Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) (3 page)

“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but we don’t have any cavemen or giant birds around here. The Tufa ain’t no different from anybody else: They live in houses, they got bills and cable and the Internet.”

Rob realized how patronizing he sounded, yet he’d come all this
way.
… “Anyone who might know about it? Either one, Tufa music or rock carvings—?”

Doyle crossed his arms, and Rob was suddenly conscious of the other man’s considerable physical size. “You know, we get a few strangers now and again coming through Needsville poking into the Tufa. They write books, put up Web sites, make their little reality shows for the History Channel, and promise the people here things that ain’t never gonna happen. If you smack even a dumb dog enough times, he learns to see it coming. We’ve been smacked a fair bit.”

Rob put up his hands. “No smacking here, I promise.”

“You say that now. But when you have to choose between either keeping your word to a bunch of strangers back in the hills, or signing on the dotted line in Nashville or L.A., you might not remember. I’ve seen it happen. There’s a song on the radio I know for a fact a fella who lives over on the highway toward Bristol wrote, but you don’t see his name on it. And ain’t no checks in his mailbox.”

The mechanic resumed work, and Rob tried to think of some way to convince him he meant no harm. But he wasn’t sure that was the truth. If the sequined man’s ludicrous story turned out to be right, what Rob sought here needed to be shared with the world. What would he do if he did find it, if it actually worked, and if he could, in fact, take it for his own?

Doyle dropped the ratchet handle in the toolbox. “Slide in there and try the ignition.”

Rob did, and the engine snapped to life. Doyle moved his toolbox and shut the hood. He listened to the car idle . “There you go. Sweet as.”

“What?”

“Huh?”

“‘Sweet as’ what?”

“It’s just a saying.” Doyle wiped his hands on a rag, then spotted something on the ground by his foot. He picked up a penny, faceup, and wiped the dirt from Lincoln’s profile. The omen seemed to indicate Rob could be trusted, if he read it right; certainly his grandmother had drilled him enough on signs and omens that he
should
read it right. Had the penny been facedown, it would’ve meant the opposite, and he wished that had been the case. It was always easier to send strangers on their way. He said, “I reckon I
could
introduce you to some people.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Doyle looked hard at him. “You
sure
I don’t know you from somewhere?”

“I’m sure I don’t know you,” Rob said truthfully.

Doyle held up a small can of spray paint. “There’s a scratch on the right fender. I know how rental places are, so I’ll touch it up for you, if that’s all right. No charge.”

“Sure.”

It only took a second. Doyle gave the can to Rob. “Use this if you get any more dings.”

“Thanks.”

Doyle looked him over thoughtfully, and finally said, “So do you know where you’re staying in town?”

“I have a reservation at a motel called the Catamount Corner.”

“I know Mrs. Goins, the lady who runs it. How about I call you there when I get off work? Maybe we can go grab a beer or something, check out where some of the local boys play and sing.”

“That’d be great,” Rob said with genuine appreciation. “Really. Thanks.”

Doyle held out his hand. “Well, my name’s Doyle Collins.”

“Rob Quillen.”

Rob waited for the look of recognition, but it never came. Doyle said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Rob laughed. “Really?”

“Well, truthfully, I don’t know yet. But I bet I’ll find out pretty soon.”

An old pickup truck with a bunch of black-haired kids riding in the bed pulled in as Rob left the station. He knew he couldn’t keep his past a secret—somebody would eventually recognize him, he was sure—but he wanted to hold it off as long as he could. People got weird around famous people touched by tragedy, especially people famous
because
they were touched by it.

3

As he drove, Rob noticed something in the yard of an old shack ahead on the right. At first he thought it was one of those elaborate homemade mailboxes, fashioned into the shape of a tractor or a gas pump. Then it stepped into the road and blocked his way.

He had plenty of time to stop. The emu, an ostrichlike bird six feet tall and brownish green in color, stared at Rob’s vehicle with mildly stupid curiosity. Rob knew some people raised these birds for their meat, but this one appeared to be roaming loose, and in no hurry to get out of the road. Rob used his phone to snap a quick picture.

