Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  She smiled, feeling the tug of home and family. Words from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets ran in her mind. …it is an ever fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken; / It is the star to every wand’ring barque, / Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Behind Pinnacle Mountain rose still higher peaks, toward which the late afternoon sun was rapidly sliding, its pinks and golds and reds gilding the mountain peaks and the banked, curdled clouds above them.

  Home for supper…and Mum and Laur and Ben…and all the memories. Good ones and bad. Her eyes were wet with tears as she turned the car back toward the road.

  Memories. Elizabeth looked around the table at her two daughters and her nephew, all eagerly assaulting the chicken cacciatore and all talking loudly. These three had grown up together for the most part, and although Ben had only spent summers with them, he was as much a part of the fabric of their life as any brother or son.

  He had appeared in her kitchen shortly before the girls had arrived and asked Elizabeth not to tell Rosemary about the events of the previous week. “Not tonight, anyway. Let’s just enjoy ourselves and not get into all the heavy crap.”

  That seemed to be Rosemary’s wish as well. No mention had been made of Maythorn as yet. Rosemary had parked her sensible hybrid car at the workshop and climbed the hill to the house, leaving her suitcase for Ben to bring up in the little utility vehicle they used for hauling firewood and mulch. She had burst into the kitchen where Elizabeth was browning the cut-up chicken in olive oil and garlic, embraced her mother fiercely, and plopped down on the floor to visit with each dog in turn.

  “It’s so good to be home.” Her voice had been slightly wistful. “Chapel Hill’s terrific and I love my little house, but there’s something about coming home.”

  Now the three cousins were indulging in noisy reminiscences of growing up on the farm, each seemingly untouched by past tragedies—though tragedies there had been. Laurel, whose recently cropped red hair formed an aureole of ringlets above her lime green turtleneck sweater, was the most vocal. As befitted the artist that she was, Laurel was dramatic and flamboyant at all times. Her sister, however, though always known as “the quiet one” of the two, was holding her own tonight. Rosemary’s shoulder-length dark brown hair had been pulled back into a careless ponytail and she had changed her preppy slacks and neatly tucked-in shirt for a pair of faded jeans and a dark red sweatshirt. Her eyes glowed with affection as she vied with her sister in trying to remember exactly which of them had been the first to try to scare their young cousin from the city with tales of a creature lurking somewhere in the woods.

  “It was Cletus who told us about the Skunk Ape. You remember, Mum.” Rosemary turned to her mother for confirmation. “He swore he’d seen one in his roaming around—‘Big ol’ thing, taller ’n your daddy, and all covered up with black fur, walking on his hind legs like a man.’ Remember, Mum? You told us it was a folk legend, like the Abominable Snowman—”

  “Or Bigfoot.” Laurel broke in. “But with a silver stripe down its back.”

  “Like a skunk.” Ben looked from one young woman to the other and laughed. “And you sweet little girls had me convinced that there was one hanging around the old cabin. You said if it saw me it would spray me with its super-skunk smell and I’d have to live outside for ten years till the smell went away.”

  “It may still be around, Ben.” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and looked at her nephew with mock solemnity. “Ursa was over at your place earlier, barking her head off. I thought it was just a squirrel, but…well, it’s been a while since there’s been a sighting….”

  Ben frowned. “You know, I think something was in my cabin today. When I came back from Asheville and started packing, there was stuff missing. Some food, granola bars and apples, things like that.”

  “Probably a raccoon.” Laurel helped herself to more chicken. She flashed a wicked grin at her cousin. “Or maybe it was the Skunk Ape. Did you notice a strong smell?”

  Ben didn’t smile. “I noticed that my sleeping bag was gone. I don’t think a raccoon took that. Or any other animal.”

  “Ben! Are you serious?” Laurel stared across the table, oblivious of the sauce dripping from the drumstick paused in midair.

  Expressionless, Ben waited a beat. Then his face relaxed into a smile. “Well, I couldn’t find my sleeping bag. But I did tell Julio a few days ago that he could borrow it for Homero to use. That’s probably where it is. And there was some food gone. But the coons or possums are welcome to it.”

