Death Pans Out

by Ashna Graves

  The woman considered her for a moment with a canny, appraising gaze. “Enid Gale lives there,” she said, nodding back up the road toward the house she had just left. “She’ll be home in half an hour if you want to come back.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  The woman went through a front gate while Neva walked on and soon reached the general store again. A sign in the window said the hours were nine to three, Monday through Saturday. That it was not yet three, according to the clock that showed on the inside wall, suggested that today might be Sunday, though she had been certain it was Saturday. Feeling vaguely disoriented, wishing she could settle on a bench with a cold drink, she went on to the railroad tracks at the far edge of town, where a historic marker informed her that Hatlee had begun as a Wells Fargo stage stop called Express Station. The name had been changed in 1883 when the railroad bought a right-of-way from the Hatlee family, and the town had become a shipping center for placer gold, farm products, and lumber.

  A hundred years ago, there would have been a busy station here. Trains, wagons, miners, farmers, loggers, speculators, adventurers, children, horses, dogs…It was easy to picture but difficult to imagine as anything more than a picture, a static scene from a history text. Now only redwing blackbirds called from the cattails along an irrigation ditch. Fields of hay, or maybe it was grain, stretched west to the mountains. Turning, she saw mountains to the distant east as well, presumably in Idaho on the other side of the Snake River. The Seven Devils? The Sawtooth? She would have to check the atlas later.

  She strolled back through town to the patchwork barn and was not really surprised when the woman in pink overalls answered her knock. Offering her hand, she drew Neva inside with a warm rush of words. “I’m Enid Gale. I’m so glad you came back. I was just on my way to pick raspberries for a neighbor with a broken ankle. I would have asked you along but I needed a little time to prepare myself.”

  “Prepare yourself?” Neva found it hard to focus on what Enid was saying because her attention was fixed on the extraordinary room, where every surface was decorated, patterned, or painted to the imaginable limit beyond which it would have been a mess rather than delightful.

  “To talk about Orson,” Enid said. “I thought maybe you’d brought his things. It is rather soon after the letter. I can’t say I found his death shocking because we had expected it for years, but you’re never really ready for such a thing. He was my only brother.”

  “Oh, dear,” Neva said and closed her eyes.

  It took some sorting out before they understood how things were: that Enid had received word a week ago that her brother had died and his few possessions would be delivered to her soon by a staff member who would be in the area on vacation, but that Neva was not this person. In fact, she had come to visit because of Enid’s friendship with her uncle and had not known of Orson’s death.

  “It isn’t so very sad,” Enid said, pouring dark tea into hand-built pottery mugs. “When you really leave this world is when your mind goes, and his mind went years ago. He used to be such a bright, funny boy. When he lost Burtie he lost interest in most things.”

  “I barely knew my uncle,” Neva said, the quick words propelled by a sense that here, at last, she could speak freely. “Since going out to Billie Creek, I’ve become so curious about him it’s become a bit of an obsession. You knew him. You can tell me what kind of man he was, if anyone can.”

  “A lovely man, one of the nicest I ever knew. I was in love with him, you know.” Enid’s bright blue eyes were not in the least coy.

  “He wasn’t gay?”

  The words, which had popped out in her surprise, were met by a merry laugh. “Not by half, young lady, not by half. Some thought so because of Orson. They did love each other but not in that way, although I always thought Orson had tendencies. People can’t seem to help jumping to conclusions if you live with a really dear friend. My friend Adele and I lived together for years, until she died, and we knew what people thought. We just didn’t care one way or the other.”

  “This is a bit awkward, but if my uncle wasn’t gay, and you loved him—”

  “Why didn’t I marry him? Oh, dear me, I would have in a flash. But I couldn’t. I mean he wouldn’t.” She paused, cocked an eyebrow at Neva as though considering whether to continue, then said firmly, “It seems you really are in the dark about Burtie. Your uncle was injured in Korea, between the legs. He didn’t have everything a man’s supposed to have, if you understand. I would have taken him anyway but he wasn’t willing. He said I needed a normal man who could give me a family and he stuck to that view even though I waited for years. It was the injury that made him hide away in the mine in the first place, because he felt different. And he was different, wonderfully different. That’s why I never did marry, I suppose. There was no one else, ever.”

