by Vicki Lane
Rosemary, just out of bed and in search of coffee, listened to her mother’s rueful tale. Elizabeth was folding Calven’s clothes, still warm from the dryer, and Rosemary watched as she smoothed out the camouflage pants, carefully aligning the inseams as if readying the ragged garment for careful pressing. She studied her mother’s worried face and seemed to see her clearly for the first time in many years. This has really upset her—she looks tired and…and older. And she’s almost dithering. This isn’t like Mum.
“He left a note. It’s there in the kitchen. And he took some bread and peanut butter, not that it matters. The sheriff’s going to be looking for him. I called Phillip right away and he—”
Rosemary was amazed to see a blush creep over her mother’s tanned face.
“Well, I know I’ve mentioned him—Phillip Hawkins—he’s…he was a—”
“A friend of Pa’s—I know. From the navy.” Rosemary took pity on her parent, seemingly so incapable of explaining what had been a topic of great interest to both her daughters and her nephew. “Mum, I know all about him. He used to be a police detective somewhere over on the coast—was it Beaufort? He’s divorced and has a daughter at UNCA and you’ve been seeing a lot of him recently…. The miracle of e-mail,” she elucidated, in response to Elizabeth’s startled look. “Ben and Laurel are a lot better at keeping in touch than you are. They tell me it’s starting to look serious. So, am I going to get to meet this guy at last?”
It must be serious, decided Rosemary as she hiked up the familiar slope toward the big rock Maythorn had called Froghead. Mum’s eyes just lit up when she talked about him. The tiredness vanished and she looked like herself again…. I hope he’s nice. Laur and Ben seem to like him a lot, judging from their e-mails in the past year…. I wonder if… But she abandoned that train of thought. Though she recognized that her mother was still reasonably attractive at the advanced age of—what is it, fifty-one or fifty-two?—and though she was well aware that, theoretically at least, sexual activity could continue unabated well past even her mother’s age, still, some things were just too weird to think about. She set her eyes on the granite outcropping above her and plodded on.
I have to go back to the beginning…and this is where I first saw Maythorn. Rosemary stopped and looked up at the great rock. Her eyes were misty as she remembered. It was like magic, like an imaginary playmate suddenly materializing in front of me. And she was an Indian. I remember how that seemed so incredibly cool. I had always wanted to be an Indian myself.
She stared at the rock’s rim, willing a dark face, black eyes shining below thick bangs, to appear, just as it had twenty-one years ago. Holding her breath and wishing, she waited, silently invoking all of childhood’s mystical powers. With the same deep faith, she had once fervently stared at the antique armoire in her grandmother’s house, convincing herself that if she believed hard enough, it would be the doorway into Narnia. Hardly breathing, she kept her gaze riveted on the unchanged loom of granite that hung dark above her.
Maythorn, come back. The words were a plea, an invocation. Rosemary waited, feeling inexplicably near to something, as if she teetered on the brink of an unseen time and place, some parallel universe where two little girls who had once played and plotted together had never been separated. In an instant, a vision of an adult Maythorn flashed into her mind: the Maythorn that might have been. A sense of irretrievable loss swept over her and the vision blurred and vanished.
The spell was broken. Shaking off irrational hope, Rosemary climbed to the back of the rock outcropping and crawled out onto its surface. The smooth granite was warm from the sun and, as she had done countless times before, she flattened her palms against it, feeling its bulk as a thing alive beneath her. Above and behind her, there was a clatter and cawing in the woods as raucous crows roused a sleeping owl and harried it from its perch. She watched as the big bird, imperturbable amid the scolding crowd, flew on soft, silent wings over her head to the deep woods on the farther side of the hollow.
Rosemary crept to the end of the rock and stretched out so that she could look down at the house and garden. We would stay up here for hours, watching Mum and Pa and Uncle Wade and Laurel. She said we were spies, gathering information. Rosemary watched as her mother moved through the garden below, cutting back dead asparagus stalks and pulling off the lower leaves of some tall collard plants.
Her mother had been relieved that Rosemary had not demanded to begin her research at Mullmore. “Phillip says”—there had been that extraordinary light in her mother’s face—“Phillip says the sheriff is keeping an eye on the place but that I—that we should stay away till he…till Phillip can go back with us. And the little boy did say that this Bib character is mean.”
