The Treasure of Hidden Bones

The live oak tree nestled on the side of the beach house appeared oddly out of place, as if someone had plucked it from another spot, then dug a massive hole rather hurriedly to contain it, while giving little thought to a proper location. Strangely, its roots failed to pop up from the ground, leaving gnarled knots in its wake, as expected. Even the tree’s growth appeared stunted, as though one had offered bonsai treatment at an inopportune moment.

As it leaned inward towards the house, Marianne likened the oak to an end parenthesis, holding up its end of keeping a secret yet to be revealed.

As Marianne moved closer to the tree, the more uncomfortable she felt, a sensation she easily recognized: a red flag, of sorts, that something was askew. Her reaction may have reflected the elevated asking price for the beach house, or simple exhaustion after spending the day house-hunting in the heat and humidity. Yet, things were rarely that simple. She brushed her concerns away when she noticed the second-story lift, which appeared to be compromised because of the tree limbs’ overhang.

Still, that any tree could look creepy in broad daylight didn’t bode well for its evening presentation. I must remember to ask the realtor for an honest opinion about this craggy, displaced tree, she thought.

Marianne brushed away any negativity regarding the coastal landscape because she was absolutely in love with living 1,000 steps from the Gulf’s warm water. The Coast’s crystal-white sand had seduced her years ago during a fall visit from the Midwest, where an early chill had already set in. Now, Marianne and her husband, Ted, found themselves in something of a pickle: they’d exhausted viewing a short list of homes in Pass Christian, MS, that they could afford to purchase, and yet, not found their perfect home.

Would she allow an awkward feeling about an oddly planted tree to thwart their chances of purchasing a charming house, just off Beach Boulevard?

While Ted and the realtor chatted about two national blue-ribbon schools in the area, Marianne wandered around to the front lawn, then opened the gate to an enormous side garden that appeared significantly larger than the land on which the house sat. She considered the age of yet another live oak tree centered here. At least 450 years old? That was according to Marianne’s best guess after evaluating its circumference. Another question for the realtor.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear Ted creep up on her until he popped out from behind the tree and yelled, “Boo!”

“Ted!” she yelled. “Oh, my goodness, what are you doing? I thought you and John were still talking.” She gave up searching for information on oak trees and slid her phone into the back pocket of her shorts, then turned her attention to Ted.

“We talked, yeah, but you know, talk is cheap. He wants action, a solid offer he can take to the owners, like now.”

“Of course he does. And he probably mentioned that three other couples are considering making offers before midnight tonight. Am I right?”

“Maybe… well, two, anyway,” he laughed.

“It’s what realtors do, babe. They need to feed their families, too.”

Standing under the tree in the garden, Ted appeared distracted, then kept shifting his weight, resisting the urge to reach into his pocket and pull out a pack of Marlboros…yeah, the cigarettes that he’d told Marianne he’d given up.

“Well, what does he suggest?” Marianne pressed on despite recognizing her husband’s anxious behavior. Had he forgotten to take his anxiety meds this morning before leaving home? Likely, he had.

“Make an offer, pretty much any offer…you know, to get the ball rolling.” Ted’s movements had morphed beyond shifting his weight back and forth to kicking up the red clay mixed with sand, which now piled up around the oak tree’s roots. Though Marianne assumed Ted’s actions were likely the result of being nervous, they annoyed her to pieces.

“So, lowball an offer at 650 K? Would the owners take that seriously?” Close to half an acre, 2,500 square feet of living space, and a spacious wraparound screened porch. Probably not, but worth a shot.

Ted didn’t register Marianne’s suggestion; absentmindedly, he continued kicking at the clay and sand surrounding the base of the tree trunk, as though searching for a lost item beneath the surface. When a chilly, salty breeze drifted between them, Marianne took a step back to gain a perspective of the property. Could this tree be off a bit, too?

When she spun around 360 degrees slowly, to take in the full effect of the coastal home, raised 30 feet above the ground, the tropical plants, and the live oaks dotting the yard, she wondered what secrets the place embraced so tightly. Marianne felt as though she might never stop spinning, for if she did, some type of spell might come unwoven.

Were the two of them meant to arrive here in Pass Christian for a grander purpose? To lend a hand? Discover something of merit? Lead a movement forward? They’d never considered buying property anywhere between Ocean Springs and Bay St. Louis, MS; however, the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina’s massive path of destruction reawakened a deep-seated desire to live by the water, one that they’d considered years ago.

When she finally stopped spinning, Marianne realized Ted was still moving dirt, clay, and sand around with his feet, almost rushing, but to what end, she hadn’t a clue.

“Ted, stop!” she yelled. “I mean, really, stop. You’re driving me nuts. Not to mention the fact that you’re digging holes around a tree that basically doesn’t belong to you. What’s happening right now?”

