Art's Blood

by Vicki Lane

  Long strings of the fat, yellowy-green beans—“shucky beans” or “leather britches” they were called— festooned the backs of most of the chairs, hung to dry— the oldest way of preserving beans. Doubtless, Birdie had already canned dozens of quarts of beans, but old ways die hard and she always strung and dried at least one picking of her cornfield beans.

  “Do you have another needle, Miss Birdie?” Before Birdie could answer, Elizabeth saw the plump red pincushion and the ball of thin string (saved, she knew, from innumerable bags of chicken feed). “I’ll fix some too.”

  “Ay law, honey, you don’t need to do that,” Miss Birdie fussed as Elizabeth began to thread the big needle. “I reckon you’ve put you up a world of beans by now.” The bright eyes peered shrewdly at Elizabeth.

  “Probably not as many as you, Miss Birdie.” Elizabeth leaned down and took a handful of beans from the basket there between them. “You know I take the lazy way and freeze most of mine— except for a run or two of dilly beans.”

  Miss Birdie shook her head. “Now I wonder why is hit all the new folks pick their beans afore they fill out? Hit don’t make sense to eat them afore they have some nourishment to them. They have them little beans up to the store, not as big as a pencil. I’d not pay money for somethin’ like that, would you?”

  Elizabeth smiled. She had grown up eating green beans— fat, well-developed green beans— strung and snapped, then cooked with fatback till they were of a melting tenderness. She liked them that way. But at some point she had also become aware of the delectable taste of thin baby beans, barely steamed and still slightly crisp.

  “I don’t know, Miss Birdie. Different people like different things.”

  The little woman snorted and continued stringing. “What’s that nephew of yourn up to these days? Seems like I see him goin’ down the road long about this time most ever evenin’. Reckon he must be courtin’ somewheres.” She favored Elizabeth with another long look. “Sometimes he don’t come back till mornin’.”

  Elizabeth considered her answer carefully. “Ben’s helping a friend in Asheville move into a new place; that’s all I know. But speaking of going down the road, Miss Birdie, remember that black car we were talking about last time I was here? Have you seen it around anymore?”

  “He ain’t come around this week, far as I know.” The satisfaction was evident in Miss Birdie’s voice. “You know, hit purely worried the life out of me, seein’ that car loaferin’ up and down the branch all the time and me without no idea who hit was. No, I ain’t seen him since…now let me think…hit were last Friday. I was takin’ me a little walk down the road— you know the doctor says I need to walk for a half an hour ever day— and I seen that black car parked up alongside the road just beyond you unses mailbox. Well, thinks I, I’ll just walk on down there and see who can that be.

  “Now, Lizzie Beth, you know I don’t git around as good as I used to, but I was hobblin’ along at a right good clip when here comes this big white car I ain’t never seen afore. Well, lo and behold, Mr. White Car pulls up alongside of Mr. Black Car. I see Black Car’s winder go down and figger them two must be talkin’ to one another. And hit weren’t but a short time and Black Car takes off comin’ back this-a-way and White Car goes on around the mountain.

  “So I come on back and set here on the porch. Afore too long, hit might have been a half hour or so, here comes White Car, hightailin’ hit fer the bridge. And hit weren’t so very long atter that I seen you in yore vehicle and Ben in his truck come home in a big hurry. Ay law, I thinks, what in the world? Lizzie Beth, honey, you went by so fast you didn’t even throw up yore hand. And then, hit weren’t hardly an hour later, I was in the house, but I was nigh the winder and I seen you and Ben and that little black-haired girl goin’ back out in your car.”

  Miss Birdie took another handful of beans from the basket. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I tell you what’s the truth, Lizzie Beth, I’m thinkin’ we’re gonna have to have us a stoplight on Ridley Branch, much traffic as we’re havin’.”

  Pup, Miss Birdie’s black-and-white mongrel, came slinking up the porch steps. Avoiding Birdie’s disapproving eye, he sidled up to Elizabeth and insinuated his nose into the midst of the beans in her lap. “Pup, you git on off this porch.” Miss Birdie leaned over and took an ineffectual swipe at her dog. “What do you mean puttin’ that wet nose all over my beans?”

