by E. Joan Sims
I opened the car door and stepped gingerly down into the waist-high grass. Visions of copperheads and giant ticks with ghoulish appetites crossed my mind and encouraged me to hop up on the fender and crawl up on the hood.
I cleaned off the windshield as best I could and sat back on the top of the car. The squadron of buzzards was now off somewhat to my right. The fading light of the setting sun cast confusing shadows, and it was hard to tell if they were over the airport or still flying over the edge of our field. The tall grass danced and swayed to the whispering tune of the evening breeze and hid the perimeter fence from view. I finally gave up the search with a disappointed sigh and stood up to brush off my jeans.
The bullet whizzed past my shoulder like an angry hornet. I dropped like a rock and flattened my body on Watson’s hood. I didn’t hear a report, and for a moment I doubted my first impression that someone was trying to kill me. When a second bullet whizzed overhead, I slid off the hood and climbed back in the driver’s seat as fast as I could. Out here in the middle of the field I was too good a target. I turned on the engine and headed toward the protection of the trees at flank speed.
I bounced madly up and down in the seat as I cut across the furrows, tasting the hot salty rush of blood as my head came up against the roof and I bit my tongue. I was well aware that if I lived to see the next day my nether parts would be black and blue.
By the time I reached the trees, darkness had fallen, and it was difficult to see the entrance to the lane. Turning on the headlights would make me a sitting duck. Instead, I slowed down and inched my way forward. I almost drove into the pond, but I saw the dark outline of flat, still water just in time.
I circled the narrow shore until I found what I was looking for. The dark tunnel of trees seemed overwhelmingly foreboding, but it was my best chance, unless someone was waiting inside. With some difficulty, I shut off my imagination and headed blindly for home.
The moon came up over the treetops as I drove up to the garage. The sprawling silhouette of the house was dark against the moonlit sky, and I knew Mother wasn’t home yet. For a moment I considered heading straight into town and Andy Joiner’s office. I wanted to tell him what had happened as soon as possible, but I was afraid to leave and have Mother arrive alone. I decided to park the car and go inside to call Andy.
Just as I ran across the driveway, two headlights appeared at the bottom of the hill. With a pounding heart, I threw myself behind a lilac bush and waited to see who was coming. When I heard the expensive hum of Horatio Raleigh’s Bentley, I relaxed and crawled out from my hiding place.
“Paisley Sterling! What in the world are you doing? Don’t you think you’re a bit old to be playing cat and mouse in the dark?” asked Mother as her old friend helped her gallantly out of the car. It was obvious that she hadn’t forgiven me for laughing at her earlier that afternoon.
Horatio, who was much more astute, divined immediately that something was amiss, and ushered us politely but quickly into the house.
“Anna, my dear,” he said. “Our Paisley looks to be in need of a small libation, and perhaps some of that wonderful tomato bisque you prepared last night. If you have any left, that is?”
Mother was instantly contrite. “Oh, dear! Paisley, darling, are you all right?”
“Of course, Mother,” I lied. “But I would like some soup.”
“Bisque, dear. Tomato bisque. And you have a leaf in your hair.”
“Yeah, soup. Hot. With crackers.”
Horatio led the way into the library and turned on the small Chinese porcelain lamps on each of the sofa tables. I crossed over to the French doors, and after a cursory look at the empty backyard, pulled the new red-and -yellow -striped silk draperies over both doors.
“Someone chasing you again, my dear?” asked Horatio with a lift of one elegant eyebrow.
Horatio Raleigh had been a friend of our family for years. And while he had always been in love with my beautiful mother, he didn’t make it known until after my father’s death over a decade ago. Since then, he had been Anna Howard Sterling’s constant and ever-admiring companion.
Horatio had retired from the family mortuary business years ago and only went into “the shop” when someone of importance died and the relatives needed to part with an extra ten grand for a “bereavement consultation.” Horatio’s taste was exquisite, expensive, and worth every penny.
