by Mary Saums
“She must be quite old then. Has she not aged well, is that why people stare?”
“No, it’s not that. She was a late child and not that much older than my husband. She must be in her late seventies now. She still gets around good, as well as we do. Doesn’t hobble a bit. And she only started wearing eyeglasses within the last couple of years. Not even real glasses, like from the eye doctor, either. Just the cheap kind from the drugstore and she only needs them for reading. She is sharp as a tack upstairs, too.” Phoebe tapped a finger on her head. “Sharp but a little off. You’ll really like her. You never told me, but I’m guessing that’s why you want to meet her and Reese. Because they’re not normal.” Phoebe emphasized the last word and gave me an odd look.
“I don’t know what you mean. No, I was told I should ask her about lightning strikes. I read a bit about them in the new books I bought. Fascinating. Especially in relation to trees they strike and their burn marks.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for instance, native custom says one must never touch a burn mark because it’s very bad luck.”
“What! I rubbed all over those things!” she said with a note of panic in her voice. It was true. I remembered how white her hands were, moving over the black wood. She tossed her head and sighed. “Not that it matters. I don’t believe in superstition.”
We drove past the outskirts of town, past the road I remembered from our last trek this far out into the county when we visited Pale Holler some weeks earlier. We kept going, down into a valley dotted with farms and cow pastures, then up again onto a sparsely populated hill. Sparsely populated with humans and houses, at any rate, but lavishly, abundantly blessed with trees of all types.
The road narrowed to a lane as we climbed. “It’s just over this little ridge,” Phoebe said as we bumped over fallen branches and took a right turn into a cleared parcel of land. At its center sat a house made of thick logs. Smoke rose from its chimney and gave the clean fresh air the scents of burning apple and cedar.
“Phoebe, you never said exactly what it was about your aunt that made others stare.”
“I’m still thinking.”
“Why is it so difficult?”
“Because it’s not a thing, like a humongous mole or a hump or anything like that. It’s like she takes on another personality. Not permanent, but like she’s trying it on, like playing dress-up. Every time I’ve seen her, it was something else. Strange. And she reads too much, that’s what her problem is.”
“What an odd thing for a former librarian to say.”
Phoebe blew one of her characteristic huffs out her nose. “It’s the truth. Whatever she’s reading, see, she kind of adopts it. Like a kid who is obsessed with Spiderman and wants his clothes and underwear and pajamas and bedspread and everything to have Spiderman on it.”
“I see.”
“So if she walks out of the house wearing a tinfoil dress and has curlycue antennas made out of coat hangers stuck on her head, we’ll know she has been reading about bug invaders or some foolishness like that. But don’t stare or mention it. Just act normal.”
“Right. I’ll do my best.”
Phoebe drove slowly around a circular path that surrounded a large oak, one with bright yellow plumage. The chatter of starlings came from within it as we got out of the car and walked toward the broad plank porch. The door creaked open, revealing a darker interior and soft lamplight. The shape of a figure appeared and stepped out into the afternoon light.
“Now remember what I said.” Phoebe adjusted her skirt as she walked. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t look straight at her or she will zap you.”
“Zap?”
“Shhh! Keep your voice down. She has got ears like a bat. Yes, zap. Just do not look at her when she is looking at you. Look past her. And don’t let her get between you and the car. She has been known to take a run at visitors and knock them out.”
Phoebe put on a smile, waved and took the gift she brought Ruby Alice from the backseat. Together we watched a tiny lady step gingerly down three steps and wait there as we made our way over the driveway’s covering of leaves.
I couldn’t imagine what Phoebe meant. The harmless-looking woman before us didn’t look as if she could lift a can of beans with her skinny arms that hung limply at her sides. Her cotton print dress was long and demure and came to midcalf over rolled-down hose. She wore house shoes with imitation sheepskin linings. A thin blue sweater lay upon her narrow shoulders, held together by an old-fashioned gold chain with latches on either end. I couldn’t imagine her rushing a guest like a linebacker.