  Surprise, sympathy, and a sense of precious new knowledge left Neva briefly without words. She sipped tea, then said with wonder, “I knew about Korea, that he was there, but I didn’t know about the injury. No one ever mentioned it when I was growing up, but I’m beginning to think there was a lot that went unsaid in my supposedly open family. Do you think the people on Billie Creek knew?”

  “Most likely not. He didn’t talk about it. At first he was embarrassed and then after time went by it didn’t matter.”

  “There’s a photograph of a young Korean woman on the cabin wall. Was she my uncle’s girlfriend?”

  “That was a long, long time ago, Jeneva. He didn’t talk about it.”

  “Enid, what happened to my uncle? Where did he go?”

  “If I knew what happened, no matter how bad, the last fifteen years would have been easier. I thought I saw him again, years later, and I fainted dead away.”

  “At the art reception?”

  “How could you know that?” Enid’s large eyes opened wider with amazement, but she laughed with delight on hearing about the old news item that the librarian had sent to Neva. “I don’t know why I said that about the glue, it just popped out, I suppose because I was flustered, and I certainly wasn’t going to let on that I’d mistaken some unknown man for a lost love. But what a blunder that was. I got so many calls, from schools, from glue makers, everybody. Who would think such a little white lie could grow like that?” After a silence, she said, “One thing I can tell you, he’d never have walked away from Orson with no word, and if he’d left the mine he would have come to me. That doesn’t leave us with very nice possibilities. I still can’t think about it.”

  For the first time Enid looked like a truly old woman, the lines in her face deep, her eyes swimmy with unshed tears, but the moment passed. She poured more hot water into the teapot.

  Neva said, “Did you know there was trouble between Uncle Matthew and my mother? They didn’t communicate for the last ten years or so before he disappeared. She would never tell me what it was about, even when she was dying and obviously haunted by it.”

  Enid was stroking a large yellow cat that Neva had at first thought clashed with the dominant red, lavender, and pink color scheme of the house, but then decided was the perfect accent, a bit of vibrant decor on four legs. “Some things are best left to die with us,” Enid said with a slow shake of the head.

  Unsure of her meaning and unwilling to press too hard until she knew Enid better, Neva let silence stretch without finding it awkward. She could have sat with this rare woman all afternoon, talking or not talking, even though she had many more questions. The questions could wait. She would see Enid again, she was sure of it.

  “This is a wonderful house. How did you come to live here?”

  “Adele grew up in Hatlee, in a house that was destroyed by the big fire that wiped out most of the town in the Seventies. She left me the land and barn in her will. Of course, it was nothing like this, it was a wreck, full of chicken feathers and trash. I’ve had a time fixing it up. A lot of other folks have done the same, which you probably noticed. They’re mostly summer places.” After another quiet
spell, she said, “I can’t imagine Orson left much in the way of possessions, but if there are any pictures or letters of Burtie’s I could let you know.”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you. You could send a note to the Angus post office and I’d come right over.”

  “Why don’t you leave your email address?”

  Neva must have shown her surprise because Enid said, “I don’t like telephones. They always catch you in the wrong mood, or you catch the other person in the wrong mood. But I don’t want to get isolated, either, which can happen out here, especially in winter. I still have a lot of friends in Kalispell, and I’m a great fan of the Internet. Have you ever checked for recipes? You can type in the main ingredient and all kinds of exotic dishes pop up.”

  “Why did you move here instead of staying in Kalispell?”

  “I always loved this country over here. Did you know I stayed at the mine for several years? And then, I always wanted to live on ground of my own.” Enid reflected for a moment before her merry laugh came again. “The real truth is, I’ve never been able to resist a fresh start. You always breathe easier for a few years. I may stop here. Or not.”

