Art's Blood (15 page)

“So I took off for Asheville— Kyra said she’d rather stay in the workshop— she’s really been having fun, reading up on herbs and making wreaths. And she had her cell so she could call 911 if anything…” Ben looked unhappy. “Anyway, I got the delivery made and was heading home when the truck started acting up. I thought I better let Jim look at it— I have another delivery first thing tomorrow.”

A small quiver of misgiving nagged at the edges of Elizabeth’s attention. “Julio’s there at the farm, isn’t he?” She made the question as casual as she could.

“Yeah, but he was going up to work on the fence at the top of the mountain after lunch— I thought I’d be back sooner but—”

The grease-stained Jim rolled out from under the truck, nodded to Elizabeth, and said to Ben, “Try it now.” The motor roared and Jim slammed down the hood.

Elizabeth pulled out of the gas station first, but Ben, seemingly infected by her concern, roared past her in a no-passing zone. She was right behind him, however, fifteen minutes later, when they pulled up to the big red barn that was the workshop. The door was open and, as she got out of her car, Elizabeth could hear the radio playing loudly. Ben stood in the door of the workshop calling out, “Kyra!”

The big room was empty. The bunches of drying flowers and herbs hung in neat rows, and on the big worktable lay a half-finished wreath of bay, oregano, sage, and rosemary. A tall mug of coffee had overturned and was soaking a heap of yellow and purple statice that lay on the table next to Kyra’s cell phone.

“Maybe she’s gone up to the house.” Ben ignored Elizabeth’s helpful suggestion and stepped out of the barn. Again he shouted, “Kyra! Kyra!”

Elizabeth turned off the radio and followed her nephew outside.

“Kyra!” Ben shouted.

As they stood in hopeful silence, a tiny whimpering sound came to them. They looked around for its source but it had been so faint and so brief. Scarcely breathing, they waited, motionless, straining to hear. At last, it came again. So small a sound— it might have been an injured sparrow or some exhausted creature caught in a snare.

“The corncrib!” Ben sprinted to the old structure. The corncrib was a relic of the days when the previous owner of the farm had grown field corn to feed his cattle, his mules, his chickens, and his family. The corn was harvested after drying on the stalk in the field, and the unshucked ears were stored in the small slat-sided building that was lined with rodent-proof woven wire to protect the precious golden bounty. Nowadays, the corncrib stood empty, but for a few ancient moldy corn shucks.

Ben was at the crib’s small square door, pulling out the nail in the hasp that secured the door. “She’s in here, Aunt E! Kyra, are you okay? What happened? Kyra?”

Ben squeezed through the little door and Elizabeth heard him swear vehemently. She peered into the narrow space between two slats, trying to see inside, but could only distinguish a pale mottled shape in one corner of the dusty enclosure. Ben was crouched over it and cursing.

Suddenly her eyes focused and she could see that it was Kyra, naked and partially smeared with some black substance. The girl lay curled on her side, facing the wall, the white curve of her spine shocking in its fragile beauty. She stirred and rolled over, then held out her arms to Ben, who picked her up tenderly. Elizabeth helped Kyra through the little opening, then supported the trembling girl while Ben wriggled out. He swore tersely and immediately pulled off his T-shirt. “Put this on, Kyra, and tell us what happened.” His voice was full of barely contained rage.

Kyra pulled the shirt on and let out an anguished wail as her hand touched her head. “My hair!”

It was only then that Elizabeth realized that Kyra’s hair had been shorn. Bare patches of scalp shone here and there amid the grease-soaked stubble that remained.

“Used motor oil,” Ben said, sniffing at the blackened towel he was using to gently wipe the oily sludge from the shivering, weeping girl. “Kyra, let’s get you to the house— it’s going to take a lot of detergent to get this stuff off. That dishwashing liquid’s the only thing that’ll work. Remember, Aunt E, that time James rolled in the puddle of oil when the truck was leaking so bad? I had to lather him up and rinse him off three or four times.”

Ben continued to talk calmly as they covered the front seat of the jeep with a frayed blanket from the workshop and bundled the sobbing Kyra into the vehicle. Finally, as the jeep bumped up the road, the cries died away and Kyra’s story emerged in halting phrases.

