Art's Blood (11 page)

I replied somewhat absently for I was looking all about me in wide-eyed wonder, trying to absorb the new sights. Miss Geneva said nothing for a time, then exclaimed, I hope you’ll stay longer than our last recruit.
She
took one look at our outhouse and had me drive her back to the station. I shuddered inwardly but answered that I was prepared to “rough it.” Miss Geneva laughed, not unkindly, and said, We’ll see.

We had been traveling for some while when we pulled up at a big log house with a tidy front yard a-bloom with jonquils. I’m going to pick up work from two of our girls, Miss Geneva said, handing me the reins. Pull back hard if he tries any foolishness.

She climbed down from the wagon and approached the house, calling out, Fanchon! Tildy! Almost immediately the front door opened and one of the loveliest creatures I had ever seen stepped out to the porch. Be right there, Miss Geneva, she sang out. The faded shapeless housedress could not conceal her perfect form, and her thick, wavy red-blonde hair skewered in a loose knot atop her head brought immediately to mind the words “crowning glory.” At this time almost all other girls of her age had succumbed to the Dutch bob or Eton crop— short severe haircuts that made pretty girls plain and plain girls ugly. Fanchon’s hair, as I would learn later, fell below her waist.

She ducked back into the house for a moment, then reappeared with a large bundle wrapped in burlap. Behind her with a similar bundle was another girl, also in her late teens but of such different appearance. She was lumpish and sallow and her mousy brown hair, cut fashionably short, frizzed uncontrollably around her blotchy face. Hard luck on her if they are sisters, I thought.

The girls brought their bundles out to the wagon and were introduced. Fanchon, the beauty, was shy and would hardly look at me, but Tildy at once peppered me with questions about where I had come from and what was my dress made of and whose picture did I have in that there locket. I could understand less than half of her chatter, so thick was her mountain brogue, and I found her eager importuning a trifle distasteful.

As indeed, I think, did Miss Geneva. The minute the bundles were crammed in amongst the supplies and my valises, she climbed back to the wagon seat and took the reins. That’ll do for now, Tildy. Miss Lily will be at the Center when you come to get your earnings and to pick up more material. Miss Geneva hesitated, then said to her, almost unwillingly, We have a special project in mind for you. Her tone was brusque but her voice softened when she turned to Fanchon. You come too, child.

As we traveled on, Miss Geneva told me about the two girls— both did handicrafts that were marketed through the Center. Fanchon hooked rugs and Tildy was one of the Center’s most accomplished needlewomen. It had been decided to entrust to her the making of a wonderful quilt— a showpiece for her talents— that would be presented to President and Mrs. Roosevelt in appreciation of their work for the poor of the area. It should help to bring the Center more recognition, Miss Geneva said. If only we can get our name better known, then we can build a wider market for our ladies’ work. We sell a good amount in Asheville through The Three Mountaineers, but Caro and I have set our sights on outlets in big cities like New York and Chicago.

We arrived at the Center— a modest farmhouse with a barn that had been converted to a workroom. Miss Carolyn came to meet us, a tall slender woman with something of a vague and ethereal manner. She was trailing bits of wool and brushing at the white fluff that clung to her skirt. Welcome, my dear, she cried, holding out her hand to help me down from the wagon. Please excuse my appearance; I’ve been spinning and it does so adhere!

We hauled my valises to what would be my room; I was shown the dreaded outhouse and was delicately instructed in the use of powdered lime, then told to settle in while the ladies unloaded the wagon. I was glad for a little time alone to absorb the new atmosphere. It was far more rustic than any place I had ever visited but nothing like the horrors my mother had imagined. I decided, however, that I would not mention the outhouse in my letters home.

My room was simple and scrupulously clean. An iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, a small table and chair, and a wooden rocker were the furnishings. A row of pegs on one wall were my closet; a kerosene lamp on the table, my illumination. But there was a soft pink and green hooked rug on the floor, a white and pink quilt on the bed, and airy white embroidered curtains hung at the window. Outside the window was a gnarled apple tree and beyond it lay a charming vista of rolling meadows and wooded slopes.

I had done no more than remove my hat and tidy my hair when Miss Carolyn tapped at my door. The kettle’s on the boil, she trilled. Why don’t you join us in the kitchen for a cup of tea?

