by Laura Hunter
Grey light opened the morning. The sun came up slow, a pale, flat disk too weak to dry the dew. It had not yet brightened the trees. Turtleback’s fog had barely burned away. This was a mist Lily loved. Once outside, she would stretch her arms, twirl around, singing, “I am a cloud, I am a cloud. You can’t touch me. I am a cloud.” She had done so this morning before Seth White’s school truck arrived to take her to Covington.
Anna went barefoot to her pea patch ahead of schedule. Within minutes, her naked feet went cold against the damp ground. She stood and stomped them for warmth. She could go back to the house for shoes, but she wanted this chore finished. She squatted to the ground. The earlier she began, the earlier she finished.
She glanced up to wipe her face. There stood Winston Rafe. For Winston to appear mornings at the far edge of the patch did not surprise Anna. His image had come to the garden before. What surprised her was that he was here so early. The sun was usually surveying her work when he appeared.
She took another fleeting look down the row of pea vines. This could not be Winston. It must be Gabe. Winston was in Colorado, helping the government create more effective mining techniques. He existed only in her mind; yet today his presence was as clear as if he were standing a few feet away. He grinned, a particular grin that drew a thin line from the corners of his eyes to his temple.
He stood statue-like, early morning mist swirling around his ankles, as she pulled weeds from around her pea vines. She rose, put her hand to the small of her back and stretched. For the breath of a moment, she looked past him, into a faraway time that took her to when the Winston in the distance would have been real, not just a wish.
Anna roped her consciousness back in. The Winston she saw wore drab green, almost brown, with one hand hooked into a charcoal-colored bomber jacket flung over his shoulder. She squatted and clasped her hand over her mouth to stop her tremors, afraid she would cry. So real was he before her.
Anna resumed weeding. She yanked, rather than eased, weeds from the dirt. Stems broke from roots, negating her efforts and allowing weeds a stronger foundation for new growth. She took a dull knife from her overall bib and stabbed at stubborn roots as if she meant to dissect them. She gouged them out and flung them aside so the rising sun could suck out their life. Though he was behind her, she could feel him smiling.
Mid-row, she lifted herself again. Winston was still there. He lifted his hand and smiled. It looked as if he had come closer. She gauged the far edge of the garden against where he waited. He was closer. And he was moving toward her. Vapor that had moments ago eddied around his feet was gone, drawn up by the sun’s warmth. As she stared at him, he dropped his jacket. Anna let her knife fall and wiped gritty palms against her overalls.
“Winston?”
“It’s me, Anna. Returned from the Army.”
Anna’s blood throbbed in her ears. The imagined Winston had never spoken to her. She dropped her trowel and waited for him to reach her. During the standing time, she reminded herself that it was he who had left. He was who had sent word by someone else that he was gone, no longer a part of her life or she his. She had waited these three years. She could wait a few steps more.
Winston moved down the furrow that led to Anna, his shoes picking up mud as he came. When he reached her, he put his arm around her waist, bent down and kissed the crown of her head. She fell into step with him. As they walked to the house, a mockingbird sang a song of reproach from across the road, the same road Winston had walked up in darkness from Covington.
Accepting Winston back into her life came easy, as if she had taken life-giving breaths after being long underwater. That afternoon when both sun and moon inhabited the sky, Winston left. Though he continued down the far side of Turtleback to Breakline Camp, to Gladys and their daughter CeCe, the taste of the day lingered sweet on Anna’s tongue.
Chapter 19
Granny Slocomb made her own brew every summer Tuesday when the plants were in full bloom, so making it came easy. Take four angel trumpet blooms, any color, and bring to a boil in clean water. Boil until blooms wilt. Boiling longer may cause too much toxin to leach into the brew and release the drinker’s spirit mist. The aim is to sweeten the water enough to give the drink power to produce mild hallucinations.
This time, before removing the spent blooms, Granny added a handful of muscadine grapes from the vine that grew next to the mandrake. By having shared root space with mandrake, wild grapes would add more strength, as long as she didn’t put in too many. She craved the familiar taste of wild grapes, so she dropped them in with a splash. They popped open within a moment. Their aroma tickled her nose, but she waited for a rolling boil before she strained the blooms and grape pulp. Then she set the liquid aside to cool. Granny Slocomb spent late afternoon and early evening sipping her fresh mixture. As the poisons soaked into her brain, a powerful queasiness overtook her. She fell into bed, covered herself with a muslin sheet and slept.