“I was in the shop, working on a wreath. The radio was on— they were playing something by Gillian Welch— and I was singing along. I was so happy….” She touched her hand to her oil-smeared head. “I…I—”

“Kyra, who did this? We need to call the sheriff.” Ben’s voice was soft but firm.

“No, please, it’s no good…. Ben, I don’t know who it was. Like I said, I was working on a wreath and the radio was on real loud. Then I thought I heard a truck and I went over to the window to see if it was you.” She sat silent for a moment. “I was looking out the window and someone grabbed me from behind and put something around my neck. They kept squeezing and I couldn’t breathe, and this creepy low voice kept saying the same thing over and over…‘bitch, whore, slut’…and…some other things.” Her head was bowed and her words barely audible.

“Did you recognize the voice?” Elizabeth leaned forward from the back seat to catch Kyra’s answer.

“No…I don’t think so. It was real hoarse and low. It sounded…I don’t know…like a crazy person.” Kyra’s eyes were squeezed shut and she had wrapped her blackened arms around herself. In spite of the heat of the day, she was shivering. “It all happened so quickly…and the thing around my neck kept getting tighter…I couldn’t breathe…. I guess I passed out. When I woke up, my clothes were gone and this black stuff was smeared all over me. I was in that…whatever that place was.” Her voice quivered. “It was like a cage. And my hair…” She covered her ravaged scalp with her hands and sobbed. Ben reached out to put his hand on her arm and drove one-handed the rest of the way to the house.

While Kyra showered, Ben returned to the workshop to look around. In almost no time he was back, fuming with rage. “He used the oil I drained out of the truck yesterday— I’d left it in an old canner behind the barn till I could get some empty milk jugs. That’s where her clothes are— what’s left of them. They’ve been cut to shreds. A pair of the workshop scissors is back there too—” He choked and went on. “Fucking pervert! I’d like to—” His voice failed him once more then, in a painful whisper, he added, “Clumps of her hair are all over the place.”

Three bottles of dishwashing liquid and forty-five minutes later, Kyra came into the kitchen, where Ben and Elizabeth were discussing his findings. Her normally pale skin was pink from the repeated scrubbing, and a bright scarf covered her head. Angry-looking scratches were plain across one cheek and on both arms.

“Are you all right? Maybe we should get a doctor to take a look at you. I’ll give the clinic a call—” Elizabeth was appalled at the sight of the tiny young woman, so frail and battered. “Or we can take you in to the urgent care place in Weaverville. And I’ll call the sheriff. Maybe he can—”

“No.” Kyra’s voice was low and determined. “No doctor, no police. I wasn’t hurt. I just want to go home to Reba and GeeGee.”

“Reba and GeeGee?” Ben asked. “Who’s that?”

“Reba was my nurse when I was little. Now she’s GeeGee’s housekeeper. GeeGee’s my great-grandmother. You probably saw her at the museum that night. She lives in Asheville, in Biltmore Forest. Her name is Lily Gordon.”

It was dusk when Reba announced Kyra’s arrival. I was sitting in the library with this journal and my sherry. Reba seemed agitated, though like the perfect servant she has always been, she attempted to hide her distress. It’s Miss Kyra, she said, her plain face illuminated with a strange mixture of pain and joy. She’s— Reba hesitated, then began again. That lady she’s been stayin’ with has brought her home.

At that moment Kyra burst through the door and ran to me, dropping to her knees beside my chair and burying her head in my lap, just as she did as a small child whenever she was in trouble. Oh, GeeGee, she sobbed, I’m so afraid. I don’t want to be punished anymore.

I laid my hand on the scarf that she had wrapped around her head and murmured, as I had done so many times before, There, there, child, GeeGee’s here.

Reba’s voice finally made itself heard over Kyra’s weeping. Miz Goodweather, ma’am. And her nephew, Mr. Hamilton.

Standing there in the doorway was a tall dark-haired woman— I took her to be in her forties— and an attractive young man with long sun-bleached hair. Both had the look of people who spend a great deal of time out of doors. As the woman came nearer, I saw that there was gray in her hair and realized that she was older than my first impression. Striking blue eyes stared out of a tanned face that was handsome rather than beautiful.

She introduced herself as Kyra’s neighbor and began to explain what had happened. I could see that she was taking care not to alarm me (at my advanced age!), but she did not patronize me in any way (as do so many young people). I was surprised to find that she spoke like a person with a good education, though with a certain amount of the mountain accent I expected. She and her nephew both seemed quite at ease. On the whole, I formed a very favorable impression of Mrs. Goodweather— Elizabeth, as she asked that I call her.

