In a Dark Season (6 page)

“There was a physician there? That’s pretty unusual for a nursing home. What—”

“He wasn’t part of the staff. He has a practice in Asheville but his brother’s the pastor who called about Nola. They were both there visiting her. Evidently the doctor came out as a special favor. His name’s Pritchard—Dr. Pritchard Morton.”

The Morton brothers had been a study in contrasts. Payne, the pastor of Dewell Hill Beulah Bethel Church, wore shiny black trousers and a permanent-press white shirt. His dark hair shone with hair cream and his ruddy complexion bore the scars of adolescent acne. His brother, the older of the two, wore a beautifully cut, or so it seemed to Elizabeth’s untutored eye, tweed jacket and immaculate wool trousers that broke gracefully over perfectly polished and probably quite expensive loafers.

“So could this doctor tell you anything about the old lady—excuse me, about Miss Barrett’s condition?”

“He said she’d probably had a stroke—but they haven’t run any tests yet and he’s not actually Nola’s doctor. But that was his opinion.”

“Did your friend recognize you?”

“I’m sure she did, but—”

“She couldn’t communicate, right? I know a lot of the time people who’ve had strokes can’t find the right words for what they want to say. But then after a while, maybe with some therapy, they improve.”

“Dr. Morton was saying something like that—though he didn’t sound as if he believed that it would happen in Nola’s case. But listen, Phillip, a really odd thing happened.”

She cleared her throat and continued. “After the Morton brothers left, I sat with Nola a while. I’d brought a book of poetry—I told you how she loved poetry. Well, I had the idea that if we couldn’t talk, then I’d read to her a bit. And I did and she seemed to enjoy it. But when I got ready to go, I took her hand to say good-bye and she held it in a death grip. She was trying so hard to say something but the words wouldn’t come. Then, all at once she began speaking in her old voice—perfect, precise diction. Phillip, she was quoting from
Hamlet
.

“Jeez—I hated that play. We had to study it in freshman English. That guy Hamlet just drove me crazy—couldn’t make up his mind.” Phillip laid a hand over his heart and began to declaim, “‘To
beeee…
or not to be…’”

“Ah…yeah. And as a matter of fact, that’s the speech Nola was quoting from.”

The quality of Phillip’s silence and then the tone of his delayed reply were carefully balanced between polite inquiry and derisive incredulity. “Okay…and this woman who we watched try to kill herself…this woman who’s had a stroke or whatever and can’t talk…what did she say in her perfect diction?”

“I came home and looked it up to be sure I got it right. Just a minute, I have the book right here…”

Elizabeth reached for the heavy volume of Shakespeare’s plays and read,

“…To die, to sleep—

No more, and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d.”

The Drovers’ Road II

The Girl at the River

They had wiped the last of the soup beans and fatback from the tin plates with the cold gritty corn pone, and the prisoners’ evening meal was but a memory. In the gloom of the cell, the two men settled themselves for the night. All was quiet but for the labored groaning from the other occupied cell—the lamentations of the town’s perennial inebriate, locked away to recover from the effects of an epic spree.

The Professor breathed a disconsolate sigh. I could wish for a cigar to settle that repast, he said. Or a dram. But no matter; let us beguile the weary hours till bedtime with story. Pray, continue your account. You left your uncle’s farm to seek your fortune in the wide world. And at Gudger’s Stand you encountered the siren of the fiery gaze—this Belle Caulwell, I believe you called her. Please, expound further of this enchantress; I am ensorcelled.

Lydy pushed his empty tin plate under his bunk and felt for the dipper gourd. It floated atop the water remaining in the bucket, and he took a careful draught before resuming his story. In the fading light his face was pale and very young.

I see that I have got ahead of myself in the telling of it. And as we’re like to have plenty of time, I might as well give hit to you as it come to pass. Belle weren’t the first I seen at Gudger’s Stand. No, that come later.

He pulled the thin blanket around his shoulders and took up the tale.