I had consulted with him in the past because of his knowledge about more clandestine matters. It was rumored, and not without some basis, that he had held certain high positions in very hush-hush circles during the war. And although he never admitted to it, I was positive that he was still well-known in those august groups. I had always found his advice invaluable. I didn’t hesitate to tell him what had happened the minute we sat down.
“Some asshole tried to kill me!”
Both eyebrows went up now. And the pipe came out. That was a sign that Horatio was in full attention mode even though he appeared to be distracted by preparing a smoke. He patted the pockets of his smart navy blazer to find his tobacco pouch and sterling silver tamper. Once he had all of his tools at hand, he started questioning me.
“Which, er, asshole, is this, Paisley, dear?”
“I have no idea,” I answered, flopping back on the soft down cushions of the red chintz sofa. “But somebody took at pot shot at me. Twice!”
I slipped off my beloved old Cole-Haan moccasins and watched in dismay as grass seeds puddled on Mother’s priceless Oriental carpet.
“Oh, well,” I sighed. “I’ll vacuum later.”
Horatio chuckled and drew the first fragrant puff from his pipe.
“Just like a woman to worry about housekeeping even when her life is in jeopardy.”
“Worried about Mother’s wrath is more like it,” I laughed.
“Well, it’s good to see that you’re not that upset about your adventure.”
“I’m beginning to think I imagined it. Perhaps it was a hornet after all, or maybe a nest of yellow jackets. I was driving pretty fast. I could have stirred something up without even realizing it.”
“Yellow jackets?” echoed Mother as she came into the room carrying a small tray with a steaming bowl and a plate of crackers. “No wonder you were upset. Were you stung, dear?”
I winked at Horatio and accepted the dinner tray from my mother. No use upsetting her by letting her in on what I thought had really happened.
“And when was this,” she asked, “before, or after someone shot at you? By the way dear, try not to use vulgar terminology. It’s so unladylike.”
Horatio smiled and shook his head in amazement. I laughed and happily slurped Mother’s divine bisque. She was right. Something so delicate and delicious couldn’t be called simply “soup.”
‘Chapter Four
Horatio and I sat up until after midnight discussing the possibility that some poor misguided soul had, as Leonard would say, the desire to take me out. Horatio found it very hard to believe that I had an enemy with a murderous bent, and I had to agree with him. Since I’d returned to Rowan Springs, I had kept a very low profile. Mother was the social butterfly. My social life consisted of going to the drive-through at the Dairy Queen, with perhaps an occasional visit to the library and grocery.
Mother was always trying to entice me to the country club, the First Baptist Church, or one of her bridge games. She raved about the chicken and almond salad at the Rose Tea Room and extolled the artistic virtues of belonging to the Creative Guild, but thus far, I had managed to avoid being drawn into any of the social activities of our fair city.
People in Rowan Springs ask first what your husband does for a living, then what church you attend. Since I have neither husband nor church, I am a pariah. The only standard “little southern town” question I can answer with some assurance of being held in any regard at all is, “What was your name before you married?” The fear of this serial interrogation alone was enough to keep me off the social merry-go-round. And while
I hadn’t bothered to make friends, I certainly hadn’t put out the effort to make any enemies.
Around one-thirty in the morning, I walked Horatio to his car. Thanks to our rational conversation and his reassurances, my fear of assassination had vanished. I was even relaxed and comfortable enough to let Aggie have a run in the orchard after Horatio drove away.
There had been a full moon earlier in the evening, but it had gone to sleep behind the tall cedars on the faraway hills hours ago. The night sky was dark and full of clouds that were darker still. I heard the dry whisper of leathery wings as scores of bats fed on insects and returned to roost in the eaves of the outbuildings when they were replete.
I strolled beneath the spreading limbs of the fruit trees enjoying the coolness of the night breeze and the privacy the darkness afforded. Aggie ran back behind the raspberry patch and I lost sight of her. Rather than call out and break the magic of the moment, I followed.
