by Alex Bledsoe
“Wait, where are you going?” Sean asked.
“I work for you the day after tomorrow. Until then, I work for Mrs. Scrimshaw. And she’s expecting Mrs. Delaney’s laundry.”
“But … but how do I find you?”
Now she gave him a smile that carried not just amusement, but a mature, womanly knowledge that he totally didn’t expect. “Don’t you worry you little head about it. I’ll be here.”
13
The Worthams did not attend dinner that night. Mrs. Delaney said they were dining with the mine superintendent, at his big house on the mountainside overlooking the town. The two old miners were there, and Tucker Carding.
And there were two newcomers. Reverend Nashe, of the Black Creek Primitive Baptist Church, was red-faced, with a fringe of beard around his jaw and no mustache; his wife wore a dress up to the neck, and her hair was covered by a bonnet.
After Mrs. Delaney made the introductions, Reverend Nashe invited them all to bow their heads. He spoke in a guttural, unpleasant voice that sounded like fork tines against a plate.
“Dear Lord,” he said, “look down upon us sinners as we partake of your bounty, and forgive us our heathen ways. May the devil never learn how truly his dominion has come over this earth, so that the few who follow you may witness the damnation of those who deny your glory.”
From the corner of his eye, Sean caught Ben’s shoulders shaking as he fought not to laugh.
“May we watch them slide into the brimstone-filled abyss begging for mercy,” Nashe continued, “and may their screams mingle with our songs to become a chorus of your praise. Amen.”
When they’d all said, “Amen,” Mrs. Nashe began to loudly slurp her tomato soup. The noise sounded a lot like the distant rattle of coal down the tipple to the trains.
Revered Nashe tucked his napkin into his collar and said, “I understand you gentlemen make motion pictures.”
“That’s right,” Sean said.
“Motion pictures are immoral,” Mrs. Nashe said between slurps.
“Not the ones I make,” Sean said. He’d run across religious objections to the very existence of pictures before, and he had a list of responses memorized.
“Any of them,” the woman snapped, and slurped.
“What about Judith of Bethulia?” Ben said.
“Yes, that’s a biblical story,” Tucker Carding agreed. “It’s about a woman who disguises herself and kills the king of an opposing army.”
“It’s part of the Apocrypha, so it is Satan’s scripture,” Mrs. Nashe said. “And any motion picture is pagan idolatry.”
“We’ll just have to agree to disagree, then, ma’am,” Sean said.
“My wife is a woman of beliefs firmly rooted in the rock of our Lord,” Reverend Nashe said. He gave her a smug nod, which she returned between slurps. “I understand you held auditions for parts here today.”
“That’s right,” Sean said.
“Did you find the people you sought?”
“I did.”
“Were any of them,” Mrs. Nashe said, with such disdain she splattered the tablecloth with red spots, “Tufa?”
“‘Tufa’?” Sean said innocently. “What’s that?”
“They are trash,” Reverend Nashe said venomously. “They are stupid like pigs, but cunning like serpents. They clearly have the blood of niggers in their veins; it’s obvious in their hair and skin.”
“That’s true,” one of the miners said. They all looked surprised; the two men had been so quiet, the rest had forgotten about them.
“What knowledge do you have of them?” Nashe asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Well, I work with a couple on the first shift. Tough old birds, but they don’t speak much. Spend most of their time singing. I asked ’em about it, and they said it was because they liked to sing the coal out. Makes it easier to dig, they claim.”
“Witchcraft,” Reverend Nashe said.
“Perhaps the White Caps should clear them out, once and for all,” Mrs. Nashe said.
“Who are the ‘White Caps’?” Richard asked. “Railroad porters?”
“The White Caps he means don’t work for the railroad,” Tucker said. “At least not officially.”
“They are,” Reverend Nashe said with great dignity, “good men of conscience who step in when the law cannot or will not.”
“Vigilantes, you mean,” Ben said.