Hit was first dark when the ferry man set me acrost the river. They was a gray mule and a half-asleep man atop him a-waitin at the landing and the ferryman he loaded them on and took off fer the other side. Fare ye well, young feller, he called back. Mind you don’t…but the words was drownded in the splash and tumble of the river.

I looked up and seen the glow of the fires in the windows of the stand and could hear loud talk and laughin. Someone was scrapin at a fiddle, boots was a-thumpin, and I seen a man come out the door. He looked around, then walked kindly waverin-like to the end of the porch. There he took the longest piss I ever seen. He was still at it when two more come atter him and they stood there a-handin a jug from one to the other.

Now, not havin a red cent to my name, I didn’t want to go up there and play the beggar. In the morning, thinks I, when hit’s more quiet-like, I’ll find the stand keeper and ask for work. So I went a ways off from the ferry landing and found me a little grassy spot long side of some big rocks. I set there and et my cornbread and listened to the music and all up at the stand house. Hit went on fer quite some time but at last they give over and the laughin and loud talkin begun to die away. I rolled myself up in my blanket and lay down.

The fiddler was a-playing one last tune, slow and mournful, and hit seemed like they was voices in the river singin along with hit. I lay there, breathin in the smell of the water and the meadow, watchin the stars in the night sky, and tryin to make out the words.

Hit was a girl singin what woke me. A sweet high lonesome song about a wagoner’s lad who was goin away and at first I thought that I was dreamin. But then I opened my eyes and seen a heavy mist risin off the river and little drops of dew a-coverin my blanket. I could hear footsteps comin closer and when I looked from behind the rocks where I was, I seen a girl totin a big ole bundle that like to bent her double. She was makin her way down to where they was a great flat ledge pokin out into the shallow water.

She clumb careful-like onto the big rock and let that load drop down. Ooo-eee! she said and straightened up, a-puttin both hands to the small of her back, like hit was painin her some. The fog was burnin off now and I could see that she was young and thin, with yaller hair so pale hit was most white. I watched, keeping quiet as a cat a-layin fer a bird, whilst she leaned down to undo that great bundle. She begun to pull at the knot that held it together and I seen hit was naught but a great pile of blankets and towels and suchlike. Then she looped up her skirts betwixt her legs, tuckin them in at her apron strings, and waded a little way into the river, pulling one of the blankets with her. She had her a bucket of soft lye soap and she commenced to scrub at that blanket and beat it against the rock and dip it in the water over and over. And all the while she was a-singin that song, askin the wagoner’s lad to stay by her.

At long last she had the blanket to where it suited her and she hauled it up onto the flat rock to begin to wring the water from it. Hit was a slow task, the blanket bein heavy, and time and again a corner would drop into the water and then hit would be to do all over.

I stood up from behind the rocks and used my fingers to set my hair to rights. Iffen you don’t care, says I, speakin soft, so as not to spook her, iffen you don’t care, hit’d be a sight easier job was I to help you.

Well, she give a little cry and walled her eyes at me, showin a deal of the whites, but still she stood her ground. I begun to tell her how come I to be there and afore long, I had took hold of t’ other end of that ol’ blanket that was aggravatin her so and we was twistin it dry and laughin like one thing.

By the time that the sun was full up and the mist all burned away, ever bit of that washin was done and spread out on the grass to dry. She had told me that her name was Luellen and that hit was her pa what owned the stand. You come up to the house with me, she says. I’ll speak fer you and I know he’ll give you work. We’re in need of a hired hand as our last one has went off with a wagon haulin goods to Warm Springs.

There was kindly of a hitch to her voice when she said that and she pulled on a big ol’ poke bonnet that clean hid her face, saying something about the sun hurtin her eyes. I thought of the song she had been singin. Well, says I, he must have been a rank fool to go off and leave such a fine place—and such fine company.

She ducked her head and didn’t say nothing. We walked slow on up to the house. My stomach was growlin like a new-woke bear but she commenced to tell me all about herself and her family. I seen that iffen I wanted her help, I had better listen. Women-folk always do want you to listen.

Howsomever, she told me that she was her pa’s only child but for a brother what had run off with a cattle drive some years back of this.

