The Rosewood Casket

by Sharyn McCrumb

  By the time the forest was gaudy with white and purple blossoms, and gilded with forsythia, he would have prospective buyers in his Jeep Cherokee, and newly acquired mountain land with which to tempt them. The riot of color lasted a few weeks at best, but his anticipation of the coming spring had nothing to do with his own pleasure at the sight of the returning greenery. He had long since ceased to appreciate the splendor of a mountain April. It seemed to Frank that each flower had a secondhand, ticking away the opportunities for new transactions, better deals, a return on his investment. A year of planning could be blighted by one late frost. Oh, people still bought property throughout the late spring and even into the fall, when moist weather and a cold snap could give him rainbow ridges of autumn leaves, and a second chance at the impulse buyers. But at no other season were sales so easy as they were in those first glorious days of spring. He must prepare now, while the hillsides were still drab, before even the landowners themselves remembered what a treasure the mountains could become.

  He had intended to pay a premature condolence call on the Stargills, but that could wait. By the road from Hamelin, he would reach the Stallard farm first, and his business there was more pressing.

  The Stallard place was old: a two-story white frame house with a covered porch, and old maple trees shading the front yard. The house was set near the creek, at nearly the lowest point on the property, while on a distant treeless hill, the ruins of the burned barn dominated the landscape. “One thing I could never figure out,” he would tell his clients, “is why the old-timers who built these farms always gave the cows the best view.” It probably had to do with sheltering the main dwelling from the elements, and with the proximity of roads and a water supply, but it did look strange to modern eyes to see that the building with the commanding view was the cow barn, set up in solitary splendor, overlooking all creation.

  The house looked as if it could last another century, although it could use a coat of paint and a new roof, but Frank Whitescarver was not concerned about that. The house would have to go. Perhaps three more modest-sized units could be fitted into its two-acre grounds. He might be able to save the maple trees.

  He turned off the main road, and into the winding dirt track that ended at the Stallard homeplace. As the Jeep crested a small rise in the road, he saw a dark-haired woman kneeling in the grass near one of the unpainted outbuildings. Thinking at first that she was injured, Frank stopped in the middle of the dirt track, and ran to her side. “Miss Stallard, is it?” he said. “What’s happened?”

  Dovey Stallard, her jeans and flannel shirt streaked with blood, held up a handful of iridescent feathers. “The bastards!” she said, wiping her eyes against the sleeve of her shirt. Her hair was bunched into a knot at the nape of her neck, and rivulets of tear-streaked dirt creased each cheek. Frank thought she might clean up right pretty, but it was hard to tell in her current state of dishevelment. She held the bunch of feathers practically under his nose and shook them.

  “Are you all right?” asked Frank, still unable to make sense of the scene.

  She stood up, still holding the blood-stained clump of feathers. “That,” she said, “is all that is left of a prize Majorca rooster.”

  Frank blinked. “Well … that is a pitiful shame,” he said at last. “He must have been a beauty in life, with that colorful hank of plumage. Did somebody shoot him by mistake?”

  “He wasn’t shot. Look at him. There’s nothing left but a few bones and feathers.” Her voice was still shaky, but her cheeks were dry.

  “A fox, then? Or a coyote? I’ve heard there’s been some seen around these parts lately.”

  Dovey Stallard shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or it could have been a hawk. I don’t know. I ought to ask Clayt. He may not know much else, but he’s an expert on wild things.” She glanced back at the chicken run where chickens of all sizes and colors milled around, pecking desultorily in the dirt, oblivious to the death in their midst.

  “It’s a terrible shame, a pretty rooster like that,” said Frank, shaking his head. He wondered who Clayt was. “Sometimes I think the job of farming would try the patience of Job. So many things can go wrong.”

  Dovey set the feathers down, and looked closely at the stranger in the business suit and tasseled loafers. Her eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry to be taking on so,” she said. “Was there something you wanted?”

