Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) (8 page)

“You’d never know she’d been hurt. Even the scars are fading.”

“That’s wonderful.”

He narrowed his eyes in playful suspicion. “Go ahead and ask. I know you want to.”

“Why, I don’t know what you mean, Reverend,” Peggy said in exaggerated innocence.

“I’ll tell you anyway. We’ve gone to the movies a couple of times, and her family’s had me over to dinner. She still hasn’t come to hear me preach, though she keeps promising she will. And that’s as far as it’s gotten.”

Peggy patted his hand on the counter. “You do still like her, though.”

“Yes, ma’am. Quite a bit.”

“You just keep doing what you’re doing, then. And thank you for getting up so early to come talk with me.”

“I’m going fishing with Bronwyn’s father and brother anyway, so I had to come through town. Always glad to stop and see that pretty smile.”

She blushed despite herself. “You are a charmer, Reverend Chess. You sure are.”

*   *   *

Rob watched the other man climb into the car with the blue
CLERGY
sticker in the corner of the windshield. He looked nothing like a Tufa, yet he also seemed thoroughly comfortable in town. He waved as he drove off, and Rob nodded in return.

The dawn shadow crept down the mountains as the sun rose. The harsh golden light instantly aged the buildings as it touched them, removing the blemish-hiding dimness that disguised cracked windows and peeling paint. What passed for a quaint village in the dimness became in full daylight an aging, impoverished small town. He played softly out of respect for both other guests and the general morning vibe.

A few men stood talking outside the convenience store across the street. They glanced his way on occasion, and even at this distance, Rob sensed their suspicion and hostility. They were also all of the same physical type: dark hair, olive skin, and wiry bodies from their hard lives. Classic Tufas, he thought, at least based on what he knew about it. And damn if he
didn’t
look like one of them.

Their distinctive appearance was the most obvious aspect of their mystery. Most other Appalachian natives descended from pale, fair-skinned Europeans. The Tufas, though, came from somewhere else. Some sources said their ancestors were mutinous Portuguese sailors marooned on the North Carolina coast by Columbus. Others said they were the result of interbreeding among Native Americans, freed African slaves, and various European ethnic groups. Naturally, a few errant voices called them survivors of Atlantis, Lemuria, or the Lost Tribe of Israel.

The census practices of earlier times, when people were classified as simply “white” or “other,” blurred their history ever more. Those who could pass as white did so, and denied or buried their Tufa heritage so that it was almost impossible to do significant genealogy. The only thing most experts agreed on was that the Tufas were undeniably
there.

No one knew exactly why they were called “Tufa,” either; the common assumption was that it was based on a corruption of the word “tooth,” and referred to their surprisingly strong dental constitution in an area noted for significant tooth decay. “Grinning like a Tufa” literally meant smiling so wide, it showed all your teeth; more symbolically, it meant hiding your true feelings behind that smile.

He looked up as the front door opened with the slightest creak. Peggy Goins emerged and placed a coffee cup atop the decorative butter churn beside his chair. The cup rested on a matching saucer, complete with a little lace doily. Printed on the side of the cup were the words,
TAKEN BY MISTAKE FROM THE CATAMOUNT CORNER, NEEDSVILLE, TN.

“You’re up awful early for a musician,” she said.

“It’s my best thinking time,” Rob said as he sipped the coffee. “Mm, thank you. That hits the spot.” He noticed that her pink fur-lined jacket matched her pink fur-lined boots. “So what is there to do around here first thing in the morning?”

“Like I said, most of our visitors tend to be here doing genealogical research. Or they spend their time in their rooms, honeymooners and such. Like the two folks opposite you. They checked in while you were out last night, I hope they didn’t bother you. Sometimes young couples can get a little overexcited.”

Could that have been the source of the cry that had awakened him? No, he was absolutely sure it had come from outside the building, from a distance. “Never even knew they were there.”

“Good. They left before dawn to go prowling in graveyards and such.”

He took another sip and said, “Wow, this is
great.
”

“I’m glad you like it. I grind it myself every morning. I sing a special song over it.”

