The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  “Well, you just go and have a grand time.” Grace wrote the zip code numbers on the last of the flyers on the table near her, and reached for another pile.

  It was Grace who Amelia awakened late at night when she returned from her first date with Lance Lundquist. “I have to talk, Grace. I’m so excited.”

  “You had a good time?” Grace rubbed her eyes and propped herself up in her bed. Amelia took the rocking chair by the window. She wore a pale yellow, ankle-length chiffon dress that hugged her slim body.

  “You look beautiful,” Grace said, “fresh as a daisy even after a night out dancing. Did you have fun? Did he kiss you?”

  “Goodness no. Never on a first date.” She was on the edge of the chair now. “Oh, Grace. It was so exciting.”

  “So tell me, what’s he like?”

  “Great fun. A terrific dancer. Gracious, well mannered, polished, stunning, you’ve seen him. Isn’t he gorgeous? His eyes are blue-gray, remember? And when he’s happy they’re blue, but when he gets upset they change to gray, and go all steely.”

  Grace shivered. “I wouldn’t like that.”

  “At least I know how he’s feeling.”

  “So tell me about him. Does he have children, grandchildren? Where do they live?”

  Amelia frowned, and the light faded from her lovely eyes. Uh-oh, Grace thought, trouble. “What is it, Amelia?”

  Amelia slipped off her high heels and rubbed her toes. “When we had that accident, Lance said he’d lived in Denver, been an architect, sold his firm, and retired here. I don’t know one other thing about him, where he was born, if he has any family, nothing. He doesn’t talk about his past. Tonight at dinner, when I pressed him, his eyes turned gray and his mouth got that firm set. So, I backed off.”

  “I seem to recall a time when you were pretty private, not telling anyone about your past, about Thomas, your burns, Caroline.”

  “That’s true.” She tossed her head, scooped up her shoes, and stood. “Maybe he just needs time to get to know me, trust me.” She departed with a flourish, leaving Grace sitting in bed and wide awake.

  12

  A Tale of Dying and Burial

  October slipped into November. Leaves spilled from trees, and trails through the woods became clearly visible. Under the great oak, banks of fallen and decaying leaves released their dank and heavy odor. Clear and brilliant, constellations accompanied by myriad handmaiden stars traversed the heavens. Orion’s Belt sailed smoothly across the southern sky. Grace’s weekly visits with Lurina became routine. Sometimes Amelia joined them, sometimes Hannah. Lurina came alive when their cars drove across the bridge.

  “Lurina Masterson would be a marvelous subject to photograph, Grace,” Amelia said as they drove into Mars Hill one morning to pick up prints of photographs she had shot. “Black and white I think.” When Grace did not reply, Amelia said, “I’ll have to get to know Miss Lurina better, of course, before I ask her, unless you’d do it for me.”

  “I think you should get to know her better.”

  “You care for her deeply, don’t you? I’m jealous.” Amelia laughed.

  “I guess I love her, and you, Hannah, Bob, and so many others. Love stretches like a rubber band to encompass many people.”

  “A rubber band stretched too far will snap and break,” Amelia said.

  “Think of it as a very thick and long rubber band, then.”

  Amelia shrugged.

  “I’d wait until you know Miss Lurina better before you ask her.” Grace’s hand slipped from the steering wheel to cover Amelia’s. She gave a slight squeeze. “I don’t own Miss Lurina. You do whatever you want. Maybe she’d be willing.” Grace doubted that, but you never knew, and Lurina seemed to like Amelia, had even given her tea in her best china cup.

  They drove in silence through the fall landscape, past hillsides decked in pastel shades of rose, salmon, peach, and apricot, intermingled with yellows and rust. In these mountains, the fall lacked the vibrant reds and purples of states further to the north. Grace did not pine for what she did not have. She relished autumn’s soft loveliness, but Amelia did not.

  “I hate it that our fall is so pale. I miss the reds,” she complained. “Every year, I promise I’m going up into Pennsylvania to see more color. I haven’t done it yet.”

  “So just relax, and try to enjoy what we have here.”

  Rebuked, Amelia sat silent for a time, then she said, “I’d like to invite Lance to the opening of the tearoom.”

