Serena (16 page)

O
N THE FIRST
S
UNDAY OF THE
N
EW
Y
EAR, THE
Pembertons and Harris drove east toward Jackson County to look at the land Waynesville Savings and Loan had repossessed six months before, land Harris suddenly insisted on seeing before committing to the Townsend tract. Harris sat in the backseat, using a wool overcoat and a flask of whiskey to keep himself warm. Sleet had fallen the day before, and though now only drizzle smudged the windshield, scabs of ice lingered on bridges and curves where cliff hangs shaded the blacktop. Pemberton drove cautiously, staying in the road’s center whenever possible, all the while wishing Serena hadn’t insisted on coming.

Harris leaned forward and offered the flask but the Pembertons declined. Harris slipped the flask back into his pocket and took out the Wednesday edition of the
Asheville Citizen
, began to read aloud.

“While our attention to the creation of a national park is crucial to our region’s future, we must also act as a state to secure our own immense but threatened natural beauty. The recent foreclosure on 9,000 acres of farmland in the Caney Creek region of Jackson County, while tragic for those who owned that land, offers a rare opportunity to buy a tract as pristine as any in our region and at a very reasonable price. This hidden jewel is rich in hardwoods and sparkling streams, as well as a profusion of plant and animal life. Mr. Horace Kephart, our region’s leading authority on these matters, believes the acreage is as rich in natural resources as any he’s seen in southern Appalachia. Nevertheless, Mr. Kephart argues that the time to act is now. Because of the land’s proximity to Franklin, the property is beginning to receive interest from speculators who have no concern for western North Carolina other than lining their own pocketbooks. Since North Carolina, like the rest of this country, has its monetary resources stretched to the limit, now is the time for our state’s wealthier inhabitants to take the lead and contribute to a legacy not only for themselves but for all North Carolinians.”

Harris folded the paper and slapped it against the seat.

“I knew those bastards were up to something like this. Webb and Kephart came back to the Savings and Loan Friday. They were being damn coy about it, but Luckadoo thinks someone around here is interested in helping them, someone with a lot of money.”

“Who could that be?” Pemberton asked.

“I think it’s Cornelia Vanderbilt and that English fop husband of hers Cecil,” Harris said. “Her fool mother gave 5,000 acres for that Pisgah Forest, so this kind of silliness runs in the family. Plus, they’re friends with Rockefeller.”

Harris paused long enough to sip from the flask, his ire mounting.

“It’s got to be them,” he fumed. “No one else has that kind of money. Why can’t they just play king and queen in their goddamn castle and keep out of other people’s business. All of them, from Webb to Rockefeller, they’re nothing but Bolsheviks. They won’t be satisfied until the government owns every acre in these mountains.”

“When people finally realize it comes down to jobs or a pretty view, they’ll come around,” Pemberton said.

“Jobs or a pretty view,” Harris said. “I like that. We can suggest that as a caption for Webb’s next editorial. I assume you saw his so-called open letter to Colonel Townsend?”

“We saw it,” Serena said, “but Townsend’s a smart enough businessman not to be swayed by Webb’s doggerel or Albright’s threats.”

“I should have stopped this park nonsense in 1926 when it started,” Harris said. “If I didn’t have so much money tied up in new machinery, I’d buy both of these tracts, just to spite all of them.”

“Despite Webb’s flowery description, I doubt this land can beat Townsend’s,” Pemberton said.

“Perhaps,” Harris said, “but it’s worth a couple of hours to check it, especially if some folks in Franklin are nosing around. They tend to have little interest in anything this far north.”

Harris sipped again from the flask and stuffed it back in his coat pocket. The sun broke through the low clouds. Only for a little while, Pemberton suspected, but maybe enough to melt some of the ice on the blacktop, make the return trip easier. After a while, they came to a crossroads. Pemberton braked and checked a hand-drawn map Luckadoo had given him months before. He gave the map to Serena and turned right. The road made a wide curve, and soon the Tuckaseegee River appeared on the left. The water looked smooth and slow moving, as if the cold made the river sluggish. The river began to bend toward the road, and a metal one-lane bridge appeared before them. Another automobile came toward the bridge from the opposite direction. As they got closer, Pemberton saw the car was a Pierce-Arrow.

“That’s that son-of-a-bitch Webb’s car,” Harris spat. “If we meet on the bridge, bump it into the water.”