A bright flash of lightening, followed by a loud clap of thunder took me completely by surprise. I yelped and Aggie barked. We both jumped about a foot. The first thunderous explosion was quickly succeeded by a second, and an even louder third. The night was suddenly filled with unfriendly fire and a barrage of hard-driving wind and rain that stung my unprotected face and quickly drenched my clothes.
Aggie didn’t need any urging. She ran beside me through the orchard toward the house. By the time we crossed the driveway, hail the size of marbles was falling with bruising force against my shoulders and head. The backyard was already full of the icy little balls. As I ran across the patio, my feet slipped out from under me and I fell backwards. Stunned, I lay there until it ceased to hail with the same sudden abruptness and I could hear Mother’s frightened voice calling frantically over the wind and rain. I got to my feet and staggered to the back porch where she was struggling to hold the screen door open for me. The wind billowed the skirt of her housecoat up around her knees and pulled tendrils of silver white hair from the sleek French twist.
“Paisley! Thank God! Are you all right?”
“I…I think so. My head hurts like hell. What in the world is going on?”
“Tornado warning!” she shouted over the increasing roar of the storm. “We’d better get inside quickly and take cover.”
She grabbed my hand and led me through the kitchen. The house was in total darkness. All the comforting little lights that normally twinkled from the coffee maker, microwave, and refrigerator were gone, but Mother had a flashlight. I followed her quickly through the house to the utility closet under the stairs. She opened the door and pushed me unceremoniously inside.
We sat huddled together on the dusty floor like two terrified children while Mother Nature threw a fierce electric temper tantrum all around us. The old house creaked and shivered. The logs that formed the inner walls of the rooms in the front were more than a century and a half old. I was uncomfortably reminded of that fact as I felt them shift ever so slightly with the wind.
It was impossible to be heard over the fury of the storm, so we didn’t even try to speak. Suddenly it went dead quiet. It was an unnatural and unhealthy silence. A sharp pain in my ears told me the atmospheric pressure had changed. Then we heard something strange. Not the roar of a freight train, but the splitting of trees as the tornado passed over us. I had heard that sound before. One winter when I was ten, I quite recklessly walked across the thin sheet of ice on the pond at the end of the lane. The ice had cracked beneath my feet with the same hollow sound as I hurried, breathless and strangely excited, to the other side.
There was no excitement now, only terror. Mother and I held hands tightly and stared up at the cobwebbed underside of the staircase. Dust sifted through the cracks and floated like a cloud in the beam of the flashlight as the floor swayed and creaked loudly above us.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Mother, prayerfully.
“Amen,” I whispered.
There was a great rustling sound, like a mighty sigh, and as quickly as it had begun it was all over. The dust continued to fall, but the house was still and at rest once again. Mother dropped the flashlight and covered her face with her hands. For a brief moment I thought she was going to cry, but she straightened up and gave me a slightly crooked little smile.
“Wow!”
“You can say that again,” I laughed hoarsely. “You okay, Mother?”
“I think so, but we need to get you some dry clothes. You must be freezing.”
I sneezed right on cue, then got to my feet and helped her up. We had to bend over to avoid bumping our heads on the stairs. That’s when I noticed that Aggie wasn’t in the closet with us.
“Mother! Where’s the dog?”
“Why, I don’t know. Wasn’t she with you?”
“Damn! What if she didn’t come back in the house?”
Mother didn’t even correct my vulgar language in her distress.
“Oh, my goodness. I’m almost positive she did. Poor little thing! She must be terrified. We have to find her quickly.”
We found two more flashlights in the kitchen and some extra batteries when the original ones died. For two hours we searched every room in the dark house. We looked under all the beds and in the closets. Mother suggested that Aggie was so frightened she might not come when we called. I reminded her that Aggie never came when she was called.
“Oh, Paisley, don’t speak ill of the sweet little thing. Have you thought of what you’re going to tell Cassandra when you pick her up at the airport tomorrow without her puppy?”