  Frank Whitescarver tried his self-deprecating smile. “You’d be J. Z.’s daughter, wouldn’t you? Is it Miss Stallard, still?” She was thirty-five if she was a day, and not all that bad to look at. Stubborn streak, though. He could tell by the set of her jaw. Still, a young man besotted by a girl like her might overlook that telltale sign of temper, and marry her. He’d live to regret it, though.

  “That’s right,” she said evenly. “I’m Dovey Stallard. And this is my dad’s place. Just who are you?”

  He reached into his coat pocket and fished out an embossed business card. “Frank Whitescarver. Realty and Construction. I know your daddy, of course. Fine member of the community.” He probably did know J. Z. Stallard from somewhere: Ruritans, civic meetings, American Legion functions. Surely in a county as small as Wake their paths had crossed.

  “Uh-huh.” Dovey studied the card and offered to hand it back, leaving a thumbprint of dirt and rooster blood just over the word Realty, beneath Frank’s name.

  “No, you hang on to that one,” said Frank, backing away. Nothing would induce him to put that gore-streaked card into his dry-clean–only pocket. “I was hoping I might see your dad. Is he around?”

  “Somewheres,” said Dovey indifferently. “If you’ve come about the barn, you’re wasting your time, ’cause we’re not taking bids on rebuilding that yet.”

  Frank bit back the words, “I don’t do barns.” He was nettled that she had not heard of him, but years of experience in dealing with surly mountain folk kept him calm and smiling. “Why don’t we go look for him?” he suggested. “Maybe he saw what killed your chicken there.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Dovey. “I have to go get cleaned up, and make a phone call. You’re wasting your time, though.”

  She hurried toward the back door without a backward glance, and Frank waved her away, still smiling, and went off in search of her father. In truth, he was in no hurry to discover the whereabouts of J. Z. Stallard, because looking for him was the perfect excuse to look over the land. He wished he hadn’t worn his good clothes for a tramp through the pastures, but it couldn’t be helped. Time was short.

  Good trees. Nice slopes. Decent soil. With a practiced eye, Frank Whitescarver gauged the steepness of the hills in the pastures, the winter flood plain of the creek, and the views from each prospective home site. He liked what he saw. As a dirt farm in the Tennessee mountains, this place was a ticket to starvation, but as a retirement community for the Knoxville country club set, it was a gold mine.

  He had climbed the hill to the charred remains of the barn, and was admiring the view across a band of blue misted hills, when a quiet voice from behind him said, “Was there something you wanted?”

  Frank turned, knowing that he had a split second to figure out what tack to take with his opponent, and to assume the expression that best fit the part. He saw a lean, silver-haired man wearing khaki work pants and a canvas vest over a sweatshirt. The man wasn’t armed, but he was watching Frank with a wary expression that was more fear than anger at a trespasser. Frank decided that the poor fellow needed an ally, someone to listen to his troubles.

  “Frank Whitescarver,” he said, sticking out his hand, and shaking Stallard’s vigorously. “Beautiful place up here.” He nodded toward the ruins of the barn, and said, “I hate to see a fine old building go like that. They just don’t build them like that anymore.”

  “They probably could if you could afford to pay the price,” said Stallard. “Which I can’t, right now.”

  “No, farming sure isn’t cheap, is it? No wonder we have all these fellows with day jobs in Johnson
City farming on weekends. It’s the only hedge against the bad luck that Mother Nature seems to dish out pretty regularly. If it’s not a May frost or a forest fire, it’s a spring flood or a cattle virus, isn’t it?”

  “Seems that way,” said Stallard. “You do any farming yourself?”

  Frank shook his head, hoping to imply regret rather than relief. “Me? No-oo. Never had the knack for it, I guess. A couple of rows of tomato plants is about all I run to, and I’m lucky to get my money back in tomatoes, even then. What about you? You ever want to do anything else?”

  Stallard considered it. “Maybe when I was young,” he said. “Used to think about being a pilot. All little boys are the same, I guess.”

  “What about now? Ever wish you could just walk away, and not have to worry about another flood or frost, a gypsy moth swarm. Long as you live?”

