poole didn't have any family now, at least none who
visited.
"Hello . . . hello? Anyone up there?" I peered toward the
graceful curve of the long stairway. Shadows melted rich and
thick over the dark wood, giving the stairs a foreboding
look that made me turn to the right instead and cross
through a wide archway into a large, open room. It would
have been sunny but for the heavy brocade curtains. The
grand piano and a grouping of antique chairs and settees
looked like they'd been plucked from a tourist brochure or a
history book. Above the fireplace, an oil portrait of a
young woman in a peach–colored satin gown hung in an
ornate oval frame. She was sitting at the piano, posed in a
position that appeared uncomfortable. Perhaps this was the
girl on the pony from the hallway photo, but I wasn't sure.
The shadows seemed to follow me as I hurried out of the
room. The deeper I traveled into the house, the less the
place resembled the open area by the stairway. The inner
sections were cluttered with what seemed to be several
lifetimes of belongings, most looking as if they'd been
piled in the same place for years, as if someone had started
spring–cleaning multiple times, then abruptly
stopped. In the kitchen, dishes had been washed and stacked
neatly in a draining rack, but the edges of the room were
heaped with stored food, much of it contained in big plastic
bins. I stood in awe, taking in a multicolored waterfall of
canned vegetables that tumbled haphazardly from an open
pantry door.
Bristle tips of apprehension tickled my arms as I checked
the rest of the lower floor. Maybe Iola wasn't here, after
all. The downstairs bedroom with the window air unit was
empty, the single bed fully made. Maybe she'd gone away
somewhere days ago or been checked into a nursing home, and
right now I was actually breaking into a vacant house. Alice
Faye Tucker had mentioned that Iola was ninety–one
years old. She probably couldn't even climb the stairs to
the second story.
I didn't want to go up there, but I moved toward the
second floor one reluctant step at a time, stopping on the
landing to call her name once, twice, again. The old
balusters and treads creaked and groaned, making enough
noise to wake the dead, but no one stirred.
Upstairs, the hallway smelled of drying wallpaper, mold,
old fabric, water damage, and the kind of stillness that
said the rooms hadn't been lived in for years. The tables
and lamps in the wood–paneled hallway were gray with
dust, as was the furniture in five bedrooms, two bathrooms,
a sewing room with a quilt frame in the middle, and a
nursery with white furniture and an iron cradle.
Odd–shaped water stains dotted the ceilings, the
damage recent enough that the plaster had bowed and cracked
but only begun to fall through. An assortment of buckets sat
here and there on the nursery floor, the remnants of dirty
water and plaster slowly drying to a paste inside. No doubt
shingles had been ripped from the roof during last fall's
hurricane. It was a shame to let a beautiful old house go to
rot like this. My grandfather would have hated it. When he
inspected historic houses for the insurance company, he was
always bent on saving them.
A thin watermark traced a line down the hallway ceiling
to a small sitting area surrounded by bookshelves. The door
on the opposite side, the last one at the end of the hall,
was closed, a small stream of light reflecting off the
wooden floor beneath it. Someone had passed through
recently, clearing a trail in the silty layer of dust on the
floor.
"Mrs. Poole? Iola? I didn't mean to scare—"
A rustle in the faded velvet curtains by the bookshelves
made me jump, breath hitching in my chest as I drew closer.
A black streak bolted from behind the curtain and raced
away. A cat. Mrs. Poole had a cat. Probably the wild,
one–eared tom that J.T. had been trying to lure to
our porch with bowls of milk. I'd told him to
quit—we couldn't afford the milk—but a
nine–year–old boy can't resist a stray. Ross
had offered to bring over a live trap and catch the cat.
Good thing I'd told him not to worry about it. Letting your
new boyfriend haul off your landlady's pet is a good way to
get kicked out of your happy little home, especially when
the rent's overdue.
The glass doorknob felt cool against my fingers when I
touched it, the facets surprisingly sharp. "I'm coming in .
. . okay?" Every muscle in my body tightened, preparing for
fight or flight. "It's just Tandi Reese . . . from the
cottage. I hope I'm not scaring you, but I was wor—"
The rest of worried never passed my lips. I turned the
handle. The lock assembly clicked, and the heavy wooden door
fell open with such force that it felt like someone had
pulled it from the other side. The doorknob struck the wall,
vibrating the floor beneath my feet. Behind me, the cat
hissed, then scrambled off down the stairs.