“Men of conscience,” Reverend Nashe repeated.
“Vigilantes,” Tucker said with certainty.
“I guess you don’t like the Tufa much,” Ben said with faux innocence, then jumped as Sean kicked him beneath the table.
“I despise them,” Reverend Nashe said. “As does every white Christian soul here, although there are precious few Christians in Sadieville, I’m sorry to say. When a Tufa sleeps, the devil rocks him, and if it were up to me, every last one would be dragged out and burned at the stake.”
“I thought that was just for New England witches,” Ben said. There was a loud thud as he pulled his leg away, and Sean’s kick struck the chair leg. No one commented on it.
“They are well-known traffickers in spells and charms,” Nashe continued. “Many a man has been led to his doom by a Tufa girl, even under this very roof.”
“Tell him about the incident,” Mrs. Nashe prompted.
“Six months ago,” the minister said, “four men who lived in this very house died because of a Tufa woman.”
Mrs. Delaney’s cheeks flushed red, but Sean couldn’t tell if it was due to shame or anger.
“She taunted them with her harlot’s ways,” Nashe continued. “There was a gunfight, and all four died. And yet she was adjudged innocent, because she wore beauty like a mask over her true nature.”
“‘Look like the innocent flower,’” Richard quoted, “‘but be the serpent under it.’”
“I don’t know that verse,” Mrs. Nashe said.
“My wife can recite the Bible,” Reverend Nashe said, “from Genesis to Revelations.”
“That must make cold winter nights pass quickly,” Richard said, hiding his sarcasm with a smile. “No, it was not a biblical quote. It was Shakespeare. Macbeth, to be precise. Act one, scene five.”
“I don’t know any ‘Shakespeare,’” Mrs. Nashe said. If possible, her crone face grew even more repulsive.
“Hell, I knowed them boys you’re talking about,” the other miner said. “Get some liquor in ’em, they’d have fought over the sky being blue. If they did fight over a girl, it’s because she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Oh, yes, the poor innocent Tufa girl,” Nashe said contemptuously. “A Jezebel who lured good men to their deaths. That’s typical of her breed. They have resisted the presence of churches and men of God, and there can only be one reason for that.”
“They’re heathens,” his wife said. “Pagans. They worship the devil in their own vile ceremonies, with music and dancing.”
“You don’t approve of music?” Richard asked with exaggerated politeness.
“The New Testament of our lord and savior Jesus Christ commands us to lift up our voices, not to hide them with noisemakers,” Nashe said.
“My goodness, look at the time, we’ve been chatting here for so long, the soup’s gotten cold,” Mrs. Delaney said as she jumped to her feet. “I’ll get dessert, and coffee for those who’d like some.”
She scurried out, leaving the table awash in tension. Only Tucker Carding still seemed relaxed, as if the whole scene amused him.
* * *
Upstairs after dinner, Sean took off a shoe and threw it at Ben’s head. The heel struck with a conk.
“Ow!” Ben said. “What was that for?”
“For trying to pick a fight with that preacher.”
“Oh, come on, he deserved it.”
“He sincerely believes what he says,” Sean said.
“So did Benedict Arnold. Did you hear what Richard said about him?”
&nb
sp; “Benedict Arnold?”
“No, that preacher.” Imitating Richard’s precise diction, Ben said, “‘He has an ego like a raging tooth.’”
“Well, I’m glad he and his wife found each other,” Sean said. “That way there’s only two miserable people, not four. I do wonder, though, why Mrs. Delaney invited them here.”
“I got the feeling she didn’t have a choice.”
They both jumped as they heard a thump.
After exchanging a look, they both ran to the wall and pressed their ears to it. No noise came from the Worthams’ room.
“Do you think he killed her?” Ben whispered.
“It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in there,” Sean said. They heard another thump. This time, they saw the small rock as it rolled across the floor, followed by a third through the open window. Sean went over and looked out. He saw nothing except shadows in the yard outside.
