Autumn Winifred Oliver Does Things Different

by Kristin O'Donnell Tubb

  I sighed, propped myself up on one elbow, and looked at him. “My pop works for the Little River Lumber Company, and so he’s gone a lot, and it really stinks ’cause he’s the best baseball player and banjo player and artist I know.”

  Cody nodded, and so I laid back down and started thinking about how if I could capture all those silver-coin stars, I’d be rich, all right.

  “Hey—that uncle of yours?” I asked, picturing the colonel’s gleaming white smile in the stars.

  “Yeah?”

  “He sure don’t seem like he hails from Cades Cove.”

  “He doesn’t. Comes from Knoxville. He’s my great-uncle, dad’s side.”

  “No relation to your aunt Matilda?”

  “Second cousin, mom’s side.”

  I nodded into the darkness. Knoxville. So that’s why the colonel’s so sophisticated. I knew there was no way that fella was related to the Matilda Ogle I’d known my whole life.

  “Sounds like you know a lot of your relatives,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why I cared to make such small talk.

  “No. Not really.”

  “You’re from Knoxville, too, though.”

  “No. I just lived there a few years.”

  “I bet it’s about the greatest place on earth.”

  Cody shrugged. “It’s not bad for the Underwear Capital of the World.”

  Gramps huffed a laugh.

  “What?”

  “Knoxville. It’s called the Underwear Capital of the World.”

  “No, it’s not!”

  “Yeah, it is. Lots of textile mills there.”

  “You don’t know!”

  “Yeah, I do. I worked in one of them for two years.”

  This kid’s worked in a textile mill? Pop says that’s about the hardest job there is. Says the cloth fibers stick to you for days, like spiderwebs. “Well, I can’t wait to move there,” I said in a huff, “Underwear Capital or not.”

  We laid there a minute more in silence.

  “Ever see fireworks?” Cody asked.

  “Nope. You?”

  “Yeah.” He paused for a minute. “Nothing compared to all these stars, though.”

  Huh. I was just about to drift off to sleep when it occurred to me that this kid was crazier than a toad with a tail.

  And then what sounded like a lady’s scream ripped through the cool night air.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Gramps said with a laugh. “If it ain’t ole Mavis Estep, coming back from the dead for her cussing quilt.”

  Cody like to have jumped out of his skin. “Back from the dead?”

  But me, I was more excited about that second part. (I mean, according to those church bells and every last one of my neighbors, I’d already come back from the dead. Big deal.)

  “Cussing quilt?” I asked. Maybe we were about to hear Gramps tear through some more juicy words! And in front of the colonel’s nephew, too. Boy, would Mama be stomping mad about this one!

  “Yep,” Gramps said, and sucked his teeth. Uh-oh. Here we go.

  “Yep. Old Mavis Estep sure did love her quilts. ’Specially that cussing quilt. See, Mavis was born in a thunderstorm. Like to have wiped out the Cove, that storm. Anyway, a baby born in a storm such as that is fated to be struck by lightning. Everybody knows that.”

  Cody looked at me with wide eyes, and so I nodded. What the hey. I can play along.

  “The old girl was so scared of a stray lightning bolt, she wouldn’t even hold a spoon if there was a single gray cloud in the sky. So they’s no way Mavis would sleep in a metal bed. Might get fried in her sleep, you see.”

  Cody shivered and huddled under his blanket. I was getting flustered. “What about that cussing quilt?”

  Gramps smiled over his shoulder at us from his perch on the driver’s bench. His tobacco-stained teeth glinted in the moonlight. “I’m getting there, missy, hold on. Mavis’s husband, Basil, used to make such fun of the old girl and her jitters! So Mavis did what all the ladies do—she made a quilt, and with each stitch, she cussed that teasing husband of hers. See, she loved Basil, and ’stead of getting mad at him, she’d take it out on the quilt. Worked on that quilt an awful lot, she did. That cussing quilt like to have saved that marriage, I’d say. So it was surely among her favorites.”

  Just then, another wail rolled over the wheat field. I had to admit it was getting pretty creepy out there. I don’t believe in ghosts or haints or none of that hooey, but I sure didn’t know where that lonely scream was coming from.

  “So what happened to the quilt?” Cody asked.