Phoebe talked nonstop, just pleasantries, I presumed, for I had not paid attention to her actual words, only the constant flow of them. Instead, I found myself studying this lady, wondering what on earth Phoebe had been on about. I saw nothing whatsoever unusual about her.
She had a kind face. It was a lovely brown color, the color of pecans. She combed her hair, thick gray with a good deal of black still underneath, back into a bun. The dark brown eyes held much delight, whether due to our visit or to the joy of being alive, healthy, and surrounded by such natural beauty, I couldn’t say. It looked to me as if true happiness was her usual disposition. The wrinkles and laugh lines that covered her face had not become so deep through only occasional use.
The eyes. Why had Phoebe warned me not to look into them? She was being even more cryptic than usual. In the short time I’ve known her, I’ve learned that it is not necessarily essential to take Phoebe’s words as gospel truth in every case. She has a pliant sense of reality at times. I suspected this was one of them.
I thought at the time that perhaps Phoebe feared her. Her voice changed a bit when she talked about Ruby Alice. Again, I couldn’t imagine how this could be.
Ruby Alice reached out a slim bony hand to mine. “How nice to meet you, Jane,” she said in a low melodious voice that was slightly scratched with time. “Come in, come in. There’s tea ready.”
“Here, I brought you something,” Phoebe said. She handed Ruby Alice a plastic container and pulled the snap-on lid open to show her the contents.
Ruby Alice’s face became animated with delight. “Sausage balls! Thank you, sweetheart. You always remember my favorites.”
Phoebe gave her a hug and walked with one arm across Ruby Alice’s shoulder, preceding me toward the house. Casting a look backward, Phoebe gave a little shake of her head. I had no idea what she was attempting to convey.
The cozy room we entered brought to mind illustrations from some of the British children’s books I adored as a child. Rosy, that is how I would describe it, everything clean and neat, with an over-lying glow that seemed to emanate from the furnishings and putty-colored walls. From the kitchen, a soothing aroma of cinnamon and cloves filled the air.
“I have special tea for you. Sit down, sit down,” Ruby Alice said. She directed us to sit on the overstuffed sofa, done in a soft velvety fabric of cream with a large rose print.
On the coffee table, a low one made of thick dark wood that gave it a primitive look, sat two small teapots. From underneath each, the edges of white crochet doilies peeked and curled.
Phoebe took a seat on the end of the sofa where several pillows leaned in the corner. She fluffed them, arranged them behind her back, and made herself at home. I sat nearer the other end by the window. The view of Ruby Alice’s back lot made me smile. Bluebirds flew in and out of a copse of apple trees on the edge, between lawn and woods. Watching, it was as if the clock had turned backward and I glimpsed a scene of my own childhood.
I turned to glance at Ruby Alice who stood on the multicolored hook rug. She clasped her hands in front of her, her eyes magnified and dancing behind smudged eyeglasses. She returned my smile and I felt as if we floated, suspended in a golden moment of time, free of reality.
She stepped toward us. She wrapped her small fingers around the handles of each pot, lifted them, and switched their places, setting each one on the other’s doil
y.
“Now then,” she said. “I didn’t know who would sit where.”
Phoebe gave me a blank stare. I translated it as, “Didn’t I tell you she was off?” or something along that line.
Ruby Alice fussed with pouring our tea into the mismatched cups and saucers, lovely delicate china, already before us. She didn’t ask how we took our tea. She splashed a bit of cream into the brown-tinged but clear liquid in my cup. Into Phoebe’s a light green concoction with tiny floating bits of flower petals or herbs, she dropped a cube of sugar. Satisfied, she pulled an old rocking chair closer to the table and sat, watching us expectantly, looking from one to the other.
We drank. Phoebe’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead as she took a long, loud sip. “Mmm. That’s good, Aunt Woo-Woo,” she said. “What’s in it? Cinnamon?”
“Secret,” her aunt answered with a wink.
I took a second sip. A hint of cinnamon in mine as well with the tastes of both herbal and traditional pekoe teas. Chamomile, perhaps. “Delicious,” I said.
Ruby Alice clapped her hands together as she got out of the rocker and walked out of the room. “Be right back. Drink up.”