  J. Z. Stallard studied the man carefully. “Why do you ask?” he said. “You working up to trying to buy this farm?”

  “Well, the fact is that I am, Mr. Stallard. And I hope you’ll take it in the spirit it’s intended, as one neighbor trying to do a good turn to another.” He rummaged in his coat pocket for another business card. “Frank Whitescarver. Realty and Construction.”

  Stallard stared at the card without commenting, so Frank went on talking. “Realty. The printers over in Johnson City made a mistake once and did me a thousand cards that said Reality. They replaced them at no charge, of course, but that error of theirs set me to thinking. Maybe reality is a good name for the land business. I try to find honest solutions for people needing a place to call home—and for people needing to get out from under a hundred or so acres that’s burying them while they’re still alive. Land can be a burden as well as a blessing, Mr. Stallard. That’s reality.”

  “Stallards have always farmed this place.”

  Frank Whitescarver shook his head, smiling gently. “Oh, don’t you believe it, J. Z. That’s how you get a hundred acres on your back, weighing you down to where you can’t stand up. Your family may have been here five, six generations, but before that they were in Ireland somewhere, likely as not, and probably thought their little piece of land back there was the center of the world, too. We’re newcomers here by historical standards. The Indians had these mountains before we did, and they sold them to us, so don’t feel that you owe your ancestors anything by staying on a dying farm that’s taking you with it. Times change, J. Z.”

  “Times do. People don’t, so easy.” Stallard wasn’t looking at him. He was looking out over the valley, toward the white house under the maples and the little cluster of tombstones on an adjoining hill.

  “Let’s be honest about this. You’re not getting any younger, and farming is no life for your daughter—a single woman alone. You’ve had a run of bad luck, and the tax man is breathing down your neck. I’m only offering you a way out. Three hundred dollars an acre. Cash.”

  J. Z. Stallard didn’t like strangers much, and because of his dislike, he was always careful to be absolutely courteous to them at all times, because quarrels are a form of intimacy. He waited a few moments, as if to consider Whitescarver’s offer. Finally—with infinite courtesy—he said, “It’s kind of you to make the offer, Mr. Whitescarver, but I just can’t see my way clear to do it. I know I’ve had bad luck the past couple of years, but the county people have been right understanding about my difficulties, and I believe I can hang on until things get better.”

  To an outsider, the speech might have sounded tentative or even grateful, but Frank Whitescarver knew better. Trailer trash running him off their property with a shotgun would have been no less adamant than J. Z. Stallard with his quiet refusal of a rock-bottom offer. Frank had been prepared to dicker further; maybe to offer to throw in a little brick rancher in town to sweeten the deal, but he could see that such gambits would be useless. J. Z. Stallard had the same stubborn set of jaw as his daughter.

  Frank would have to resort to other means now, and, Lord, he hated to do it. He didn’t like bad feelings any more than Stallard did, but business was business.

  * * *

  The three Stargill women hurried down out of the attic, carrying piles of old clothes and baby things. They hadn’t finished the sorting yet, but since they had to come down anyhow to meet the visitor, they decided to save themselves a trip later by bringing down the garments they had chosen for the quilted coffin lining.

  Kayla had ushered the old woman into the parlor, and now she was sitting beside her on the sofa, talking about mountain lions, but the old woman didn’t seem to be paying much attention. She sat expressionless, holding a wooden box in her lap, while Kayla prattled on and helped herself to cookies from the plate on the coffee table.

  Lilah Rose Stargill set down the stack of clothes she was carrying, and advanced to meet the visitor. “Now don’t get up,” she said, smiling. “I’m Mr. Stargill’s daughter-in-law Lilah, and this is Garrett’s wife Debba—” She nodded toward the small, colorless woman in the brown print dress. “And this is Kelley. I see you’ve already met her daughter.”

  Nora Bonesteel nodded. “You keep an eye on her,” she said to Kelley. “Farms can be dangerous places for little folks.”

