A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

  “The War Between the States ended all that, thankfully. Though no one can be proud about slavery, we Overtons still hold our Confederate warriors as heroes. My great-great grandfather, Colonel Burwell Overton, reigns resplendent in his Rebel grays in our portrait gallery.” My uncle pointed toward the portrait wall. “Burwell served with Jubal Early. I believe Abe Murley still salutes that painting every time he enters the house.” A half-smile escaped Uncle Hunter’s lips. “But the Overtons were able to stay solvent, actually to prosper, after the war, with the coming of the railroad in the early 1900’s and the booming economy that flourished around Samson’s Ford.”

  Jeff sat patiently listening to this history he must have heard many times before. “Then they built the dam, right, Dad? Flooded the rivers and sank all our out buildings—the old slave houses and the family cemetery and everything.” He made a swooshing sound and a plunging gesture to illustrate his point. “There’s all kinds of buildings and roads and trees and stuff way down at the bottom of the lake.” He blinked his eyes in excitement. “A whole underwater town! Kinda spooky, huh?”

  “The lake changed everything in these parts. When the Moore brothers settled in the 1740s, I’m sure they appreciated the picturesque mountains surrounding the rivers and streams meandering through the valley.” Uncle Hunter glanced at me to make sure I was following the story. I nodded, and he continued. “Not until a pump-storage combined with reversible pumps was perfected some two hundred years after the naming of Moore Mountain was a workable dam possible. There was a lot of resistance to the idea of a hydraulic dam. Folks were afraid that the natural beauty of the three-mile gorge would be forever destroyed. Many people were forced to sell their land, for considerable compensation, mind you. Because Overhome is on high land, we were able to save the main house and enough farm land to keep the horse business alive.”

  My uncle paused to take a breath. “Oh dear. I hope I haven’t bored you to tears, Ashby. I can get too wound up on one of my favorite topics.” He looked at Jeff, as if to make a final point. “Of course, all of our family graves were moved to a local church cemetery on high ground before the land was flooded.”

  Jeff nodded. “One time me and Dad went to the Baptist churchyard and looked for our name on the old tombstones. We used charcoal over paper.” He pantomimed a brushing motion.

  At that moment, my aunt arrived. Her entrance matched the elegance of the room, the flowing, pastel caftan tacking like a delicate sail as she walked, her jeweled earrings glittering like Christmas ornaments in the candle light. “How are you?” she enunciated, with a fluid rotation of her long neck. “What an upsetting…what an un-unfortunate incident, t-to be attacked by th-that creature.”

  I was surprised to hear the stammer interrupt my aunt’s usual oh-so-careful enunciation.

  “Hunter, we simply must do something to prevent this ever h-happening again.” She seemed extremely agitated, fussing with her caftan and blinking her eyes rapidly.

  “Now, Monica, I can assure you we’ll see that Ashby is protected from further attacks by marauding dogs. I’ve already taken preventative steps. Don’t worry about it any further. So, what’s going on at the club tonight? I can see you’re dressed for something festive.”

  Jeff had sat silent as long as he could. “Dad! Luke says Ashby is good enough to ride the trails now. Isn’t that awesome?”

  Uncle Hunter turned his gaze on me. “Is that so? I must say, you are a fast learner, Ashby. I told you riding is in our blood.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I had some lessons a few years ago. It all sort of came back to me.”

  “Dad! That means me and Ashby—”

  “Ashby and I,” his mother corrected.

  “Ashby and I can ride together now. We don’t need to wait around for you or Luke to go along.” He cocked his head to one side. “Course, we’ll still have our rides together, huh, Dad?”

  “I wouldn’t miss our rides for the world, Jefferson,” he said gravely. “And I’ll consider your proposal for your riding the trail with your cousin, as long as she’s amenable.” He eyed me again. “I thought you were looking especially energized and fit, Ashby. Riding does that. Good for the health, good for the soul.”

  I liked what he said, but I found myself wishing he would smile more often. It would make me feel easier about him. Another contrast with Dad. Dad was jolly, always smiling, joking. It lightened his whole expression. Uncle Hunter’s seriousness weighed him down. The only time I’d seen him let down his hair was when he was driving his ski boat.