She returned with a plate of warm teacakes, an old-fashioned recipe with only butter, flour, and a dash of sugar and vanilla. I remarked on how much I loved living in an isolated place in the woods, just as she did. She told us a number of stories about the mountain and its people. Phoebe, I could see, had heard most of these. She fidgeted for a while then finally set her cup down.
“I need to go to my car for a minute,” she said as she stood. “I believe I’ll walk around your yard while I’m out there. You all carry on and finish. I’ll be right back.”
“That’s fine, hon,” Ruby Alice said distractedly. “You go right ahead. You know where it’s at.”
Phoebe froze. She didn’t look at either of us. After a second or two, she continued on her way and went out the front door.
At the time, I thought perhaps this was the type of “crazy” thing Phoebe referred to in regard to Ruby Alice’s eccentricities. Stating the obvious, that Phoebe knew where her own car was parked, was a bit quirky. Outside, I heard a car door shut.
Ruby Alice smiled. “You have new visitors,” she said. She sipped as she peered over the rim of her cup.
“Only one, actually. An old friend.” I wondered how she knew about Michael.
She nodded. “One you know, two you don’t know.”
“You mean I have more coming? Surprise guests?” I couldn’t imagine who that might be.
“Oh, no. These have been here for ages. Already here. Just arriving. It’s that time, you know. When the spirits are freed.”
Her perplexing words made no sense, yet they reminded me of an old legend my grandmother told me. At Halloween, which was the ancient holy day of Samhain, it is said that ghosts are no longer captive to their usual haunting places, but may roam freely during this holiday’s full moon. I hadn’t a clue if that was what Ruby Alice was on about.
She talked nonstop on all sorts of topics after Phoebe’s departure. I nodded politely and was about to take a sip of tea when a movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Outside the window, I could just see Phoebe, creeping stealthily from the side of the house to a bed of yellow pansies. She stepped behind them where a garden ornament of some sort, a standing rock like a short monolith, stood.
I had no idea what she was up to, only that she behaved in a very strange manner. She looked about, as if to be sure no one watched her. Once satisfied, she quickly rubbed her hands and arms all over an opening in the rock, fronts and backs and each individual finger. She then took something from her pocket and closed her eyes. Her lips moved as if in prayer before tossing a small object through the hole. She did this twice more.
So as not to be rude to Ruby Alice, I turned more squarely toward her. However intriguing Phoebe’s antics, I didn’t want to be distracted from my hostess. I brought my attention back fully to her words. We talked about the lightning legends and also a little about medicinal herbs.
“How fascinating,” I said. “You must come to my house for a visit sometime. Cal also used plants for medicines. Perhaps you could help me learn how to recognize them in the woods.”
Her eyes googled about behind her thick glasses, quickly darting left and right. I supposed this was an expression of excitement. Surely this phenomenon was what Phoebe thought of as “zapping” me. I wanted to laugh. As she instructed, however, I did my best not to stare though it was out of respect, not because I believed I might be turned into stone.
“And you come out here anytime,” she said as she got up from her rocker. She picked up Phoebe’s teapot, cup, and saucer. I followed suit by gathering the rest of the tea things and trailing behind her to the kitchen. “Phoebe should be about done out there. Why don’t you pick out a jar of preserves from the counter. Get one for her, too.”
I set the teapot and china beside her sink. Across the room, the counter she indicated held dozens of Mason jars filled with jams and jellies. I chose two and thanked her.
“We can go out this way,” she said and waved a hand toward the kitchen door at the back. When I pushed open the light screen without a sound and stepped into the yard, Phoebe’s head jerked in my direction.
I had caught her with her hands up and inside the rock’s opening again. After a moment of surprise, she adopted an air of nonchalance. She brought one arm down, set that hand on her hip, and left the other as it was, resting in the opening. She patted it a few times before swinging her arm down, whistling softly as she walked toward us. She brushed her palms together several times, then against the sides of her pants.
I handed her a jar. “A gift from Ruby Alice.”
“Oh, boy. Peach. Thank you.”
