She blinked herself into full wakefulness and stared in the direction from which she felt the presence. After a moment she saw Randall Stargill standing at the foot of the bed, looking lost and bewildered. He didn’t seem to see her. He just stared at nothing, with round eyes and a haunted look. He stood stooped and gaunt in a hospital gown as white as his hair, looking around as if he had been sleepwalking and found himself in a strange place far from his bed. In a way, that was what had happened.
Nora leaned forward, clutching the counterpane at her throat. After a moment she said softly, “You’re not dead, Randy. It’s time to go back. Go on now.”
He seemed to hear her words. After one imploring look, the presence faded, and Nora knew that she was alone again in her little house on Ashe Mountain. She turned on the bedside lamp, wide awake now. Randall was in a hospital somewhere, and hadn’t long to live from the look of him, but her thoughts were not about the baking of a pound cake for the family, or even about her own sense of sorrow at losing one more link with her own past. Randall had been trying to tell her something.
She opened the drawer of her nightstand, and took out a well-worn Bible. She thought she knew what Randall’s message to her had been, but she knew that listening to him would cause trouble and sorrow to his family, and perhaps to herself as well. “Take this cup away from me, Lord,” whispered Nora, and she put her hand flat on the cover of the Bible.
Even people who call it a superstition resort to Bible cracking if they have nowhere else to turn, and Nora had never doubted that questions sincerely asked were always answered. Nora’s ancestors in Britain had petitioned their god with just such a ritual, and even the medieval church had used a variant of the custom in the ordination of bishops. Ask and you shall receive.
“What shall I do?” whispered Nora. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened the book, and put her finger down on a verse at random. She had to take out her reading glasses to read the fine print. Her finger rested on two verses of the seventy-ninth psalm: Wherefore should the heathen say, Where is their God? Let him be known among the heathen in our sight by the revenging of the blood of thy servants which is shed.
Let the sighing of the prisoner come before thee; according to the greatness of thy power preserve thou those that are appointed to die.
She laid the book aside, satisfied that she had received her answer, although it was not the one she had hoped for. She must do what Randall required of her, come morning, and if all hell broke loose in Hamelin because of it, then that must be what heaven wanted.
CHAPTER FOUR
She is by nature a quiet soul, and of few words. She told me of her trouble, and the frequent distress and fear in her heart.
—Moravian missionary George Soelle, describing Rebecca Boone
“This is just like every other family gathering I’ve ever been to,” said Lilah Rose, pouring herself another glass of iced tea. “Men in one room, women in the other.”
“Women in the kitchen,” said Kelley, and they both laughed. “Of course, I wouldn’t go in there anyway, not being family, but you two are, so if you want to go on in there with your husbands, please don’t mind me. I need to check on Kayla soon anyhow.”
“Oh, that child went to sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow,” said Lilah. “Don’t you worry about her. And I don’t suppose we’d be too welcome in there, family or no. They’d probably send us back in here to make coffee for them.”
Debba Stargill turned her pale face toward the young mother. “Aren’t you afraid to leave the little thing alone up there?”
“Kayla? Oh, she can sleep through anything,” said Kelley. “When she was two, there was a neon sign that used to flash on the bedroom window, and trucks went by all night on the highway, so she learned not to be fussy about where she slept. As long as she has her stuffed camel, she’s all right. I just look in on her to make sure she doesn’t kick the covers off.”
Debba shivered. “I don’t know if I can sleep in this house,” she whispered. “I hope we don’t have to stay long.”
“It looks okay to me,” said Kelley. “It could use a good cleaning, and a lick of paint here and there, but the woodwork is beautiful. I want to walk around outside tomorrow, and look at the mountains.”
“I heard they released wolves into the mountains somewhere around here,” said Debba.