  It was just what a family meal ought to be, Elizabeth decided, when, after much talk and laughter—and several bottles of wine—they settled in the living room with coffee and hot apple crisp. She felt like a contented mother hen with her brood all tucked safely and happily under her wings—for the moment at least. James established himself in a tight little ball on the sofa next to Rosemary while Ursa lay at Elizabeth’s feet. Molly, after regally presenting herself for attention to Rosemary, Laurel, and Ben in turn, lay beside Ursa, her muzzle resting on the larger dog’s shaggy shoulder.

  But too soon, Ben was standing. “I hate to do it, but I need to get to bed. I’ll say good-bye now: I’m gonna leave out at dark-thirty, while you all are still asleep.” He hugged the two girls, then turned to Elizabeth. “Aunt E, I’ll keep in touch. Everything should run smoothly; if there’s any problem—”

  She reached up to him. “Ben, we’ll be fine. Tell your mom hi for me. And come back whenever you’re ready.”

  His arms tightened around her and his voice was husky in her ear. “Thanks, Aunt E; I will.”

  Laurel had returned to Asheville soon after Ben’s departure, saying that she had to help a friend hang a show the next day. She hugged her mother and sister affectionately, bemoaning the fact that she wouldn’t be able to come back out to the farm till she finished an important commission. “Carter Dixon recommended me to some friends of his who’re opening a restaurant. They’ve got two long walls they want murals on, and the work has to be finished in time for the restaurant’s grand opening in November. So that’s going to totally consume all my so-called free time this month.”

  Rosemary, yawning hugely, had retired to the loft room that she and Laurel had shared for many years. “I’d rather stay there than the guest room, Mum. Nostalgia, I guess. It’s been so good—coming back and just all of us being happy and silly together. I’m going to curl up in bed and read some of my old books for a while. Tomorrow we can talk about what I need to do. But for tonight…I just want to be happy.” And she had climbed the steep stairs to the loft, worn copies of A Swiftly Tilting Planet and Ozma of Oz tucked under her arm.

  Elizabeth switched off her reading light and rolled on her side. The faint Old Spice aroma at once filled her nostrils. I didn’t think about Phillip all evening, not once. The kids and I were so busy being family and remembering funny things that happened…. I guess he was right not to come, it wouldn’t have been the same. The kids all needed this time together…but things are changing…. Rosie…

  Her head nestled into the soft pillow and she drifted away into a Never Never Land of past, present, and future. A smile crossed her dreaming face.

  A low growl awakened her. She sat up, realizing that the massive object taking up the lower third of the bed and forcing her sleeping self into a cramped fetal position was a dog. “Hush, Ursa!” She reached for the dog’s snout and held it shut. “It’s just that coon at the birdfeeder again. No barking! You’ll wake Rosie.”

  With a dissatisfied grumble, the big dog put her head down. Elizabeth switched on her light and looked at the clock on the chest of drawers beside the bed—3:32 a.m. She grimaced and then realized that she was very thirsty, undoubtedly the result of drinking more wine than usual. With a low command to Ursa to stay, she swung out of bed, shoved her feet in her slippers, and went noiselessly toward the kitchen. No lights were necessary; twenty years’ familiarity guided her steps.

  A dim light shone from the kitchen
doorway and Elizabeth’s brow wrinkled. I thought I turned that off. Maybe Rosie—Then small clinking and rustling sounds came to her ears.

  “You’d better not be getting into that garbage, James!” she hissed as she rounded the door and headed for the pantry. A light glowed faintly behind the curtain covering the doorway of the little room just off the kitchen. Here were stored canned goods, cleaning supplies, and dog food. The refrigerator was hidden away in this nook, as well as receptacles for garbage and recycling, and James had more than once whiled away an agreeable hour in here, examining the garbage and trying to get into the dog food container.

  “What are you doing, you bad dog!” She whipped the curtain aside, sure of what she was about to see. “You’re going to—”

  What she did see stopped her mid-sentence. The refrigerator door was open—the source of the light—and a dark figure leaned into the interior. On the floor beside the creature’s filthy feet were containers of leftovers, their tops awry. The smell in the little room was very strong.