On leaving, we thanked Ruby Alice for the tea and our gifts. She closed Phoebe’s door and leaned into the driver’s side window. “Tell Reese to come up for supper if he wants to. You two take care. I’ll see you before long,” she said with an enigmatic smile, waving and then turning toward the house.
I almost laughed. I’d seen no sign of any mental illness, as Phoebe’d warned. She was perfectly lovely. As we eased down the driveway, however, I caught a glimpse of her in the door’s rearview mirror. She reached behind a chair on her porch to retrieve a round object. I squinted. It was a football helmet. To my dismay, she put it on before walking slowly inside the house. I didn’t think it was the sort of thing Phoebe would be interested in, so I neglected to mention it.
We did not turn right, the way we had come. Instead, Phoebe turned the wheel left so that we headed deeper into the mountain’s woods.
Ahead I could see the long black roof of a house, and upon getting closer, could see the rest of it, a white clapboard ranch style that sat between two hills.
Along the way, we passed small hand-painted signs stuck on the side of the road. These appeared more frequently, in the manner of the old Burma Shave signs. “Welcome to Bible Gardens…,” “Jesus is just around the corner…,” “So please drive slow…”
The gravel track we followed curved between the front of the house and a side plot of land with tall hedges and an entrance. Beyond it, I could see many flowers in fall colors as well as a number of bushes that flowered in spring and summer. An arched gateway painted bright red opened directly into what looked like a maze of small hedges.
Between the house and the large garden area, a thin man wearing a baseball cap stood at a makeshift table made of an old door across two sawhorses. He worked with a small chisel and hammer, standing over a block of wood held between two clamps. He never looked up at Phoebe’s car as we rode down into the little valley, but kept at his work, smiling gaily as he sang in a loud voice.
By the time we parked, he had finished his song, yet his lips still moved in speech, all the while smiling, apparently finding himself an amusing conversationalist. He set down his tools and came around his makeshift worktable to take note of his vi
sitors.
“Hey there, Phoebe. Ma’am,” he said to me with a tip of his cap. “Y’all out sightseeing today?” He held out his arms and walked toward the extra lot as if to herd us there.
“We sure are. Jane, this is Reese Evans. Jane here is new in town, Reese. I thought she might like to see your project…thing.” Phoebe waved her hands toward the lot’s hedge entrance.
This produced an even wider smile from Reese, who began nodding his head. “I’m so glad to meet you, Jane. Go right through that gap. It’s all in there.”
Phoebe had told me nothing about what lay beyond the hedge. However, I appreciated her control in not saying we were here because she thought I’d like to meet someone she considered strange.
To my discredit, I must admit I expected to see something along the line of old tires made into birdbaths or other amalgamations of cast-off items one frequently thinks of in relation to rural Southern yard ornaments. What was actually there couldn’t have been more startling.
Once past the hedge gap, a lovely water garden of lily pads and willow trees filled the area between where we stood and a high stone wall. It was approximately fifty yards away and looked quite old. Stretched along the lot’s entire length in front of the wall, an earthwork sloped gently down, upon which I beheld a familiar and beloved sight.
“Jerusalem,” I said. My heart gave a little leap. It was a place of dreams, one I’d longed to visit and, once finally there, a walking dream every day I was privileged to be in its glorious streets. I’d dreamt of my future there, where the Colonel and I had been so happy. No sight in its alleyways was unremarkable, no vista on the surrounding countryside seen without its own dreams of the past. All of time came together there so that there was no division in then, now, or tomorrow.
“That was quick,” Phoebe said.
“It could be nothing else.” The buildings in the city panorama, made with textured plasters of varying gray, yellow, and white tints, reflected light and cast shadows down winding streets and alleys. Their proportions looked so realistic, it was as if real buildings had been shrunk, not created in miniature. The sight of the rock of the dome, here made with a half-globe of gold, perhaps formerly a Christmas ornament but none the less majestic, sent a thrill through me. “I’ve been too long away. I must go back soon. What astonishing work, Mr. Evans.” I walked slowly past the scale model of the entire city, memories flashing as I traced some of the familiar routes I’d once taken.