Just before dawn, ice crystals separating Brother Moon from Turtleback attempted to hide the moon in their white haze. Turtleback saw the moon’s halo and felt the chilly air. At Boone Station, Bad Billy and Gertie edged together for warmth. In the valley holding Breakline Mining Camp, Gabe Shipley pulled another quilt over his big feet without waking.
A far north wind seeped around the granny’s church door. It settled over her naked legs. She flinched and drew her legs to her chest. The wind moved up her body. She rolled into a fetal ball and shivered awake to find a sleek brown weasel at the foot of her bed.
The stoat sat upright on her short, hind legs. Her white underbelly gleamed against the darkness. The granny tried to bolt from the bed, but the weasel moved so quickly that the granny could only scoot backwards. She picked up her pillow and swatted toward the weasel. “Get out,” she said. “You got no business in my house.”
“Your rats keep me fat,” the weasel said. “Your rotten floor joust makes a warm bed.”
“Get out. I don’t need no blood-thirsty animal around here.”
“I bring a message,” said the weasel. Her smile exposed four sharp fangs. Her black eyes glistened. She moved closer toward the granny’s neck.
Granny jerked her pillow up as a barrier between her body and the weasel. She had never encountered a weasel, but she knew one could be vicious, poisonous. Weasels had the Power. They could hypnotize their prey with their dancing. Bring their young back to life. The weasel swayed back and forth. Granny looked away.
“Look at me,” the weasel said. It moved with more definition now. “You have the book of medicines. Only you can read it.” The weasel, purring, inched closer. “You are greater than any Beloved Mother of the past.”
Granny stiffened her back. She tilted her head toward the weasel. “Who sent you here?”
“Shhh,” the weasel replied. “Listen.” She stretched her thin neck to its full length and lowered her small round ears close to her head. Her long whiskers twitched. She squeaked. “You think you live in the world ruled by Great Spirit, but you are beyond that. Your powers elevate you over anyone who has ever lived. You have powers greater than those of Great Spirit.”
“You lie.” The granny shook her head. “No one is greater than Great Spirit. Beloved Mother of the Carolinas told me so.”
“Ponder tests you have weathered,” purred the weasel. “Lost time in the valley before leaving with Jackson Slocomb. Jackson Slocomb and his pain. Loneliness without Tall Corn.” The weasel’s pointed nose quivered. “The bitterness of miners who resent you with their women. Briar alone within Turtleback’s forest, haunted by his loneliness and guilt.”
The weasel dropped flat on the bed. She became more crimped shadow on the coverings than forest animal. “The day is here. Today,” the weasel said. “Rise. You are immortal.” She gave a short trill and slid between the bed and wall.
“Wait. What’d you mean?” The granny leaned toward where the weasel had disappeared. “Are you saying I’m a god?”
Nothing answered b
ut silence.
“I’m a god,” whispered the granny to herself. She split her face into a crooked grin. “I will rise up and rejoice. I’ll respect Great Spirit with the Sacred Cedar, but I am a god.” She leapt off the bed and out the door. She jumped over the rock step and scattered the morning mist. The air was so cold it burned the soles of her feet. She shouted to the mountain, “Come, you bees. See. I’ve changed in the night.” She spun in the yard, but no air fanned her legs. Her straight cotton shift refused to circle. Behind her, a soft jangle sounded. She glanced back.
At the edge of the rock step lay a night-chilled rattlesnake, trying to coil. The granny picked a heavy work boot from the opposite side of the step, slipped on the right one and crushed the snake’s skull beneath her heel. It wanted to slither away, but she ground its head into the dirt. As soon as it stopped moving, she went inside and pulled down a battered, wide brimmed sun-hat. She set it aside and went back out to skin the rattlesnake. Morning air stroked her face with icy fingers.
The following week, the granny strutted into the commissary sporting the old, grey felt hat, its brim flopping over her ears. Around the base of the crown rested an elegant snakeskin in grays and browns, the stark background highlighting dark diamonds outlined in white. The skin reflected the sun’s light so perfectly the snake seemed to move. Each following Tuesday, she increased the strength of her brew. Each time, the weasel revisited, her words glorifying the granny. Over time, the hat and its snakeskin band became as much a part of the granny as her worn valise and rattling gourd.