The two vehicles appeared about to arrive on the bridge simultaneously when the Pierce-Arrow braked. The bridge’s iron frame shuddered as the Packard drove on across.

“Stop,” Harris told Pemberton.

Pemberton eased up beside the Pierce-Arrow. Webb was not alone. Kephart sat beside the newspaperman, looking badly hungover, his eyes bloodshot, hair uncombed. He huddled inside a frayed mackinaw, a pair of soggy boots in his lap. Kephart stared straight ahead, no doubt envying his companion’s expensive wool Ulster overcoat. Harris rolled down his window and Webb did the same.

“Didn’t expect to see anyone else out on the road today,” Webb said. “What brings you and your confederates to Jackson County?”

“Just checking out a tip on some good land,” Harris said. “Not that it’s any of your goddamn business.”

“I’d argue it’s the people of North Carolina’s business,” Webb replied.

“We are North Carolina business, you dumb shit,” Harris said. “When people in this state are grubbing up roots in your parks to keep from starving, they’ll realize it too and start using those trees of yours for hangings. You can pass that on to your friends as well, tell them they’d better get a moat and a drawbridge to go with their castle.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Webb said.

“No, of course you don’t. Just as I’m sure there’s no reason you happen to be in Jackson County this morning.”

“There’s a reason,” Webb replied, and lifted a Hawkeye camera from the seat. “Kephart knew where an especially impressive waterfall was, so he took some photographs. I’m putting one on the front page tomorrow.”

“Looks like he got wet doing it,” Harris said, nodding at Kephart’s boots. “Too bad he didn’t fall and drown.”

“Nice to stop and chat,” Webb said, already rolling his window up, “but we’ve got a busy week ahead.”

Webb released his hand brake and the Pierce-Arrow clattered on across the bridge.

“Waterfalls,” Harris muttered.

They passed a thick stand of hickory and ash, then a pasture where a single birch tree rose in the center, its silver bark peeling from the trunk like papyrus. Beside the tree, a salt lick and wooden trough. The road
came to an abrupt end at the farmhouse and they got out. A foreclosure notice was nailed to the front door.
Hoover can go to Hell
scrawled across it in what looked to be charcoal. A sense of recent habitation lingered—stacked poplar in the woodpile, on the porch a cloth sack of pumpkin seeds, a cane pole with line and hook. A dipper hung in a branch over the creek, reflecting the midday light like a crow-scat.

“They were up here,” Harris said, pointing to a set of fresh tire prints.

Harris reached down and lifted a couple of stones from beside the tire’s indention, examined them a moment and tossed them back on the ground. He picked up a smaller stone and looked at it more carefully.

“Looks like it could have some copper in it,” he said, and placed it in his pocket.

Serena ascended the porch steps and peered through a window.

“It looks like solid oak all the way through,” she said approvingly. “If we knocked down some walls, this could be used for a dining hall.”

“Meet back here at five?” Harris asked.

“Fine,” Pemberton said. “Just make sure you don’t lose track of time contemplating the beauty of Kephart’s waterfall.”

“I’ll make sure I don’t,” Harris said grimly, “though I may piss in it.”

Harris tucked his pant cuffs into his boots and walked up the creek, quickly disappeared inside a green tangle of rhododendron. Pemberton and Serena followed a trail up the ridge. The mid-afternoon sun was out, spreading cold light across the slope. Last week’s snow lingered beneath the bigger trees, and a springhead they stepped over was cauled by ice. Pemberton walked slowly and made Serena do the same. At the top they could see the entire tract, including a section where several towering chestnuts rose.

“Campbell’s right,” Pemberton said. “A good deal at twenty an acre.”

“But still not as good as Townsend’s price,” Serena said, “especially with the expense of building a trestle over the river. That’s slow work as well, and you always lose some men.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Serena placed a hand on her coat where the wool cloth covered her stomach. Pemberton nodded at a boulder smooth and flat as a bench.

“Sit down and rest.”

“Only if you do as well,” Serena said.

They sat and gazed out at the vast unfold of mountains, some razed but many more yet uncut. The Tuckaseegee flowed to the west, low drifts of fog obscuring the banks. To the far north, Mount Mitchell pressed against a low graying sky that promised snow. A skein of blue smoke rose from nearer woods, probably a hunter’s campfire.