We sat around a battered old wooden table, its top worn smooth by use. The pungent aroma of mint rose from the teapot— a heavy-looking thing of dark brown pottery. Miss Carolyn beamed as she filled my mug— more heavy pottery— and I smiled to think of Mother’s pronouncement that tea may only be served in fine porcelain— preferably of an eggshell thinness.

We dry the branch mint ourselves, Miss Geneva explained, and the honey’s from a neighbor’s gums.

I looked apprehensively at the little jar of dark honey and Miss Carolyn giggled. Oh, Geneva, we’ll have to teach her the language.

They quickly explained that bee gums were a rude type of hive made from a section of hollow log. Branch mint, I learned, grew not on a tree limb but in the shallow water of a creek— locally called a branch. Miss Caro began to recite a vocabulary— And there’s poke for bag and gaum for a mess and if they
say
mess, it means a lot of, like a mess of beans—

And, Miss Geneva broke in, if they say, I wouldn’t care to, it means that they
would
do whatever it is, not the other way round. The misunderstandings we had till we figured that one out!

The two women were eager to introduce me to their chosen way of life, and their words tumbled over one another’s as they told me something of their history. Geneva had been raised in Atlanta; Carolyn in Charleston. They had each come to North Carolina to attend a weaving class at Penland School for Handicrafts. It was there that they had met and there that the idea for their Center had been born. Both held Miss Lucy Morgan, Penland’s founder, in considerable esteem, and they readily admitted that their venture was modeled on the Penland example.

Miss Lucy’s been at Penland since 1920, Carolyn told me. We were among the first outside students in ’29. Oh, Miss Lucy is such a delight! She has a fund of wonderful stories about the natives—

At this Geneva began to smile. Go on, Caro; you know you want to tell that silly tale about Uncle Sol.

Carolyn needed no further urging. With a broad smile she began: Well, it seems that Uncle Sol had a steer calf that he wanted to teach to pull a plow. But the only yoke he had was for two calves. So he got his son Price to come and help and first they put the yoke on the calf and then Uncle Sol put his own head in the other side of the yoke. Here Carolyn hunched over and began to speak in the same mountain twang I had heard used by many of my fellow passengers on the trip from Asheville to Hot Springs. Now, Price, she said, assuming the character of Uncle Sol, you pick up the rope I done tied to the yoke, walk us around, and see how we does. So Price led the ill-assorted pair up and down and Uncle Sol says, Well, we’re doin just fine, ain’t we? This calf ain’t a-goin to be no trouble to break, no trouble a-tall.

Now, Price, says Uncle Sol, git that little sled from out the barn and hook us up and see how we pulls. And this next step went smoothly too, so Uncle Sol said, Now, Price, let’s see how we does with a load. So Price stepped onto the sled— and sat down—

Then Miss Geneva broke in, barely holding back her laughter. But by now, the calf was tired of this game, and he started trotting down the road toward the pasture. And Uncle Sol had to trot too, yoked together as they were. Price hauled on the rope to slow the calf but the rope broke. So Price hung on to the sled as his father and the calf dashed over the rocky ground. The calf was going faster and faster, frightened at the sound of the wooden sled bouncing along behind him, and Uncle Sol had no choice but to run faster too or have his neck broken.

Just then, exclaimed Miss Carolyn, around a bend in the road came Uncle Sol’s wife Mariah, on her way home from the store. Mariah! shouted Uncle Sol. Ketch us, Mariah! We’re a-runnin away!

So Mariah ran up to Uncle Sol and the calf, grabbed Uncle Sol’s overalls, and hung on for dear life. Gol darn it, Mariah, Uncle Sol bellowed. Turn a-loose of me and ketch a-holt of that thar calf!
I’ll
stop!

I can still see the two, shaking with helpless laughter as they told the story. Indeed, for years after my marriage I dined out, as they say, on that story. I could mimic the mountain twang to perfection and was always called on to “do” the story of Uncle Sol and the bull calf. And I was happy to oblige, for there were other stories that I could never tell.

