Signs in the Blood (24 page)

“Thank you so much for going with me,” she said finally, touching him lightly on the arm before she reached for the door handle. Immediately his other hand covered hers. She hesitated, feeling a surge of warmth and confusion. Then, delicately slipping free her hand, she continued, “They probably wouldn't have even let me in.”

A small blue car came around the curve and pulled up beside Harice Tyler's truck. The dark-haired young woman who had danced with the snake the night before looked out of the driver's window with a melting smile. “Brother Tyler, I brought one of my special cakes for you and your daddy.”

Elizabeth said a quick good-bye and drove back down the branch toward the bridge, Ursa happily asleep on the seat beside her. She fondled the dog's silky ears and Ursa awoke briefly to lick her hand. Black thoughts ran through Elizabeth's mind.
Is anyone what they seem? It's like the Little Sylvie story—did she abandon her baby or did she run off with it? Was she good or was she bad?

Ahead she saw the sign to Lonesome Holler. Impulsively, she turned up the road.
Maybe Walter and Ollie can tell me more about Little Sylvie. That story just haunts me; it happened right on my place and Birdie and Dorothy only seem to know part of it. They said that the boy Sylvie ran off with was a Johnson and kin to Walter. Maybe Walter can tell me more of the story—if Ollie will let him.

As before, Walter and Ollie were sitting on their porch. Elizabeth left the dozing Ursa in the car and greeted the couple. They were plainly delighted to have company and Ollie said, “How's our Birdie gettin' along? I know she must miss her boy. But it's good that she's got Dorothy to stay with her. That is the workinest woman. Have they found out any more about Cletus—how it happened?”

Elizabeth had already decided not to mention Miss Birdie's illness, since Dorothy had said that Birdie didn't want anyone to know. “Birdie's not feeling too well, but I know Dorothy's taking good care of her. And, no, they haven't found out anything yet.” She went on quickly, “One reason I came by was to ask about a story Birdie and Dorothy were telling me. It was about Little Sylvie Baker, who used to live on my place. I thought maybe you all might . . .”

The look on Ollie's face would freeze water but Walter smiled broadly and leaned forward to speak.

“I know that story. It was my uncle she run off with.”

“Well!” huffed Ollie, “I don't know why your family would even talk about such a thing! The idea—”

But this time Walter would not be denied. “My daddy was the oldest of the children and Levy was his brother. It was Levy she went off with. My aunt Mabel was an old maid and she lived with us when I was growin' up. She loved to tell the story of how she had told Little Sylvie where Levy was when Mamaw Johnson didn't want her to know. She said that it was the most ro-mantic thing, how Levy had come back one day and hid out in the barn loft so wouldn't no one in the family know he was there. But when Mabel come out to do the milkin', he had called to her and told her that he was waitin' for evenin' then he was aimin' to go over the mountain and get Little Sylvie. Said he had train tickets to take them to Texas and he didn't expect they'd ever come back for he feared what Sylvie's husband might do.”

Walter paused, glancing over at his wife. “You might as well tell it all,” she said grudgingly.

“Well,” he went on, having been given permission—“Aunt Mabel said she asked him did he know Little Sylvie had a baby and she always said that he had looked kindly surprised at that but said that he knew she was waitin' for him and the baby wouldn't need no ticket.”

A thought occurred to him. “How'd you like to see a picture of Levy?”

He began to pull himself up from his chair but Ollie said, “Oh, for mercy's sake, Walter, I'll go get it,” and bustled into the trailer.

Walter eased back with a satisfied smile. “He give Mabel a picture he'd had took when he was over to Kentucky. Said to give it to their mommy with his love and to tell her that he'd write.”

“And did he write from Texas?” Elizabeth asked eagerly.

Walter frowned and scratched his head. “Now, I couldn't rightly say. Seems like I asked Aunt Mabel and she said that if he ever had, Mamaw Johnson must have tore the letters up like she done the picture. Aunt Mabel said that Mamaw took on like one thing when Mabel give her the picture and told her about Levy. Just tore that picture in two and flung it to the ground. Wouldn't never speak her son's name again. Of course Mabel, she saved those two pieces of the picture and hid 'em.”

Ollie returned to the porch with a yellowing envelope in her hand. “You have so much plunder in that top drawer of yours I like to never found it.”

Walter took the envelope and drew out a small sepia-toned photograph. “Purty good-lookin' feller, don't you think? All us Johnson boys was good-lookin' and bad to court the ladies.”

