Beloved Mother

by Laura Hunter

  There, on the far end of the porch, lay Gabe, his feet stuck through the seat of Anna’s pea-shelling chair. Gabe looked as if he had been attacked by the chair and lost the battle. His fall had jammed the chair against the wall. Both his legs had broken through the rotten seat and pinned him down. The new wooden swing he had been hanging hung too high on one end. Its other end rested hard and heavy across his chest.

  In an attempt to escape, he was now grunting, trying to lift the swing off his chest with one hand and push the chair frame off his legs with the other. Neither would budge. When he heard Lily’s step on the porch, he twisted his head back and looked at her coming his way.

  “Lily, my darling, how is it you can walk upside down and I can’t even stand upright?” He laughed again, as if this contorted position had been part of his plan.

  “Gabe Shipley, what are you doing?” Lily rested both hands on her hips, Anna’s stance when Lily as a child had misbehaved. I’m becoming my own mother, she thought.

  “I’ve come to court my fair lady while setting in this fine swing,” he said. “Swing’s setting on me instead, I reckon.” He chuckled. “Help me up from here before you get the idea I’m an old man. Too old for a pretty girl like yourself.”

  Lily tried to pull the chair off Gabe’s legs, all the while holding back her own giggles. The chair would not move. “Why’d you have to have such big old feet anyway?”

  “Just lucky, I guess. They held me up fairly well before now.”

  Lily moved around to lift the swing off his chest. After a try or two, she said, “I can’t lift this thing by myself. I reckon you’re just stuck here,” and she walked toward the door. “Let me know when you’re hungry. Can’t fry you eggs since all your clamoring about made me drop the whole basket. But I might bring a biscuit out later.”

  “Now, my Lily my love, you’re not going to leave me pinned here like a stuck hog, are you? Not when I worked so hard to surprise you with a first-rate new swing.”

  “What you suggest I do? Pry that swing off you?”

  “Sure. Get a pole and prop this end up. I’ll roll out. Then we can work on getting my legs free.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Gabe,” she teased. “Ought to leave you stuck. You shouldn’t’ve scared me so.”

  “You know I wouldn’t do that a purpose. I’m just working at making you happy.” Gabe tried to move his legs, only to run the seat up past his knees. “I aim to have a happy wife,” he grunted.

  “I don’t need a new swing for that. I’m happy like I am,” Lily said. “Besides I don’t intend to be no man’s wife.”

  “Well, I’m damned well not happy. I’m getting cramps. ‘Sides, I hit my head,” Gabe whined.

  Lily stuck the shovel handle between two of the swing’s boards for leverage and grasped the swing. “Get ready to roll over. I can’t hold this thing up long.”

  “Let’s go, girl.” Gabe rolled from under the swing, his feet still held by the chair’s missing seat. The chair clumped over twice as Gabe rolled. He sat for a moment, rubbing his chest where the swing had hit. He looked at his feet, still boxed in Anna’s pea-shelling chair. He laughed at himself and said, “I’ll fix this for my bride.”

  “That’s my mama’s chair, so you’re not fixing it for nobody else, because I’m not your bride, Gabe Shipley.”

  He released his feet, stood and kissed Lily’s lips. “Yep. But you will be before summer ends. Bet my last dollar on it, Lily my love.”

  Chapter 37

  Dark settled in fast. He moved silent as a fox and sat in the swing next to Lily before she realized he was there. He wore a shirt three times too large, flannel. Its sleeves hung almost to his knees though he was tall, tall as a young tree.

  Lily recognized him immediately. “Eli?” she said.

  He wiped his mouth on one sleeve and his nose on the other, then slid over and kissed Lily’s hair above her ear.

  The kiss did not startle Lily. She had not expected it, but it had not surprised her either.

  He hummed then sang quietly, “I have a bed, a very fine bed…”

  Lily interrupted him. “I know that ballad. It’s old as the hills.”

  “Turtleback Mountain, Turtleback Mountain,” he sang. “Old as the hills. Old as the hills.” He crooned the same notes over and over.