“Oh, wolves never hurt anybody,” said Lilah, who had no patience with vapory women. “They weren’t timber wolves, anyhow. They’re some little doggy kind of wolf that used to live up here before people trapped them all to death. I read about it in one of the park guides I found at a rest stop. It says they only released a dozen or so, and they’re so shy you’d be lucky to ever catch a glimpse of one. I think they have little collars on to make sure that people don’t hurt them. Sure is a far cry from olden times, isn’t it? Now we have to protect the wolves from the people. The way I see it, you’re a lot safer here than you would be back in Nashville.”
Kelley smiled. “There sure are some wolves in Nashville, all right. I dated a few of them.” She added hastily, “But Charles Martin isn’t one of them!”
“Well, there are certainly wild bears out in these woods,” said Debba. “And wasps, and poison ivy, and maybe moonshiners, for all I know. People do get killed in the forest these days, I don’t care what century it is. Just don’t let your little girl stray too far from the house.”
“She’ll be fine,” said Lilah. “I’ll ask Rudy to keep an eye on her.”
“Who is Rudy?” asked Kelley, wondering if there was an extra brother Charles Martin had neglected to mention.
“Why, Rudy is my guardian angel,” said Lilah. “Of course, I just call him Sir.” She smiled modestly as the two women stared at her. People always did seem to expect an explanation when she mentioned Rudy. But this time was the exception. Debba and Kelley looked at each other, and then turned away.
“I have to go unpack,” said Debba softly, and she hurried from the kitchen before anyone could reply.
Kelley stood up, but she was smiling. “And I have to go check on Kayla, but, hey, you thank your angel for me, okay? I’d be real glad to know that he’s looking out for her.” One thing about being an item with a country music star: she had sure gotten used to being around strange people. After a while they started to seem just like everybody else.
* * *
In the dimly lit parlor, Clayt Stargill was hunched under the circle of light of the table lamp, reading the sheaf of yellow lined paper to his older brothers. “All I can figure is, he seems to have gone all traditional in his old age,” he told them.
“He’s lost his reason,” said Robert Lee. Even though the television was not turned on, he sat facing it squarely, as was his custom at home. “We didn’t do any of this when Mother passed away. She had a proper burial in a new metal casket from Graybeal’s, and there was none of this foolishness about salt and covered mirrors. It’s pagan is what it is.”
“I think a man is entitled to face death on his own terms,” said Garrett.
“It could have been worse,” said Charles Martin, smiling. He was cradling the Martin in his lap, occasionally strumming a soft chord as he listened to his brothers. “Daddy once said he wanted me to get Johnny Cash to sing ‘Peace in the Valley’ at his funeral. Uh, that’s not in there, is it?”
Clayt grinned. “Wish it was, Charlie, but the answer is no. Guess you’ll get to provide the music yourself, with Grandmaw’s old guitar, there. He wants an old hymn that he calls ‘Just Beyond the Eastern Gate.’ Ever heard of it?”
Charles Martin shrugged. “I can ask around.”
“You might try some of the old-timers around here. I’ve read Daddy’s list of instructions three times now, and, aside from that song, he doesn’t have much to say about the service itself. He picks out odd little things that he wants done, and he mentions them as he thought of them, I guess. In no particular order. Take this one here—a scripture cake. Anybody know what a script
ure cake is?”
They shook their heads. “We don’t cook,” said Robert Lee.
“Well, maybe one of the—uh—wives will know.” Clayt glanced at Charles Martin as he hesitated over the word “wives,” but Charles Martin had not seemed to notice his awkwardness. “We can ask them tomorrow, I guess. I think they’re all upstairs.”
“What about Dovey, Clayt?” asked Garrett. “Are you two friends again? You said she made the tuna fish. Seems like she knows her way around a kitchen and is willing to put herself out for you.”
Clayt reddened and looked back at the papers in his hand. “Dovey was just being neighborly, that’s all. Let’s get back to the instructions here. Like I said, Daddy isn’t much on choreographing his own funeral, but he’s most particular about the coffin. Listen to this: I have got some seasoned rosewood laid by in the barn loft, and it would suit as the wood for a proper coffin. I want you boys to use the old woodshop in the back of the barn and work together to build me a proper casket. Do it right, boys. I want brass handles, dovetailed joins, and the best woodcraft you can manage among you. I have taught you all the craft of woodworking, and it is not a skill you lose so I expect you can do a fine job if you set your mind to it and take pains with your work. I have a mind to leave this world in a homemade coffin.” Clayt broke off. “Well, he goes on like that for a bit more. Rambling-like.”