Rosemary lay on the rock, feeling the sun beat down on her back. The air was chilly, though windless, and the warmth stored in the granite felt soothing. She watched her mother moving to and fro as she had watched so many times. In faded blue jeans, an old blue corduroy shirt, a quilted cherry red vest, and a disreputable straw hat, Elizabeth looked much as she always had. Not remarkable, just Mum, a fixed point in the universe. From this distance, the gray was not apparent in the long braid that hung down the back of the red vest.
As her eyes drifted shut, Rosemary let her thoughts wander at random. Maythorn…short for Mary Thorn…her grandmother’s name…and her real father was named…what?…Blackwolf…no, Fox, Blackfox…and Maythorn kept a notebook that she wrote stuff in…she wouldn’t ever let me see all of it, but I got one of my own and she showed me how she wrote up “reports”…we were so serious…stuff like “10:22 a.m.—WG takes truck to mailbox——12 noon——LG rings bell”…I wonder if that notebook of mine is still in our secret hidey-hole…if I could find it….
Rosemary rolled over and tugged her baseball cap low to shade her eyes. She stared out from under the brim up at the sky. It’s really working…just being here…letting myself remember…but there’s so much…and I’m not sure—
The roar of a big truck laboring up the hill shattered her reverie and she turned back over to see who it was. The vehicle had not yet come in sight, but her mother was emerging from the chicken yard, where the hens—red, white, brown, and speckled—were greedily pecking at the culled collard leaves. Rosemary watched her mother walk to the edge of the road, head cocked curiously. At last, around the bend came a large white pickup truck, its sides heavily spattered with mud. An even more mud-spattered four-wheeler rode in the pickup’s bed.
Elizabeth waited apprehensively as the big truck came to a stop beside her. She noted the four-wheeler in the back and the big, rough-looking man in the driver’s seat. Oh, shit. I’ve got a real feeling this must be Calven’s mama’s boyfriend—the guy Phillip warned me about.
Trying to project an assurance she did not feel, as well as an ignorance of who the man was and what he wanted, she smiled as she walked around to the driver’s side.
“Can I help you?” She raised her voice and spoke at the closed window, keeping her expression and tone neutral. It was not unknown for strangers to come up the road. It happened several times a year. They came in search of lost hunting dogs; they came to take a look at the old Baker place where their Aunt Lulie had grown up; they came to offer a Watchtower and invite Elizabeth to do Bible study with them; they came by mistake, having turned too soon or too late; they came, openly curious about who lived up here. There had never been a bad experience with a stranger in all her years on the farm and she fervently hoped that her luck was not about to change.
The man at the wheel cut the engine and rolled his window down. “Well, now, maybe you can do that very thing. What it is, I’m lookin’ fer my boy. We was out huntin’ over yon.” His head jerked in the direction of the ridge that separated Full Circle Farm from Mullmore. “We was headin’ back to Bear Tree and he took off on his own. Reckon he could of got turned around and come down in yore holler.” His thin lips sketched a smile that revealed a mouth of snaggled, brown-stained teeth. One
was missing and its mate seemed to have been half broken off. Dark stubble covered his gaunt cheeks and greasy black hair straggled from under a dirty orange hunting cap. The man’s gray eyes were close-set and seemed to miss nothing. Even as he spoke, they ranged over the chicken house, the barns, the house itself.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Elizabeth smiled, hoping she looked both innocent and unintimidated. “No lost boys here. If he turns up, I could give you a call. The operative word being ‘could.’ Not that I would. Do you want to leave your phone number, Mr….?”
“Name’s Maitland. And I ain’t got no phone just now.” The smile was replaced by a glare of distrust. “You sure you ain’t seen him? I done tracked him along the top, and looked to me like he come down this way.” The penetrating gray eyes bored into her and she had to struggle to maintain her composure. God, I hate lying. But I can’t say that I saw the boy. The best defense…
She assumed a look of interested concern. “So, do you think he’s lost, or was he running away for some reason? Maybe just playing around? I can see how you’d worry, though. What age is this boy? He’s your son?” Over to you, Mr. Maitland. Let’s see how you do at telling the truth.