  “I will. Would y’all excuse me?” Kelley, mindful of the lack of introduction, however gracefully covered, beckoned for Kayla to come with her into the kitchen. “Wouldn’t you like some milk to go with that fistful of cookies?”

  The old woman turned to the two Stargill wives, now seated in chairs facing her. “You won’t remember me. We met years ago, in church one Christmas. I am Nora Bonesteel.”

  Lilah’s smile wavered for a moment, an indication that she indeed had heard of Nora Bonesteel, but she hurried on. “It’s a real kindness for you to come and call on us. Mr. Stargill lived here all his life, of course, but we’re just complete strangers here. Hardly know a soul. And you brought cookies, too?”

  “Mr. Stargill isn’t dead yet,” said Debba. She blushed as the other two turned to look at her. “I thought you might have heard he was,” she muttered. She leaned back into the protective blinders of the wing chair, intending to contribute nothing else to the discussion.

  “No,” said Nora Bonesteel. “I know he’s lingering in the hospital.” She paused as if there had been more to say.

  “We’re hoping for the best,” said Lilah. She thought of mentioning her angel, but something about the old woman’s solemnity made her decide against bringing it up. “Meanwhile, he’s got a nice private room, and we called for a bouquet of carnations to be delivered up there today.”

  “He’s likely to go suddenly,” Nora told her.

  “Oh, we mustn’t be pessimists. He’s old, but—”

  “He’s likely to go suddenly,” Nora Bonesteel said again. “And I wanted to see that the family had this before—before the burial arrangements were made.” She ran her hands along the smooth surface of the box lid. The box was old: a dark, reddish wood about a foot high and eighteen inches wide. It looked homemade, but carefully crafted, with doweled joints, rounded corners, and filigreed brass fittings. The hand-rubbed linseed finish had been kept shiny with beeswax, polished over the years until the wood glowed with the mellow luster of age.

  “The box?” asked Lilah. “It’s real thoughtful of you to bring it back. I know the boys will be tickled to have it.” Bewilderment colored her voice. This conversation was not going the way Lilah expected condolence calls to run, but she responded gamely, while she tried to think of a way to get the conversation back along conventional social lines. Debba was no help. The puny little thing just sat there looking like a stuffed goose, letting her do all the talking. Lilah wished Kelley would come back in. The girl might be living in sin with Charles Martin, but at least she made herself useful. “What fancy woodwork there is on that box. I never saw the like. Did Mr. Stargill make the box?”

  “He did. A long time ago.”

  “Well, you’re ever so thoughtful to return it.” Lilah hoped the subject could be dism
issed at that. By now she had realized that the old woman before her was the same dark-haired beauty featured in the family photo albums. Those cheekbones hadn’t changed in half a century, and the eyes were as dark and clear as they had ever been. This was the girl that Randall had loved before he married Clarsie. What in God’s name could she be bringing the family now? Love letters? What would the boys think of that? She knew what Robert Lee would think, and she decided that nothing in creation could persuade her to let him know about it. There wasn’t enough Maalox in Tennessee to get Robert Lee through such an ordeal.

  She took the box from the old woman, surprised by the weight of it, and set it on the floor beside the sofa. “You know, we’re just so glad you came by,” she said brightly. “Because we had a question about something we’re supposed to be doing for the wake—if, Lord forbid, it comes to that. Mr. Stargill has left us a whole list of written instructions about his burial—”

  “He’ll want this buried with him,” said Nora Bonesteel.

  Lilah’s smile wavered. “This box?” The conversation always kept coming back to that damned box. She was beginning to think this old lady was not right in the head, but as a charitable woman with an angel as a personal adviser, Lilah felt that it was her duty to persevere. “You think Mr. Stargill would want this box of his laid to rest with him?”

  “What’s in it. The box unopened would be best.” Nora Bonesteel stood up. “I have to get back now. But I had to bring you the box. Randall wanted it done.”

  “Wait!” Lilah called after her. “We need to ask you about a scripture cake. He wants one.”

  Nora Bonesteel turned to look at her. “That can wait,” she said. “I have to go now.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Debba, as the woman walked away.