The Rosewood Casket

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “Nah. They can’t be snowbirds. They’re not white.”

  “They’re not supposed to be. People call them snowbirds because you see them in the winter, especially around the bird feeders. The proper name for them is junco. Ours have bluer bills than the flatland juncos. Don’t ask me how come.”

  “What’s your favorite bird?”

  “Well,” said Clayt, “I’ll tell you, but I can guarantee we won’t see one. It’s called a Bewick’s wren. It’s a little fellow with a brown body, with white underneath, and white outer tailfeathers.”

  “How come we won’t see one?”

  “Well, because there may not be any more of them. They used to live in these mountains on the farmsteads. They liked open fields, and the kind of cleared land that the settlers made. They like to nest in abandoned buildings, junked cars, tin cans…” He sighed. “They’re gone now. I think the last sighting was ten years ago. Never seen one myself. Not for want of trying, either. I’ve about worn out my binoculars looking for one.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Well, the land changed, for one thing. A lot of those farms went back to National Forest, and for another thing, newer, tougher bird species moved in and ran them off.”

  “You sure do know a lot about nature and stuff.”

  “Uh-huh. It’s my job. I go to schools and talk to kids like you. Tell them about the environment.”

  “Can we go out for a walk and talk about nature and stuff when we get back?”

  Clayt hesitated. “Maybe late this afternoon, if there’s time. After we get you some ice cream, I’m going to take you back home, and then I have to stop by a farm up on the ridge to see a young lady of my acquaintance.”

  “Dressed like that?” asked Kayla, nodding at Clayt’s dirtstreaked jeans and rumpled shirt.

  “She won’t mind. She needs help, it sounds like. Besides, even after working in the barn all morning, I bet I’m cleaner now than Daniel Boone was for most of his life.”

  Kayla blinked. “How come?”

  “No central heating back then, and no hot water coming out of a tap just for the asking. If you wanted hot water, you had to light a wood fire, and boil it yourself, so baths were an awful lot of trouble. It was hard to keep clothes clean, too, so head lice were pretty much a fact of life.”

  Kayla wrinkled her nose until it almost disappeared into her forehead. “Bugs in their hair?”

  “Oh, sure. One time Boone’s daughter Jemima got kidnapped by some Indians, and she knew her father and his men were tracking the war party, trying to get her back. So when the Indians stopped to rest, Jemima started picking lice out of the chief’s hair, so that he’d relax, and not be in such a hurry to leave.”

  “I wouldn’t pick no bugs out of anybody’s hair,” Kayla declared.

  “You would if it would get you rescued,” said Clayt. “It worked, too. That Indian was so pleased to have Jemima taking the bugs out of his scalp that he clean forgot to watch for the approaching settlers. By and by, Boone and his men burst in and rescued the captives, and Jemima was home by nightfall.”

  “What happened to the Indian?”

  “Uh—” Clayt looked at her, wondering what he should say to a little girl.

  “They killed him, of course,” said Kayla, after a moment’s thought.

  “Yeah. Daddies can be pretty fierce when they’re protecting their little girls.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Kayla, looking away.

  Clayt searched the landscape for a new topic of conversation. “Look over in that maple tree on your side of the road. There’s a kestrel perched up there near the top. He’s a hunter. Those snowbirds we saw better watch out.”

  The girl peered out the window, her interest in nature revived. “What are those black birds in the field over there?”

  Clayt frowned. “Starlings. Whole flock of them, too. Hope the kestrel gets a few of them for his supper.”

  Kayla studied him carefully for a few moments while she tidied the sides of her ice cream cone with her tongue. Then she said, “Starlings. They’re nice and shiny. How come you don’t like them?”

  “Lots of reasons. First of all they don’t belong here.” Seeing her puzzled look, he said, “Starlings are not native to North America. They were imported relatively recently. They’ve only been here a hundred years or so. Daniel Boone never saw one.”

  Kayla smiled. “That’s why you don’t like them. Well, how did the starlings get here?”