My mommy died whilst I was still a lap baby, says she, and her voice begun to tremble again. And then my daddy married Belle, so as to have someone to look after me. She weren’t but only a servant girl, for all she gives herself such airs now.

At last we had come to the house with its long porches and tall chimbleys. The smell of fryin bacon was strong in the air and my mouth begun to water. I hoped that Luellen was right about her pa wantin help.

As we come nearer I seen they was two big hounds—great red ones like what they use to hunt bear—and they was chained to either side of the steps up to the porch. They stood up all stiff-legged and the hair on their backs went up. The near one, an old bitch, lifted her lips and showed a mouthful of yaller teeth, some of them broke off, but the light-haired girl just said, Hush now, Juno, and led me up the steps.

Chapter 7

Marshall County Voices

Monday, December 11

F
olks round here is tired of being treated like they ain’t of no account. These new people—they come in here with all their money, actin’ like they know everything and treatin’ us like ignorant hillbillies—”

“It’s the God’s truth what Mason’s sayin’!” A heavyset woman, her head covered with tight, iron-gray curls, broke in, leaning across her husband to speak to the couple just beyond him. “Why, just last week, the morning after that heavy snow, one of them big ol’ SUVs with Florida plates on it stopped in front of our house and these folks piled out—there was five of them—and they went right to trompin’ round the snow in my nice front yard and runnin’ to and fro like crazy people, flingin’ snow at one another and mashin’ down my flower beds. Now I was upstairs, changin’ the beds, and when I happen to look out the window and seen them carryin’ on, I rapped sharp-like on the glass—”

The mountain twang resonated in the voices of the group sitting in front of Elizabeth. She didn’t know them, but they were familiar just the same—the hardworking bedrock of the county—men and women who often worked day jobs as well as tending the small farms that had been a family heritage.

Now another voice, a woman behind her, spoke. “These local yokels are just a bunch of bluster. When it comes down to it, wave enough cash under their noses and I promise you, they’ll sell that dear old home place in a New York minute.” It was an accent harsh and unlovely to her ears, and Elizabeth had to resist turning to stare at the speaker.

The auditorium of the Marshall County High School was packed to capacity, with a throng of latecomers standing at the back and along the walls at either side. Elizabeth scanned the audience, looking for familiar faces. Sallie Kate, an uncharacteristic worried frown on her usually cheerful face, was there, as well as many other friends and acquaintances from the newcomer community.

The
old
newcomers, that is. Most of my friends have been here at least ten or fifteen years—and most of them were like Sam and me, just trying to make a living and keep a low profile.

Over there was Dacy, a vet tech who lived “off the grid,” as did Sallie Kate and Harley. And beyond her the Nugents, whose organic farm and orchard, together with their herd of Angora goats, had, after years of hard work, become a source of pride for the whole county and a regular destination for school field trips. So many of the old newcomers were like that—all dedicated, in their words, to “living lightly on Mama Earth.”

This all happened so quickly—I guess I thought that the county would go on being the same as always—the local farm folks and our little group of back-to-the-land types, mostly getting along and working hard—and then bam! now there’re condos and galleries downtown and gated communities springing up everywhere. It happened in Asheville and now it’s happening here.

Suddenly, it seemed, Marshall County and the very sleepy little town of Ransom were ripe for major development. Wealthy newcomers were pouring in, eager to capitalize on the empty buildings downtown, the acres of empty farmland lying fallow since the end of the tobacco support program, and the hitherto unusable steep slopes of the wooded mountainsides. Property prices were soaring, as were taxes, and many native Marshall County folk were beginning to say they couldn’t afford to live on the land their families had held for hundreds of years.

After the spate of letters to the editor published in the county’s weekly newspaper had reached a height of incivility unknown in recent years, the powers that be had at last called a public meeting so that interested county residents could voice their concerns.

“We really need to go to this meeting, Aunt E.” Confronting her over coffee that morning, her nephew had been particularly insistent.