Bib Maitland’s scowl relaxed briefly and he made another frightening attempt at a smile. “Aah, you know how kids is—tell ’em they cain’t do this or that and they git their noses out of joint. Little Cal, he’s as butt-headed as his mama and he’s bad to sull up and run off everwhen he cain’t git his way. He’s probably headed back home right now. I just thought, bein’ as I was up this way, I might try and find him, give him a ride back to Bear Tree. But long of you sayin’ as you ain’t seen him, I reckon—”
Delighted with the success of turning the questions back on her questioner, Elizabeth pressed on. “Maybe we should call the sheriff and let him know Calven’s missing. Since you don’t have a phone, I’ll be glad to—”
“How come you to know his name’s Calven?” Maitland snapped, voice and eyes cold and suspicious. “And what fer are you so quick about callin’ the law? This ain’t none of your business, you hear me?”
His angry eyes looked past her and she turned to follow his gaze. It swept the slope, following the trace of the trail that led through the pasture and up into the woods toward Mullmore. He studied the path intently for a few seconds then fixed Elizabeth with a withering stare. “I know who you are. You and your man are more of them goddamned Florida people. I remember back when you uns bought the place from ol’ lady Baker. And I’ll lay money you’re the nosy bitch what called the law on me t’other day.”
The vehemence of Maitland’s words was like a hurled weapon and Elizabeth pulled back from the truck. She opened her mouth to say something—just what, she had no idea—but Maitland continued, leaving no room for interruption and spitting venom with every syllable. He leaned out the window, his narrow, pale eyes holding her.
“You new people come to these mountains, buyin’ up our land and sendin’ the price of an acre up to where a pore man cain’t afford to farm no more. You let your dogs run loose in folkses fields and amongst their livestock and you put up yore yeller signs to keep folks from huntin’ the same woods they hunted with their daddies and them their daddies afore that. You think you know everything they is to know and you think you can tell us how we ought to do, but I’m here to tell you, lady, you don’t know shit.”
A fleck of spittle hit her cheek and Elizabeth fought back all the words that were tumbling over one another in an eager desire to justify her right to be here on this land—this land she had loved and tended for twenty-some years. But her inner good sense prevailed. Walk away, Elizabeth. The guy is not rational. There will be nothing you can say that won’t just piss him off even more.
Wiping her cheek, she backed away from the truck, then deliberately crossed the road behind it in order to approach her house through the garden. If I walk up the road, he might follow me, ranting all the way. I’ll cut through the garden and the front yard and go in the basement door. Once in the house she could call the sheriff, if this man didn’t leave. And Sam’s gun was there.
8.
LONG SHOTS AND FORLON HOPES
Saturday, October 8
Elizabeth climbed the slope on the far side of the garden, keeping her pace deliberate and unhurried. Like dealing with a mean dog—run and it’ll chase you; walk away slowly and, with any luck, it’ll leave you alone. From the corner of her eye she could see that the truck had not moved and that Bib’s head was turned toward her. As she reached the front yard and started for the basement door, the truck’s motor growled to life. She stopped and waited, relieved to see the big vehicle back off the gravel, turn, and head down the road.
When it was out of sight she looked up the mountainside, to see Rosemary hurrying down the narrow cow trail toward the house. A smile spread itself across Elizabeth’s face. Back then she’d come barreling down the mountain just like that, pigtails flapping and arms waving when we rang the bell for lunch. A skinny little monkey of a girl. Our sweet Rosie. So happy with her life here. And so pleased to have found a friend next door. If only…
The memories stung. She grew up overnight, it seemed. All the lovely, carefree silliness and make-believe stopped as if it had never existed. I hope…I hope that digging back into all of it is the right thing….
“Who was that in the truck, Mum?” Rosemary’s cheeks were flushed and her glossy hair had escaped its ponytail to tumble about her face. “I thought I heard him yelling, so I came down.”