  Neva left Hatlee in late afternoon, richer on a number of counts, including a tub of fresh raspberries. She ate the berries one by one as she drove home thinking about growing old and wearing pink overalls.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Evening was setting in when Neva arrived back in the Dry River Valley. Again, black Angus cattle were dotted over several of the narrow fields along the river and the song of meadowlarks came clearly through the open windows. In no hurry, she watched the light deepen on the hills while also watching for Darla’s mailbox, but instead of turning up the lane when she came to it she pulled the car over to reflect on what to do. She wanted to sneak a peek at how a bachelorette ex-beauty-queen rancher lives, but to drop in seemed suddenly awkward. She barely knew Darla, and she had never suggested that Neva stop by. She needed an excuse, an errand to carry out, after which she could leave if the situation felt awkward. A moment’s thought gave her what she needed. She would inform Darla that she had walked over to Jump Creek and had seen that the cows were still there, and further, that she had discovered none on Billie Creek since their trail ride. That Darla most likely knew this already didn’t matter. It would do to smooth the first uneasy minutes, and then she could be on her way if need be.

  The lane crossed the river, then wound to the base of the hills on the south side of the valley where it ended at a small ranch house with a large front porch that faced Billie Mountain. Two pickups were pulled up by the woodshed, one large and yellow, the other small and blue with a camper shell. Hay fields flowed right up to the porch and around the house so that it appeared to float like an ark on a sea of golden-green. Two wooden deck chairs sat facing the field and the distant line of willows marking the Dry River.

  Darla opened the door and greeted her without surprise. She wore an apron over new-looking Levis and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her feet were in leather slippers. “Dishwasher broke. I’m washing up,” she said. “Come on in.”

  Neva took off her shoes before crossing the expanse of cream carpet. The large, airy living room was simply but comfortably furnished with two leather armchairs and a Mission-style sofa. Photographs of horses hung on every wall. There was not a rustic object in the room, and nothing aside from the photos that suggested country life.

  She followed Darla into the kitchen but stopped in the doorway to look with astonishment at a huge, bald, bespectacled man in a priest’s collar, who would have seemed a striking figure in any setting but particularly so planted on a stool in this compact kitchen.

  “Father Bernard Shore,” Darla said. “This is Neva, the one staying up on Billie Creek.”

  “Gene Holland mentioned your name the other day,” Neva said as Father Bernard engulfed her small cool hand in his warm mitt.

  Darla pulled off the apron, poured Neva a small water glass full of red wine, refilled Father Bernard’s glass with the same, and refilled her own with iced tea. They settled around the kitchen bar on stools as Darla repeated essentially what Gene had said, that Father Bernard was a Benedictine monk from St. Gabriel Monastery in Montana who took yearly turns as the circuit priest for the region’s scattered Catholics. While he was out here, he worked on translating early church manuscripts.

  “Sometimes there are only a handful of us at the service.” The rancher’s smile was apologetic.

  Father Bernard chuckled and confided to Neva, “Poor girl. She thinks I come out here for her sake. In fact, this is my favorite country. Despite what outsiders think, it’s not easy to find solitude among the cloisters. Thomas Merton said genuine solitude brings not separation but solidarity. I have to say that lack of solitude, even in a community of monks, can lead to peevishness. When I’m feeling peevish there’s no better cure than a stint in the Dry River Valley.”

  The congregation out here numbered a dozen at most, he said, but every other weekend he traveled more than a hundred miles to perform services at even smaller communities where, on occasion, only a single worshiper showed up. “But one true soul is better than a crowd if their hearts aren’t in it. To quote Merton again, ‘Better just to smell a flower in the garden than to have an unauthentic experience of a much higher value.’”

  His laugh was infectious and freely vented, as were his thoughts on the challenge of keeping repetitive ritual from becoming routine, how to deal with self-doubt as a priest, and other surprising topics, including the best method for cooking rattlesnake meat. He didn’t appear in the least ruffled when the talk turned to faith and Neva confessed her lifelong atheism. And when, encouraged by his interest, she mentioned her mother’s ashes it was Darla and not the monk who was shocked.

  “I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t keep my mother’s remains around in a box.” Darla’s expression was uneasy as she appealed to Father Bernard. “I never did like the idea of cremation. Isn’t that blasphemous or something?”

