In a Dark Season (21 page)

The Drovers’ Road VIII

Love Lies Bleeding

The road was churned to mire with the passing gangs of cattle and hogs and still Lydy didn’t come. Drove after drove come and went, and whenever I found the chance, I asked for news of Lydy but none had seen him. Then a man with the last bunch passin by stopped to bargain with my daddy over some lame hogs they was lookin to get shed of. Daddy got them hogs cheap and, bein pleased with his bargain, told me to give the man some of the fried peach pies I’d just took from the fire. When I handed them over I asked my old worn-out question one more time. I didn’t hardly wait for an answer and was on my way back into the house when the man spoke up. Why yes, says he, they’s a feller meetin your description in the drove that’s behindst us. He took him a big bite of that hot fried pie and grinned at me, allowin that hit’d likely be several hours before that drove got to Gudger’s Stand.

I found me some little jobs to do in the upper rooms, sweepin and such. Up there I could keep watch from a window or the porch and be the first to catch sight of the next drive comin. Down below I could see Belle, piddlin about in the little patch of special herbs and flowers she tends, sweepin around in that fine green skirt she’d had on when the stagecoach brought her back last month.

To tell the truth, I had been sorry to see my stepmother come back. I’d been hopin that Belle might of found a richer man than Daddy at the Warm Springs and run off with him. But on the very same day Lydy had rode off settin high on that wagon, back she come on a stagecoach. Hit was good-bye to the one I loved and hello to the one I hated, near bout in the same breath.

Daddy was there at the door to greet the passengers and help the ladies down when he looks up and it’s Belle, holding out her hand to him and stepping out of the coach. I’m back, Lucius, says she, I’m back and I’ve found a cure. You’ll see—I vow I’ll give you a son for a proper heir before a year passes.

She cut her eyes at me when she said them last words, and I had to turn away for I wouldn’t have her see me cry. Daddy looked to have forgot all the hard things he’d been sayin about her whilst she was gone and was leadin her into the house as if she was some great lady. And from that day on, I knowed Belle Caulwell for what she was—a witchy woman and my bitter enemy.

I was sweepin the big room where the drovers slept when I seen the first signs of dust raisin far down the road. My heart leaped in my bosom to think that soon I’d see my Lydy again and I flung down the broom and made for the stairs, hurrying to my room so’s to smooth my hair and put on a clean apron.

I tie the apron strings and run outside, meanin to be waitin on the porch when Lydy comes in view. But all to once I find that first I must visit the necessary house. Hit comes on right much these days, now that my belly’s commenced to swell. So I run back to the place, tryin to make haste for all the while I can hear the squeals and grunts of the hogs and the ho-o-o-yuh! ho-o-oyuh! calls of the drovers and their whips just a-snappin.

I come back round the corner of the house, fast as I can, and take the steps to the porch two at a time. They’s a world of hogs all across the road, rarin and slaverin to get to the lots where the corn wagons are waitin and Belle is standin there, right in their path, like someone who don’t know what a mean, hungry hog can do to a body.

Then I see Lydy, off to the side, and I holler to him but he’s already makin for Belle. She just stands there like she was a tree planted in the road. She doesn’t so much as twitch a finger as the hogs rush to either side of her. And now Lydy’s beside her, pushin her behind him. He cracks his whip and sends the brutes away from her. I call to him again but the commotion is such that he doesn’t hear. I see Belle lay her white hand on his shoulder and for a minute it seems to me that she is claimin him for her own. Then that white hand begins to slide down his back and he turns to catch her just afore she falls to the ground.

I watch as he carries her to the house and I call out to him a third time but his head is bent over her and still he doesn’t hear. I lay my hand against my belly, hopin that the babe I carry can’t feel my pain.

Chapter 25

Potluck

Saturday, December 23

T
his is something different,
Phillip thought.
Over a year and this is the first party Lizabeth and I’ve gone to together. For a long time I figured she didn’t have any friends other than Sallie Kate and Miss Birdie.
He glanced over at Elizabeth, behind the wheel of the jeep. She had paid special attention to her appearance, replacing her usual diminutive gold hoops with earrings shaped like golden leaves and rooting through her closet to uncover something special to wear. She had emerged with a blue turtleneck sweater,
periwinkle blue cashmere,
she’d said,
a gift from her sister,
a black wool vest, heavily embroidered with green vines and red flowers, and a pair of new-looking black corduroy jeans.

“I have to get up my courage,” she’d told him, twisting her long, dark, silver-shot braid into a crown around her head. “I’ve avoided this party ever since Sam died. But Helen Nugent called and badgered me till I said yes, we’d come. And she was right; it’s time you met some of my friends.”