“Let’s go in and get some lunch, Rosie. I’ll tell you all about it.” Elizabeth reached out to pull a clump of cockleburs from the tail of her daughter’s old flannel shirt, suddenly feeling the need to touch this lovely creature that she had birthed, raised, loved, and protected till at last it was time to let her go out on her own. Surely, by most standards, Rosemary had a good life: a rewarding career, the respect of her peers.
But one thing had always nagged at Elizabeth, and that was Rosemary’s apparent avoidance of any emotional involvement. Unlike her sister, who gets involved at the drop of a hat, thought Elizabeth as they climbed the stone steps that led from the front yard to the house. And that worries me too. Are mothers ever completely happy with the way their offspring turn out? God knows, I’m luckier than most with my girls. But I just want them to be happy.
The phrase echoed in her mind. How many times had her own mother used that same excuse as she urged Elizabeth to do something entirely alien to her nature: dancing classes, joining a sorority, studying to be a secretary? At least I try to stay out of their lives and keep my worries to myself. And the girls and I get along far better than my mother and I ever did.
As she heated up some Spanish bean soup from the freezer, Elizabeth told Rosemary about Bib Maitland and his evident animosity toward newcomers.
“As long as he’s hanging around next door, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go over there. I know you came home hoping to do just that, but maybe there are some other things you could do.”
Rosemary’s brow wrinkled and she looked down at her bowl of soup. For a moment she was silent, her spoon prodding at the thick spicy mass of garbanzo beans and sausage. She seemed to be working out some complicated problem in her head, but then her face brightened and she smiled at her mother.
“No worries. I think that the best thing I can do this weekend is find out where the Mullins went and try to get in touch with them. Didn’t you say they still own Mullmore? Maybe we can find out from the tax office or something where they are now.”
Elizabeth considered. “It’s Saturday—the tax place will be closed. But I could give Sallie Kate a call. She’s probably at her office and she may know something about Mullmore. I’m pretty sure I remember hearing her say that she had some buyer it would be perfect for but the owners refused to sell.”
They finished their soup and left the bowls on the table while Elizabeth called her longtime friend. Sallie Kate was a successful realtor who
delighted in matching the right people to the right places. She took pride in walking the lines of the properties she listed, no matter how steep or wooded, and probably knew as much, if not more, about Marshall County property as any native. Elizabeth punched in the number and was delighted when the phone was answered on the second ring.
“Country Manors. Sallie Kate speaking.”
“Hey, Sallie Kate. This is Elizabeth. I’m looking for some information. It’s a long story I won’t get into ’cause I know you’re busy, but it’s about Mullmore—you know, the big place next to us? Do you have any idea who owns it now?”
“Mullmore? Omigod—the realtor’s wet dream. Lord knows I’d love to list it. I approached your ex-neighbor—What’s-his-name Mullins—way back when they moved off, but they weren’t interested in selling. And at that time, the way the housing market was, I doubt they could have gotten what they put into the place. So I didn’t pursue it. But now, with all the deep pockets moving into the county, I’ve had several buyers that wouldn’t think twice about spending that kind of money.”
Sallie Kate chuckled and Elizabeth could hear her tapping at the keys of her computer. “Let me just take a look in my Long Shots and Forlorn Hopes file…I know I’ve got something about Mullmore in there. Honey, sometimes I stay awake at night just fantasizing about what I could do with the kind of commission I’d get from a sale like that…. Oh, yeah, here it is.”
Again, the throaty laugh gurgled in Elizabeth’s ear. “Lord, honey, how could I have forgotten? There was this couple came to me back in ’99, right when lots of folks were hedging their bets in case the Millennium ended Life As We Know It.” The capital letters were clear in Sallie Kate’s tone. “You remember all those poor souls who suddenly decided they had to find a place in the country to ride out whatever might happen. Anyway, there were these rich folks from Delaware and the wife had heard of Mullmore—you know it was written up in one of those fancy house magazines back when it was first built—and these people had found out somehow that it was sitting vacant. Well, you couldn’t get in to see the place, not legally, with those big old gates across the road, so these Delaware people hired someone to fly them over the property in a helicopter and, grown up as it was, they were hot to buy it. I told them it wasn’t listed, but the wife did everything but throw herself down right here on the rug in my office and have a hissy fit, she wanted that place so bad.