  “You don’t have to ask. Any friend of yours is welcome.”

  “Why do I think Hannah doesn’t like Lance?”

  “We’ve only met him twice when he came to pick you up. You like him, that’s what matters.” Grace slowed the car and pulled onto the grassy shoulder of the road to allow a pickup and a sedan to pass them. “You’ve seen a lot of him.”

  “We go to dinner, or a movie, sometimes we go dancing.”

  “You used to do those things with Mike.”

  “Not the dancing. Mike doesn’t like to dance. He understands.”

  ‘Tell me more about Lance,” Grace said.

  “You know he’s gorgeous. The second time we went dancing, down at this great club in Hendersonville, he said we made a great team.”

  “But, what’s he like?”

  Amelia shifted so that she could look at Grace, who kept her own eyes glued on the road. “He’s generous, takes me to the best restaurants. He’s very complimentary, tells me I’m beautiful, things like that.”

  “So he spends money, and he flatters you, and he’s a good dancer. Is he kind, sensitive, gentle, pushy, selfish?”

  “I don’t go around analyzing people.”

  Grace tried a different tact. “What do you talk about?”

  “I prattle about everything, where I grew up, my travels with Thomas, my photography. He won’t talk about himself at all.” She grew serious, her voice dropped. “Once, when we were driving, I pressed him, and he said in a really angry voice, ‘That’s enough, Amelia.’ I wanted to cry.”

  Grace looked over at her quizzically. “What did he do then?”

  Amelia made light of it. “He saw how upset I was, so he stopped the car and apologized. He held me. He was so sweet, how could I be mad at him?”

  “So what was the outcome?”

  “I don’t ask about his past, and we’re just fine. Fine and happy.”

  Grace tried again. “What do you talk about, when you have dinner?”

  “The news, local events, politics. He likes to talk about politics.”

  “Politics bores you, Amelia.”

  Amelia leaned away from Grace, toward her door. She tossed her head. “I’m having more fun than I’ve had in years. I’m being escorted by a stunning man, and he’s attentive. I don’t give a hoot what he talks about. Thomas taught me that if I didn’t understand or wasn’t interested in what people were talking about, all I had to do was smile and look interested. ‘Look up at them with those gorgeous eyes of yours and just smile,’ he’d say.” She flipped her head. “It always works.”

  They rounded a curve, and the solid red-brick buildings of Mars Hill College rose before them.

  Later, Grace sat with Hannah in their living room making lists. Hannah’s included the courthouse, the library, the Rock Café, the firehouse, and stores in Marshall. Bob would tack up posters wherever they would let him. The posters were a call to arms for environmentalists and included a new phone number for the line Hannah had installed in the farmhouse. Grace’s list focused on Mars Hill, on places she thought might be amenable to their cause: Margaret Olsen’s Hillside Bed and Breakfast, the drugstore, the deli on Main Street, the flower shop, the herb shop, the college cafeteria.

  Grace slid her list toward Hannah. “I’ve got to get over to Miss Lurina’s. Take her an invitation to our opening.”

  “Think she’ll come?’

  “I hope so. I’ve explained that the government cannot legally walk in and take her land while she’s
alive, so, hopefully, she’s more comfortable now about leaving her property.”

  “Amelia’s asking Lance?”

  “Yes.” Grace sank back into her chair. “Amelia’s totally enamored of him. She’s having a great time. But he takes up more and more of her non-working time these days.”

  Hannah folded her hands across a stack of flyers.” And her working time. Mike was over. He says Amelia’s not showing up for shoots they plan, so it’s more than just her social time that Lance is taking up.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I feel uneasy about him. Only met him twice.” Hannah slapped her thigh. “God, I’m suspicious. Judge too fast”

  “And I tend to be too accepting.” She chose not to tell Hannah about Lance refusing to talk about himself with Amelia and how gruff he had been with her. Grace pushed back her chair. “Well, I’m off to Miss Lurina’s now,” she said.

  “Say hello to her for me.”

  Grace had explained, clearly she hoped, that Lurina could safely leave her house unattended. “Legally, no one can walk in and do anything to your land. No one can touch one blade of grass or one scoop of dirt on this property until you’ve been declared dead, and you’re properly buried, and papers have been filed with the courts.”