“It’s sure worth it. But let me ask you about something. Do you know of any place nearby where there might be … stone carvings?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Places where people might have carved words into rock. A cave, maybe. Or one of those boulders that stick out of the ground.”

“Mr. Quillen, I can truly say I’ve never heard tell about anything like that. Do you mean like caveman paintings?”

“I’m not really sure. Someone told me to look for the stone carvings when I came through here. Maybe on a hill?”

“They must’ve been pulling your leg. There’s nothing like that in Cloud County.”

“Is there anyone around here who’s older than you who might know of something?” He realized how it sounded, and could only hope she didn’t take offense.

“The only one who might know is old Rockhouse Hicks. But good luck getting a civil word out of him.”

Rob perked up at the name. “Does he play the banjo? And have six fingers on his hands?”

“That’s him.”

“I saw him at the Pair-A-Dice last night. He was awesome.”

“Well, if you’re feeling brave, you can find him down on the post office porch. He likes to watch people coming and going, so he can keep up on all the gossip.”

“Is his name really Rockhouse?”

“That’s what we’ve always called him.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “When we were kids, we called him ‘Rock-
head
’ behind his back.” She smiled as if this were privileged information. Then she looked wistful. “Course, the kids now, what with cable and the Internet and all, call him Rock
A-s-s
, pardon my French. The world’s just harsher than it used to be.”

“Sounds like you don’t care for him.”

“He’ll say anything to anybody just to get a rise out of ’em. I remember being a little girl, and him making fun of my daddy for being 4-F for the draft. If somebody had cleaned his clock a couple hundred years ago … Well, he’s just a mean old man now, isn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, she went back inside.

He chuckled to himself.
A couple hundred years ago.
He loved the way Southerners used exaggeration to make their points.

He recalled the way the old man blew him off the night before. This time, Rob would use all his considerable charm, the very thing that got him through the
SYTYCS?
audition process when more blatantly talented performers were ruthlessly weeded out. At the time, he’d felt no remorse about it, since everyone was entitled to use whatever gifts he or she naturally had. Now he wished that the show truly judged people on talent, instead of just paying that idea lip service. He’d never have made the finals, and Anna would still be alive.

Peggy reappeared with a cordless phone. “You have a call, Mr. Quillen,” she said. “And please bring the phone back in when you finish, they get left all over the place if I don’t keep an eye on them and then the batteries run down and it’s just…” She finished the sentence with a fluttery hand gesture before going back inside.

A sticker on the phone sported the same
TAKEN BY MISTAKE
warning as the coffee cup. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Doyle Collins said. “Something told me you were an early bird. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. So did Berklee make you sleep in the truck?”

“Nah, we always fight like that. It’s part of our rustic charm. Speaking of which, want to come out to our place for dinner tonight and see some more of it?”

“Do you use paper plates, or should I just wear a helmet for when she starts throwing the china at you?”

“I promise we’ll behave. And she’s a heck of a cook, really.”

“What time?”

“Seven. Kind of late, but I’ve got to replace a head gasket today and my dad’s helping. That doubles the time it takes, but it makes him feel useful.”

“Okay. I was going to poke around town today anyway. I’m not in my room right now, so call me on my cell later and give me directions.” He gave Doyle the number.

When he returned the phone, he considered asking Mrs. Goins about the howling, but decided against it. He’d seen too many movies in which outsiders encountered strange phenomena and were ridiculed by the locals. He put his guitar in its case, picked it up, and headed to the post office in search of Rockhouse Hicks.

8

A single pickup passed Rob as he negotiated the uneven sidewalk. It was the same one he’d seen the day before, when he left Doyle’s service station. In the bed, three dark-haired, dark-skinned teenagers stared blankly at him. Two of them, boys around fifteen or sixteen, were so thin, they reminded him of famine victims. The other one, a girl of about twelve, was bigger than both of them combined.