A few days later, with digging stick in hand, Granny Slocomb spent the early hours gouging the earth for ginseng. On an abandoned road near Boone Station, she found a parked car. A Buick so deeply green that it seemed lost against the dark leaves. It stood out of sight, hidden by thick rhododendron clusters. Her church being well off the main road, Granny did not recognize the automobile. The only nearby people were Anna and Lily. Anna had no car.
Granny palmed the hood for heat. The motor had not yet cooled. She laid her stick against an oak and picked her way to Boone Station. When she neared the house, she saw the door closed, though the day boded warm for morning. She eased under the open side window where the bed stood and nestled herself into soft pine straw, quiet as a copperhead.
Inside, voices spoke in sporadic mumbles. Granny listened. She heard words that Walks in Tall Corn had given her during their nine years together. Within her, a solid sullenness sprouted. Someone loved Anna in a way the granny would never know again. Anna Goodman, the widow, pleasured herself at the potential expense of the child Lily, who should by rights belong to her. Anna Goodman, with her carelessness, could destroy every Beloved Mother vestige Granny had given Lily.
Each morning for two weeks, she returned. Granny’s anger grew more invasive, its edges raw and cutting. Anger moved out of her chest and settled on her face in sulky, acidic lines. Her cheek scars deepened, leaving her features dark, almost haunted. Had she looked into a stream, she would have seen a harshness that cheated her of the charm of the woodland and the delight of teaching Lily the Beloved Mother ways.
Inside Boone Station, the two argued over Lily, over CeCe, over Gladys. Anna dropped her dress. Winston had won.
Rafe had been gone the summer looking for available mining rights. He kept from Anna that he’d had no success. Using his practiced touch, he ran his fingers down her arm. He leaned his head back against the headboard and lit a Lucky Strike. Its paper stuck to his lip and made the cigarette bobble as he spoke. “I’ll be going to Kentucky soon,” he said. “I got to find some mining rights.”
“Stay here with me,” Anna said, her head resting on his chest. The musky aroma of his sweat mesmerized her.
Winston drew on the cigarette and exhaled. Blue smoke rose toward the ceiling. “Could if you’d let me mine the Turtleback.” He kissed the top of her head.
Anna rolled to the other side of the bed. “We’ve gone over this time and again. Nobody’s going to mine Turtleback.” She massaged her temples so she could think more clearly.
Winston reached for her. “Aw, Anna, now.”
“No. Turtleback’s got too many scars already.” She slapped off his hand.
Such talk never failed to bring back stories her father had told about Winston’s father-in-law cutting into the eastern side of the mountain. How the earth itself rebelled by dropping the mine’s roof on twelve men as they squat-walked to the far end of the tunnel. How the whistle blew and blew and blew and how twelve headstones mark empty graves in Covington First Presbyterian Cemetery. She remembered each time garish, green water filled the ditch across the road from Boone Station. She remembered when she passed the row of crumbling camp houses off a side road between Boone Station and Covington. Her father had been foolish, or greedy, or both, to agree for old man Breakline to tear open the virgin earth. “I’ll not have the Turtleback become a pile of black holes,” she said.
“I’ll tell Gladys I’m in Kentucky. I’ll stay in Bristol, and we can spend a whole month of days together.” He reached again for her tangled hair.
Anna threw back her head. “Don’t you tempt me, Winston Rafe.” She laughed.
“I’d be gone by the time Lily gets home. Every day.”
She stood and pulled the sapphire satin robe Winston had given her around her body. Winston’s skinny legs lay stark against the sheet. She had to bite back a smile at how ridiculous he looked lying there in nothing but his shorts and undershirt with soft tufts of chest hair trying to escape at the neckline. While he had worked in Colorado, strength in his upper arms had waned. He had come back aged without her noticing. What had been a daily shaft of panic while he was away again pierced her though. She needed another cup of Granny’s tea. She shook her head in an attempt to direct her argument to its core. “You leave Lily out of this,” she said.