  “How long after I pass?” Lurina had asked.

  “Weeks or maybe months.”

  That pleased Lurina. She smiled, then laughed. “Got ’em,” she said with enthusiasm. “Betcha Ranger Billingham, the young fella that comes here regular, don’t know that.” It had surprised Grace that Lurina knew his name considering that she met him with her shotgun when he visited. Lurina clapped her hands, and her eyes grew mischievous. When she laughed, Grace laughed with her, and soon they had doubled over, holding their middles.

  Today, Grace found Lurina huddled in a bulky wool shawl, sitting in her creaky rocker on the porch. It was cool, in the fifties. The old lady was shivering, yet here she was sitting out of doors. “Air clears my head,” she explained to Grace. “I can think clear outside. Inside, I get muddled sometimes.”

  Still, Grace helped Lurina from the rocker, and they ambled into the front parlor. Dark, heavy drapes cast a pall on a Victorian sofa long past its prime. Several straight-backed chairs felt as if they were stuffed with horsehair. A long mahogany sideboard peppered with bric-a-brac was overhung by a wide mirror in a gilt frame, and large ornately framed portraits of ancestors stared solemnly down from high on every wall. Lurina patted to a spot on the sofa beside her, and Grace ignored the broken spring poking her rear end. A film of dust lay on every tabletop.

  Lurina launched into a tale of her grandparents’ death and burial. The story seemed to come out of nowhere, or had Lurina been ruminating on this since their conversation about the government not taking her land until she was dead for months?

  “You can go to our family cemetery up on the hill a piece.” Lurina pointed to the rear of the house. “You can see ’em for yourself. Old wood crosses still a-standin’, and still got their names and dates carved in ’em.” She slapped her thighs. “Old horse, he done dropped dead while he was a-haulin’ their buggy. Buggy pitched into a ditch an’ rolled on ’em, killed ’em dead.” Her face grew serious, as if it had happened, not seventy-some years ago, but yesterday. “Ain’t no funeral parlors, then, to make ’em all fine like they done Pa. Laid ’em out on plain wood boards till they got the caskets hammered up. Rough they was.” She held up a hand and showed Grace a small calloused area. “Got me a right deep splinter in here runnin’my hand over that wood.”

  Lurina resumed her exposition on country funerals. “Buried Granny and Grandpa the next day after they passed. People comin’ and goin’ all day and night, and singin’ and prayin’. I was little, but I remember people stayin’ the night. I asked someone why, and an old woman told me, ‘We’s sittin’ up with th’ corpses.’” Lurina slapped her thighs again and laughed that light, young laugh, and Grace laughed with her, seeing beyond the image of two caskets set on tables to the room crowded with people, and among the bustle and hustle of it all, a little girl with a splinter in her aching hand.

  “Next day,” Lurina was saying, “they carried them there wood coffins to the church in a wagon hauled by steers, and when we got near the church the bell started ringin’ and ringin’ ’cause they used to ring it one time for every year, and there was two of ’em they was ringin’ for. And then the organ playin’.”

  Grace kept her eyes on Lurina’s face and listened intently although the odor of mothballs was stronger today than usual, and the smell irritated the membranes in Grace’s nostrils. Her eyes stung. Grace blinked again and again.

  “They was old,” Lurina said, “so the service went on and on with everyone gettin’ up and sayin’ somethin’. My bottom was numb from sittin’, and I got a good slap from Ma for squirmin’. Those times, the family viewed the corpses last, after all the congregation. Pa lifted me up and carried me up to where the coffins sat open, and he said, ‘There’s your grandpa. There’s your grandma,’ and I started wailin’, so he carried me out.” She stopped. Lines fell in deep vertical slats between her eyes. The grooves down her cheeks seemed to darken. “Friends dug the graves. It was considered an honor. Seems to me these days folks don’t have the kind of feelin’s they had for others back then.”

  She sat back, looking satisfied. The room grew heavy with the silence. All Grace could think about was the mothballs. She knew that this dress had been selected from among Lurina’s best, for Grace herself. Still, a good airing in the sunshine would help. Grace determined to ask Lurina if she would like her to hang and sun her dresses now that she was getting more company: herself, Amelia, Hannah, Old Man, whom she knew came fairly often, and Wayne, and soon Lurina would meet Bob.