  MISS BIRDIE AND CLETUS

  June 1984

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON: lunch and the heat had made everyone drowsy. The grown-ups were rocking lazily in their chairs under the shed. Laurel lay sprawled on the mattress in her corner, fast asleep. Her red curls, damp with perspiration from the exertion of insisting that she didn’t want to take a nap, were plastered against her plump cheeks. One arm encircled Rex, the stuffed dinosaur her mother had sewn of soft blue brushed denim; the other lay extended, hand splayed open like a fat pink starfish.

  Rosemary sat at the rough table under the window her pa had cut in the side of the barn. From this perch, she commanded a view of the winding gravel drive that snaked down the hill to the hard road, almost half a mile away. Just at the moment, she was two people. One was Rosemary Goodweather, writing in her diary, reading an Oz book, and enjoying an after-lunch glass of milk with a handful of cookies. The other was Shining Deer, the Indian princess keeping watch against enemies.

  Rosemary took a careful sip of milk and dispatched a cookie in two bites. She put down her pencil and raised a hand to shade her eyes.

  Shining Deer peered out of the window, scanning the horizon with her keen, hawklike vision. All was well in the Valley of the First People, from the nearer meadows where the deer and buffalo and spotted horses grazed in peaceful harmony to the tall Sacred Mountains that lay purple in the distance, many moons’ ride from this place. No marauding settlers appeared to disturb—

  Shining Deer stiffened. Around the nearest bend in the road came an old woman and a younger man. They both wielded sticks to help them in their ascent. The man was carrying something that dangled from his shoulder. Friends or foes? No matter. The tribe must be alerted! She would sound the alarm.

  Pa! Mum! There’s people coming! Rosemary ran to the door of the barn, eager to deliver her news.

  There was a gratifying, bustling reaction. Her mother quickly looked around, picked up the empty beer bottles left over from the grown-ups’ Sunday lunch, and hid them away in the recycling box just inside the barn door. Pa began to button up his shirt and Uncle Wade retrieved his T-shirt and pulled it hastily over his head.

  Who is it, Rosie? he whispered, with the sly look that meant he was getting ready to tease her. Is it the sheriff coming to get me for jaywalking in Ransom? No! He’ll never take me! Promise you won’t let him—

  Hello the house! The old woman’s voice rang out just as she and the young man came into sight. Elizabeth moved to meet them, smiling broadly.

  Hello to you. The house isn’t finished yet and we’re camping out in the barn. Were you—?

  The woman, a plump little person in a printed cotton dress and worn tennis shoes, beamed at them all. So you uns is the Florida people Dessie was telling me about! Now, you must be Lizzie Beth, and I reckon this young un to be Rosie. Bright eyes darted from Sam to Wade and back again. Law, look at that red hair! But which one of you fellers is Sam and which one is his brother? I don’t believe I can make it out.

  The young man who had accompanied her hung back, looking at the ground and tracing circles in the dirt with his stick. Rosie studied him carefully. He was a grown-up—a dark shadow along his jawline told her that. But something about him was different. At last, seeming to feel her gaze, he looked up and his limpid blue eyes met hers with the sweet innocence of a baby. He smiled shyly and ducked his head again.

  Ay law, where’s my manners? I know who you uns is but I ain’t yet named who it is come disturbin your Sunday rest. I’m Birdie Gentry and this here’s my boy, Cletus. We live down the branch in that little log house nigh the church. Me and Cletus took us a notion to go a-visitin after dinner and Dessie said you was a friendly set of somebodies and you’d not care for us coming up here.

  The little woman turned to her son. Cletus, give Miz Goodweather that berry basket.

  Slowly, carefully, Cletus lifted the odd bark cylinder with its long vine carrying-strap from around his neck and held it out to Elizabeth. Raspberries, he said. Me and Mommy picked em for you uns. And I made the berry basket.

  Please, said Elizabeth, you all come get a seat in the shade. She waved them toward the shed. Oh, Sam, Wade—just look at the beautiful black raspberries! Thank you so much, Cletus. Thank you, Miz Gentry. These look wonderful!