Picture frames inside the room shivered on the
pale–blue walls, reflecting orbs of light over the
furniture. Beyond the jog created by the hallway nook, the
footboard of an ornate bed pulled at me as the shuddering
frames settled into place and the light stopped dancing. By
the bedpost, a neatly cornered blue quilt grazed the floor,
and a pair of shoes—the sensible,
rubber–soled kind that Zoey, with her
fourteen–year–old fashion sense, referred to
as grandma shoes—were tucked along the edge of a
faded Persian rug, the heels and toes exactly even.
The feet that belonged in the shoes had not traveled far
away. Covered in thin black stockings, they rested atop the
bed near the footboard, the folded, crooked toes pointing
outward slightly, in a position that seemed natural enough
for someone taking a midday nap.
But the feet didn't move, despite the explosion of the
door hitting the wall. I tasted the bile of my last meal. No
one could sleep through that.
The bedroom lay in perfect silence as I stepped inside,
my footfalls seeming loud, out of place. I didn't speak
again or call out or say her name to warn her that I was
coming. Without even seeing her face, I knew there was no need.
Gruesome scenes from Zoey's favorite horror movies
flashed through my mind, but when I crept past the corner,
forced myself to turn her way, Iola Anne Poole looked
peaceful, like she'd just stopped for a quick nap and
forgotten to get up again. She was flat on her back atop the
bed, a pressed cotton dress—white with tiny blue
flower baskets—falling over her long, thin legs and
seeming to disappear into a wedding ring quilt sewn in all
the colors of sky and sea. Her leathery, wrinkled arms lay
folded neatly across her stomach, the gnarled fingers
intertwined in a posture that looked both contented and
confident. Prepared. The chalky–gray hue of her skin
told me it would be cold if I touched it.
I didn't. I turned away instead, pressed a hand over my
mouth and nose. As much as the body looked like someone had
carefully laid it out to give a peaceful appearance, there
were no signs that anyone else had been in the room. The
only trails on the dusty floor led from the door to the bed,
from the bed to what appeared to be a closet tucked behind
the hallway nook, and past the foot of the bed to a small
writing desk by the window. Whatever she was doing up here,
she didn't come often. What was the lure of this turret room
at the end of the upstairs hall, with its
gold–trimmed walls painted in faded shades of cream
and milky blue? Did she know she was approaching her last
hours? Was this where she wanted to die? Where she wanted to
be found?
Could I have helped if I'd checked on her sooner?
The questions drove me from the room, sent me into the
hall, gasping for air. I didn't want to think about how long
she'd been there or whether she'd known death was coming for
her, whether she'd been afraid when it happened or
completely at peace.
Truthfully, I didn't want anything more to do with the
situation.
But an hour later, I was back in the house, watching two
sheriff's deputies walk into the blue room. The deputy in
back was more interested in getting a look inside the house
than in the fact that a woman had died. For some reason, it
seemed wrong to leave them alone with her body. I felt
responsible for making sure they gave what was left of her
some respect.
I waited in the doorway of the blue room, letting the
wall hide all but the view of her stocking–clad feet
as the men stood over the bed. They'd already asked me at
least a dozen questions I couldn't answer: How long did I
think she'd been dead? When was the last time I'd talked to
her? Had she been ill that I knew of?
All I could tell them was that I was staying in her
cottage out front. I'd used the term renting to make it
sound good. The lead deputy was a thin,
matter–of–fact man with an accordion of
permanent frown lines around his mouth. He didn't seem to
care much one way or the other. He checked his watch several
times like he had somewhere to go.
"Well," he said finally, the floor creaking under his
weight in a way that told me he was leaning over the bed
near her face, "looks like natural causes to me."
The younger man answered with a snarky laugh. "Shoot,
Jim, she had to be somewhere up around a hundred. I remember
when my granddad retired, Mama wanted to buy the altar
flowers for church, to get his name in the bulletin, but she
couldn't. The pastor had already ordered the altar flowers
that week, on account of Iola Poole's birthday. She was
turning eighty then, and that was back when I was in middle
school. Mama was mighty hot about it all, I'll tell ya.