  The dog’s head drooped and he inched his way toward the steps, pausing to look reproachfully at Miss Birdie. “Oh, all right, go lay down on yore bed.” The old woman’s fierce expression softened as she watched the dog’s head lift and his feathery tail swing ecstatically back and forth. He scuttled to a piece of carpet in the corner of the porch, circled twice, and lay down, head resting on his forepaws and eyes fixed resolutely on Miss Birdie.

  “Law, I’m bad to spoil that dog.” Birdie draped her finished string of beans on the back of a nearby chair. “When Luther was alive, he’d not let a dog on the porch. But now I’m by myself…well, I think a dog can be right good company, don’t you? They got more sense than a body might think. Look how he watches— I believe he understands near about ever word I say.”

  “I believe he does.” Elizabeth smiled fondly at her little neighbor. “I’m glad you have him. Is he much of a watchdog?”

  Miss Birdie laughed. “Watch is about all he’ll do. Dor’thy was sayin’ as how with all these strange cars back and forth on the branch I orter have me a dog that barks.” She rethreaded her needle and impaled a bean. “But I sleep light and I got me a shotgun by the bed.”

  The basket was empty now and Elizabeth tied off her string and put it with the others. “Miss Birdie, what did that white car look like— old, new—”

  “Hit was kindly like yore jeep but a sight bigger— one of them SUBs they’s always talkin’ about. Looked brand new.”

  Trying not to sound too excited, Elizabeth asked, “When you were walking down the road, did you happen to notice the license plate on the white car?”

  Birdie frowned. “I was namin’ to see hit but I never did git close enough to make hit out. My eyes ain’t sharp as they use to be. Hit were a North Carolina plate; I could see that much. But the numbers was just a blur.”

  Elizabeth helped Miss Birdie to carry the strings of beans into the back bedroom where they would be hung to dry. The quilts for the show at the library were still on the bed, and she paused to look at the crazy quilt more closely.

  “I left them quilts out to git rid of that musty smell,” Birdie explained. “Why don’t you go on and take ’em with you?”

  “I think I will, if you don’t care. I need to sew sleeves on the back so we can hang them up. And maybe I’ll take pictures and use the pictures on a flyer for the show.” Once again Elizabeth admired the beautiful embroidered sunflower that topped the tiny embroidered letters spelling out the name Tildy Rector.

  Tildy? She looked again at the straggling blue daisy with the crooked letters: FANCHON TEAGUE.Wait a minute. That’s what was bothering me before. Phillip’s aunt said— “Miss Birdie, I had heard that it was Fanchon who was so good at needlework, not Tildy. But—”

  Birdie began to fold the quilts. “No, honey, hit was Tildy done all the purty work, not Fanchon. Law, seems like there was somethin’ I was namin’ to tell you, had to do with these quilts. Dor’thy was over the other day and she was a-lookin’ at ’em— now what was it she done told me?” Birdie stopped in midfold, clutching the crazy quilt to her chest. “Ay law, I got a good forgetter. Reckon hit’s that Old Timer’s disease workin’ on me.” Her eyes twinkled. “Although the young uns is just as bad. Look a-here what I found down behind my couch the other day.”

  Miss Birdie went to the bureau, which seemed to be the repository for a year’s worth of the local newspapers, ancient shape-note hymnals, and a stack of well-thumbed yellow Old Farmer’s Almanacs. A spiral-bound artist’s sketch pad balanced incongruously atop the pile.

  “That little black-hair
ed girl— Kylie or whatever her name is— she left her drawin’ book here.” Birdie held out the pad to Elizabeth. “She come down here— hit was way back in the cold weather— and she wanted to know could she draw my picture whiles I was settin’ and watchin’ my stories. She had her two or three of these here drawin’ books with her and I reckon this one slipped off between the back of the couch and the wall. I found hit just the other day when I was after a mouse.”

  Birdie gave Elizabeth a sly look. “If you don’t care, why don’t you take hit along with you.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Reckon Ben could give hit back to that little girl— next time he’s in Asheville…a-helpin’ that friend.”

  * * *

  Miss Birdie, in simpler times you would have been burned for a witch. Elizabeth smiled as she loaded the quilts into her truck. Her little neighbor’s unfailing perspicacity was a constant source of amazement. She always knows what’s going on, just by sitting on her porch and paying attention…. But if only she’d gotten close enough to read the license plate on the white car….