The photo had been torn horizontally and clumsily put back together with Scotch tape that was brittle with age. It showed a handsome young man with light hair and a serious gaze. He wore a plaid shirt with its collar undone and around his neck, on a thin chain, glinted a tiny metal heart.

All the way home, down Bear Tree Creek, up Ridley Branch, and up her own road, Elizabeth thought about the young man in the picture. He'd remained true and come back for his love, in spite of the danger.
But what about the baby? Did they just abandon Sylvie's baby?
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the ugly thoughts that buzzed and settled in her brain.
A sweet story . . . except the baby died. A nice friend of Sam's . . . except he's a member of that militia. A wonderful husband . . . right up to the part where he went for a stupid plane ride.

At her side, Ursa sat up and put her shaggy head out the window, happy to see familiar surroundings. James and Molly ran barking to the car and sniffed Ursa from nose to tail before she could break away and bound toward the front door. Elizabeth followed the dogs, feeling suddenly exhausted. She let them in, fixed their bowls of dog chow, with an extra scoop for Ursa, then went to the phone to call the radio station and cancel her missing-dog announcement.

The stutter of the dial tone told her that there was a message on the voice mail. She punched in her number, and the same gravelly voice she'd heard shouting orders at the militia trainees said,
“Elizabeth, you got to trust—”
before it cut off in a wave of static.

CHAPTER 20

M
Y
N
AME
I
S
M
ARY
C
LEOPHAS
 (
M
ONDAY)

T
HE MESSAGE ON THE VOICE MAIL MADE NO MORE
sense the next morning than it had the night before. Elizabeth listened to it a third time, then erased it. Nothing made any sense to her now. She dragged through her routines
—make bed, fill bird feeder, fix breakfast—
her thoughts snarled into ugly and uncompromising patterns.
If Miss Birdie killed Cletus . . . If Hawkins is really a member of that godawful militia . . .
And she remembered the weight of Harice Tyler's hand on hers.
If I could believe . . .

She shook off the confusion of thoughts and reached for the telephone.
At least I can check on Birdie, see if there's anything I can do. So much loss—Dessie, and Cletus, and now Miss Birdie.
She felt tears rising in her eyes and tried to quell the monotonous dirge that tolled unbidden in her mind:
And Sam, and Sam, and Sam.

“She's a little low right now,” Dorothy confided in answer to Elizabeth's question. “But I'm takin' her in to the doctor this mornin'. She's goin' to get a transfusion and that always seems to make her feel better for a time. Pastor Briggs come by yesterday after church and prayed with us, and that friend of hers at the snake-handlin' church, that Belvy Guthrie, she called and talked to her the longest time. Birdie's gettin' ready to go the doctor now, but I'll tell her you called.”

So much for that,
thought Elizabeth, staring out her dining room window, oblivious to the bright sky and high scudding clouds that marked the beginning of a beautiful day. Ursa rubbed against her leg and she absently fondled the familiar shaggy head. In the distance she could hear the tractor—Ben already at work. She thought about telling him that the “nice guy” he had been so eager for her to go out with was a member of the Sons of Adam militia. There would be no pleasure in it, she decided, no pleasure in saying “See, I told you I didn't want a social life.”

Without warning, the quiet of the spring day was shattered by the barking of all three dogs; the front door slammed and Laurel called out, “Let's go for a hike!”

“In here, Laurel,” Elizabeth called, somewhat surprised that her daughter should be out at the farm so early in the morning.
And a hike? Not normal behavior for Laurel at all.

Her daughter was bubbling over with excitement. “I talked to him, Mum. John the Baptizer has almost totally agreed to lend his paintings for a show. I told him about how they would reach so many more people that way and that we would have an opening and he could speak and share his message. And, no, he didn't try anything funny.” Her deep blue eyes, so like Elizabeth's, sparkled as she pulled up a chair to the table. She was dressed in jeans and hiking boots, and her wild red dreadlocks were pulled back under a green bandanna.

“So anyway he told me to come back to see him at the revival place when the revival was over and we'd talk more about the show
and . . .”
she paused dramatically, “. . . he wants to paint
me
!”

Elizabeth's heart sank. Laurel's disastrous affair with the visiting professor had begun in much the same way. Maybe this was the time for a small, carefully worded—but Laurel was chattering on.

“Did you know that he's staying in an old cabin up Lonesome Holler? That's just down the other side of the mountain, isn't it? Anyway, he told me that he's got a lot more paintings stored there. So I thought if I just showed up—I could say we were taking a hike—then maybe he'd let me see these other paintings. He said the revival might go on for another couple of weeks, depending on the Lord's will.” She groaned and made a face. “No way I can wait that long!”

