Under the Skin (12 page)

The old woman beamed at her. “Aye, law, so you’re Lizzie Beth’s little sister. And ain’t you a purty thing—like a little doll. How proud I am you uns come by!”

Elizabeth hugged her neighbor. “This is Gloria, Miss Birdie. She’s staying with me for a while.”

Gloria held out her hand. “Elizabeth’s told me so much—” But the polite formula was cut short as the little old woman took the hand and turned it over to reveal the ugly burn at the wrist.

“Why, honey, whatever have you done to yourself? Does it pain you right much?”

Gloria felt about four years old as her eyes began to well up and prickle. “Yes, ma’am, it does.”
And when was the last time I called anyone ma’am?
“I was going to go to the store to get something to put on it—Lizzy didn’t have anything …”

The little old woman was looking deep into her eyes and Gloria fell silent. All at once there was a hush in the room and she had the oddest feeling of being drawn into the heart of some thing or some place. For a moment it was as if she and this ancient woman were standing,
hands clasped, alone on some high misty place, far away from the real world.

“Iffen you want,” the words were soft and strangely seductive, “I can draw the fire out of that burn and soothe it. I learned how from my granny.”

“Why, Miss Birdie!” Elizabeth’s light teasing voice shattered the moment of perfect rapport. “I didn’t know you were a witchy-woman.”

The feeling of isolation fell away and Gloria returned from the mysterious mountaintop
—What was that about
?—to the here and now of the tacky little living room with its vinyl recliner and plastic-covered sofa. She saw her sister’s mouth parted in a mock O of astonishment and she realized that her own mouth had been gaping open in a most unbecoming way.

Miss Birdie kept a firm hold on Gloria’s hand and shot an amused look back at Elizabeth. “Reckon there’s some would call me a witchy-woman though I didn’t have aught to do with none of that for many a year. It was on account of Luther didn’t like me using Granny’s charms—he said it weren’t in Scripture. But I believe he’s done changed his mind now.”

A puzzled frown replaced the O. “I don’t see how—”

Just like Lizzy to forget the whole reason we’re here
, thought Gloria as she overrode her sister’s protestations. “Really, Lizzy, don’t you think you ought to call Ben? And those Mexicans of yours too? Warn them to be on the lookout.”

“Their names are Julio and Homero and they’re not
my
Mexicans,” Elizabeth snapped. “Miss Birdie, may I use your phone?”

“Why, you go right ahead, honey. Me and your little sister’ll step into the kitchen and I’ll put some bam gilly on that burn.”

Gloria let herself be led into the adjoining room. Behind
her, Lizzy was saying, “If you get this message …” Obviously Ben or the Mexicans hadn’t picked up.

In the kitchen a comforting smell of baking hung in the air, teasing her nose with familiar scents—sweet, spicy, but nameless. Like cookies or cake—that was the best she could do to identify the tantalizing aromas. A shiny white wood-burning cookstove, its vast black surface crowded with pots and pans, radiated an enveloping heat that seemed, somehow, pleasant rather than oppressive. Just inside the door a dinette set occupied half of the floor space. The turquoise and gray plastic-topped table with matching chairs was straight from the fifties, she thought, and so tacky that it would probably be called “retro” by some designers.

“Come over here by the back door, honey, where we can get the breeze,” the little woman urged her and Gloria did as she was told.

“I finally got hold of Ben,” Elizabeth announced a quarter of an hour later, coming into the kitchen where Miss Birdie was spreading a yellowish, sweet-smelling ointment over Gloria’s inner arm. “He was down in the lower pasture sawing up a tree that had fallen on the fence. The Hummer must have gone up our road while the saw was running because he didn’t see it till it was coming back down and heading for the hard road. Ben said that bothered him so he jumped on his four-wheeler to try to catch the vehicle and find out who it was. But just as he was about to catch up with it, the Hummer got to the hard road and took off around the mountain.”

Miss Birdie looked up from her doctoring. “Are you talking about that great black vehicle? Was that what you uns was hiding from?”

Then, of course, there were explanations—of a sort. Gloria wondered why the little old woman didn’t ask more questions as Elizabeth sketched out a brief version
of why Gloria was in hiding but Miss Birdie simply nodded and offered to let them know if she saw “that great ugly black vehicle” another time.