  * * *

  At home, Elizabeth put the quilts on the steps up to her sewing room. It would be necessary to hand stitch hanging sleeves on each of them for the show. One more job. She opened out the crazy quilt to look once more at the flowers done by Tildy and Fanchon. I’m sure Aunt Omie said that Fanchon was the one who made the animal quilt. She even called it the Fanchon quilt. She looked again at the blue daisy and shook her head. And that one was made in…I think it was ’34. This one says ’31. Well, either Fanchon suddenly got a lot better or…maybe Aunt Omie just got it mixed up.

  Putting the puzzle of the quilts aside, she changed her go-to-town clothes for a faded pair of jeans and a clean but permanently stained T-shirt, then went to the kitchen to see to the dogs’ dinners. A flurry of high-pitched barking from the front porch greeted the rattle of dog chow into the steel bowls.

  “Okay, you guys.” Elizabeth came out to the porch and dealt out the three bowls of dry kibble, each topped with a little canned dog food. Molly’s was first and the elegant red hound sniffed at the dish with aristocratic hauteur before deigning to taste it. James, the barker, danced about on his stubby little legs as Elizabeth slid his dish under a low table where only he could reach it. Ursa, as usual, sprawled disinterestedly on the worn wooden planks of the porch. When Elizabeth put the third bowl in front of her, Ursa yawned deeply, her long pink tongue curling out like an anteater’s. Having thus established her indifference to the proffered cuisine, she lowered her head to the bowl and ate every morsel while still lying down.

  Back in the kitchen, Elizabeth opened the refrigerator and considered. Normally, Ben ate dinner with her on Thursday nights. They used this time to discuss the business of the farm and to make plans for the coming week. But yesterday her nephew had mentioned offhandedly that he would be in Asheville tonight. Just as well— she wouldn’t bother cooking— a big salad would be fine.

  Three lettuces— romaine, chartreuse buttercrunch, and deep red merlot— went into the blue pottery bowl, accompanied by a few judicious sprigs of arugula and a generous amount of feathery dill weed. Crisp sweet cucumber slices, thin purple onion slivers, a handful of little grape tomatoes, sweet red pepper, and big chunks of tandoori chicken from last night’s dinner were next, followed by crumbled goat feta. A dollop of homemade vinaigrette and her dinner was ready.

  The mail was on the dining table and Elizabeth sorted through it as she ate— bills, junk, a brochure for a new magazine dedicated to the country woman. In its pages, artistically posed photos showed attractive young women in faded overalls or long billowing skirts, cradling armloads of dewy flowers or baskets piled high with sumptuous assortments of perfect vegetables. In one picture, an ethereal-looking blonde in a swirl of lavender skirt, her hair a voluptuous tangle of curls, sat in a meadow of wildflowers and reached languidly for the udder of the immaculate Jersey cow cropping daisies at her side. An antique blue and white china pitcher in the would-be milkmaid’s other hand completed the charming rural scene.

  “Right!” Elizabeth said and tossed the folder into the pile of junk mail. “In the first place, she’s on the wrong side of the cow for milking; in the second place…Oh, forget it, Elizabeth. Let them have their fantasies.” She smiled grimly, remembering her own days of keeping a milk cow— the mucky barn floor; the udder, often manure-crusted, that had to be washed with warm water before milking; the cow, almost always emptying her bladder copiously halfway through the milking. She smiled again, less grimly. It had still been fun. But it had been no bed of daisies.

  The sketch pad that Kyra had left at Miss Birdie’s lay there with the mail. Idly curious, Elizabeth began to leaf through it as she ate her salad. There were a number of drawings of Boz and Aidan, all beautifully executed. Why would someone with this kind of talent waste her time with something like that…that Strike on Box thing? Elizabeth sighed and studied the page before her. Boz was shown seated on a wooden chair, left ankle resting on his right knee, a sardonic smile on his face, which was turned toward the viewer. His shirt and jeans were indicated by sketchy strokes but the cowboy boots were drawn in careful detail.

  The next page was a surprise. The artist had done full justice to the strong legs and buttocks of the young man who sprawled naked on what seemed to be the rumpled sheets of an unmade bed and had paid special attention to the musculature of the back. The long hair, clubbed in a ponytail, was no more than a few hasty lines, and the face, seen in partial profile, was merely hinted at, but no matter— it was definitely Ben.