“It would take weeks to build a hand-finished casket of rosewood!” said Robert Lee. “Where does he think we’ll find the time to do that? I don’t know about you boys, but I have a responsible position in Cincinnati. I can’t drop everything while I sit up here on a mountain whittling.”
“What kind of tools are we supposed to use?” asked Charles Martin, looking at his manicured hands. “I don’t know that I want to be around band saws and such. If anything happens to these hands of mine, I lose my whole career. Can’t pick a guitar with your elbow.”
“I think we could do it in a week,” said Garrett. “It’s just a big box. Why don’t we look at the wood tomorrow, and see if it’s any good, and if the tools are still in usable condition. Then we can decide what to do next.”
“We may not even need a coffin,” said Clayt. “He’s a tough old man, Daddy is. He may pull through.”
His brothers frowned at him.
“Well, we will certainly pray that he recovers,” said Robert Lee, “but that eventuality will only postpone the inevitable. Someday we are going to have to come to terms with Daddy’s last requests, be it now or later. There’s something else we have to consider, too. Clayt, what does he say about the farm?”
“What about the farm?”
“Well—who gets it? Or how is it to be divided up among us?”
“There’s nothing in here about that,” said Clayt, handing him the sheaf of papers. “I guess he’s leaving it up to us.”
“He probably didn’t think it was worth much,” said Garrett. “I remember Grandmommy saying once that land up here used to go for fifty dollars an acre. It’s too steep to be much good for farming.”
“It’s worth a lot more than that now,” Robert Lee said. “People don’t buy land anymore. They buy views. And this farm certainly has plenty of scenic vistas. Rich people put vacation homes in high places like this. Why, Highlands, North Carolina, is a veritable nest of millionaires, living on land just as steep as this farm, and they’re willing to pay a fortune for the acreage. A for-tune.”
“I could ask around in Nashville,” said Charles Martin. “Maybe somebody’s looking for a summer place, though they mostly like to stay within driving distance of Nashville. Vince and Reba probably wouldn’t be interested, being from Oklahoma. They like wide open spaces, and these woody hills might make them nervous, but I could check with Randy. This strikes me as his kind of place.”
“Just hold on,” said Clayt. “Daddy isn’t even cold yet. It’s a little too early to be divvying up the property, don’t you think? Besides, you all seem to take it as a foregone conclusion that we’ll sell out.”
“We’re not farmers, Clayt,” said Garrett. “None of us is going to chuck in a promising career to come home and tend cornfields on a hardscrabble farm. Maybe you would—until you found out what hard work it is being a farmer. But the rest of us can out-vote you.”
“Clayt’s right, though,” said Charles Martin, yawning. “Daddy is still hanging in there, so it’s too early to talk about this—and too late. Must be nearly midnight. I, for one, am wore out. Let’s get some sleep and squabble tomorrow.”
* * *
Lilah was alone in the corner bedroom, too sleepy to read, but not yet ready to turn out the light. Robert hadn’t come upstairs yet.
The room still had the musty smell of a place that had been closed and unheated for many months, but it was newly swept, and the bed linens were fraying with age, but they were clean. She felt no sense of menace about the room. Like the rest of the house it seemed quite empty of feeling. The faded roses on the wallpaper, the rag rug on the old pine floor, and the simple oak dresser and nightstand were neither cozy nor frightening to her. Not much living has gone on here, Lilah thought. I wonder whose room this was.