She jumped up and bounced out to the kitchen. “I had to work yesterday so I couldn't go then, but now I'm off till this evening,” she called back. In a moment she returned with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast spread thickly with peanut butter. “He is just so . . . so intense! Those eyes! What a hottie! But a little scary. Anyway, I thought it might be good to have you come with me. Preacher or not, I don't want him thinking I'm some bimbo ready to pull off my clothes for the great artist. Not that I would actually mind—relax, Mum!”

Elizabeth had started to speak but Laurel went on in a mock-lofty tone, “I would only agree to that if it was as a model, a professional relationship . . . and only if the painting had redeeming social value.”

She took a greedy bite of peanut butter and toast. “So, I thought it would be fun for us to walk over there; it's just down the other side of the mountain from us, isn't it? I think it must be where Ben and Rosemary and I ended up once years and years ago when we were exploring around. There was a sweet old couple living there and she talked all the time and gave us biscuits and buttermilk.”

In the face of such enthusiasm Elizabeth was helpless. Her suggestion that they take the jeep, drive around to Bear Tree Creek, and walk up from Walter and Ollie's place was instantly vetoed. “Mum, look what a beautiful day it is! You know it'll be awesome up at the top of the mountain. And there'll be wildflowers! Anyway, I want it to seem kind of by accident that I'm there—you know, just out for a hike. You're always fussing at me for spending so much time indoors. I thought you'd enjoy a little mother-daughter walk in the woods!”

Mother-daughter trek is more like it,
grumbled Elizabeth as, knapsack on her back, she toiled slowly up the steep zigzag way a bulldozer had cut some fifteen years before. Ben occasionally took a four-wheeler up this primitive road when he was carrying barb wire or posts to repair the line fence at the top of the mountain, but it was far too precipitous a trip on wheels for Elizabeth's taste. It would take them about twenty minutes to reach the top, with several stops along the way to admire the view, as well as to catch their breath.

As they climbed, Elizabeth pondered the irony of Laurel's being attracted to a mountain evangelist.
So much older than she, and such different backgrounds. Like that sleazy Aristides she got involved with. He was older, too. Is she looking for a father replacement?
Ahead of her on the trail Laurel was bouncing along with long effortless strides, obviously delighted to be on the track of John the Baptizer.
What would Sam have thought about this?
Elizabeth wondered with the usual surge of regret mixed with resentment.

The thought of Sam slowed her and she stopped to look back down at the sheet-metal roof, shining in the sun. Sam had built that house, and they had vowed that it was their last house—here they would grow old together.
Come to that, what would Sam think of
me,
lusting in my heart after a snake-handling preacher?
She could see Sam as if he was standing before her, big and comforting, with his lopsided grin.
If it's what you want, go for it, Liz; that's what he'd have said. After all, that's what he always did.

Once at the summit she thought, as she had many times before,
I should do this every week.
The wind was brisk and welcome after the sweaty climb. The sun that was moving toward midday shone brilliantly—now and then obscured briefly by the flying clouds. The shadows of these same clouds raced over the farm stretched out below them, the intermittent sunny patches now highlighting one spot, now another. Full Circle Farm looked like a child's toy, with tiny barns and houses, minute trees and cows, and far, far down the mountain a minuscule tractor cultivating a pocket-handkerchief-sized field.

This is the way Levy would have traveled when he came to get Little Sylvie. I hope they got to Texas safely. I hope she took the baby.
In her mind's eye she saw the handsome young man of the photograph walking resolutely down the mountain toward his lover and their child.
Was he glad about the baby? Or did he not want it? Who was the father, Levy or Little Sylvie's husband?

“Come back, Mum,” said Laurel. “You look like you're a million miles away.”

“More like a hundred years,” answered Elizabeth, shaking herself back into the here and now. “I'm glad we came,” she said, giving her tall daughter an impromptu hug. “I always forget about this view.”

Laurel returned the hug, then opened the knapsack she was carrying. “I'll take a few pictures before we start down the other side. I brought my camera so I can photograph John the Baptizer's work
in situ
.”

As Laurel snapped one after another picture of the view on both sides of the mountain, Elizabeth walked a little way along the fence. The cattle were all in the lower pasture at this time of year, but soon they would be turned out on the mountain and she might as well see if this part of the fence was in need of repair. And down this way, near the edge of the woods, was where the pink lady slippers bloomed. If they were up, Laurel would surely want a picture of them. She strolled along happily, enjoying the easier walking after the arduous climb. The fence was in good shape, it seemed. Though a few strands could use tightening—

It was fluttering in the stiff breeze, a ragged strip of camouflage fabric, snagged on one of the barbs of the bottom strand of wire. She leaned down and angrily tore it off the barb and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans.
Relax, Elizabeth,
she admonished herself.
Most of the hunters around here wear camouflage.
Turning back to where Laurel was waiting for her, she fingered the piece of cloth in her pocket.
But hunting season's been over for months. This fabric's stiff and new, probably never even washed. And this is where I saw that light when I was burying the skunk.
She thought unwillingly of the militia men at Devil's Fork,
every one of them in new camouflage fatigues . . . including Phillip Hawkins.

Tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes and she wiped them impatiently away with the back of her hand.
Did he send those bastards over here? He knew I'd be in Asheville—having dinner with him. Oh, damn it all to hell!
The wind was too cool now, and she dug the sweatshirt out of her knapsack.

They started down the other side, following an overgrown logging road down to Walter and Ollie's old cabin. While Elizabeth's side of the mountain was about evenly divided between woods and pasture, on this side the land, unpastured for years, was rapidly growing up in briars and young trees. The old path that wound down the mountain had patches of brambles or fallen trees that they had to skirt or scramble over as best they could. It was fully thirty minutes before they came to the clearing that Elizabeth remembered. Before them lay the huge oak tree and beneath it the beautiful little pool of water that she and Sam had refreshed themselves in so many years ago. Farther down the slope the rusted roof of the old cabin peeked through a grove of yellow-green young locust trees.

They knelt to scoop the cold water into their cupped hands. They were drinking deeply and thankfully when a quiet voice behind them said, “That there's livin' water; hit kin take you to glory.”

Laurel scrambled to her feet; Elizabeth, painfully aware of her fifty-two-year-old knees, rose more cautiously. The thin young girl standing in front of them could have been an apparition from another time, except for the white plastic bucket dangling from her hand. She wore a shapeless dress of faded blue cotton. It clung to her full breasts, straining the buttons that closed it, brushed past her narrow hips, and ended a few inches above her slender bare feet. Her straight pale blond hair fell unconfined to well below her waist and her light blue eyes stared out of a countenance untouched by sun and innocent of makeup. It was a face Botticelli might have painted.

Laurel took a step toward the girl and blurted out, “You're the one in the picture—the Madonna!” Seeing Elizabeth's incredulous look she went on, “You remember, Mum, the one he painted at the revival?”

“Daddy paints a heap of pictures of me,” the girl said placidly as she came forward to fill her bucket at the pool.

Elizabeth and Laurel watched her in silence, not knowing what to make of this unknown girl who seemed totally unconcerned at their sudden appearance out of the woods.
How old is she?
Elizabeth wondered.
She looks about twelve except for that bosom.
She wondered too if perhaps this girl was, like Cletus, a little simple. Something in those pale eyes, some emptiness—

“I was hoping your father might be here. I'm interested in seeing his paintings and he told me there were more at the cabin,” Laurel was saying. “I'm Laurel Goodweather and this is my mother, Elizabeth. She has the farm on the other side of the mountain.”

“Daddy ain't here just now,” the girl said, lifting the bucket and starting down the path. “My name is Mary Cleophas. The pictures is this way.”

They followed her in silence to the little cabin, its two rooms separated by a covered passageway, locally called a dogtrot. “The pictures is in here,” she told them, opening a door. “You kin bring 'em outside to look at, hit's awful dark in there.”

Laurel stepped in and Elizabeth heard her startled intake of breath: “There're dozens of them. Oh, Mum, this is awesome!”

In a few minutes Laurel and Elizabeth had brought out the painted panels—some thirty-three in all, Laurel counted—and leaned them against the sides of the cabin while Mary Cleophas watched tolerantly. A rainbow of color danced before them. The style was unmistakably that which they had seen at the revival, but these pictures had been painted with more detail and in more subtle colors.

“He told me that he works in tempera at the revivals because it dries faster, but he uses acrylic here,” said Laurel, hastily snapping photographs of each piece. “These are so amazing! You know, he's totally untrained. He says the Lord guides his brushes.”

One picture in particular fascinated Elizabeth. Like the Madonna painted at the revival, Mary Cleophas stood on a crescent moon, stars circling her head. But in this painting she was extremely pregnant and totally nude, and the background, rather than a forest, was an explosion of sunlight. Around the four sides of the painting scrolled the words:
“And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun and the moon under her feet and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.”
The painting was full of a powerful beauty, and Elizabeth marveled at the delicacy with which the features had been painted. At the same time she felt surprised that the evangelist should use his own daughter as a nude model. And why had he depicted her as pregnant?