  They were quiet for so long that Grace decided Lurina had finished her story. “I came to bring you an invitation to a fete we’re having to open our tearoom. It’s a pre-opening party.” She held out the blue envelope with LURINA MASTERSON written large in graceful calligraphy. Every time she looked at one of these envelopes, Grace imagined monks in damp, candlelit cells hunched over tables, dipping their quill pens in ink.

  Lurina studied the envelope. She held it close to her squinty eyes. She turned it over. “Mighty fancy.” She smiled at Grace. “Pretty. Blue’s my favorite color.”

  “Wayne and Old Man will bring you to our tearoom,” Grace said. “You like a good cup of tea. It’ll just be friends like you, and Wayne, and Old Man, and Hannah and Amelia, and the Tates.”

  “The Tates?” Lurina’s eyes brightened as she looked into the past. “I remember the day Harold married that nice little Jones girl from over in Caster.”

  “Brenda,” Grace said. “She’s principal of Caster Elementary School. I told you, that’s where I volunteer tutoring children. The Tates have been very good to us since we moved down here.”

  Lurina straightened her shoulders. “Good people the Tates. First to come to this valley, just ’afore my people.”

  Grace waited, wondering if Lurina had a story to tell about the early settlers, the Covingtons, and her own family, the Mastersons. Grace wondered if the two families had intermarried, but was afraid that if she asked now, a long tale might follow, and Bob was waiting. She started up from the sofa. “You’ll come, yes?”

  Lurina stared in silence at nothing. “You gotta phone the government, from here, and let ’em tell me how they can’t take my land till I’m six feet under.”

  “I’ll be glad to do that.”

  “You do that, and I’ll come a-singin’.”

  After making a phone call to the county ranger’s office, Grace helped Lurina to her feet. Lurina might be physically frail, but she was tough inside and resilient, and Grace adjusted her steps and walked slowly with the old woman to the front porch.

  “It’s chilly. Gimme that there old coat of Pa’s. I’ll just sit out a bit.”

  Grace stepped back inside, lifted the scratchy, heavy wool coat from the
rack, carried it out, and slipped it about Lurina’s shoulders. Burdened by the weight of the coat, Lurina sank into her rocker. “Maybe that Billingham boy’ll show up, and I won’t hold my shotgun on him.” She laughed happily. “That ought to set him spinnin’.”

  The grass in front of the old farmhouse was high as the belly of a young calf. Supposedly, once a month, a Madison County road crew roared in on cyclopean machines to mow the pasture between Elk Road and Bad River. Too heavy to cross the bridge, the machines sat puffing steam across the river, waiting patiently, like a bear for salmon, while a half dozen men scattered about the pasture close to the house with weed-wackers. It was obvious that they had not been here in months, but then, with winter on them, perhaps they intended to allow the tall grass to die and topple over. Lurina, Grace thought, is alone without an advocate, so they take advantage. She felt both guilty and lucky that she, and Amelia, and Hannah had committed to caring for one another in health and in illness.

  Having settled Lurina on the porch, Grace bent and kissed her elderly friend’s wrinkled cheek. Moments later, when she turned from her car in the driveway to wave good-bye, she saw that Lurina’s hand was plastered across the spot where she had kissed her, and there was a look of wonder and quiet pleasure on the old woman’s face.

  13

  The Fete at the Tearoom

  The day was bleak, with hovering, overcast skies. Dark, damp, bare branches hung low, seeming to grieve the loss of their leafy clothing. Inside the tearoom, it was summer. On each round table, on pale yellow tablecloths, sat clay pots brimming with out-of-season flowering pink dwarf crape myrtle brought to peak bloom by Hannah and Wayne. On either side of the buffet table, which ran along one wall, morning glories in huge pots had been trained onto tall stakes in columns of blue. A row of velvety magenta gloxinias bloomed in pots set among platters of food on the buffet table. White candles added sparkle and romance. A section of the room had been reserved for dancing, and a rented jukebox had been programmed with forties and fifties melodies.