  “Well.” Elizabeth stared at the page. Well, what, Elizabeth? You knew he was interested in her. And just because he posed nude for her doesn’t mean diddly— this is a different generation, as Laurel is fond of reminding you.

  She studied the picture again— it’s really good— what a talent she has. But, O lord— Ben!

  A meticulously rendered picture of Miss Birdie, stretched out in her old recliner, was next.

  The following page showed three quick studies of Pup. In one the dog was curled in a ball on his bed; in another he sat obediently, ears alert and head cocked, evidently waiting for a treat. The last sketch showed the mongrel resting his muzzle on Birdie’s comfortable lap. Just her housedress, legs, and worn slippers could be seen, but there was no question— it could have been no one but Birdie.

  Elizabeth turned back to the beginning of the sketchbook, captivated by the skill of the drawings. There were many rapidly executed studies of familiar barns and houses, most done in wintry surroundings. One page was devoted to sketches of cows, another to a series of male feet. There was a lovely pen-and-ink drawing of Lily Gordon that captured her timeless aristocratic beauty while celebrating every wrinkle and line of her aged face. And there was a similar drawing, left incomplete, of a stolid-looking woman with fierce black eyes and a fringe of dark hair cut unbecomingly short above thick black eyebrows. Her severe expression was tempered by the hint of a smile playing about her thin lips.

  Who is that? She looks familiar but… Elizabeth stared at the picture, trying to remember where she had seen this stern visage. No, it wasn’t coming to her. Probably just reminded her of someone.

  One page in particular captured Elizabeth’s attention. It was done in pencil and incorporated large abstract forms and small, precisely drawn, seemingly unrelated images. She frowned as she puzzled over the picture— a series of arches, each containing an image: drooping white flowers, a dark rose with a bird of some sort flying up and out of it, and a pair of cowboy boots were the recognizable forms, placed seemingly at random among many abstract shapes. At the bottom were three words: RESURGAM, THE PHOENIX, and ENTELECHY. This last word was underlined three times.

  FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— FIFTH ENTRY

  During my checkup at Prentice’s office today— everything as usual, no need to adjust the digoxin— I became absurdly annoyed when the physician’s assistant— the callow young man who performed the p
reliminaries of temperature, blood pressure, etc.— addressed me as “young lady” and uttered that fatuous inanity, “ninety years young”! Do you suppose, I asked him with all the haughtiness I could muster, that I am senile enough to be flattered by being called a young lady? My name is Mrs. Gordon.

  Thank God that so far I have escaped many of the indignities of old age— I have seen them— the poor creatures whose minds have deserted them— they wander the halls of their nursing homes, drooling and clutching their pathetic stuffed animals. My money protects me from the worst, even if my mind were to go. I have left instructions.

  There can be dignity in age, but only if age is not denied. I see so many pathetic creatures with their masklike faces and dyed hair, their absurdly youthful clothing. Some do it better than others, no doubt, but in the end, most simply look foolish. But I’m too young for gray hair, the forty-year-old wails, and promptly repairs to the beauty salon. And once the telltale gray is gone, will the time ever come for her to admit that now she’s old enough?

  The Goodweather woman’s hair is graying, silver streaks in that dark braid and white at the temples. Around her eyes are the wrinkles of someone who is out of doors a great deal— or someone who laughs often. Probably both. I liked Elizabeth Goodweather.

  Who was it that said the tragedy of all women is that their bodies age while their minds remain young? I think back to the young Lily Cabot, remembering the welter of feelings that assailed her that first summer at the Center. No, I am not the same, nor would I be. But still, the memory is haunting— a bittersweet pleasure to be savored one last time.

  * * *

  May in the mountains— the weather had warmed from the unseasonable cold of my April arrival. A song sparrow sat in the apple tree outside my window and trilled aria upon aria to lure a mate, towhees whistled their “Drink your teeeea,” and from the woods came the burbling gobble of wild turkeys and the drumming of ruffed grouse. All the trees were clad in lush new green, and Fanchon appeared at the kitchen door with a shy smile and a basket of tiny fragrant wild strawberries— for Miss Lily, special, she had said.