The brand-new post office was a brick square with bright blue mailboxes out front and a flagpole that gleamed silver in the sunrise. A narrow covered porch ran the length of the building. The plaque next to the door stated that it had been built four years earlier on the site of the original post office. Rob assumed the ancient rocking chairs that lined the porch had been inherited from that prior building.

The customer service window wouldn’t open for another hour, but Rockhouse Hicks already sat in one of the rockers. The chair creaked in the morning silence; his banjo case hung on the back and occasionally tapped the brick wall behind him. At the opposite end of the porch, a shrunken elderly woman sat working on a huge quilt that covered her lap and pooled at her feet.

“Morning, Mr. Hicks,” Rob said as he stepped onto the porch. He also nodded at the old woman. “Ma’am.”

She did not look up or respond.

Rob continued, “Looks like it’s going to be a fine day once it warms up, doesn’t it?”

Rockhouse glanced up at him. His beard hid any change in his expression. “If it ain’t the talking musician.”

“Mind if I join you?” Rob said as he took the empty chair next to the old man.

Hicks’s expression, whatever it was, stayed hidden in the creases of his face. “You one of them people coming around to see if their family tree goes back to the Tufa?”

“No, sir, I’m just here … Well, I’m looking for a song.”

He smiled, or scowled, depending on the way the light hit his face. “You can find a song on the radio, or one of them fancy lap computers.”

“Not this kind of song.”

“And what kind would that be?”

Rob suddenly felt self-conscious under Hicks’s withering, unspoken contempt.
On a hill, long forgotten, carved in stone,
he wanted to say, but chickened out at the last instant. He laughed nervously and said, “Ah, never mind. I see you’ve got your banjo; why don’t we just jam a little bit?”

Hicks laughed scornfully. “Only jam I know is what I put on my toast with my sorghum. Besides, I don’t reckon we know too many of the same tunes. Can you play ‘Hares on the Mountain’?”

Rob knew that the same folk song could have half a dozen different titles. “No, not as such.”

Rockhouse closed his eyes and leaned his head back. His voice was surprisingly high and clear.

Young women they’ll run

Like hares on the mountains,

Young women they’ll run

Like hares on the mountains

If I were but a young man

I’d soon go a-hunting.

Hicks smiled smugly, and then the old woman, without looking up from her quilt, sang:

“Young women they’ll sing

Like birds in the bushes,

Young women they’ll sing

Like birds in the bushes.

If I were but a young man,

I’d go and rattle those bushes.

This made Hicks grin even wider. “Do you know that one?” he challenged.

“I do now,” Rob said, and bent to open the guitar case.

A heavy foot slammed down on it. “This the boy you said was bothering you, Grandpa Rockhouse?”

Rob looked up. The backlit figure looming over him was broad shouldered, square headed, and the size of a portable toilet. Slowly Rob sat back in the chair until he could make out the face, and realized this was a woman.

“Yeah, he’s one of them song-catching Yankees, I think,” Hicks said dismissively.

“Huh,” the woman said. Derision filled the single syllable.

“Ma’am, would you please take your foot off my guitar?” Rob said. His stomach began to tighten with fear. He hadn’t heard the old man say anything about being bothered, let alone summon help. Where had this woman come from?

“I’ll take my foot off when I goddam feel like it,” the woman said, and for emphasis leaned more weight down until Rob heard the thin case start to crack. “Who the hell you people think you are, coming into town and bothering folks, anyway? Bet you even dyed your damn hair black, thinking we’re too stupid to tell.”

“You tell him,” agreed the old woman without looking up from her quilting.

Rob realized this creature outweighed him, and her huge hands looked as if they could twist off his head like a bottle cap. She wore a crew cut, a loose T-shirt with no bra, and jeans with splits in the knees. She was fat, but clearly there was hard muscle beneath it. A musty, sweaty smell surrounded her.

He pushed the rocking chair back and stood. He looked up into her dark, opaque eyes. Quietly, careful not to sound belligerent, he said, “If the gentleman doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll be on my way. I’m not trying to start any trouble here.”

Hicks laughed and shook his head. “Lordy, you done said the wrong thing.”