“And she will too,” Elizabeth had promised. “Miss Birdie’s a one-woman Neighborhood Watch. She always keeps an eye on the road and pays attention to who’s going where.”

The Neighborhood Watch had insisted on driving them back to Full Circle Farm. “Iffen that feller’s such a fearsome somebody that you uns had to hide up in my laurel bush, then it wouldn’t do for him to find you walking on the road and no one in sight, now would it?”

Even Lizzy didn’t argue—it was obvious, thought Gloria, that no one argued with Miss Birdie—and they had all three climbed into the old pickup for the short ride up the road to the farm’s driveway.

There had been no further sign of the Hummer and Miss Birdie had let them out at Elizabeth’s workshop. Gloria watched the truck as it rattled down the driveway, Miss Birdie’s white head barely visible in the rear window.

What was it about this old country woman that was so calming … so … almost … 
wise
? Gloria was reminded of a spiritual workshop she had attended where a yoga teacher had had just such an effect on her—briefly causing her to imagine laying a trusting hand in the brown palm of the guru and following wherever he led.

Fortunately that feeling had passed. She couldn’t really imagine a life of chastity, simplicity, and chanting. But during the short time she and Miss Birdie had been alone together, that same seductive feeling had crept over her. She had felt like a little girl again, safe in an adult’s comforting embrace.

Miss Birdie makes me think of Gramma. I used to believe
that Gramma could do anything. Lizzy was her favorite, though. She and Gramma were thick as thieves. I remember Mother saying that. “Thick as thieves, those two. Your sister would rather listen to your grandmother talk about that wretched little dirt farm she grew up on and the smelly chickens—chickens! I ask you. Never mind, Gloria, you and I’ll have a girlie day together in town shopping … and if there’s time, we’ll get our nails done …”

“… or I can take you up to the house. Glory, did you hear me?”

Elizabeth was staring at her with real concern on her face. Gloria shook herself out of the reverie.

“Sorry, Lizzy, what did you say?”

“I asked do you want me to drive you up to the house? I need to get an order ready before Julio does the delivery run. It won’t take long and it’s not lunchtime yet … if you wanted to hang out with me, we could talk …”

Lizzy actually sounded apologetic and a little … humble? Was that the word?
Maybe she believes me now about Jerry. The Eyebrow showing up proves Jerry’s after me
. Gloria looked toward the barn with the faded red paint.

“Sure,” she agreed. “I’d like to see what it is you do in here.” She followed Elizabeth into the cavernous workshop, filled with bins and baskets and several huge tables. Shelves lined two of the walls, overflowing with mysterious jars and containers. A large flat basket draped with a damp towel lay on a workbench to one side.

“Rosemary and lavender trimmings,” Elizabeth said, pulling back the towel to reveal a pile of sweet-smelling sprigs of green-gray foliage. She reached to switch on the overhead lights. “It’s really too early to be pruning them but the woman having this party was willing to
pay whatever I asked if she could just have six little fresh wreaths as centerpieces. She mentioned some spiritual reason it had to be fresh rosemary and lavender but I forget what it was. Anyway, I named a price so outrageous that I thought she’d back out but it didn’t faze her. So Julio cut these for me this morning.”

Elizabeth rummaged in a blue plastic bin and emerged with six fat rings of some dark green material.

“This is great stuff—it’s been soaking in water and now we just stick the herb sprigs all over each wreath form and voilà—a fancy-schmancy fresh herb wreath!”

She placed the green rings on a long rectangle of mottled white plastic that was spread on the big worktable. “This is where my old shower curtain liners go when I can’t get the mildew off them anymore. So, Glory, want to make a wreath?”

Gloria protested that she was no good at crafts, that she would mess it up, that she didn’t think she—but Elizabeth paid no attention and handed her a ring to work on.

“Like I said, just jab the stems in the foam. You want to kind of alternate the rosemary and the lavender and put them close enough together that none of the green foam stuff shows, okay?”

And Elizabeth turned away and began poking the little sprigs into the damp foam of the circle before her. After watching for a moment, Gloria reached for a silvery sprig and sniffed at it. So this was lavender! It smelled just like the divine French paper that lined her lingerie drawers and linen closet back home.