  The priest shook his large head. “As far as the church goes, it’s fine. This wasn’t always the case. When it was seen as thumbing your nose at resurrection, it wasn’t approved, but now it’s not an issue.”

  Despite her atheism, Neva said, she had sometimes found the idea of the monastic life appealing, particularly in earlier centuries. “But when I imagine myself in an order, it’s always as a monk, never in an abbey. My impression is that men got to live more scholarly and interesting lives than the women who took vows.”

  “Well, yes, this has appeared to be the case but our knowledge of history is opening up. I’ve been reading about a monastery in Switzerland, Engelberg Monastery. It was a dual community, shared by men and women for about three hundred years. It’s been well known that the men left a rich legacy, but now it seems that both men and women had their periods of flowering. The women of Engelberg put out magnificent books. They left the monastery in the 1600s, and even they seemed to have forgotten their own history until recently. Now we’re learning of more women scribes, copyists and illuminators all the time. Don’t forget that Anonymous was a woman.”

  “Thank you,” Neva said. “Now I can fantasize about being a medieval scholar without having to change gender.” She waited for the priest’s chuckle, then said, “Did you know my uncle, Matthew Burt?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid,” he replied with regret. “I had just begun coming out here when he left the mine, but I feel that I know him in a different sort of way. You see, his portrait hangs on the wall of my small sitting room. It was taken by my predecessor and nicely framed. You haven’t seen it I gather. I offered it to Orson but he said it would only make him sadder.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve just been reminded of some bad news.” Feeling ashamed at having forgotten about the death of the old miner, Neva related what she had learned from Enid. “She said he died in his sleep last week. She received a letter.”

  “Orson Gale dead
?” There was wonder as well as unhappy surprise in Darla’s voice.

  “Enid said he really died when he lost his wits. She didn’t put it quite like that but that’s what she meant.”

  “The soul has little to do with wits,” Father Bernard said gravely. “I was fond of Orson myself. He looked fine when I saw him in April. My habit was to see him twice a year, once in spring and once in fall. I don’t know that he had any idea who I was, but his spirit remained the spirit of my old friend. I’ll have to see about a service.”

  There was silence for a time. Darla turned on a light that hung low over the table and refilled glasses. Neva noted that she now also drank wine. The talk did not really get going again, and soon the priest got to his feet. Taking Neva’s hand in both of his, he said, “Come for a visit. The sooner the better. You’ll want to see the picture.”

  They left at the same time, Father Bernard going ahead in the dusty blue pickup. The sky was heavy with stars as Neva turned up the road to the mine and instantly she felt her heart lift despite the late hour and the long day full of surprises, both delightful and sad. Had it really been only this morning that she found Lance at the line shack? Deep in thought, she barely noted the dark road down into the Barlow Mine pit and even the sight of a light in Reese’s cabin window didn’t fully register as wrong in the first moment. Then her foot hit the brake, the car skidded, fishtailed, and came to a stop sitting sideways in the road. Without repositioning the car, she shut off the engine and listened, straining for clues on the still night air. Could Sheriff McCarty have let Reese out of jail already? Surely Darla would have known this and would have mentioned it. Could Lance have walked home over Billie Mountain? If he had set out soon after she left and walked steadily through the afternoon and evening, he might have covered the steep miles.

  The car door clicked softly as she opened it. The thump of her sandals was light on the packed-earth road as she approached the cabin. An unfamiliar car parked next to the lone remaining pickup settled her speculation about Lance’s possible return, and it was definitely not a law enforcement vehicle. Taking one careful step at a time, she eased her way onto the porch and crossed to the curtained window. Stooping, she peered through the gap between the sill and the bottom of the curtain. A propane lamp blazed so brightly within that she blinked and couldn’t at first see anything but light. Then she saw that the room was no longer just untidy from the habits of young bachelors. It was a chaotic wreck, with drawers pulled open, boxes spilled, bedding tumbled onto the floor and the thin mattresses pulled askew. Someone had searched the cabin—for Reese’s gold? Yes, and they’d been terribly thorough about it.