There had been no time to follow up on the questions raised by those pills found on Nola’s bed and by the ad seeking information about Spencer Greer. Just a rush to change clothes, gather up the chocolate pound cake Elizabeth was taking to the potluck, and, with a reminder to Rosemary and Laurel about feeding the dogs, hurry back out the door.

As the jeep wound around the unpaved mountain road that was a continuation of Ridley Branch, Elizabeth briefed him on what to expect.

“I think you’ll like the people who’ll be at the party—they’re all very individualistic but easygoing. This is the community Sam and I kind of fell into when we moved here—a real mishmash of back-to-the-land hippies, artists, craftspeople, professionals, and blue-collar types. The main thing we have in common is that we all made the choice to come here. At one time, there was a potluck get-together almost every weekend, but now it’s more like a few big parties during the year. The Nugents’ Christmas party is one of the standards.”

“Tell me about the Nugents. Have they been here long?”

“Oh, yes—they’re old-timers among us newcomers—they’ve been here since the sixties, ten years before the first wave of transplants, twenty years before Sam and I bought our place. Jeff and Helen must be in their early seventies now. Jeff has this white beard that make him look like Santa Claus, and Helen is—well, she’s a wiry little woman who looks like a piece of sun-dried leather. She’s hard to describe because she’s always moving.”

Elizabeth had fallen silent as she steered the jeep up the driveway and pulled past a large, new-looking barn into an open field that was crowded with trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles. Two women, heading for a path leading up the hill, paused to wave, and Elizabeth tapped her horn in acknowledgment. The shorter and stockier of the pair stared briefly and unabashedly at Phillip, before flashing a smile and giving Elizabeth an enthusiastic thumbs-up signal. Then the two hurried up the path toward the tall building whose lights twinkled through the trees.

“Maxie and Thelma—Thelma’s the short one who evidently approves of you. They live on around this road. Nice folks. Thelma’s a potter and Maxie makes incredible art quilts—real high-dollar stuff that sells through galleries. They’ve been here almost as long as I have.”

“What about the folks giving the party—the Nugents?” As they walked toward the big house, from which could be heard the sound of music and many voices, he began to wonder what he could have to talk about with this artsy-craftsy crowd. “Are they artists too?”

“Not as such—I’d say they were artists of life, though—they raise these gorgeous Angora goats and sell the fleeces to handspinners and they have incredible gardens and an orchard of heirloom apples. And they’re working with a program to introduce a blight-resistant chestnut to the forests. We’ll come back in the spring when you can see what they’ve done here—the farm itself is a work of art.”

Light streamed through the many-paned windows that had been cut into the log walls, etching geometric patterns on the broad deck that stretched to one side of the converted barn that was the Nugents’ home. Taking a deep breath, Phillip followed Elizabeth through the front doorway into the warmth and swirling sound of a party in progress.

It was odd to be back at the traditional Christmas party. Odd that it was Phillip at her side, not Sam. For a panicked moment she felt like turning tail, but, with a welcoming cry of “Elizabeth! I’m so glad you came!” a wiry little person separated herself from a group of chattering women and bustled toward them. Beaming with pleasure, Helen Nugent reached up to hug her and Elizabeth felt the strength of her thin arms.
Helen doesn’t change,
she decided.
She looked just like this ten years ago and she’ll probably look the same at ninety.

“And you must be Phillip. I’m Helen. It’s so nice to meet you at last.” Her tanned face crinkled. “Of course I’ve heard a lot about you—all good, naturally.” Taking the basket Elizabeth was carrying, she said, “I’ll put this on the table. You two go get yourselves something to drink—the keg’s back that way, on the kitchen porch. Jeff’s back there too, Elizabeth—he’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

The big open space—a comfortable art-and book-filled living area flowing into a no-nonsense farm kitchen tucked under the bedroom loft—was filled with people: familiar faces, a few new faces, some faces that seemed familiar but she couldn’t put a name to. They threaded their way through the throng toward the kitchen area, stopping for Elizabeth to greet an old friend, to exchange hugs, to introduce Phillip. He fielded questions about his teaching position at AB Tech and his previous job as a police detective in the coastal town of Beaufort. “No, Bow-furt, North Carolina, not Bew-furt, South Carolina.”

Her friends and acquaintances seemed to be remarkably well informed about Phillip.
I shouldn’t be surprised—after all, Sallie Kate and Harley know all about him and they socialize a fair amount. The newcomer community grapevine is evidently alive and well.

When at last they reached the back porch, where the keg and an assortment of open bottles of wine were drawing a crowd of thirsty partygoers, Jeff, in a crimson sweater, his beard like a white waterfall rippling down his chest, came forward to engulf her in a bear hug.

“We’ve missed you, Elizabeth. I don’t count running into you in town once every few years as seeing each other. I know,” he said as she started to speak, “we’re all busy with our farms or our work year-round. Thank god for Christmas; at least it gives us an excuse to party.” He put both hands on her shoulders and stood back to examine her. “You look good, Elizabeth. And I hear Full Circle Farm’s going great guns. We’re proud of you, girl.”

