Wildwood Creek (20 page)

“My umm-mama s-sung it,” the man stammered, seeming embarrassed by my outburst.

“Grandpa Len don’t sing it,” Birdie assured me. “I ain’t scared a’ Bonnie Rose. I got Jesus watchin’ over me.” Slipping a hand into the neck of her dress, she pulled out a crudely painted wooden cross, the sort of thing we might’ve made in Vacation Bible School when I was in Texas for the summers. “We got Jesus, right, Grandpa Len?”

“Yes’m, th-that’s urr-right. And udd-don’t be f-forgetten it.” Grandpa Len scratched his scraggly beard, giving the woods a concerned glance. “W-we ubb-best be ugg-getting back to the m-mule.”

“Wait.” I grabbed his arm impulsively. “What’s the rest of the song? What does it say?”

His leathery features scrunched around his nose, conveying frustration. Finally, he pounded his head with the heel of one hand hard enough that it hurt just to watch. “Udd-don’t know. My umm-mind ain’t so ugg-good n-no more. Granny u-u-sed to s-sing it ubb-boiling them hen eggs, and let ’em g-go that ull-long.”

Eggs . . . How long does it take to boil eggs?
I’d just learned that during my frontier training. Five minutes, maybe? There was much more to the song than what I’d just heard.

The old man pounded his temple and alternately shook his head, trying to dredge up the rest. His little granddaughter grabbed his elbow to stop him. “It’s okay, Grandpa Len. It don’ matter. We can sing another song. Mrs. Zimmer taught us one in summer school th’other day.”

Her grandfather gave an adoring smile, his face relaxing. “All urr-right. You c-can teach umm-me.”

Birdie’s eyes twinkled. “Okay. And tomorrow, can we go see the caves down by the lake too?”

“If the w-water’s down f-fer enough, we w-will. Them c-caves ubb-been c-covered lotsa y-years. Umm-might b-be a big ol’ c-catfish in t-there g-get us ull-like this.” Jutting out a hand, he nipped the little girl’s waist before she could twist away, giggling.

“Well, be careful.” I held up the jar of fireflies. “I’ll give these to Nick’s mom.” Along with the promise came an idea. Maybe I’d mention the bit from the old ballad to Nick’s mom. Perhaps she could dig up something online. I hadn’t found any mention of it in the Wildwood research I’d done with Stewart, but who could say?

Birdie and Len turned toward home, fading into the shadows as I hurried back to the village. Fortunately, the press ops and photos were over for the day, and the schoolhouse lay quiet and empty, the heat of the afternoon slowly seeping out through the walls.

Back in my little room, I tucked the phone into the empty canister with my toothpaste and put it on one of the high shelves where Wren couldn’t reach it. There were plenty of unused spaces among my kitchen goods. Even though I had gone through some of the domestic arts training with the historical experts, I wasn’t expected to be cooking much. As the local teacher, my meals would be provided by various townsfolk as was customary for preachers and teachers in frontier settlements like Wildwood. I was counting on my kindly neighbors, as I hadn’t been very adept at the frontier cooking lessons, and my limited teacher income wouldn’t allow for much buying at the store, where the prices were exorbitant even by mid-century standards.

By the time I finally finished hiding everything and putting on my Sunday best outfit for the celebration of our last
night before go-live, I could already hear music floating in the air above the village street. Someone out there was playing a mean fiddle. The bawdy tune wrestled a little jig from me as I opened the bedroom door with the firefly jar tucked under my arm.

The handle bumped into something soft, and all of a sudden, there was Wren Godley, looking undeniably guilty. Of what, I wondered?

“Ouch!” She rubbed her shoulder where the door had collided with it. “You should look before you come out. This is a schoolroom, right? There might be a
kid
here,
remember.
” She was her usual charming self. There was a reason why the grips and other cast members, including children, ran the other way when they saw Wren coming.

“School’s closed,” I reminded Wren. “Why aren’t you out there with the other kids? I thought they were going to have games for you guys tonight.” I tried to shoo her from the doorway, but she wasn’t moving. Instead, she peered curiously into the apartment.

Her eyes squeezed upward from the bottom, and she crinkled her nose at me. “I don’t
like
games.” An obnoxious little head bob gave emphasis. “How come
you
don’t have to be at the stupid hog roast?”