Granddaddy'd been a deacon at Fairhope Fellowship for forty
years, and Mama wasn't about to be having him share altar
flowers with the likes of Iola Anne Poole. Our family helped
move that old chapel here to start the church. Iola was just
there to play the organ, and they paid her for that, anyway.
It's not like she was a member, even. Mama figured, if Iola
wanted altar flowers for her birthday, she could put some at
a church down in New Orleans, where her people come from."
Deputy Jim clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Women."
His partner laughed again. "You haven't been down here
long enough to know how things are. Stuff like that might
not matter much up in Boston, but it sure enough matters in
Fairhope. Believe me, if they could've found
anybody—and I mean anybody else who knew how to play
that old pipe organ over to the church, they would've.
That's half the reason my mama pushed for that new band
director at the high school in Buxton a few years ago; he
said he could play a pipe organ. I never saw the church
ladies so happy as the week the band director took over at
Sunday services and they sent Iola Poole packing."
"Okay, Selmer, we might as well get the right people out
here to wrap this up." Deputy Jim ended the discussion.
"Looks pretty cut–and–dried. She have any
family we should call?"
"None that I'd know how to find. And that's a can of
worms you don't wanna open either, by the way, Jim."
"No next of kin. . . ." The older man drew the words out,
probably writing them down at the same time.
Sadness slid over me like a heavy wool blanket, making
the air too stale and thick. I stood gazing through the blue
room to the tall bay windows of the turret. Outside, a rock
dove flitted along the veranda railing. What had Iola Poole
done, I wondered, to have ended up this way, alone in this
big house, laid out in her flowered dress, dead for who knew
how long, and nobody cared? Did she realize this was how
things would turn out? Was this what she'd pictured when she
placed herself there on the bed, closed her eyes, and let
the life seep out of her?
The dove fluttered to the windowsill, then hopped back
and forth, its shadow sliding over the gray marble top of
the writing desk. A yellowed Thom McAn shoe box sat on the
edge, the lid ajar, a piece of gold rickrack trailing from
the corner. On the windowsill, half a dozen scraps of ribbon
lay strewn about. As the dove's shadow passed again, I
noticed something else. Little specks of gold shimmered in
the dust on the sill. I wanted to walk into the room and
look closer, but there wasn't time. The deputies were headed
to the door.
Hugging my arms tightly, I followed the men downstairs
and onto the front porch. It wasn't until we'd reached the
driveway that I looked at the cottage and my stomach began
churning for a different reason. With Iola gone, it would
only be a matter of time before Alice Faye Tucker came to
evict us. I had less than fifty dollars left, and that was
from the last thing I could find to pawn—a sterling
watch that Trammel had given me. The watch was only in my
suitcase by accident—left behind after a trip to a
horse event somewhere, undoubtedly in better times. If
Trammel knew I still had it, he would have taken it away,
along with everything else of value. He made sure I never
had access to enough money to get out.
What were the kids and I going to do now?
The question gained weight and muscle as the afternoon
passed. The coroner's van had just left when Zoey and J.T.
came in from school. I didn't even tell them our new
landlady had died. They'd find out soon enough. At nine
years old, J.T. might not make the connections, but at
fourteen–going–on–thirty, Zoey would
know that the loss of the cottage spelled disaster for us.
The minute we reemerged on the grid—credit card
payment at a motel, job application with actual references
provided, visit to a bank for cash—Trammel Clarke
would find us.
I slipped into bed at twelve thirty, boneless and weary,
guilt ridden for not being honest with the kids, even though
it was nothing new. Outside, the water teased the shores of
the sedges, and a slow–rising Hatteras moon climbed
the roof of Iola's house, hanging above the turret like a
scoop of vanilla ice cream on an upside–down cone.
How could someone who owned an estate like this one end
up alone in her room, gone from this world without a soul to
cry at her bedside?
The image of Iola as a young woman taunted my thoughts. I
imagined her walking the veranda in a milky–white
dress. The moon shadows shifted and danced among the live
oaks and the loblolly pines, and I felt the old house
calling to me, whispering the secrets of the long and
mysterious life of Iola Anne Poole.
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