“Mr. Lee,” a voice said in a loud, feminine whisper. “I need to talk to you.”
“Who are you?” Sean called back in the same tone.
“We met earlier. Please, it’s important. It’s about your picture.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Ben grabbed his arm and yanked him away from the window. “Whoa, boss,” he whispered. “You don’t even know who that is.”
“I think it’s Sophronie,” Sean said.
“Or it could be a setup. What if it’s the White Caps? What if it’s the Pinkertons?”
“I’ll be careful.” He couldn’t believe how eager he was to see the beautiful Tufa girl.
Downstairs, one of the miners sat in the front parlor, smoking a pipe and staring into space. “Evening,” he said without looking at Sean. “Some scene at dinner, weren’t it?”
“It sure was,” Sean agreed, and went out on the front porch. The street was busy, and the noise told him that a lot of people were cutting loose. He slipped around the edge of the boardinghouse and into the darkness. “Hello?” he whisper-called.
“I’m here,” a woman said quietly. She stepped from the shadows, but was visible only as a silhouette.
“Sophronie?” Sean said.
“What? No, I’m Basemath.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a biblical name. She was a wife of Esau.”
The voice finally registered on him. “I met you in the church when I was hanging up flyers.”
“Yes. And you had dinner with my parents tonight.”
Instantly Sean tensed. “What do you want?”
“My parents are … not safe to know, Mr. Lee. Not unless you’re willing to kowtow to them. They’re furious because they haven’t been able to finish building the church here, because something always seems to happen. Supplies disappear, a part of the building collapses, a whole list of things.”
“Sounds like nobody wants them here.”
“Yes, that’s the sensible thought, but he only sees Satan at work. And if my father believes Satan is involved, he will do whatever it takes to stop him. Whatever it takes,” she repeated, leaning close.
He understood. “The White Caps.”
“That was the first thing he did when we got here. He found a few people who felt as he did, and before long he had a dozen men willing to do whatever he said, as long as he claimed it was to battle Satan. Men and women have died because of him, Mr. Lee. He’s a…” She struggled for the word.
“Hypocrite?” Sean said. “Liar?”
“Monster,” Basemath said.
“Yeah, I knew a priest like that once.”
“You’re Catholic? Does my father know?”
“It didn’t come up. And I don’t consider myself anything.”
“If he learns you were even raised Catholic, he’ll consider you no better than the Tufa.”
“So why do you stay with them? You’re a grown woman.”
She ignored the question. “Please, you seem like a good man, and even if you’re not, you don’t deserve to die by his command. Leave as soon as you can.”
“We are leaving, at the end of the week, once we shoot our picture.”
She looked off into the darkness, as if afraid something followed her. “I hope that’s soon enough,” she said, and with that, vanished back into the shadows.
Later, Sean lay awake listening to Ben snore and pondering the events of the day. But before long, only one thing went through his head: the brief song Sophronie Conlin had sung, the one that had helped her access the feelings of sadness that came across her lovely face during her audition:
Can’t go back, don’t have the will
Can never go back …
Back to where? he wondered.
14
“Are you sure there’s decent scenery around here?” Ben asked, pausing to wipe his sweaty face with his handkerchief. He leaned against a tree, careful not to damage the camera on his back, and took a drink from his canteen. “Because me, I’m seeing nothing but pine trees. We have those in New Jersey.”
Sean paused as well. “But those aren’t on majestic hillsides, are they?”
Earlier that morning, when he heard their plans over breakfast to scout suitable locations, Tucker Carding had sketched them out a map, with several Xs marked. “Those spots are pretty as a Pingree potato patch,” he’d promised. They hadn’t yet reached any of the Xs, so they couldn’t tell if he was accurate. But if the climb continued to be this hard, they might drop dead before they saw anything other than tree trunks.
The weather wasn’t terribly warm, but the humidity had them both drenched. Mist also clouded the view, making the forests resemble the Gustave Doré drawings Sean had seen in his schoolbooks.