“Anna, I got to have another coal seam. This one’s too deep to be safe. It’s petering out. We started out thirty-odd years or so ago with a four-foot seam. It’s down to no more than six inches.” He sat up on the edge of the bed. “Things didn’t go well while I was gone. Not Seth’s fault. Or Gabe’s. I got no capital to invest in some fancy equipment that’ll drop miners down a mile-long hole in some glorified box. Machines I got won’t get it out. And no money to buy machinery that can dig deeper and deeper.” He pulled up his pants. “No coal means no mine. No mine and no work and no money.”
Anna stared out the window at a wind playing with a young, sweet bay magnolia. A breeze waved the tree’s top branches. Their leaves shivered, exposing silver backs.
“What about Colorado?” Anna asked.
“What I did in Colorado helped the government, not me,” he said. “Some copyright law about what you make belongs to the company you work for. It sure didn’t help the bank account.”
“I don’t need your money, Winston,” her voice no more than a whisper.
“That’s not what I mean. You know I never begrudge a penny to you and Lily. I treat her the same as my own.” He stuffed skinny arms in his shirtsleeves and slipped in his initialed cuff links.
Anna whirled on him. She glared straight at him. Now boss cow, she was ready to charge. “Let’s see. You’re telling me,” she balled her fists, “you’d wait here to see Lily when she climbs down off that rattletrap Seth White calls his truck bus?”
Winston patted a dot of Wildroot Hair Cream into his thick hair and raked the tendrils off his forehead. His hair reflected waves of light where his fingers sliced through the crown. He hid a grin as he watched Anna’s blue eyes quiver in anger. “Still got them blue eyes.” He grinned.
Anna ignored him.
“You’re telling me,” she spoke as if she slapped each word as soon as it hit the air, “that you’ll bring CeCe up here and let your two girls play together like sisters? They could be best friends. Or maybe you want to take Lily to your big house in Breakline for Sunday dinner?”
“Now, Anna, calm down.” He tucked in his shirtta
il. “You know my circumstances.” His cigarette wavered as he spoke. Smoke exhaled through his nostrils.
“You remind me enough.” She released her grip when fingernails marked her palms. “And don’t you be dropping ash on my floor for Lily to question.”
“Come here, Anna. I won’t mention the mine again.”
Anna had fought this battle before and lost. She had no reason to believe she would win this time, but she tried. She tied her satin robe’s belt hard and poked his belly with her forefinger. “You didn’t answer my question. It’s been eating at me since you came back from Colorado.”
Winston bent to kiss her. “You smell like baby powder.” He chuckled. “Something you not telling me?”
Anna drew away and pounded her fists against Winston’s chest, pushing him back toward the door. For a moment, she looked at him hard. All she saw was hair graying around his face. At forty-six, his face bore the face of a man much older.
“Go. I want you to go.” She tasted salt and realized she was crying. “Go to Kentucky and find your coal seam. Go back to your fancy house and wife and daughter.” The more she said, the harder she hit.
“Anna…” Winston reached for her. He let go his Lucky Strike. It dropped onto Anna’s hardwood floor.
Ignoring the smoldering cigarette tip, Anna slipped her finger under the snake chain to pull the gold bracelet from her wrist. “Take this with you,” she said as she tugged.
He closed her hand over the bracelet. “No. Keep it. You told Lily her father gave it to you.” His attempt at a smile failed. “She’ll want to know where it went.”
Anna put her closed fist to her mouth, waiting for Winston to leave.
“Anna?”
She turned her back, and Winston closed the door behind him.
Anna shook her head and kicked her bare foot at the cigarette but missed. She stomped the floor. Once. Twice. She picked up Winston’s cigarette butt and, with teeth clinched, stripped off the satin robe he had brought her. She stepped outside naked and touched the hot cigarette tip to the robe’s hem. The material rolled up on itself then flamed. Anna dropped the robe and watched it try to extinguish itself. She drew on the cigarette and put the glow back to the robe, but it blazed and died. The melting cloth smelled like ash stale in the grate. A puff of wind picked up Anna’s hair. She lifted the scorched robe and rolled it into a wad. A mockingbird teased her from a nearby tree. With no trace of fire left on the road, Anna went back inside and stuffed the robe into the stove’s coal box. She nailed a short nail into the wall beside her bedpost, slid her gold heart bracelet off, and hung it on the wall.