When he looked up from watching the ground, Ted appeared pale and ashen, as though he’d experienced a medical issue while behaving so bizarrely. He finally stopped, stuffed his hands in his pockets, then raised his shoulders up and down, a signal that he’d gotten the message.

“Whatever amount you’re comfortable offering, babe,” Ted said, walking past her. “Check out these tropical beauties over here—could we even keep this up?”

As predicted, Marianne took the lead. “Let’s live here, Ted,” she said. “I’ll go find Mr. Bellow and tell him we need help to put an offer together tonight. Okay?”

Ted was examining the stalks of tall banana trees and didn’t respond to his wife’s question. Some stalks were so tall they looked as if they could consume him. Marianne made another mental note to follow up on the secret of fertilizing banana trees.

When Marianne couldn’t find Bellow outdoors, she started up the back staircase, which included over 36 steps before the first landing, to search inside. After stepping into the living room, she could have sworn she heard Bellow’s voice talking to someone. Still, Marianne continued to meander through the house, now smelling of sage, calling out his name.

There was no answer.

With the sun dipping towards the horizon, Marianne called it a day. Again, as she headed back down to the garden, she heard muted voices, though she’d encountered no one in the house. Searching for Ted, first in the garden, she called out for him.

“Ted, I can’t find Mr. Bellow. Did he come down the front stairs, speak to you before leaving? Ted?”

No answer.

Okay, now I’m losing patience.

Marianne felt like the day had been a fool’s errand. She stood in the middle of a tropical garden, facing west as daylight faded, with neither Bellow nor Ted responding to her. And a looming deadline to make an offer on a house she was certain she no longer desired.

After wandering through the garden, Marianne finally located Ted, right back where she’d nearly left him 15 minutes ago. By now, Ted had discovered a rather substantial stick and was well into digging up the patch of earth that had troubled him all afternoon.

“Why didn’t you answer me, Ted? I can’t find Bellow anywhere. Did he speak to you before leaving?”

“I doubt he’s left, Marianne. He never leaves, so why start now?”

What?

While the blazing orange sun dipped into the horizon, all Marianne could think about was getting in their car and speeding away. So, she was in no mood to ferret through her husband’s cryptic words. “What do you mean, Ted? Is Bellow the owner?”

Finally, Ted looked up. “I’m going to need a shovel, love. Look in the shed for one? Please?”

“No…Ted. I need you to answer my question. Does Bellow live here? Is this his house?”

“Yes, it’s Bellow’s house, but he needs help keeping things up. Get the shovel for me? He wants me to dig up what I’ve found.”

Oh, my God.

Marianne could not fathom what appeared to be unfolding. Within two hours of arriving, she and Ted walked through a beach house and wandered through a garden, and in this short expanse of time, Ted lost his mind. Convinced that Bellow, the realtor, owned the house he was listing to sell, Ted had taken on not only tilling the red clay and sand beneath a 500-year-old live oak, but also now believed whatever was buried beneath the soil must be dug up.

She stared at her husband, incredulous about his newfound obsession with unearthing something he knew nothing of a few hours ago. As a sense of urgency surrounded her, Marianne tried to reason with Ted.

“Honey, let’s go. We’ll work on wording the offer at home; we don’t have to be here to do that…come on now, it’s getting dark.” She didn’t voice that there’d be no offer, not from her anyway. As night rolled in, Marianne could think of nothing else but getting off the property and away from the house.

Marianne started to turn and walk away, unable to watch Ted attack the soft earth with what appeared to be a weathered piece of driftwood. But she tried one more time to convince Ted to leave with her. “Time to go home, honey. We can return tomorrow.” Since her voice held a condescending tone, Ted turned on her in an instant.

“I thought I told you to go to the shed, Marianne,” he snarled. Just then, the toe of his boot hit something below the dirt’s surface. When Ted stooped to see what he’d unearthed, he brushed away the sand and clay that covered what appeared to be a human femur bone.

Marianne was in such a state of panic, her heart nearly stopped. On a lovely Saturday afternoon spent searching for the perfect beach house, her world imploded, and she knew in an instant there’d be no going back.

As she dropped to the ground, Marianne didn’t bother holding back her tears. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bellow walking towards them, a shovel in hand.

No one would ever find them, as no one had ever located the lost souls after Hurricane Camille’s devastation in 1969, followed by Hurricane Katrina’s wrath in 2005. They were simply a couple traveling through from an adjoining state, hoping to fulfill the dream of owning a beach house.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Who might recognize Bellow’s name? He’d created more of a legacy in death than when he’d been alive, for his spirit had been haunting the house on Willow Street, just off Beach Boulevard, for nearly 60 years.