  “Some fool named Scheifflin, a manufacturing tycoon with more money than sense, imported them in 1892. He got it into his head that America ought to have every kind of bird that is mentioned in the works of William Shakespeare, so he brought a bunch of species over from Europe and let them loose in Central Park in New York City. A lot of the newcomers died, but not the starlings. No, siree. They just loved it here. Within a few years they had spread out all over the continent, making a complete nuisance of themselves.”

  “How can little old birds be any trouble?” asked Kayla. “They don’t look big enough to hurt anybody.”

  “They hurt other birds, though. They’re loud, and mean, and pushy. Before long, they had begun to drive our nice native songbirds out of their homes. They’d beat them up, and steal all the food. They travel together in huge flocks, and they crap all over everything. They’re noisy, too.”

  “Can you do bird calls? What do they sound like?”

  “Well, that’s the other thing I don’t like about starlings,” said Clayt. “They don’t even have their own songs. They sing everybody else’s songs. You’ll hear them imitating other songbirds: robins, cardinals, whatever. They just take everything that used to belong to somebody else: the land, the food, even the songs of the birds that belong here.”

  Kayla thought about this for a moment. “They’re the ones that ran off your Buick wrens, aren’t they?”

  “Bewick’s wren,” murmured Clayt. “Yep. They sure are. They just shoved their way in here and took over.”

  After a half mile of silence, Kayla tapped his arm. “You know what?” she said. “I betcha that Indian chief with the head lice would have said the same thing about the pioneers. I bet he thought Daniel Boone was just a walking starling, taking the land, and the deer, and everything that used to belong to the Indians and kicking them out.”

  “I guess he did.” Clayt drove in silence for half a mile or so, wondering if a world without starlings would also lack pioneers.

  * * *

  Dovey Stallard found her father sitting on a rock in the sheep pasture, looking out at the folds of mountains. He looked bleached and brittle in the afternoon sun, as if the land were leeching its sustenance out of his body. She forgot, sometimes, that he had grown old. In her mind, he had stayed a lean and silver fifty-one, but sometimes, especially when he was worried, she could see the years carving a landscape on his face.

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “Did you see the lamb?” she asked.

  He nodded. “What was left of it. I’ll take it off and bury it directly.”

  Directly didn’t mean “at once,” Dovey knew. It meant “in a little while,” or “when the spirit moves me to do it.” She sat down on the ground beside him, and patted his hand. “Let me do it. You have enough chores. Besides I thought I’d bury my Majorca rooster—what’s left of him. I found a pile of blood and feathers in the chicken run. I’ve called Clayt Stargill to see what he says about this. There might be something we can do to stop the killings.”

  J. Z. Stallard shook his head. “Maybe it’s a sign, Dovey. We sure have had our share of troubles here lately. Maybe the Lord wants us to quit the land, and find another life.”

  “I don’t want another life,” said Dovey. “I can go out and get a job. You know I wouldn’t mind doing it if we need the money. I could get on the night shift somewhere—a factory, maybe—and still do my work around here in the daytime. I should have done that when we lost the barn, but you were too stubborn to let me. I do
n’t know why I let you talk me out of it then.”

  “Your mother never worked, Dovey.”

  She sighed. “That was a long time ago, Daddy. Different world. Besides, Mama had a husband and two kids to raise, and her share of the farm to run. Nobody worked harder than Mama did. Compared to her, I don’t do much. I don’t bake bread very often, and we have an automatic washer now. Cooking for two people is no chore, and there’s hardly enough farm work for the both of us, now that we’ve sold off the Holsteins…” She saw him stiffen at the mention of his dairy herd, and he fixed his eyes on the blue mountains, as if he’d forgotten that she was there. She shouldn’t have reminded him.

  “I’m getting too old,” said J. Z. Stallard. “It might have been different if Tate had come back, and taken over the running of the farm. He could have kept things going.”

  Dovey’s lips tightened, but she said nothing. Her older brother, Tate, had joined the Marines after flunking out of Milligan College. He hadn’t made it back from Vietnam, and she was sorry about that. She mourned and missed him still, and she thought their mother might not have given in to her cancer so easily if Tate had been around—but if he had come back alive and well, she didn’t think Tate would have been the answer her father was searching for. He never cared for farming, or for working either, as far as she could tell. As likely as not, he would have come back long enough to have another fight with Daddy, and then lit out for the first big city he could think of, with whatever money he could coax his father into parting with. No point in saying any of that to her father, though. Bickering about Tate wouldn’t change the here and now.