Pemberton reached out, placed his hand inside Serena’s coat and laid his palm lightly on her stomach, held it there a few moments. Serena gave him a wry smile but did not remove his hand, instead placed her hand on top of his, her words whitened by the cold as she spoke.

“The world lies all before us, Pemberton.”

“Yes,” Pemberton agreed, looking out on the vista. “As far as we can see.”

“Farther,” Serena said. “Brazil. Mahogany forests the same quality as Cuba’s, except we’ll have them all to ourselves. There’s not a single timber company in operation there, just rubber plantations.”

It was the first time Serena had spoken in any detail about Brazil since they’d left Boston, and Pemberton now, as then, responded to Serena’s fancy with good-humored irony.

“Amazing how no one else has ever thought of harvesting those trees.”

“They have,” Serena said, “but they’re too timid. There are no roads. Miles that miles that never have been mapped. A country big as the United States, and it will be ours.”

“We have to finish what we’ve started here first,” Pemberton said.

“Investors’ money we raise for Brazil can help us finish quicker here as well.”

Pemberton said nothing more. They waited a while longer, silent as they watched the afternoon wane before them, then slowly walked down the ridge, Pemberton stepping ahead of Serena where the ground was
icy, holding her arm. It was almost five when they got to the farmhouse, but Harris was still off scouring the creek and outcrops.

“His being gone this long,” Serena said as they waited on the porch steps. “Surely that’s a sign he’s found something.”

As though summoned by Serena’s words, Harris emerged from the rhododendron. His boots were clotted with mud, and cuts on his hand showed he’d fallen. But as he stepped across the creek an enigmatic smile rose beneath his clipped moustache.

“So what do you think, Harris?” Pemberton asked as they drove back to camp.

“For my interests this tract’s better,” Harris replied. “Not by much, but enough to sway me. There’s definitely more kaolin here. Maybe some copper as well.”

Serena turned toward the back seat.

“I wish we could say the same about this tract, but Campbell’s right. There’s some good lumber but not nearly the hardwoods Townsend’s has.”

“Maybe we can get Luckadoo to lower the Saving and Loan’s price to fifteen an acre,” Harris said, “especially if we offer to close quickly.”

“Maybe,” Serena said, “but ten an acre would be better.”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Harris said. “I suspect we can get the price down.”

It was after seven when they got back to camp. Pemberton pulled in front of the office where Harris had parked his Studebaker. The older man departed the back seat slowly, due more to the empty flask than his age.

“Want to eat something before you go back to Waynesville?” Pemberton asked.

“Hell yes,” Harris said. “All the scampering up and down that creek has given me the appetite of a horse.”

Pemberton looked at Serena and saw that her eyes were heavy lidded.

“Why don’t you go on to the house and rest. I’ll get Harris fed, then bring our dinner.”

Serena nodded and left. Though it was seven, the lights were on in the dining hall. From inside the building’s walls, a ragged choir sang “Thy Might Set Fast the Mountains.”

“We let Bolick hold evening services around Christmas and New Year’s,” Pemberton said. “I find it worth a few dollars of electricity to keep the workers Godly, though I will get a less bothersome camp preacher next time.”

Harris nodded. “A great business investment, religion. I’ll take it over government bonds anytime.”

Pemberton and Harris stepped onto the side porch and opened the door. The kitchen was deserted, despite pots left on the grange stove, soiled dishes piled beside the fifty-gallon hoop barrels filled with gray water. Pemberton nodded toward the main hall’s doorway, where Bolick’s sonorous voice had replaced the singing.

“I’m going to get a cook and server.”

“I’ll go with you,” Harris said. “Get my yearly dose of religion.”

The men went into the back of the hall, their boot steps resonant on the puncheon floor. Workers and their families filled the benches set before the long wooden tables, women and children in front, men in the rear. Reverend Bolick stood behind two nailed-together vegetable crates that raised a rickety altar. Laid upon it was a huge leather-bound Bible, wide pages sprawling off both sides of the wood.

Pemberton scanned the closest benches and found his cook, stepped into the makeshift aisle and motioned to the man. Pemberton moved past more tables and finally found a server, but the woman was so rapt that Pemberton was almost beside Bolick before he got her attention. The woman left her seat and made her way slowly through a bumpy aisle of knees and rumps. But Pemberton no longer looked at her.