  Gramps flipped his switch at the lead horse to steer the animals to the left toward a faint, flickering light. “Old Mavis died an early death, and not ’cause of no lightning. No, the croup got that one. On her deathbed, Mavis told Basil that her only wish was that he should never, ever place her prized cussing quilt on a metal bed. Ever.”

  “So of course he did it, right?” I asked.

  Gramps chuckled. “Of course. Basil’s second wife, Trulie, sure did love that cussing quilt. It only took a few cold Cove nights before all of Trulie’s nagging and complaining convinced him to put that big, warm quilt on their new bed. The first night that quilt was on a metal bed, Trulie awoke to the ghost of Mavis standing at the foot of the bed, screaming her scream, like we just heard. Cussing a blue streak, she was.”

  “Really?” I asked, and pulled my knees under me. A lady cussing a blue streak? Now we were getting somewhere!

  “Sure,” Gramps said. “Happened for two straight nights. Course, Basil thought Trulie was being a foolish old biddy, claiming to see haints and all that. So that stubborn old coot kept that quilt on that bed just to spite her. On the third night, Mavis had had enough. It was a night a lot like tonight, not a cloud in the sky,” he said, swishing his hand above his head. “Sound asleep they were, Basil and Trulie, when out of nowhere, a bolt of lightnin’ streaked down from the clear sky and fried old Basil right there in his pajamas. Zap!” he shouted, zigzagging his finger toward the sky. Cody started.

  “Trulie hightailed it outta there,” he continued. “When she returned with her papa, Basil’s bones were melted to that old metal bed, but the prized cussing quilt that had been over their cold bodies was folded neatly in the corner, not a singe on it.”

  I shuddered. Tall tale or not, that was one spooky story.

  “Yep. Folks say old Mavis still haints these here parts, screaming and cussing and looking for that prized quilt.”

  Cody cleared his throat. “What did it look like? The quilt, I mean?”

  “Oh, it was a real beauty. Red squares on a white backdrop . . . kinda like the one you’re huddled under right now!” Gramps jerked around and pointed at us as he said that. I jumped, and Cody leapt out of that quilt quicker than a jackrabbit on hot gravel.

  Gramps laughed so hard his eyes disappeared into slits and his hand slapped his right knee. I laughed, too, and finally Cody began to laugh with us. We were struggling to catch our breath when we heard the scream again. Cody looked at me, real scared-like, and I shrugged. I’d never heard such a fierce wail before, either. Maybe it really was old Mavis?

  “Just in the nick of time,” Gramps said, and steered the cart onto the dusty trail that led to Cody’s aunt’s house. “Wouldn’t want us to get struck by no lightning.” Before we knew it, Cody jumped out of the moving cart and ran into the arms of his aunt Matilda, who had flung open the front door.

  “Oh, Auntie!” he said in a breath, and searched the sky for possible stray lightning bolts. “I’m so sorry. I would’ve never wandered away if I’d known about old Mavis Estep!”

  Miss Matilda raised a single eyebrow at Gramps, who was still perched on the driver’s bench of the cart. He shrugged.

  “Mavis Estep, eh?” she said. “I suppose you know that’s just an old tall tale.”

  “But we heard her!” Cody whined. “Didn’t we, Autumn?” I nodded.

  “What you heard was a panther,” Miss Matilda said, pulling he
r nephew closer to her. “I heard him, too. Was I ever worried!”

  “A panther?” I asked. I’d never heard one in all my eleven years of living here, though I’d heard they used to raise quite a ruckus. I looked at Gramps. He rolled his eyes and looked the other way.

  “Not many of them critters around much anymore,” Miss Matilda said. “In my day, you couldn’t sleep some nights for all the screaming.” She laughed, and her tight face loosened into a sly grin. “Tom, you ain’t changed one bit since our school days. Why don’t you and your girl come inside and tell us some more lies?”

  “Can’t,” Gramps said, and picked up the horse whip. And then he sucked his teeth long and hard. Uh-oh.

  “Gotta get home to Martha. She fell and broke her arm yesterday.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Gramps. The skunk—he can’t help himself! Cody looked confused, but he didn’t say nothing. I suppose the fact that Gramps had pointed a rifle at him earlier that evening kept his mouth sealed shut.