Ben drank some more from his canteen, and when he pulled it away, water dripped from his mustache. “You know what really makes me happy about this?”
“What?”
“I have to do it all over again tomorrow, only this time carrying all the equipment.”
“Afraid you’re not up to it?”
“I’m a technician, not a pack mule. I lived in a sixth-floor walk-up when I was a kid, and it wasn’t this hard a climb.”
At last they reached the first X on the map, a bare ridge at the level of the valley’s treetops. Here there was at least some wind, and the breeze felt amazing on their sweaty skin.
“Sean, I’m a city boy,” Ben said between breaths. “I’m not built for…”
He trailed off, and it took a moment for Sean to notice. He followed Ben’s gaze.
The sun shone just above the rolling mountains, burning away the mist to reveal a vista all around them of forested mountaintops and hillsides. They rolled away into the distance in every direction like waves frozen in time, bristling with trees. Behind them rose the acrid soot-filled fumes of Sadieville; ahead, not far away, homey smoke rose from a cabin. The whole vista was staggering in its primal beauty.
“Well,” Ben said when he could finally speak again, “it sure ain’t Jersey, I’ll give you that.”
“It sure ain’t,” Sean whispered. “Maybe you should shoot a few feet.”
“I think you’re right,” Ben said. He wound up the spring-loaded drive, held the camera as still as he could, and did a slow horizontal pan. “I take back everything I said. This was all definitely worth it.”
“Definitely worth what?” a new voice said.
They both jumped. Sophronie Conlin stood not twenty feet away. Instead of the prim dress she’d worn in town the day before, she was in men’s trousers cut off halfway up her calf, and a plaid shirt with no sleeves. Her hair, rather than being pulled back in a neat ponytail, was loose and wild. She was barefoot, and seemed as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks around her.
“Miss Conlin,” Sean said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as high and startled as he feared. He’d seen his share of attractive women in the city, but everything about this girl put them all to shame, not least her willingness to put her body on display so publicly. “I didn’t expect to see you today.�
��
“Likewise, Mr. Lee,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she was mocking his politeness. “Yet here y’all are, practically in my back yard.”
“We’re scouting locations for filming tomorrow. The whole point of coming down here was to capture the natural beauty of this place.”
“Then I hope you found what you’re looking for.”
“You better believe it,” Ben whispered, blatantly looking the girl over. “Wow.”
Sean gave him a warning scowl. To Sophronie he said, “What are you doing up here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, we live just over there.” She pointed to the rising smoke. “My feet got itchy, so I decided to come out for a walk. Now I’m right glad I did.”
“I’m ‘right glad’ you did, too, Miss Conlin.”
“Oh, please. Call me Sophronie.”
“Sophronie, then. And you can call me Sean.”
“Sean,” she said with a little mock curtsy.
“You know,” Sean said, “I bet you could help us out. I’m sure you know all the best spots in this area.”
“Best spots for what?” she said with a teasing little smile.
“Like this,” he said, gesturing around them. “Places that we could never film back in New York or New Jersey. A friend in town gave us a map, but I’m sure a guide would be more useful.”
“I suppose I could show you some places. But why don’t you come meet my family first?”
Sean turned to Ben, who was about to speak. Before he could, Sean surreptitiously tucked a dollar bill into his shirt pocket. “Ben, you go on back and finish drawing up the schedule for tomorrow. I’ll get the rest of our locations squared away.”
Ben scowled. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he said dryly.
“Now, you’re welcome to come visit, too,” Sophronie said to Ben.
“Nah, Sean’s right. Work to do, you know? Pleasure seeing you again, Miss Conlin.” He tipped his newsboy cap to her and walked away whistling back down the trail.
When he was out of sight around a bend, Sophronie said, “Did you send him away on purpose?”
“Would you be angry if I said yes?”
“I’d be surprised if you said no.”