  Now, honey, you just call me Miss Birdie like ever one does. Even my man, Luther, calls me Miss Birdie, and we’ve been wed these forty-four years. Luther would of come too but his arthuritis is painin him bad today. He made it to the church house this mornin for preachin but he ’lowed he’d just stay home this evening and leave the loaferin to me and Cletus.

  Rosemary watched as her mother led the two visitors into the shade and insisted that they rest themselves in the rocking chairs. Rosie! her father called. Take the pitcher, please, and go get us some cold water at the spring.

  She set the blue-striped crockery pitcher on the flat rock below the pipe where the icy pure water poured out in a thin but steady stream. As the pitcher filled, she considered. This Miss Birdie sounded a lot like Dessie but talked faster. They both used strange words that she didn’t know but could guess at. Miss Birdie said that she and Cletus were loaferin around. Was that something to do with bread? Or shoes? No, probably it was like when Pa said he had to quit loafing and get to work on the house if they wanted to be in before winter. Nothing whatsoever to do with bread or shoes.

  The pitcher overflowed and she picked it up, using both hands, and walked carefully back to the barn. Mum had glasses ready and had put the raspberries into a bowl and set out a plate of cookies. The talk had wakened Laurel, who now sat in Miss Birdie’s lap, blinking up at her.

  Well, if hit ain’t the purtiest thing! The little woman twisted a red lock of hair around her finger. Hit’ll make a beauty, if hit lives.

  Rosemary noted her parents’ startled expressions but the old woman went on. Now, I lost five: three never drew a breath, the innocent angels, and the other two was puny; couldn’t do no good at all—went home to Jesus afore they could walk. Cletus is my onliest living one—and a comfort to my soul, I tell you what’s the truth.

  Laurel was looking curiously at Cletus now. Suddenly she crawled down from Miss Birdie’s knees and stumped over to the young man. She gazed up at him and was rewarded with the fleeting, shy smile. Charmed, she clambered up onto his lap and leaned back against his chest, gripping the strap of his dark blue overalls in a proprietary little hand.

  Miss Birdie continued on, scarcely pausing to take breath. Now, Dessie done told me all about you uns. Said you was naming to farm, soon as you got your house built. I see you already put you in a little bit of a garden. Course, hit’s late, but you keep it hoed good and hit’ll make you many a mess of beans.

  Rosemary sat at the picnic table, eating raspberries one at a time, crushing each with her tongue against the roof of her mouth to savor the sharp sweetness. She liked listening to the grown-ups talk. Uncle Wade tried to ask Cletus how he’d made the berry b
asket, but Cletus just ducked his head again and said nothing. Miss Birdie did most of the talking; Mum barely had time to answer a question before the plump little woman was off again.

  Now, I wonder, do you uns know the folks over the ridge? Bought the old Ridder place a few years back of this? They’re from away too. They come to this country and laid out the money like one thing. I heared as how they tore down the old home place and built them a mansion-house. We was namin’ to go visit them back of this and me and Luther and the boy set out one Sunday evening with a fresh turn of cornmeal in a poke for them. But when we got there, come to find they had put up a big old brick wall at the foot of their road and great high iron gates acrost it. And those old ugly yeller POSTED signs all along the line fence. Luther said he didn’t reckon they was wantin no company and we ain’t never seen them, ceptin when they go down the road. And they go back and forth like one thing! Hardly a day don’t pass but first the woman and the little one goes out, then there’s two men, brothers, I don’t doubt, they’re bad to go all the time. And I believe they must have six vehicles up there for the family—I never heard of such! Me and Luther ain’t never needed but the one truck and hit’s done us these thirty-four years.

  Miss Birdie paused to sip at her water and Elizabeth pounced on the opportunity to say, No, we haven’t met the Mullins. Except for Maythorn. She comes over here to play with Rosie a lot. They—

  Now, Maythorn’s the dark-complected child, ain’t that so? Looks like an Indian and roams the woods like a wild Indian too. But my Cletus is just the same. Miss Birdie looked fondly at her son.

  I seen her in the woods lots of times. Cletus’s soft voice was hesitant. She done found all my trails and hidey-holes. She’s right smart for a little girl. And she’s pretty—kindly like a baby deer.