  “Did you see that fellow in a suit that came by this morning?”

  Dovey nodded. “What was he selling?”

  “Nothing. He was looking to buy. He’s a real estate fellow from Hamelin. Whitescarver Realty. Gave me his card. Said he wanted to make us an offer on the farm. Three hundred an acre.”

  Dovey snorted. “Did you take after him with the pitchfork?”

  “No. I told him I wasn’t of a mind to sell. But I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Maybe it would be the best thing, after all.” He pulled a crumpled letter out of the pocket of his work pants. “I didn’t tell you about this. Guess I should have.”

  Dovey unfolded the tattered letter and scanned the typed lines. “Notice of foreclosure … Tax sale! Daddy, how long have you known about this?”

  He shrugged. He would not look at her. “Couple of weeks, I guess. I tried to put it out of my mind. Kept thinking I’d go see a lawyer about it, but I never got around to it.”

  “But we could lose the farm, Daddy!”

  “I suppose so. I’ve prayed over it, though.”

  Dovey sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have hired a lawyer, maybe talked to somebody down at the courthouse. We could have done something.”

  “I think this is meant to be,” said J. Z. Stallard. He wouldn’t look at his daughter.

  Dovey’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, do you? Meant to be. Well, I don’t intend to give up Stallard land without a fight, just because a bunch of city people want privacy and a view. This is our land. It always has been.”

  “Well, Daughter, I just don’t see any way out of this, unless your mother up in heaven can persuade the Lord to grant us a miracle.”

  “Oh, crap, Daddy! Faith isn’t going to get those tax wolves off our doorstep. We have to fight to keep what’s ours. We’ve always had to fight to keep going.”

  “Lord, Honey.” J. Z. Stallard gave his daughter a pat on the arm and a sad smile. “You can’t fight the government.”

  “You see if I can’t,” said Dovey.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I can’t say I was ever lost, but I was bewildered once for three days.

  —DANIEL BOONE

  Garrett Stargill had no trouble finding the sheriff’s office. The business district of Hamelin was one street that widened after a few blocks into a state road that snaked its way up Buffalo Mountain to a series of farms and communities in higher valleys, among steeper mountains. The sheriff’s office stood behind the courthouse, an old two-story brick house on a side street. It had a small porch with newly painted gingerbread trim, and a planter of geraniums on either side of the steps. Garrett looked at the geraniums, and wondered if he had seen more of death than these lawmen had. He’d bet on it.

  He parked his truck in the gravel lot and crossed the street, cradling the box in his arms. Its heaviness was the wood of the box itself; the small bones within added little to the burden.

  Garrett stopped at the steps to the brick house, studied the wooden sign that said “Sheriff’s Office,” and wished he had worn his uniform. He would have felt more credible dressed as a soldier—one uniform to another, instead of a civilian facing a uniformed lawman. He resolved to mention his rank in his first breath.

  He balanced the box, turned the knob, and went in. “I’m Warrant Officer Garrett—” A blond girl—she couldn’t have been much more than twenty—with long straight hair and mascara too dark for her coloring, blinked up at him. She must be the receptionist, he thought. A name plate on her desk said “Jennaleigh.” Garrett decided that he needn’t explain his errand to her. “Is the sheriff in?” he asked, careful not to smile.

  The young woman looked at Garrett’s stern face, then at the box. She seemed to think better of questioning him herself. “Wait here. I’ll get Sheriff Arrowood.” She tapped on a door at the back of the reception room, and disappeared inside.

  Garrett set the box down on a straight-backed chair, but he felt no inclination to be seated. He paced the pine floor, and studied the notices posted on the bulletin board. There were a couple of federal wanted posters, some legal notices headed “State of Tennessee,” and a typewritten document entitled “Tax Auction,” which he had been about to read when the sheriff appeared.

  “Spencer Arrowood. What can I do for you?”