  Lily searched his face for something about his singing. He hummed another old English ballad, and she knew. Yes, his was her dream voice, the one she had first mistaken for the voice of Little People.

  He leaned back against the slat back and stared into the woods as if he expected someone to step out and grab him. His head sat askew, not quite straight on his neck from the incident at the tavern. Looking at him head-on, Lily recalled the night she had seen him through the window, hanging in his underwear. Her muscles tensed against the swing seat. In an attempt to relax, Lily pushed off the swing. Eli sat silent beside her, allowing her to determine the speed of each sway.

  After a long thinking time, Lily sighed. “So. You bring the music.”

  Owl flew in and lit on a rafter. He settled his feathers and eyed the two.

  “Owl,” said Eli. He pointed. “Owl and pussy cat went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat.”

  Lily rested her arm across the back of the swing, brushing against Eli’s back as she moved.

  “You’re too thin, Eli O’Mary.”

  “Saving us out of the fiery place,” sang Eli.

  Sister Sun, near the cusp of the horizon, calls to Brother Moon. “Is he talking about me? Is he saying I’m fiery?”

  “No. He’s just singing some old song. No need to make him sweat.”

  “No, I can’t save nobody, Eli. Thought I could, but I can’t.” She pushed off again, then stopped the movement. “Come inside. I’ll feed you supper.”

  Eli slept the night in front of the stone hearth wrapped in one of Anna’s old quilts. “Not a very fine bed,” Lily said as she tucked the corners around his bare feet.

  “I have a bed, a very fine bed,” Eli sang, and he wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve.

  For days and evenings, quiet would sit easy between them for hours. Eli was home.

  Gabe’s first reaction to Eli at Boone Station angered Lily. She had not expected him to be so adamant against Eli staying with her. The argument marked a pivotal point between the two. Lily saw it as their first fight. She saw Gabe as jealous and selfish. Gabe saw Lily as naïve and careless. He called her “soft-bellied,” allowing a man her own age, a man who could barely communicate, to stay days and nights with her.

  Eli, hearing his name repeated from both mouths neither of which said it with tenderness, inched behind the open door, waiting for the voices to soften. When they did not, he cradled Sunday. He and Sunday slipped out the door and into the woods, back to spending his days lying on one of Old Oak’s thick limbs where the road to Flatland intersected the road to Breakline, watching people live out their lives below. The old mountain woman and her comings and goings made for much better days than lying in the old damp shed.

  Gabe left, uneasy, more jumbled than he had ever been, more so than when he had confronted the granny over the spilled honey. He could not convince the old granny that what he did was business. She came in wearing that crazy snake hat and knocking all the jars on the floor. He had to take out his two-by-four to protect himself. He wouldn’t see another honey harvest? Ha. It took two days to get all the honey off the floor.

  The next morning after Eli disappeared, Lily found Sunday asleep in the swing. She brought her in and fed her a saucer of Gertie’s milk. That night, Lily stepped out under a sky so full of stars it looked as if dandelion fluff had blown about in the wind from her side of the mountain to light up the dark. Sunday joined Lily, wound around her legs and ambled down the road toward Covington. Lily followed. Around the curve and down the grade, Sunday slipped off the road and into the brush.

  “You always show out when you’re in full phase,” says Sister Sun.

  “Just hel
ping the little lady along,” says Brother Moon.

  “Don’t you tell me not to do that?”

  “This is different,” argues Brother Moon.

  After some walking distance, Lily heard the Falls tumbling into Parsons Branch as water hit flat rock.

  Sunday made no attempt to throw Lily off her trail. Just past the Falls, Lily realized Sunday was headed for Old Man Farley’s crib. The wind picked up as she neared the Falls, no random wind, but a wind that threw Lily’s hair over her face as it pushed her from behind. Once on the trail itself, she stepped faster, trying to catch Sunday and bring her back to Boone Station.

  As she entered the small cove where the crib stood, clouds split, exposing a full hoary moon. Before her, large pieces of plywood were propped at an angle from the ground to the tops of the two windows. A worn green blanket had been stretched across the top of the door and pulled back to create an entry. Someone lived in the old structure.