A wiry, dark-haired man in jeans and a denim jacket ran out of the shack. He had the distinctive Cloud County look, just like the boy. “Hey,
hey
!
Git outta here!
” An aluminum baseball bat flashed in the sun.

Rob’s muscles tensed in anticipation of a fight, but the man’s rage was directed at the emu, which took off and disappeared into the woods across the road. The man shook the baseball bat menacingly after the bird, then skulked off the way he’d come. He never even glanced at Rob.

Rob let out his breath in a long, heavy rush. Welcome to the land of the Tufa.

*   *   *

The road rose and fell several times before it topped a final hill and descended into the valley where, at the center, awaited Needsville, Tennessee.

Needsville’s “main street” was simply a wider stretch of the highway with buildings along either side. A lone traffic light flashed yellow to control access to a road winding up into the forested hills. Beneath the sign that identified the city limits, a smaller homemade placard advertised the Catamount Corner Motel, half a mile ahead on the left.

He found it easily enough and parked out front. The steps up to the porch sagged a little, but otherwise it seemed in excellent condition, with all the wood recently painted. He’d been afraid of some run-down fleapit used by truckers and fugitives.

The staggering reality of the scenery hit him anew. The horizon in Kansas was impossibly distant and flat; here it loomed over him. The rounded mountaintops were daubed with spots of yellow and orange as the trees began to turn. Beyond them, the far peaks rose ponderously, clothed in somber hues of spruce. Where the forest had been cleared from the slopes, the hills swelled with lush grass. Tiny dwellings perched here and there, some visibly new, most as old and gray as the rocks beneath them. Cell phone towers poked into the sky along the ridges; they reminded him of hairy moles on an old woman’s chin.

He immediately tried to find metaphors for the beauty, words that captured the overwhelming sense of massiveness and antiquity. He imagined the first European settlers reaching the top of one of these ridges and seeing the valley in which he now stood. Whether they’d been English, Scotch-Irish, or German, they would have been overwhelmed by the vista before them: all this untouched virgin land just waiting to be cleared, built on, and developed.

And when those first settlers arrived, they found the Tufa already here.

The wind shifted direction, and he shivered. His guidebook said the temperature change could be extreme in late summer and early fall, from the high seventies during the day to the thirties at night. He grabbed his bags and quickly went inside.

The lobby smelled like potpourri and fresh flowers; lace-edged country knickknacks covered every surface, and one corner was set up with displays of the same items for sale. He stepped up to the desk, carefully propped his guitar case against it, and less carefully dropped his duffel bag to the floor. “Hello?” he called.

A woman in her fifties, with dark skin and ebony hair touched with gray, appeared from the office. She wore a T-shirt decorated with appliqué hearts. “Hello, young man. Can I help you?”

“I’ve got a reservation. Robert Quillen. Hope I’m not too early to check in.”

Peggy Goins looked him over with the practiced evaluation of a woman who had never lost touch with her inner horny teenager, the one who’d spent a single glorious summer in the 1960s traveling and fucking all along the eastern seaboard. This Robert Quillen was slender, with a thick head of black hair, an easy smile, and dark, piercing eyes. She’d seen eyes like that before; they spoke of the capacity for furious anger, and other furies far more intimate. He carried a single bag, which meant he traveled alone, and a guitar, which said he was musical.

Although he looked like one of them, she knew immediately there was no Tufa blood in him. It happened occasionally; people ran across the “Tufa mystery” on the Internet or in a book and imagined they, too, were somehow connected. But there was more to it than just physical resemblance. After all, the Tufa weren’t the only ones in the world with straight black hair and a swarthy complexion. But this boy sure did look the part, and folks in Needsville with less of the true in
them
might easily assume he was, especially since he was a guest at the Catamount Corner. Peggy’s establishment survived on the desire of anyone with even a drop of Tufa blood to return to Needsville. It was similar to the call of Mecca, or a bird’s urge to migrate, except that it was more subtle, usually unconscious, and could be resisted without too much effort. Those who answered it, however, often learned things about themselves they’d never imagined.