“Rats! I forgot about having to pick up Cassie. I have to get some sleep or I’ll never make it.”
But I couldn’t.
I lay in the bed with my eyes closed while the sound of splitting trees played over and over again in my memory. Occasionally I heard the siren going off in town, but there was no sound of cars on the road. The electricity was still out, and I found that very disconcerting. There is a big difference between going to bed in the dark and going to bed in a house where there is no light. I was musing over the possibilities of a world where the lights never come back on when I finally dozed off. I slept soundly for a full twenty minutes until the alarm sounded.
“Damn and drat!”
I hated not getting enough sleep. My stomach felt queasy and my head ached. I stumbled to the bathroom and stared into the mirror at the exhausted green eyes and freckles that stood out boldly on my pale face. I splashed on some cold water and sighed into the towel as I dried my chin and looked out the window.
“Holy cow!”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. For a moment I considered the possibility that I was still asleep and having a nightmare. I discounted that when a sharp pain sliced behind my eyelids and throbbed in my temple. I was awake all right, and looking out at the ruin of what was once the most beautiful place on earth—at least to me.
Hot tears flooded my eyes as I stared unbelievingly at the huge maple that had provided summer shade for generations of Sterlings. It had been torn out by the roots and cast down across the patio. The hole it left in the raw earth was easily ten feet across and four feet deep. Maple leaves embraced the lawn almost across the whole width of the backyard, yet the tree had miraculously missed falling on the back porch. I wondered sadly if a small furry body lay smashed beneath its limbs.
I ran back to my bedroom and knelt on the window seat. The oak trees in the front yard hadn’t fared much better. One lay across the driveway and the others were missing the top half of their limbs. It looked like a giant scythe had whacked them off about twenty feet above the ground.
I shrugged into my jeans and a sweatshirt and slipped on my Cole-Haans even though they were still damp from the night before. I steeled myself as I opened the French doors in the library and stepped outside.
The sky was clean, freshly washed, and a brilliant blue. Fluffy white clouds preened in front of a golden sun. It was a beautiful day. The ground was still soaked from the rain. I felt it sink through my jeans as I fell to my knee
s when I saw the devastation the storm had wreaked on my grandfather’s orchard.
Limbs were everywhere. Peach, plum, and apple trees were scattered about like pick-up sticks. Everything was destroyed except for one lone sapling—the little cherry tree we planted last summer. I wept.
When I was spent, I pulled myself up and climbed over limbs and tree trunks to the other side of the house. My moonlight garden: the white roses, my gardenias and paper whites, even the tiny lilies of the valley were crushed by storm debris. Incongruously, in the middle of the garden stood the glass reflecting ball without a scratch to mar its shiny silver surface.
I climbed over scattered limbs searching for Aggie, knowing that if I found her it would be too late. If she had been anywhere in the yard during the storm, she was a goner. Somehow the falling trees had missed the house, but there wasn’t a square foot of lawn that was not covered by debris. Aggie wouldn’t have been able to run fast enough to escape. Poor little puppy. I cried again when I imagined the terror and helplessness she must have felt. And I was miserably sorry that yesterday I had been happy thinking I would soon be rid of her. Now, I would miss her always.
I slipped and skinned my hands and knees as I climbed over limbs and tree trunks. I was cursing like a sailor before I made it back to the driveway. I kicked aside the cans and plastic bags from someone else’s garbage that had flown through the air and landed in our yard and made my way down to the carriage house.
I held my breath and said a small prayer as I rounded the corner and looked inside. Watson was unscathed, but the back of the roof over the garage had caved in underneath the weight of a huge broken limb from a walnut tree. There was no way I could get the Jeep out without some help. The limb was as big around as twice my waist. It didn’t even budge when I tried to move it.
“Well, damn and double damn. This is a fine kettle of fish!” I swore, wiping the sweat from my upper lip with a skinned knuckle.