  This was the place where the rustle of leaves was music, where magic passed through the wind from generation to generation. It had been her place of solace since Bad Billy led her here nine years ago. But it was not a place to live. Not certain that she should walk up without warning, she hallowed the house. Her call to someone who might be within, echoed down Turtleback. No one answered. It would not be until the spirit mist came upon her there that she would understand that a shanty could be sacred. Sunday stepped across the log that held up the front walls and disappeared inside.

  Lily called again. When no one returned her call, she followed Sunday inside. In the middle of the floor, ash from a small fire had been scattered so as not to re-flame. In the far corner, a dirty pillow lay against the wall, a pillow she recognized as the one Anna had used, one she threw away after her mama died because she could not bear the smell of her mother’s hair.

  Behind her, a voice said, “Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep…”

  Lily caught her breath and whirled around. “You scared me to death, Eli.”

  “And can’t tell where to find them,” he finished.

  “I see you’re not lost. What’re you doing here? I thought you’d gone back to Covington.”

  He swayed as he began an old mountain ballad. “You remember that Saturday night we gathered at the tavern…”

  “Don’t bring that up, Eli. It’s too bad to remember.”

  He began another ballad as he danced around her. “Awake, awake my drowsy sleeper…”

  “Stop that and talk to me,” Lily said. “Answer my question. How long have you been living here?”

  “A case of whiskey I spilled,” he answered, his forehead furrowed. “Gotta get the cat.”

  “Sunday’s right here. She’s not going anywhere. And you can’t live up here by yourself.” Lily took Eli’s hand. “Come on. I’ll take you home. Gabe can like it or not.”

  The next day three shots were fired, one after the other, down the mountain. Then thunder followed by a gully washer, rain chasing itself and making puddles that would later glisten in the sunshine.

  That afternoon late, Gabe clanked up on the porch. His noise made a mockingbird that had been puttering about in the yard dust fly off without taking a step. Owl chittered into the dusk. Gabe threw open the door. “Lily,” he said.

  Her back to the door, Lily stood in the middle of the room, scissors mid-air. Before her sat a straggly man with half his long curls lying in his lap and on the floor. “Gabe,” Lily smiled.

  Gabe’s grin went slack as he stared at Eli. Same as yesterday.

  “It’s Eli, Gabe,” Lily said. “Eli O’Mary from elementary school in Covington.”

  Gabe cocked his head. “More rain’s coming,” he said, his voice somber.

  “Oh?” said Lily. “Get up, Eli. We got company.” She swung the chair to face Gabe and patted its back for Eli to sit. She lifted another wad of hair and chopped it off. The clump slipped to the floor and lay like a fuzzy white worm at Lily’s foot

  “Halo ‘round the moon last night,” Gabe said. “Rain in a couple of days.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  “Sit down. I’ll be finished in a minute.”

  “Standing’s fine.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Lily said.

  “What?”

  “The moon. Last night.” Lily ran her fingers through Eli’s hair and lifted another section. “Eli’s staying here. I found him out. He’s been living at Old Man Farley’s.”

  “Needs to go back where he come from, I’d say.” Gabe sat on the bench beside the table. He leaned back against the table as if to stay a spell.

  “Well, he can’t,” Lily said. “He must have most froze during the blizzard, so he’s staying here in my loft.”

  His brow furrowed, Gabe looked directly at Eli. Lily noticed the frown and said, “Leave your sense of humor at home?”

  “How’d you manage moving in on a pretty young woman like Lily here?” Gabe spoke to Eli.

  “He don’t talk, Gabe.” Lily hacked at another wad of hair. “But he sings. Ballads, right Eli?”

  Gabe grunted. Eli nodded.

  “Now, Gabe not to find fault. You got a gentle goodness about you. Always have. But you’re not talking like the Gabe Shipley I know.”

  Eli lowered his head. “Hold up now, Eli.” Lily snipped again. “You know what it’s like having nobody. I’m learning that, and it ain’t so good a lesson.”

  “You got me,” said Gabe.

  “And you got me. Eli’s got nobody. So I say let’s let him have us.” Lily sneezed at a wayward hair that tickled her nose.