  Under the table I reached for Jeff’s hand and gave it a squeeze. We shared a secret look of triumph.

  The talk floated through the flickering distortion of candles as I allowed the sense of the ancient room to flow around me. Generations of my family had sat at this very table, their conversations ebbing and flowing, and settling into the porous barn wood where the rise and fall of their voices, their very words, were trapped forever.

  Dear Diary: Another unbelievable day in Oz. When I came to bed, I found the radio tuned to country music, yet again. And so my thoughts turned to the original resident, Rosabelle. I’m beginning to think she waits here for me, whiling away her time listening to the soulful sounds of bluegrass in our room.

  On that topic, I’m getting nowhere. I need a confidante. Good word, huh? Somebody I can trust, somebody to run over all the data with, sort out fact from fiction. Since I can’t seek out my pals in N.J., who to trust? Luke? Luke, the mystery man. I can’t be sure about him. Why is he so reserved? Abe, who lives in romantic dreams of yesterday? Hunter or Monica? I’d sound like a hysterical lunatic, certainly unfit to oversee their child: “See, there’s this old lullaby and roses which appear and disappear by magic and a candle that melts without being lighted and a radio that tunes itself.” The rational mind would say, “Impossible.”

  Talk about your gothic settings! And Overhome has one helluva dark and gloomy history, even without the Spanish moss. But then Miss Emma tells me there are SIGNS! And it all begins to make sense, which is the scariest thing of all. All I know is, as I sat there at dinner tonight in that museum of a room, I felt a kind of immortality where nothing is ever lost, where nothing dies, and nothing changes. If I have a muse, surely she resides in the dining room.

  My uncle says there’s a trunk in the attic. A trunk full of memories collected by my birth mother and father. Miss Emma says I shouldn’t stir up the past, but I am on a mission—I must know.

  TEN

  My eyes were wide open, as though I had never slept, but my lighted radio showed three a.m. The music again. “Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes. Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a sing in thy praise.” The lyrics coursed clearly through my consciousness. Gingerly, I placed my bare feet on the carpet, moving automatically toward the French doors. Latched, they creaked when I tugged them open. Tip-toeing across the rough floor of the balcony, I looked up into a night sky, overcast and starless. I peered blindly into the yard below, but nothing stirred. Only the muted sounds of night fell on my waiting ears; the music abated as suddenly as it began.

  For a long while, I stood, expecting, what? I did not know. To hear, to see, to feel something in the heavy darkness. But all was quiet. As I turned back to the doors, rubbing the chill from my bare arms, I felt something brush against my foot, something soft and thin and weightless. Bending to rake my fingertips across the spot, I lifted a feather-soft object to my face. It was a single rose petal. Whirling to look again at the shadowy yard below, I discovered nothing. This remnant had been dropped by some unseen hand. With one last look, I threw the petal over the railing and entered my room.

  Latch the doors. Lock out the night. Settle into the comfort of the old bed and let the blanket of sleep smother the confusion of thoughts. Think of something pleasant. Something soothing. Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes.

  I awoke next morning to the sound of birds whacking themselves against the window. Leaping out of bed, I
ran to the French doors as a wash of blue wings swooped into the atmosphere. What’s up with these birds? Shaking my head, I stepped out onto the balcony. Then, I became aware of the sound of voices outside. Hurrying out, I saw in the distance the backs of three people standing on the dock, their voices rising and falling with their excited gestures. Luke, Uncle Hunter and Abe, who spoke most loudly. When he moved to the side, I spied the object of their conversation. Lying still and wet on the floater dock was the wolf-dog that had attacked me in the green tunnel, obviously dead.

  My stomach lurched. Luke had said he would take care of the creature. Was this the result? Even so vicious an animal as that deserved better. Dressing hastily, I flew through the hallway and down the stairs to the back door. Out of breath, I arrived at the dock to find the men kneeling over the sodden form. Silent now, they all wore puzzled expressions.

  Abe was the first to speak. “Y’ see? I told you this animal didn’t drown.” He reached for the neck and straightened it, flipping the jowls from side to side. “It’s done been strangled, see? Somebody shaved the fur right off’n th’ neck in a perfect circle. This here animal never knew what hit ’im.”