  “What?” Miss Matilda said, placing a hand on her chest. “Oh, my! Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Well . . .” Gramps slid his eyes toward me real slow-like. “I suppose she’s having some trouble round the kitchen.”

  Miss Matilda thrust her chin in the air. “Well, I’ll just round up the girls and we’ll tote over some meals for y’all. Tell her not to worry about a thing. We’ve got your next twenty or so meals covered. A broken arm—oh, my!”

  Gramps smiled and switched the lead horse. “Mighty nice of you, Matilda.” And when we rode away, Gramps was whistling and smiling and sucking his teeth.

  5

  I do things different.

  It helps to remind

  yourself of that

  when you hear

  the sinners and the

  saints whistling

  the same ditty.

  Fried chicken and sweet milk and stewed corn and apple jelly and white beans and cracklin’ bread and stewed parsnips and horehound candy and green grape pie and hominy and fried cucumbers and leather britches beans and corn dodgers and hole-up cabbage and blackberry cobbler. Mama accepted it all with a sheepish grin over Gramps’s little prank. But when our guests left, she packaged it up for Katie to tote over to Tilly McBroom, “who needs it way more than we do.”

  “Dagnabbit, Martha!” Gramps sputtered, and paced his tiny cabin after Mama packed up a supper of ham hocks and corn bread and fried potatoes. “That food is for you!”

  Mama raised her eyebrows at him like only my mama can, and her brown eyes flared. “You lied. That there is a sinner’s supper.”

  Gramps’s mouth bunched up into a tiny knot on one side of his face, and the toothpick he sucked stuck out like an exclamation point. “How many times do I have to tell you, Martha? She asked for a lie. Didn’t she, girl?” He jerked his head in my direction.

  Much as I hated to, I had to nod. It was true, after all. Cody, who had started hanging round our home like that one pesky housefly you just can’t swat, nodded, too. I scowled at him.

  “So the way I sees it,” Gramps said, toothpick bouncing around his wrinkled lips, “we deserve that food. Forced me into a lie, that cunning devil Matilda Ogle.” Cody giggled.

  Mama folded her arms across her chest. I knew from experience that meant the end of this discussion. Gramps heaved a big, showy sigh and stormed out of the cabin.

  Cody jerked his head in the direction of the door. I shrugged. Why not? I still hadn’t figured out what Gramps was hiding about the park, so a little snooping around might uncover something. We snuck out behind Gramps and followed him into the thick woods.

  After we walked about a quarter of a mile through cool darkness, the leafy canopy yawned open and we stood at the edge of a grassy clearing. The sudden sunlight burned my eyes. When my sight cleared, I made out four white boxes, each one on stilts, each one about the size of Mama’s washing tub, each one buzzing.

  Bees! Gramps lifted the lid off one of the beehives and plunged his arm in up to his elbow.

  Cody gasped. “Mr. Tipton, be . . .”

  Careful. I finished Cody’s thought in my head. Dang it! So much for being a sneak.

  Plump bees climbed up Gramps’s arm, clung to his chest, crawled on his face, swarmed in his hair. Bees dotted his body like a fuzzy black rash.

  “Don’t worry, son,” he whispered. He apparently knew we’d been trailing him the whole time. “Me and these bees, we got an understanding. They don’t sting me and I don’t squash them.”

  Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, I thought. Old Gramps is a bee charmer!

  Gramps grinned at us and pulled a dripping, golden honeycomb out of the box. “Autumn, bring me one of them jars,” he whispered, pointing his chin at a pile of Ball jars stowed under one of the bee houses. I shook my head. No way was I getting near those things.

  Gramps scowled at me. I felt bumps come up on my skin like the chicken I was. But if that wasn’t enough, I’ll be dadburned if that little booger Cody didn’t step up and fetch one of those jars. The show-off!

  Gramps took the jar from Cody and slid the oozing honeycomb inside. The jar soon filled with honey seeping from the waxy comb. The bees flew off Gramps and back to their bee homes.

  Gramps sat under a nearby oak and patted the ground next to him. He drew out a jackknife from the pocket of his overalls, cut off a piece of the honeycomb, and handed it to Cody. “A treat for your bravery.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I was the brave one here. Wasn’t I?