“I do have to be there. Actually, I’m looking forward to it, and I’m headed that way right now. Excuse me while I shut the door.” I nudged her gently out of the way, and she sidestepped into my exit path.

“Well, where were you
before
?” She poked her nose out like a ferret sniffing for morsels. “Because you weren’t in
here
. I checked in the window, and there wasn’t
anybody
in here.”

Now she was a Peeping Tom too? I’d have to be even more careful.

She noticed the firefly jar clutched under my arm before I could answer. “What are those? Bugs?”

“Fireflies. They’re for Nick Everson. It’s a long story.”

“Ewww. What are they
for
?” Drawing back, she gave the jar a perplexed look, and it occurred to me that Wren Godley didn’t know anything about gathering fireflies into a lantern jar.

A sudden and surprising tsunami of sympathy hit me, and I held the container out for her to see. “Well, because they’re pretty. You enjoy their twinkling for a while, and then when you’re done, you let them go. It’s like . . . making your own lamp.”

For just an instant, her face softened as she considered the wonder of fireflies. As quickly as it was there, the vulnerability vaporized, replaced by crossed arms and a sardonic eye roll. “Why don’t you just get a
flashlight
, stupid?”

“Never mind.” Since it was either say something inappropriate or move on, I chose to usher her out of my space and up the street toward the gathering of cast and crew. The festivities were already moving into full swing in the street outside Unger Dry Goods Store and Warehouse, the biggest building in town.

We hadn’t gone far before Wren’s mother apprehended her, and they veered off, the mom struggling to navigate the caliche gravel on five-inch heels while berating Wren for disappearing. There was face time to be had with important people, after all. Like Rav Singh, who had just arrived at the party. I could see him across the way, holding court on the loading dock of the Unger Warehouse. He was telling a story while a group of admirers hung on his every word. Wren’s mother quickly elbowed her way to the front, maneuvering Wren into position.

I stood on the fringes and watched for a moment, wonder
ing what it must be like to be Rav. To be surrounded at all times by people who wanted something, expected something, needed something, who were just waiting for you to notice them.

Did he thrive on it? Feed on it? Was he ever just . . . exhausted by it? How difficult would it be, never knowing if the people around you were real? How did my father deal with the culture of this business? Was I ready for it? Would I ever be?

What if, after all this, I found out that my father’s passion, his ability to bring stories to film, had died with him—that I really didn’t have it? What if my mother and Lloyd were right all along? What if I was just . . . nothing out of the ordinary? Not remarkably smart like Lloyd’s kids. Not remarkably athletic like my half siblings.

Just unremarkable.

Insecurity nipped. Before it could take out a hunk of flesh, I wandered off to find Nick and his mother, so I could give them the firefly jar. Unlike Wren, Nick was delighted with creation and thrilled that his friend Birdie had brought it for him.

“Nick and Birdie adore each other,” Mallory explained. “She’s a couple years older, so it really works. She tells him what they’re going to do, and he does it. She’s like the big sister he never had. On top of that, she knows everything about bugs, fish, and little squirmy animals, as well as mules, chickens, and all the doodads boys like. Living up here, she’s got a wealth of experience. Even though we’re on a ranch, it’s a whole different kind of life for these families in Chinquapin Peaks. I’m sure Len and Birdie didn’t mean any harm by coming to take a peek at the village, by the way. The hill people don’t quite recognize private property rights, especially for something so foreign as a film project like
Wildwood Creek
.”

Since we’d come around to the subject, I took advantage of the opportunity to tell her about the song Len and Birdie
had mentioned and to discreetly ask if she could find out any more about it. “But if you’d keep it quiet, I’d appreciate it. I mean, I don’t want to get you in any trouble, so if you’d prefer not to, I understand.”

Mallory tucked her hair behind her ear, giving me a wry look. “Are you kidding? I love a good mystery, and it sounds like something I might want to do a story on, eventually. I’ll see what I can turn up. My friend Andrea counsels for the Department of Human Services here. She could ask some of her older clients about it. If Len’s grandmother knew the song, maybe other people do too. Folk music tends to be passed down. I’ll see if I can find anything.”

“There you are!” Kim was headed my way, hiking up her simple cotton skirt. “I haven’t seen you in
forever
! That’s the worst thing about this place—there’s no time for girl talk. Okay, well, I take that back. The outhouse is the
worst
thing, my boss at the bathhouse is the
second
worst thing, but you’re third. I miss you.” She tackled me with a hug.