She flipped through a recipe box and pulled out a three-by-five index card. “Here you are, Mr. Quillen. And how long will you be staying with us?”

“Probably three nights, but maybe more. Is that too vague? I mean, if I need to stay on longer, will that be a problem?”

“Not at all. We only have one other couple coming in this weekend. Now, next month, when the leaves really start to turn, then it’ll be a madhouse here. Nothing but Canadians and Texans until Thanksgiving.” She handed him the guest registration card. “Fill this out for me, if you would.”

She took his Visa card and ran her fingers over the signature on the back. She sensed only vague things from it, but they made her frown nonetheless. She was right about his temper; it would burst out soon, and affect a lot of people in town. She also saw disturbing flashes of blood, and the ghastly image of a pale hand clawing up from a grave. But mixed in were smiles, strains of music, and the sighs of lovers. She remembered her own omens at sunrise and wondered how this newcomer would figure into them.

Rob quickly filled in the other information, but paused at “emergency contact.” Normally, it would be Anna. Now, he had no idea whom to put down. He left it blank.

As she waited for the card’s authorization, Peggy asked, “Here to trace your family?”

“People keep asking me that. Do I really look that much like a Tufa?”

She waved her hand. “Oh, honey, looks got nothing to do with it. Tufa’s like Cherokee, you can be blond and blue-eyed and still have enough in you to count. It’s just that we get people in here, prowling the cemeteries, looking for ancestors. They take pictures and videos and rubbings and such.”

“Well, not me. I’m a musician.”

She nodded, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, you’re Rob from the TV show!”

His cheeks burned. This never got easy. “Yep, that’s me.”

“I am so sorry, I didn’t recognize your name at first. Oh, you poor thing, bless your heart.”

“Thank you. Do you mind if we keep this just between ourselves for now?”

“Of course, whatever you need.” She patted his hand. “But if you want to talk, I promise you, I can listen with the best of them, and I keep secrets like a beehive keeps honey from a bear.”

“Thank you,” he repeated.

She returned his credit card, but when he reached for it, she said, “Would you mind if I had a look at your palm?”

“Are you going to tell my future?”

“Oh, no, nothing so silly. No one can predict the future. Every blink of every eye changes it. I can just sometimes tell what your next few days might be like.”

“Well … I suppose.” He put his card back in his wallet, then let her hold his hand, palm up.

Most of her evaluation was empirical. Rob’s hand was small, but by its weight, she knew the muscles were built up the way only prolonged musical practice would develop them. His nails were short and neat. One knuckle felt larger than normal, probably a healed injury from the temper she’d already sensed. But then came observations and impressions that had no material source, but that she trusted as much as any physical sign. After a moment, she released his hand and nodded.

“Did I pass?” he asked, amused despite himself.

“Of course. It looked to me like your time here will do you a world of good. Everything will be different when you leave.”

“That’s a tall order.”

She patted his hand. “You just wait and see. But I’ve got to warn you: Not everyone you meet will be as honest as me.”

“I’ve worked with TV producers. I’m ready for anything.”

He followed Peggy across the lobby. He stopped at a framed newspaper clipping on the wall that showed a dark-haired young woman in an army uniform gazing sternly into the camera. He recognized her at once. “Bronwyn Hyatt is from here?”

“Oh, yes. She grew up here. She lives out at her family’s farm.”

“Huh. Imagine that.” He remembered the media circus surrounding her rescue in Iraq and her return to the States in the spring, and the way that she completely dropped out of the public consciousness since. Maybe he should look her up and ask her how she did that.

*   *   *

Upstairs, Peggy unlocked room 17B with a simple key, not one of those ID cards used in chain motels. Then she stepped aside so he could enter.

The room brought him up short. Lace edged
everything,
from the writing desk to the telephone receiver. Little painted animals in overalls and straw hats ran along the baseboard, and the bed sported an enormous canopy and a huge, thick mattress. When Rob tossed his guitar on the bed, it bounced a foot into the air.

“That looks comfortable,” he observed.

“We don’t get many single young men coming through,” she said. “Usually couples.”