T
HE COOLER EVENING AIR WAS A RELIEF FROM THE
warm house when Elizabeth and Phillip brought their after-dinner coffee out to the porch and settled in the rockers. The chirr of crickets was incessant and from the kitchen came the sounds of Ben and Kyra, laughing as they finished up the dishes.

“Ah, the resilience of youth.” Elizabeth propped up her feet on a low bench and stretched wearily. “How she can be so cheerful after all that’s happened…”

Phillip was silent, all of his attention apparently on his cup of coffee. He had arrived at six and he and Kyra had had a lengthy private discussion while Ben tended to the grilling chickens and Elizabeth finished up dinner preparations. All four had enjoyed the food and, by unspoken common agreement, had not talked of the fire nor any of the recent unhappy events. Kyra was wearing some of her new clothes and, in her jeans and pale green T-shirt, her face free of makeup, she looked prettier than ever. She and Ben had obviously enjoyed their trip to Asheville; both were in high spirits.

Elizabeth had watched Kyra carefully, wondering if this gaiety, following so close on the heels of Boz’s death, Aidan’s arrest, and the fire, was a sign of the mental instability Marvin Peterson had mentioned. But there was no manic quality to Kyra’s demeanor, she decided. Rather there was a kind of relief— as if the girl felt safe and surrounded by friends.

“We thought we’d take a little walk.” Ben came out of the door, flashlight in hand, dogs at his heels. “The dishes are all done.” He lowered his voice. “She’s feeling a lot better, I think.”

Kyra slipped out of the door and came to Elizabeth’s side. “Elizabeth, thank you so much for everything. You and Ben have saved my life….” She paused and turned to Phillip. “And Detective Hawkins. I really appreciate your coming all the way back out to talk with me again. It feels so good to have someone like you on my side.” Even in the dim light from the kitchen window, Elizabeth could see the mothlike sweep of Kyra’s eyelashes.

Too dark, however, to see if Phillip was blushing again. He nodded briefly. “Not a problem. I like coming out here. But, remember, I told you— it’s not ‘Detective’ anymore. Just ‘Phillip’ will do.”

“Whatever.” Kyra’s hand brushed Hawkins’s shoulder. “I just want you to know how very much I appreciate your help.”

James, impatient for the walk he’d been promised, began to bark and make little dashes between the steps and Ben. Molly and Ursa bumped at Ben’s knees, eager to be off.

“Okay, you dogs, let’s go.” Ben reached for Kyra’s hand. “The rock path is pretty uneven; better hold on to me till your eyes adjust to the dark. We’ll go along the top of the pasture. The moon’s not up yet and we can get a really good view of the Milky Way.”

They set off, accompanied by the three joyful dogs. Elizabeth could hear the crunch of the gravel under their feet as they walked down the road, hands still linked, with James close behind. Molly and Ursa ranged ahead, all their hunting instincts sharpened by the spell of the night. Finally, when the sound of footsteps faded away, Elizabeth scooted her rocker closer to her silent companion.

“Phillip, have they found out anything about the fire yet? Have you talked to any of—”

“How serious is Ben about that little girl? He seems pretty protective—”

“Who knows?” Elizabeth studied her enigmatic companion, trying to read his expression in the faint light from the kitchen window. “He is, as you say, protective. And I know he’s been kind of interested in her ever since she and the others moved to the branch. But, obviously, she was involved with Boz and Aidan.”

“And they’re both out of the way now.”

“What are you saying, Phillip? You can’t possibly—”

“No, Elizabeth,
you
can’t possibly. I’m afraid you’re too close to Ben and maybe you’re getting too close to Kyra to be objective about all this.” He reached out and patted her hand. “You have good intuitions, no doubt about it— Blaine is still talking about what went down last year and how you managed to be right in the middle of all that crap. But—”

“Dammit, Phillip!” Elizabeth jumped to her feet and stood staring down at the gently rocking Hawkins. “I will
not
be patronized and I will
not
have my hand patted! You’ll be saying ‘There, there, little woman,’ next. Just tell me if you— or Sheriff Blaine, for that matter— have any real reason to suspect Ben of being mixed up in this.”

“No, no real reason.” Phillip smiled calmly. “I was just making a point— giving you an example of why you’re not exactly in a position to study this case objectively.”