Elizabeth, reluctant as always to be drawn into the murky depths of county politics, had begun a halfhearted rationalization. “I don’t know, Ben. I feel like it’s not my battle. I don’t want to see all these new developments either, but I’m not a native and it feels hypocritical to want to close the door on any more new people now that
I’m
here…”

“That’s bullshit, Aunt E!” Ben had begun to pace to and fro in her kitchen, growing more and more angry as he spoke. “Those greedy county commissioners are letting the developers do whatever the hell they please—build on slopes that aren’t suitable, pollute trout streams, pack too many houses together…all kinds of bad shit.

“And”—he pointed an accusing finger at her—“have you seen the plans that company—Ransom Properties and Investment—has for Gudger’s Stand? It was written up in the paper. They seem to think the old lady’s good as dead and it’s just a formality before they start bulldozing. Shit, I heard that the county is considering doing one of those ‘taking’ things—condemning the property for ‘the greater good’ so RPI can develop it.”

That final piece of information had raised a red flag, and it was in a spirit of righteous indignation that Elizabeth had claimed a seat near the front of the auditorium for the first meeting of Marshall County Voices—a meeting billed as a forum for
all
concerned citizens, both native born and newcomer. Beside her, Ben and Amanda held hands and carried on a whispered conversation while waiting for the meeting to begin.

The assembled crowd grew somewhat quieter as a cluster of men in dark business suits began to make their way to the raised area at the front of the auditorium. A muffled booing broke out from the back of the room but ceased abruptly as a tall man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt stepped to the podium and tapped on the microphone. The suited men took seats in a row of chairs to one side of the dais.

“Okay, folks, let’s get this meeting underway. We want to give everyone a chance to be heard—”

He broke off as an efficient-looking woman with a clipboard tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a sheet of paper. Glancing quickly at the paper, he began again. “This agenda Miz Worley’s just handed me says we’re goin’ to start with a presentation by Ransom Properties and Investments…”

An angry murmur ran through the crowd but the moderator held up his hand. “Now we all know that the proposed development at Gudger’s Stand is the number one issue on everyone’s list. And no matter whether you’re for or against it, it just makes sense to see what’s being proposed before we get down to sayin’ how we feel about it.”

Behind him a screen was being lowered and the muttering in the audience increased. “They got this all set up aforehand, I make no doubt,” Elizabeth heard Mason’s wife tell the woman on her right. “They’ll use up all the time there is showin’ pretty pictures and not let the other side be heard.”

At the same time, she could hear the woman behind her. “Hollis is the blond. Is he not to die for? Like a Ralph Lauren model. Thirty-two years old and a multimillionaire. Of course, he
started
with money…his family has developments all over the country…my god, they made a
killing
a few years ago on some junky little fishing village in North Florida…bought up property for next to nothing, tore down all the ugly little houses and bait shops and tacky little motels…and today it’s all
gorgeous
condos and utterly
fabulous
beach houses in those pale, pale, Martha Stewart pastels….”

On Elizabeth’s left, Ben nudged her with his elbow. “And what do you reckon happened to the
people
who lived in that little junky village?” His voice was pitched low, but as the woman behind them continued with her glowing description, she was in no danger of hearing Ben’s answer to his own question.

“I’ll tell you what happened: they’ve got shit jobs, cleaning those fancy houses and condos and taking care of the exotic, water-guzzling landscaping, and they’ve moved to crappy trailer parks out of sight of this tasteful development ’cause that’s the only housing they can afford. If we let these developers rape—”

The moderator’s voice rose above the buzz of talk in the auditorium as one of the suited men rose and approached the podium. “Folks, this is Mr. Hollis Noonan of RPI and he’s going to show you his vision for the county.”

Noonan took the podium to the accompaniment of scant scattered applause and muffled boos. Most of the crowd, Elizabeth noted, simply sat, arms folded, lips pursed, waiting to hear the proposal.
Not the easiest group to make a pitch to. I’m glad I’m not the one up there.

The one up there, however, seemed completely at ease. Hollis Noonan looked deliberately around the room, as if to take stock of those in attendance, bestowing a smile here and a nod there. He had, Elizabeth noted, an annoyingly boyish mannerism of constantly tossing his head to return his long blond forelock to its proper place. The undercurrent of conversation died away and Noonan leaned into the microphone.