She made a tentative stab into the green material. To her surprise, the stem sank in without the least resistance.

A sideways glance revealed Elizabeth working with steady precision, her right hand implanting a sprig as
her left reached for another. About a third of the ring bristled with the fragrant herbs.

With her left hand, Gloria reached for the rosemary.

They worked in a companionable silence. Gloria found herself enjoying the task—the sight of the little wreath growing beneath her fingers, the pungent smell of the herbs, the rhythm of her movements, and the muted sound of classical music on the radio.

She became aware that her sister was watching her—that deep blue gaze that could make her feel so uncomfortable—and she stopped, a sprig of lavender poised just above the partially finished wreath. “What? Am I doing it wrong?”

Elizabeth’s expression softened. “No, Glory, it’s perfect. I was wondering if the burn was still bothering you—maybe we ought to go get some real burn ointment.”

“It’s quit bothering me completely.” Gloria turned her hand palm up to show the tender inner arm. A few pale yellow streaks of Miss Birdie’s concoction remained but the skin beneath was no longer red.

Elizabeth leaned in for a closer look. “But there were blisters … I saw them. Weren’t there? … What was in that ointment anyway?”

Gloria returned to the rhythm of her wreath.
Pick up, push in, pick up, push in
. “Miss Birdie called it bam gilly. It’s crushed-up buds of balm of Gilead, whatever that is. She said that her grandmother used to mix them with bear grease or hog lard but she uses sweet oil—whatever
that
is—and petroleum jelly.”

She couldn’t help noticing that Elizabeth was still staring at the place where the burn had been, staring and shaking her head in disbelief.

“There were blisters. It was a bad burn, I know it was.
And she just put this … this stuff on it and it healed, is that what you’re saying?”

Gloria wedged in a final piece of rosemary. “Actually, first she said some words—something about angels and fire and frost—while she kind of fanned at the place with her hand. She called it drawing the fire out. She said the words over and over and by the time she put the ointment on, the blisters were gone and the redness had faded. She’s an amazing healer, Lizzy, just like this holy man I met at a spiritual retreat in California.”

“Really?” Once more Gloria felt the penetrating blue stare. “So you and Miss Birdie hit it off right away?”

Was that a note of disapproval in Lizzy’s voice?

Gloria lifted her chin. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we did. She reminded me of Gramma … and she was so easy to talk to. I told her about—”

“
Perdóname, Elizabeta
, the truck, it is ready.”

It was one of the Mexicans standing in the doorway—a short, square, dark-skinned man wearing new jeans, a freshly ironed blue cowboy shirt, and shiny cowboy boots. He ducked his head at Gloria and smiled.

Gloria watched as the two wreaths she had completed—
They’re just perfect, Glory! Excellent work!—
were packed with the others into a plastic box and handed over to Julio.
I wonder what Lizzy gets paid for these. I’ve never done anything to make money—except get married
.

“These are the directions.” Elizabeth handed Julio a printed sheet. “It’s two streets after the turn to El Chalapa. That’s where you and Homero usually stop for lunch, right?”

Julio nodded. “
Sí
, we eat in the room with the TV
grande
. Homero, he likes the
telenovelas. Pero yo—me gusta la lucha libre. El Scorpion—
”

A whistle shrilled outside.
“Hombre, vamos! Mira la hora!”

Julio grinned and picked up the box of wreaths. “Today they show his favorite:
Los Ricos También Lloran
—‘The Rich, They Cry Too.’ ”

As he hurried out the door, Gloria heard his words echoing in her mind.
The rich, they cry too
. She felt her eyes filling with tears and lifted her hand to brush them away. The scent of rosemary clung to her fingers.

Wednesday, May 16

G
loria was uncharacteristically silent as we drove to the house. Usually she’s doing that southern lady thing of not letting a silence fall. But she sat quiet in the passenger seat, not even responding as we jolted over a freshly dug and particularly deep water break.

Ben had been out with the tractor early that morning, cleaning ditches and redigging the water breaks. I’d suggested earlier that he and Amanda join us for breakfast while Gloria was here but he’d just laughed, saying that their days had to start much earlier than his mother’s. Dinner now and then, he added, would be the best thing for all involved.