  Cody smiled and took the honeycomb and looked at it stupidly. “You chew it, dummy,” I said.

  Gramps cut off a piece of honeycomb for me. “A treat ’cause you let a city boy get the best of you.” Ooooo! My insides cramped up. But I deserved the ribbing, I suppose. Me, outdone by a city kid. Dang it!

  We sat there a long time, chewing the sweet honeycomb and listening to the soft hum of the tiny bugs. I counted how many times I could crack my knuckles, while Cody pushed his toe through the dirt, unearthing rocks and pocketing the good ones. He finally broke the silence.

  “You don’t really have an understanding with those bees, do you, Mr. Tipton?”

  Gramps moved the big lump of wax he was working on to one cheek. “Nah. That’s a story, boy.”

  We sat there a long time again before Cody asked, “What’s your favorite story, Mr. Tipton?”

  It was a good question. Maybe, I thought, he’d pick a story about the moonshiners in Chestnut Flats. I hear they have houses right on the Tennessee–North Carolina border, and when the police come knocking, the criminals just walk into a different room—because they’re in a different state, they can’t be touched. Or maybe he’d choose the story of him and his brother getting caught in a snowstorm and surviving three days in a hollowed-out tree (Mama’d told us that one). Or maybe he even had some good outhouse-tipping tales. Who knows? A geezer as old as Gramps probably had dozens of shady friends and ripe yarns.

  Gramps scratched his chin. “Well, now, let’s see. Guess I’d have to say my favorite story is ’bout Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden.”

  “What? You can’t pick that!” Maybe I was still smarting from the ribbing, but I didn’t think it was fair for somebody who never even went to church to pick a Bible story as his favorite.

  “But that story is so sad,” Cody said. “Adam and Eve lost everything ’cause of a slimy old snake.”

  Gramps snapped his fingers at Cody. “There’s where you’re wrong, boy. Adam and Eve lost everything ’cause that was their choice. ’Member how that story ends?”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “They get greedy and it gets them kicked out of paradise.”

  “No, I mean before that.”

  “They eat the apple.”

  Gramps heaved a big sigh. “After that.”

  I shrugged, but Cody nodded. “They gain the knowledge of good and evil. They see what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  Gramps picked his teeth with his penknife. “Way I see it,
that was likely the intent all along.”

  I kicked at a clod of dirt. This was just like Sunday school. Worse—at least in Sunday school I didn’t get one-upped by a city kid. No, make that two-upped. I really could’ve used a good outhouse-tipping tale just about then.

  Later that day, I decided to hike up to Abrams Falls. Normally, I’d tote up my fishing pole and basket, but today I opted for the company of my sketch pad and pencils. I did not opt for the company of Cody, but he was there, too, stumbling up the steep trail behind me.

  I draw whenever I’m blue. I’m blue whenever I get to stewing over how crummy it is to be eleven years old. It’s a crack in life. Nobody treats me like a grown-up, but they hate it when I act like a kid. When we’d got home from the beehives, I thought the smart thing to do would be to tell Mama that Gramps is up to something suspicious with this park. She’d hushed me up quicker than she’d shush a church talker and told me to respect my elders. Jeez!

  I sat Indian-style on a slick black rock next to the falls. When the wind changed direction, the spray blew on me and the cold water pricked my skin like tiny needles. It felt good, though, the cool beads biting the edge off the hot August day. My sketch pad caught a few drops now and then, warping the paper in tiny dots. I got a little sadder then, watching the paper buckle. Drawing always reminds me of Pop. He’s the best artist in these parts. Everybody says so.

  The falls were shadowy that day, with more deepy darks than the last time I’d sketched them. Cody scampered around like a diseased squirrel, collecting those dumb rocks of his. His pockets bulged with the weight of so many rocks, he had to keep hitching up his pants. All his rustling distracted me from my sketch. For some reason, I grew itchy-irritated watching him sock those darn rocks away. What a stupid hobby!

  “Why do you do that?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Why do you collect rocks?”

  Cody shrugged. “I guess because they’re pretty much always the same. For the most part, they just stay put.”

  “Huh. That sounds like everything I know.”