“I’d like to tell you a little story—about a city boy who fell in love with the mountains.” His voice was strong, assured, and, it seemed to Elizabeth, without any noticeable accent. “When I was in college, I met a fellow you may have heard of—Vance Holcombe.”

An engaging grin spread itself across Noonan’s tanned face, and he turned, pointing to one of the men behind him. The sandy-haired Holcombe half-rose with a practiced sweep of the hand at the audience, then resumed his seat. Noonan continued, with another winning toss of that blond hank of hair.

“Don’t worry, Vance. I won’t tell any stories about our wild college days.” Blue eyes twinkled as he confided in his audience. “Now that he’s a respectable lawyer, Vance would prefer to draw a curtain over his youth.”
See what a good old boy I can be,
Noonan’s ingenuous face proclaimed.

“But I will tell you that one year Vance invited me home with him for fall break so I could see the county he bragged on and meet his folks: his brother, Little Platt; his mom and dad, Big Platt and Miss Lavinia; and his legendary uncle, High Sheriff Vance Holcombe.”

The atmosphere in the auditorium began to warm slightly as Noonan launched into a rambling account of his first trip to Marshall County—how he had hiked the mountain trails, kayaked down the river, tapped his toe to bluegrass and old-time fiddle tunes at a local music festival, and listened to the many tales his friend’s family had to relate of years gone by.

“It was one of the best times in my life. And I always promised myself that someday I’d come back—that I’d have a place of my own, high above that beautiful river, and not have to wait for an invitation from Vance.”

Once more the boyish grin swept around the auditorium. Then Noonan’s face grew somber. “A year ago I came back to Marshall County and to Ransom, with plans for that dream home and high hopes to be welcomed as a new neighbor. But I was shocked by what I found—a dying town, half the businesses closed and boarded up, a stagnant tourist industry, farming on the wane—in short,
Wasted Potential!
”

The speaker accompanied the accusing words with two sharp blows of his fist on the wooden lectern and another toss of his head. The carefully barbered sheaf of hair fanned out, catching the light before it settled into place, only to begin again the inevitable downward slide. At the same moment, the lights in the auditorium dimmed and the screen at the back of the dais lit up with an aerial photograph of Gudger’s Stand. Superimposed on the picture were the words “A New Day Dawns in Marshall County!”

In the half-light of the darkened room, Elizabeth watched the upturned faces of much of the suspicious crowd gradually change, forbidding scowls softening to neutral interest or open excitement. As the presentation rolled on, complete with glowing promises of benefits to the county from an increased tax base as well as a phenomenal projected growth in tourism and jobs, there was a perceptible shift in the mood of the majority.

“Well, Mason, I don’t know; looks to me like some good might come of this.” The tight gray curls quivered as the woman punched her husband’s arm and leaned over to speak into his ear. “What he’s sayin’ makes a world of sense—and if we was to hold on to that piece you heired from your daddy till some of this building got goin’, I reckon we could triple what we was thinkin’ of askin’. These Florida people are fools for steep land. And that piece ain’t doin’ us no good.”

Beside her, Elizabeth could hear Ben whispering to Amanda in an angry counterpoint to the lulling patter that accompanied the computer graphics showing the projected development.

“…garden villas, time-shares, common green space, riverfront condos, historic re-creation, clubhouse, Olympic swimming pools, wellness center—”

An agitated chatter broke out at the back of the room as the door flew open and a husky young man wearing a green and yellow Marshall High School letter jacket, cell phone in hand, burst through the knot of standing latecomers to shout out his news.

“They’s someone’s big ol’ Hummer’s on fire out there in the parking lot—burnin’ like a summabitch! I called 911 but I reckon—”

“…wildflowers, peaceful nature trails, pristine sparkling brooks winding through gentle meadows…”
The recorded voice-over continued, accompanying the idyllic scenes that bloomed and then faded on the unwatched screen, as the audience poured out of the auditorium into the cold night air.