  “Let me think on it. I ain’t feeling the fool over this someday down the road.” Gabe laid one leg across his knee. “I come when you said something about shooting. I come to take you to Breakline.”

  “I’m taking the blame if this is wrong, Gabe.” Lily moved to the other side of Eli’s head. “But I’m staying. Boone Station’s my home and Turtleback’s my mountain. I got electricity. I got a telephone.” She snipped over Eli’s left ear. “Hold still, Eli. But I ain’t thinking this is wrong.”

  Gabe put his arm down. “Been listening to the wind again?”

  “Maybe.” Lily laughed and cut another wad of Eli’s hair. “Get the broom from behind the door and sweep up this hair. If you’re willing, you can wash Eli’s hair.”

  Gabe crinkled his nose. “Let him wash his own hair. He ain’t no baby.”

  “Just you get him started so he can see how. He’ll do the rest.” Lily took the kettle from the stove and poured hot water into an enamel pan. She set them on the table. “I’ll leave you two to the chore.” She went outside and closed the door.

  Outside, Lily sat beneath the window and listened to Gabe grumble.

  “Hold your head steady while I pour this here water,” he said. “First she comes in with that owl, then a stray cat. Treats those old goats like yard dogs. And now she drags up this varmint. What’s next?”

  Lily listened to water splashing over Eli’s head.

  “Reckon she’s worth it,” Gabe said. “Got the purest heart I ever met.”

  Lily relaxed. Gabe would be fine.

  Day after day shots drew closer. Lily and Eli stayed inside, keeping Sunday near for her safety. Late afternoons, Lily tucked Clint’s revolver in her jacket and slipped outside to feed her goats and chickens.

  A week passed with no shots. Nights, Lily lay awake and pondered who would be bold enough to climb the Turtleback during the day and shoot. All Covington and Breakline Camp knew Turtleback had no hunting. Early Cherokee settlers had kept the Turtleback and its valley sacred. So had Uriah, then Anna, as did she. No one could hunt without permission from the Cherokee. With the Cherokee resettled, no one thought of hunting. Change might have wandered into their world, but legend revered Lily’s land as had the Cherokee. This southwestern tip of Virginia. This holy land. This idani.

  Lily set out to find who might be shooting. Nothing the first day, but she returned early the following day while de
w sat wet on grasses, following Broken Rock Creek, up ledge after ledge, until the water narrowed to little more than a branch. Past Old Man Farley’s crib. Stepping under tall pines that were so old they stood on thick trunks, each with a gigantic top bursting with green needles. The age of the forest allowed her to walk upright and search large areas simply by looking through the trees. She had been here before during the fall and watched a buck in the distance, his antlers propelling him forward, without his knowing she stood near.

  The first rifle shells she found were a mile up the slope leading away from Flatland. This third day, she had veered south when the trail ended and made her own way. Within a dozen yards, she noticed the grass trampled where someone had walked, someone with feet larger than a forest dweller’s. She followed the crushed grass to a small clearing over the ridge. On a log sat a ragged row of cans, some rusty, some shiny, balanced as best they could, on the curved bark. Closer, behind the log, she saw three twisted pieces of tin, each with bullet holes. None of the rest had been hit.

  Someone was on her mountain. A worker from Covington or a miner from Breakline. Or Briar Slocomb. Why she thought of him she had no idea, but there he was, fully fleshed in her mind, his gleaming hatchet hanging from his belt loop. His workman’s boots holding the legs of his denim pants down. His floppy-soled boots ever announcing his presence. She returned to Boone Station and called Gabe.

  Briar Slocomb had walked into Lily’s life using the road that fronted Boone Station. Lily remembered him only as a grown man with carpenter tools, a hatchet, and a thick-bodied dog. Slocomb passed mornings going to Covington for work and returned late afternoons. He rarely looked at her, but when he did, she covered her mouth shut with a rag so she would not swallow his glare. Here was a man with long curled hair, not straight like Kee Granny’s, and darker. Bronze-colored eyes burned out of their sockets. He moved like a bird of prey. Winter winds flapped his long duster, a pale brown, noisily against his legs as he walked.