“Let’s find a quiet place to sit and eat—I’m about talked out for the moment.” Elizabeth balanced her laden plate atop her glass of wine and scanned the living room for possibilities. Most of the sofas and chairs were already occupied, and little groups of people sat along the raised stone hearth that extended across one end of the room. “How about the stairs?”

They perched a few steps up the peeled log staircase and began to enjoy their food. The potluck fare was much as it had always been, thought Elizabeth—a quirky mix of earnest vegetarian entrées, heavy on brown rice and lentils; some really inspired casseroles, equally vegetarian, but sinfully tasty with herbs and garlic and cheese; wonderful salads; crusty homemade breads; barbecued ribs; skewers of chicken satay; and a spicy sausage roll she recognized as Maxie and Thelma’s signature dish.

“This is quite a mix of foods—kind of like the folks.” Phillip’s fork hesitated over his plate, wavering between a delectable chicken satay and a jalapeño pepper, stuffed with cream cheese, wrapped with bacon, and hot off the grill. “They all seem pretty nice.”

“We
are
pretty nice.” Elizabeth looked up from her plate to see Thelma and Maxie claiming spots on the steps just below. “Even if some of us get a little loud at times.”

Thelma looked over at a raucous cluster standing around the counter that separated kitchen from living room and shook her head. “They’re arguing about the proposed plans for Gudger’s Stand—it’s a damn shame if the county commissioners let that company go through with that gated community.”

“Hey, Thelma; hey, Maxie. It’s good to see you all. This is my friend, Phillip Hawkins. Phillip, Maxie and Thelma Rudicek-Greene.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Phillip nodded at both women. “So, do most of these folks oppose development at the old stand?”

Maxie, a comfortably plump, comfortably middle-aged woman with graying brown hair, set down her glass of beer. “I think all of us here are opposed to that kind of development—exclusive gated communities, huge, ecologically unfriendly second homes
—anywhere.
But Thelma and I and all the old river guides feel particularly strongly about Gudger’s Stand. There’s so much history there and it’s the perfect site for a county park. If RPI gets its way, the rafting companies and all the other paddlers are going to have to find another put-in site. People are really upset!” Maxie’s soft brown eyes flashed uncharacteristic fire.

It’s like seeing a…a fluffy bunny stamp its feet,
thought Elizabeth, noting the flush of anger on Maxie’s cheeks.

Thelma laid down her fork. “Hell, the county commissioners just want to get shed of responsibility for that place. It’s gotten a bad reputation ever since the old man was killed. And then this thing of a body in the silo…they’re probably wetting their pants at the thought of having to deal with some new scandal.”

“Someone told us that you were a friend of the sheriff.” Maxie turned to Phillip. “Do you know if they’ve identified the…the remains yet?”

“Not yet—these things take time. And between the holidays and the fact that this isn’t recent, it’ll be a while before they know anything.”

Elizabeth studied the two women, remembering when she and Sam had first met them, out for a walk on Ridley Branch.
Almost twenty years ago. They’d just moved to their place and weren’t sure how neighbors would take to a same-sex couple. I remember we got to talking and Thelma said they’d had a carload of drunks come up their drive, hollering that they wanted to talk to the dykes.

“I came out the front door with a shotgun in my hands and fired it into the air once. Got their attention for sure. That car set a record for backing down a steep winding road. And now I always have a handgun with me,” the Thelma of long ago had told them.

Thelma had changed the least—still stocky, her dark brown hair still close-cropped. A few lines at the corners of her eyes.
And the tattoos are probably still there on her back and arms.

The change in Maxie was more obvious. She had been in her mid-twenties when the two had moved into Marshall County—a slender, quicksilver nymph whose sun-streaked brown hair fell past her waist. More than one male had been smitten at the sight of her, but Maxie’s hazel eyes never strayed from Thelma—her avowed life partner.

And now she’s a motherly-looking, slightly dumpy woman. Ay law, as Birdie says. When I remember how the guys used to carry on over her…and to no avail.

“I’d forgotten you all used to be river guides. How long ago was that?”

Thelma’s brow furrowed. “We guided for River Runners from when we first moved here in ’89 till…it was five or six years, I guess. Finally we reached a place with my pots and Max’s quilts that we couldn’t give up the time in the studio—not to mention the fact that it’s damn hard work paddling one of those big rafts and we weren’t getting any younger. The whole scene started kind of changing too—or we did. Just got too old and too responsible for the drinking and the dope every night.”

“It was six years,” Maxie answered quietly. “Our last summer was ’95—before old Revis died. Don’t you remember, Thelma—that last time we went to one of the parties down by the bridge and that guy tried to rape me?”