I thanked Elizabeth and her nephew (who is obviously smitten with Kyra, as they all are) and, after asking to be kept informed on Kyra’s condition, they left. I told the child to go to bed and I would have a tray sent up. Reba, so delighted to have her old charge back in her care, hovered solicitously, proposing warm milk, cinnamon toast, a little omelet. She shepherded Kyra up the stairs to her old bedroom, one arm around the child and whispering to her all the way. It’s a sad thing that Reba never married and had a family of her own— Kyra is all in all to her and when the day comes that Kyra no longer flies back to her GeeGee and to her childhood nurse in times of trouble— when, perhaps, a young man provides a more tempting shoulder to cry on— then I fear that Reba will be lost. As, perhaps, will I.

But as for her story— I reserve judgment. The child has been through so much— in the past, and now more recently. And the old ghost of mental unbalance is always there, hiding behind those so-candid sea-green eyes of hers.

My thoughts are tumbling wildly— I doubt I’ll sleep tonight. Perhaps I’ll quiet my mind by resuming the account of my time at the Center. I find that I can lose myself in these memories. Dr. P would be pleased to know how well his prescription has worked.

Little Kyra— so young to have experienced so much. I remember how innocent
I
was when I came to the mountains thoselong years ago. I close my eyes and I can see myself, proper Boston miss that I was, on my first morning at the Center, creeping stealthily into the kitchen in hopes of being able to fix a pot of tea. In my world heretofore, morning tea had appeared at my bedside, brought by our Irish housemaid, Biddy or Bridey or Katie— there was an endless succession of these girls, fresh off the boat and eager for work till they could find husbands.

There was no sign of my hostesses but suddenly a door opened and Miss Geneva emerged, tucking in her waist and yawning deeply. Before she shut the door behind her I glimpsed a double bed and Miss Caro sitting on the edge pulling on her stockings. It suddenly was clear to me that these two women shared that room, that bed.

Of course, even a sheltered young lady from Boston knew of spinster couples living together in genteel domesticity— indeed, Boston marriages, some called this arrangement. But these associations were generally assumed to be for the sake of expedience, certainly not…

Oh, how shocked that prudish Lily Cabot of 1934 was! And what a hypocrite! She had read of just such liaisons years before— read, savored, devoured, dreamed—

It was 1929, just before the Crash. I was spending a month with my best friend Evelyn Endicott and her family at their summer home in Dark Harbor. Many of our crowd summered in this part of Maine, and the little island was a hive of social activity. A hive— I write the cliché unthinkingly and then realize how fitting it is. Social insects, swarming together, acting out their preordained roles. But a hive it was and, among the younger crowd, Helen, Evy’s older sister— just back from Europe and a bit of a flapper according to my mother— Helen was the queen bee. Evy and I were not yet sixteen and Helen was twenty— as fascinating to us as some exotic being from a world we could only imagine.

Helen had little time for us for she was part of a “fast” set of young people from Boston. There was always some activity afoot— boating, tennis parties, and, it was whispered, road-houses where liquor run in from Canada was readily available. Helen came in late, slept till noon, and then was off again. Evy and I hung about the front porch to see her leave— usually in an open roadster surrounded by exuberant young people.

One lazy afternoon Mrs. Endicott had gone to call on a friend and Mr. Endicott and the boys were down at the cove with their sailboat. Evelyn and I watched enviously as Helen drove away with a carload of her friends, all shrieking with laughter. I know what let’s do, suggested Evy with a sly grin. We’ll go up to Helen’s room. She brought back the most shocking lingerie from Paris. I heard Mother telling Mrs. Lawrence about it.

Helen’s room was in terrible disorder. The Endicotts chose not to have a full staff while in Maine, making do with a cook, a man of all work, and a housemaid. We were expected to make our beds and, in general, keep our own rooms tidy. But Helen’s bed was a tangled swirl of sheets, and bits of clothing lay strewn about— a pair of silk stockings and a single red pump were atop the dresser; a beaded dress puddled in a glittering pool in the midst of the braided rug; and tiny silken wisps that I assumed must be examples of the shocking lingerie traced a trail to the bed.