  Nervously, I looked at Luke, but he appeared as genuinely mystified as the others. Luke shook his head. “Funny thing is. Funny thing is I went out lookin’ for th’ wolf-dog last night. About midnight. I snuck into th’ kennel at Eddie Mills’ house. It was full ’a hounds, but no wolf-dog. I just figured Eddie kept it in th’ house nights. Short of breakin’ and enterin’ there was nothin’ I could do, so I came home and went to bed.” Luke looked at the others. “But how the hell did it turn up on th’ dock?”

  “Well,” Uncle Hunter said. “There’ll be no more trouble from this animal.” He gave Luke an apologetic look. “Distasteful as it might be, Luke, would you mind doing the dirty work here—returning the body to the Mills family?”

  “They’re not gonna be happy about this. Eddie raised that animal from a pup. Granted, he trained it t’ be an attack dog. But he loved it for its loyalty. An’ its power, I reckon.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Luke?”

  “Y’ mean that Eddie might try to get even?”

  “We all know what they…what he is capable of doing.” Uncle Hunter paused. “We may have to step up our surveillance. Are you interested, Luke? A little more night-watching?”

  “No problem,” Luke did not hesitate. “My pleasure.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know how we could run this place without you. Now, I must be off. Let me know if you need anything, in the way of help.” With a nod to me, he turned and climbed the steps to the house.

  Luke turned his eyes on me for the first time. “Jeez, y’ look shook up.”

  I stared at the sodden hulk. “Even dead, it still looks terrifying. B-but I just hate to see any animal die like that.” On the verge of tears, I felt my voice quiver. “But part of me is thankful. I mean, what if the wolf-dog were to attack Jeff? And me—big wimp, falling down in a dead faint. I couldn’t protect him…completely worthless.” My eyes filled and tears trickled down my cheeks.

  Luke’s expression changed curiously. “Y’ know, I had you figgered all wrong.” He paused. “From day one, I thought y’ were another spoiled rich gal, y’ know. One more Yankee snob just here for th’ adventure.” Again he stopped, locking eyes with me. “But, it’s clear, now. You’re serious; y’ really care about Jeff.” Then he blinked and added, as if he’d just thought of it. “No wonder th’ kid is so crazy about you.”

  I wiped my face. “Spoiled? Rich?” I sputtered. “I live in a puny two-level townhouse on a crowded cul-de-sac and went to the most middle-class suburban high school you can imagine. My dad is a public school chemistry teacher and my mom is a kindergarten aide. In high school I pimped French fries at McDonalds to pay for my clothes and my cell phone. If I want to drive to the mall, I have to borrow the family car, and I’ve worked my way through community college selling undies at Vicky’s Secret while living at home. Of all my faults and shortcomings, rich and spoiled have never even remotely qualified.”

  “Whoa! Your face is bright red!” With a sheepish look, Luke touched my arm. “I said I was sorry, or I meant to, if I didn’t. Look, why don’t y’ come have breakfast with Abe an’ me. In all th’ excitement, we haven’t eaten yet.”

  The gruesome death aside, Luke’s offer was a nice turn of events. Well, I suppose his false impressions about me could explain his aloofness. And I had been a pain in the ass on more than one occasion, seen from his point of view. Could we be in for a happy change in our relationship? I stood out of the way while Luke and Abe dragged the corpse off the dock and onto the grass and covered it with a canvas tarp. Then the three of us trooped up the steps and across the lawn to the tiny guest house where they lived.

  Once inside, I looked around with curiosity. Compact and cozy, the kitchen had every modern appliance imaginable, including a dishwasher and microwave oven; it was tidy and well-organized. Sunlight sieved through gauzy curtains at the open window behind the table, glancing off china mugs and a matching teapot. Luke put the teakettle on to boil, then sat at the table with me while Abe whipped up an omelet.

  “Your house is so tidy!”