She and Robert were next door to Garrett and Debba. At the top of the stairs was a square hallway, and leading off from it left and right were two narrow passageways to the bedrooms. Down the right-hand passage, Charles Martin and Kelley occupied the room next to the cupboardlike bedroom that was little Kayla’s. It was barely big enough for the single bed, its only furnishing. Anyone remodeling the house would convert that cubbyhole into a bathroom for the adjoining bedroom. Lilah supposed that people would talk about Charles Martin and Kelley staying together in the same room, what with them not being married and all, and Robert Lee would likely be high on the list of complainers, but she thought that everyone would ignore him. They usually did. She herself didn’t plan to object, and Rudy the angel was, as ever, unconcerned with other people’s doings, so that was all right. Charles Martin’s sleeping arrangements were none of her business, and she figured that folks ought to know what show business people were like by now and not be shocked by a little thing like the lack of a marriage license. Besides, they all had enough to worry about with poor Daddy Stargill on his last legs, and all the business about the property to see to, without worrying about two grown people sleeping together without having the necessary paperwork.
She had been married to Robert Lee now for thirty years and then some, and she didn’t honestly feel that their union was all that much more sanctified than that of Charles and his redhead. People either loved each other or they didn’t, and you couldn’t legislate feelings, though sometimes she surely did wish you could.
Rudy was no help on that score, either. He declined to discuss Robert Lee or to listen to Lilah’s thoughts on the matter, even when she had tried, a time or two, to disguise them as prayers. Rudy once said, “What man has joined together, let no god put asunder,” and that had been his final word on the subject. Rudy wasn’t interested in Robert Lee, or in politics, wars, air pollution, or much of anything as far as Lilah could tell. Maybe there were other angels handling those things. Rudy’s mission was Lilah, and he was never tempted to stray from that purpose. “Just don’t get all depressed on me, Lilah child,” he would often tell her. “Because despair is a sin. And, let me tell you, it’s just as boring as ditch water to watch, too, honey.”
So she stayed busy and tried to be a good person, and she made up her mind to take care of her husband, in case he didn’t have an angel of his own. Robert Lee was a good man, and there had been a time when he was young that he had been happier—pleased to have a steady job in the big city, though he couldn’t actually bring himself to live there. So they had settled in Batavia, not far from Hillbilly Highway, as the Cincinnatians called Rt. 32, on account of so many mountain people traveled back and forth that way, needing the work in the city, but wishing every minute that they could go home to the mountains. Robert Lee didn’t go home much, especially aft
er he met her at the church mixer and they started courting serious. He seemed to quit the mountains cold turkey, like someone hooked on a killing drug, and if he ever longed for home in the springtime, when the Tennessee hills were ablaze with white flowers while Cincinnati was still gray with asphalt and steel, he didn’t let on. He had told her once that living in the mountains was living poor, and Robert Lee was flat out determined to outrun, outwork, and outlive poor.
He had been so proud of their first new car and their mortgaged-to-the-rain-gutters brick house with carport. He wasn’t a handsome man, even at twenty-four, but he had been kind, in a hang-back sort of way, as if he just expected people to take against him right off the bat. Not used to a city full of strangers, Lilah thought back then. He’ll come around. But being in car sales hadn’t helped his people-shyness any. Years of contempt from suspicious customers had driven him so deep inside himself that not even Lilah could reach him any more. Now he was past fifty, the beginning of knowing that a lot of your dreams are just flat never coming true, and the bitterness of that, coupled with his fear that being poor would catch up with him in his old age, in spite of all his efforts to outdistance it, had just curdled any joy or sorrow he might have felt about anything. He would not be comforted. All Lilah could do was love him as best she could. For Robert, it was not enough, but it seemed to be all he could expect to receive in this world of tribulation.
She knelt on the cold oak floor beside the bed and began her nightly devotions, a ritual she kept unchanged since childhood, beginning: “Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless the bed I lie upon. Four posters round my bed; four angels round my head…” It was the rote prayer of her Baptist girlhood, but she never really felt that she was praying unless she began with those hastily spoken syllables. She would pray for guidance for Robert Lee. Rudy always said that worrying was spinning your wheels in neutral, but praying was third gear.
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