  Garrett turned, speechless for a moment, at the sight of a blond man of about medium height, about his own age. He was wearing a badge on his khaki uniform, and a 9mm Glock holstered on his hip. It was several seconds before Garrett remembered to extend his hand. “Sorry to act so startled,” he said. “I’m Garrett Stargill, Warrant Officer, U.S. Army. Pleased to meet you, Sheriff. You kind of caught me off guard there for an instant. It’s stupid, I know, but—I was expecting Nelse Miller.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Nelse passed away quite a few years back, Mr. Stargill. He’s still missed, though. Not least by me. He was sheriff a good many years here. I take it you’re from around here originally?”

  “Randall Stargill is my daddy. You probably know our farm.”

  “I believe I know your brother, too,” said Spencer Arrowood. “Charles Martin Stargill, the country singer? I went to school with him. How is he these days?”

  Garrett grunted. “He drives a silver Lexus.”

  “I hear him on the radio every now and then.” Spencer Arrowood studied his visitor carefully. His glance took in the wooden box resting on the chair by the door. He waited politely.

  A few seconds of silence passed before Garrett realized that the sheriff was waiting for an explanation. He picked up the box. “This is what I came about. Can we go into your office?”

  The box sat in the middle of the sheriff’s desk. Spencer Arrowood heard him out, without any sign of impatience, while he explained about the visit from Nora Bonesteel and her instruction that the box and its contents be laid to rest with Randall Stargill. “My daddy’s dying, you see,” said Garrett. “At least we think he is. He’s in a coma, anyhow, over in the hospital in Johnson City, so we can’t ask him about this. She just ups and brings it. As if we didn’t have enough on our minds, worrying about him, and the expense and all the rest of it. Anyhow, we thought this had best be brought to you.”

  “All right.” Spencer Arrowood pulled the box toward him. “I know Miz Bonesteel, and she is a rare individual, I’ll grant you that. Let’s see what she has brought you.�
� He undid the latch, and opened the box. Garrett thought he saw a flicker of surprise on the sheriff’s face, but it vanished quickly. “A skeleton. Young child. Old bones, from the look of them. That root has been there for years. And you say she brought this to you with no explanation?”

  “That’s right,” said Garrett. “It’s no use asking any of us about this, Sheriff, because we don’t know what’s going on or who that is. We didn’t have any brothers or sisters who died as children.”

  “You did right to bring this to me,” the sheriff told him. “I’ll see what Miz Bonesteel can tell me about this.”

  “This doesn’t have to be made public, does it?” asked Garrett. “The family doesn’t want any kind of scandal. And it doesn’t seem fair, with Dad in a coma, unable to tell his side of it. Whatever happened, I mean.”

  Spencer Arrowood was still examining the bones, fingering them carefully for signs of breaks, or other abnormalities. “Public?” he said. “I don’t think so. At this time we have no evidence of foul play, and no answers about who this is, and why the bones were brought to you. If that changes, I’ll be in touch.”

  “We appreciate that. Charles Martin was concerned. You know how the tabloids like to hound people in the entertainment business.”

  “So I’m told. But your family honestly has no idea who these bones belong to, or why you were given them?”

  Garrett shook his head. “My sister-in-law thinks it’s my father’s child by that Bonesteel woman. Claims they used to be lovers before Dad married my mother. I think she’s just speculating, though. I never heard anything about any such incident.”

  Spencer closed the lid of the box. “Neither have I, Mr. Stargill,” he said. “And I think I might have heard before you did.”

  * * *

  Frank Whitescarver counted the vehicles as he pulled in to the driveway of the Stargill farm. He was a little later in arriving than he had planned on, and some of the brothers were obviously elsewhere, but at least there wasn’t a passel of visiting neighbors to contend with. In the old days, there would have been. People came and sat with the about-to-be-bereaved, brought food, helped sew the grave clothes—did whatever needed doing—but Frank doubted that many people would be visiting the Stargills. The boys had left long ago to pursue careers in the big cities. They were strangers now. Seems like most of the younger generation ended up leaving these days—college or the army or just the need to get a job that paid enough to support a family. When the old people died off—as Mr. Stargill was in the process of doing now—the strangers came in. No use wishing for the old days to come back, though, Frank thought. That way of life was as dead as the passenger pigeons, and perhaps it was a good thing: not much money in real estate when the land stayed in the family.