  Luke laughed. “Without a woman’s touch, y’ mean? It’s a wonder, eh?” Miss Emma had told me Luke’s parents were both dead and I wondered if I would ever learn the details. As if reading my thoughts, he offered, “My folks were killed in an airplane crash. I was ten. Plane went down in th’ Blue Ridge on a foggy return flight from their first holiday in years. It didn’t seem fair—still doesn’t—but Abe an’ me, well, we had t’ keep on livin’. So we just stayed here and went on with th’ life we know best. I guess I got used t’ being an orphan.”

  “My parents, my birth parents, were killed in a car crash. An awful coincidence. I guess you could call it that.”

  Abe placed three loaded plates on the table, then turned to take the whistling kettle from the stove. Carefully, he poured the steaming liquid into the teapot. We ate silently for a while, then Abe spoke in his usual growl. “I don’t want t’ spoil breakfast, but I think I know who killed th’ wolf.”

  Luke and I both looked at him in surprise as he reached into his pocket and displayed the contents before us in his open palm. “I found these on th’ dock, picked ’em up before you and Hunter got there, Luke.”

  Luke craned his neck. “Wha-a-t? What’s that, Abe? I can’t see it.”

  “Rose petals. Y’ know what that means. Rosabelle. She’s here. Again.” Delicately, he dropped the crumpled red shards in a little heap on the table.

  “It means nothin’,” Luke said. “It’s nothin’ but old superstition, pure bull.” He frowned and shook his head. “Abe has th’ lame idea we’ve got ghosts or somethin’ around here. Spooks going boo! in the night. Can we get real? It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.”

  Surprised at my own feeling of calm, I placed a light hand on Luke’s. “Please, Luke. Let him talk.”

  “Fine. Talk all y’ want. I’m tired of hearin’ it, myself.” He stood up, clearing the plates in one swift movement from table to kitchen sink before he strode out of the room. I heard him mutter, “Everybody in this freakin’ place is livin’ in th’ past. Doesn’t anybody think about th’ future?”

  Abe paid not one whit of attention to his grandson’s outburst. Pulling a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, he took his time filling his pipe. After some moments of tapping and puffing, he was ready to talk. “Y’ see, Thomas Overton, your grandpa, was a hard man. He run Overhome with a iron fist. He run his own fam’ly th’ same way. Th’ three boys, well, they was all a’scairt a him, him and his razor strop. Neighbors took pains to stay out’n his way, too. In these parts Thomas Overton got whatever he went after.”

  For a while he puffed reflectively. When he began again, it was in a different voice, dreamy and soft, the same voice he’d used in the gazebo when he spoke of my Grandmother Lenore. “But Lenor
e, she was diff’rent. I taught her to ride. Did y’ know that? Lenore was born an’ raised at Overhome. She married her own cousin, Thomas, that’s the same Overton fam’ly but many times removed. They was distant cousins. It was him come to live here after they was married. His branch of the Overtons hadn’t done so well after th’ Civil War. I reckon, livin’ on th’ grand estate here musta went to his head.”

  For a long time Abe sat veiled in a mist of own thoughts, but at length he continued. “‘You’ll always have a home here, Abe,’ she used t’ say. ‘You belong at Overhome, you and yers.’ She was like that, Lenore was. A magnificent woman. A real looker, too. An’, oh boy! Could that lady ride a horse.” He stood, then, and I was afraid our talk was over, but he had other plans. “I wanna show you my scrapbook. Be right back.”

  I poured us each fresh tea, watching steam curl from the mugs as I waited for it to cool. Tapping the cup with my fingernail, I let my eyes circle the bright room, wondering what life could be like here for Luke and Abe, wondering about the grandmother I would never meet, and, as always, wondering about the roses. I was halfway through my tea by the time Abe returned with a worn-looking scrapbook in his hands. Plunking it in the center of the table, he began turning yellowed pages. Focusing on one of the pages, his expression soured. “Emma Coleville,” he barked. “Uppity woman!”

  “Oh, may I see, Abe? She must be very young there.”

  He turned the crumbling page so I could see the blurry and faded image of a coltish young girl leaning against a fence, laughing at her look-alike companion. I would never have recognized her as a young Emma Coleville.

  “Too good for her own good, Emma Coleville,” he growled. “Always puttin’ on airs. She tried t’ turn Sarah against me. Tried but never even got close.”