Mallory headed off to take pictures of the giant hog spitted over the fire pit, which I myself had been trying to avoid looking at. Something about seeing a roasting carcass nearby was . . . well . . . icky. But it did smell good.

Kim and I walked the other way, watching the kids participate in hoop-rolling contests and try their skill at walking on stilts, weaving potholders, bobbing for apples, and tossing little bags of river gravel into a cut-off barrel.

By the time the dinner bell rang, calling us to the serving line, I was warming to the idea of eating hog carcass. My mouth had started watering and my stomach sounded like a badger coming out of hibernation. With the go-live about to begin and our foodstuffs and incomes set to match that of our historic counterparts, the feasts were over after tonight, and everyone seemed to be aware of it.

Kim and I ended up seated near the end of a table with Genie and Netta. Tova and Rav wandered by with their plates, and I held my breath, hoping they wouldn’t fill the last two empty seats at our table. Fortunately, they moved on, and the dinner slipped into a relaxed, friendly mode. Thanks to Kim, the conversation quickly turned to discussion of 1860s outhouses, chamber pots, and underwear. Not the usual table talk, but before long, we were all red-faced, laughing about each others’ mishaps. Of course, my stuck-in-the-window story came up. Something that ridiculous doesn’t happen just any day.

“Okay, okay. It wasn’t one of my brighter ideas. It’s hard to get used to needing a six-foot berth everywhere you go.” I cleverly omitted the fact that it was Blake Fulton who had come to the rescue. What was there to say, anyway? The man had the most annoying habit of popping in and out of my life without explanation.

Kim frowned across the table, sensing something hidden. The girl could practically read my mind sometimes. “But what were you doing,
exactly
, climbing out the window?”

Leave it to her to home in on the obvious. I didn’t have a great answer for that, but I came up with the best one I could. “Well, I just . . . was thinking about the fact that there’s no rear door on my room and . . . what if there was a . . . a fire or something? I wanted to make sure I could get . . .”

“Hey, neighbor!” Of all people, Blake Fulton slid into a chair next to me without bothering to ask whether it was empty or not. As usual, he came out of nowhere. “You recover from that little wrestling match with the window yet? Heard you’re famous up in the tech trailer now. I’ll tack that facing back on for you tomorrow.”

Across the table, Kim blinked, her eyes dropping open like the jaws on a steam shovel, ready to rake in the facts. Genie
and Netta looked back and forth between Blake and me, brows rising speculatively.

“Yes, I did. Recover. Thank you.”
Neighbor.
That’s what he’d said. So, he
was
staying in the room next to mine? And if he was . . . where was he all morning during the photo shoots? I hadn’t seen a sign of him, and I’d been looking.

To my complete horror, Kim requested the details of the window incident, and Blake Fulton obliged. My stupidity quickly became the stuff of amusing dinner conversation. He shoulder-butted me when he was finished, adding, “She was a good sport about it, for a girl with her head caught in a ringer. By the time the camera went on, she was laughing so hard, she didn’t even notice.”

Netta passed a playful look my way. “Well, you know, back in
my
day, if a gal wanted to get a young fella’s attention, she just piled a few extra schoolbooks into her bundle, so it would look like it was more than she could handle. Then she’d stroll by the fella’s house, a’course, and walk
rea-ul
slow.”

A blush heated the upper half of my body. This conversation was taking a most disturbing turn. “I really don’t understand why my room doesn’t have a door to the back porch.”
To change the subject just a little.
“It’d make it so much easier to go down to the springhouse for water, for one thing.”

“And to practice fire drills,” Blake offered. He was so helpful.

Genie threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, mercy! That was how I got the attention of my very first beau, back in the day—lugging a water bucket. He worked for a dairy up the road, so every day, just about the time I
knew
he’d be passing by on his bicycle, well, I’d be waiting there by Daddy’s barn with a big ol’ bucket of water to carry. Now, I was a farm gal, so I could heft that thing and lug it a mile. But as soon as I’d see that boy passing by, I’d start dragging it like my arm was gonna fall off. ’Course, when that boy
stopped to rescue me, I’d invite him in for some fruit pie as a fair reward for all that rescuin’, see?” She winked across the table at me.