As Faye was backing out of Miss Dovey’s driveway, her headlights raked the front of the old woman’s house. She could have sworn she saw a hand draw back the sheer curtains framing a window. A stooped figure stood silhouetted in the room’s dim lamplight.
Chapter Twelve
As Faye awoke on Tuesday morning, her newly conscious brain reminded her that Brent would be at his dermatology office through Wednesday, making sure the citizens of Birmingham were beautiful, so she likely wouldn’t see him for another couple of days. She wondered if there would be another football game at Alcaskaki High the following weekend and whether he would be looking for company. When she came to full consciousness, she felt a trifle sheepish for daydreaming over a man she barely knew, but such silliness was healthier than dwelling on her work or on the question of Carmen’s death and her own narrow escape.
Sitting up in bed, she hauled her briefcase into her lap and opened it. Her hands rested on the final work of Carmen’s tragically abbreviated career. One advantage to waking up early was the extra reading time she gained before work.
Faye turned the pages over, one by one. It was a miracle that Carmen’s work had survived. It could so easily have perished when the original copy was destroyed by fire. With that thought, she abruptly shut the binder and got out of bed, shucking her pajamas and throwing on her work clothes. She needed to get to a photocopier.
The original copy of Carmen’s work hadn’t perished in the fire. It had been in her briefcase, which had left no trace in the burned-out building. If Adam Strahan couldn’t find Carmen’s missing briefcase, he would have to agree with her suspicion that someone had stolen it. And he would be very glad to have a copy of material known to have been in that briefcase.
Jenny Hanahan had a photocopier in her store, and she’d agreed to let Raleigh’s workers use it at a highly inflated per-copy cost. Faye had a feeling that when Adam Strahan saw Carmen’s notes, he would be more than happy to let Jenny charge the Fire Marshal for the copying costs, inflated or not.
Faye loitered near the photocopier until the lone customer left in the store was standing at the checkout counter, chatting with Jenny. If someone had stolen Carmen’s original notes while in the process of committing arson, it would be dimwitted indeed to let word get around that Faye had a bootlegged copy or two.
***
Having finished her furtive photocopying, Faye returned to the bunkhouse and went to the long row of trays in the parlor that served as mailboxes for the project’s staff. Folding a piece of paper bearing the song Miss Dovey’s Papaw had taught her, she slid it into Dr. Amory’s in-box. Identifying an old folk song was not strictly within a linguist’s job description, but it was possible that he would recognize something in the lyrics—a turn of a phrase or the archaic use of a particular word—that would shed some light on its origins. That mission accomplished, she headed for Raleigh’s dig site, taking no pleasure in the prospect of the day’s work. It was depressing to think that even though she only had one employee left, she really had nothing useful for him to do.
An ancient Ford was parked just off the road. Entering the clearing, she was surprised to find that Joe wasn’t alone. As she approached, he and his helper grasped two corners of the tarp covering one pile of backdirt and folded it back neatly, accomplishing the task in a quarter of the time it would have taken Joe to do it by himself. Each of them began shoveling soil into a screen, pausing frequently to see what was left behind and working with efficient care. Joe must have cloned himself. There was no other explanation for what her eyes told her.
Then she came close enough to recognize Joe’s helper. Elliott removed the cap that kept the sun out of his face and the sweat out of his eyes. He approached her, hat in hand.
“I’m sorry about the trouble yesterday, Ms. Longchamp. I need this job, and I don’t go along with the things Jorge says when he’s mad. I’ll work hard for you, and I’ll do the job the way you want it done. That is, if you’ll take me back.”
Though taking Elliott back would require her to reverse herself on her very plain statement that leaving the site with Jorge would mean never working for her again, Faye could not turn her back on a chance to salvage the situation, especially when Elliott had apologized with such sincerity. She reached out and shook his hand. “I can use a good worker. If you’re ready to be one, you can work for me.”
In the absence of Jorge and Fred, Elliott proved to be as tireless a worker as Joe, which meant that Faye didn’t have to hound him every last second to keep working. This release from managerial hell allowed her the time to be productive herself. It was soothing to her soul to be working with good, honest dirt again. She plopped down on the ground and started running soil through an eighth-inch screen. The hypnotic repetition of scooping and sifting felt more like sandcastle construction than it did actual work, probably because she could do it with her brain turned off and her mind at rest.
The morning’s clouds pulled back, allowing the sun to light up a perfect Indian summer day. Faye shed her jacket, working comfortably in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Elliott liked to talk more than she and Joe did, and he didn’t seem to mind talking mostly to himself, with little response other than an occasional nod from Faye or grunt from Joe. Yes, Elliott was going to be all right.
“Don’t know where Jorge and Fred get off,” he said, “quitting this job when they ain’t got another one to go to. Jorge has a little piddly part-time job driving a delivery van; he can’t get by on that. Fred ain’t even got that much money coming in. Margie and I can’t live like that. We don’t plan to live forever in her grandmother’s old house. If we lose one more board to dry rot, the whole thing’ll fall down around our ears. We’re holding off on having kids, so she can get her R.N. from the community college and work a few years. Maybe we might be able to afford satellite TV before they think up something else more expensive. We were finally saving something when the limerock mine laid me off. If Jorge and Fred won’t talk to me because I intend to work this job, with or without them, then they’ll just have to talk to each other.”
Excerpt from an Interview with Mr. Elliott Young and Mrs. Margie Young, November 2
Interviewer: Carmen J. Martinez, Ph.D.
CJM: You live on a beautiful piece of property, Mr. and Mrs. Young. Has it been in one of your families for a long time? (Interviewer’s note: The interview was conducted on the front porch of a home set on a high bluff over the Broad River. Tree cover obscures some of the view, but the river and a lower bluff on its far side are clearly visible far below. The Youngs live in a modest home, but they’ve inherited a million-dollar view.)
Margie Young: This was my grandfather Lester’s house, but I don’t know if he built it. My parents live in another old house on this same property, just upriver, and I grew up there. They say the original homestead was back in the woods away from the river a piece, out back of Amanda-Lynne’s place. Anyway, my roots are here, and Elliott’s folks own the next piece of land downriver from here, so his roots are here, too.
Elliott Young: Yeah, we’ve both been looking at this pretty country all our lives. Till they put the cell phone tower in and ruined the view.
Margie Young: Hush, Elliott. You know you’re looking forward to getting a cell phone. And that tower is a blessing for the Montroses. How would they pay for Kiki’s medicine without the lease money?
Elliott Young: The cell company’s not building that tower so I can get a cell phone. They’re building it for the rich folks over yonder, but they’ll be happy to sell me a phone, too, if they can make a little bit of money on it.
Margie Young: He’s talking about the resort going up east of here. It’s on a big lake situated right between Birmingham and Atlanta, so rich people can drive straight from their vacation homes to their big city jobs.
Elliott Young: Yep. ’Course, we gotta go the long way round to get to work, ourselves, since we’ve gotta drive around Great Tige
r Bluff to get anywhere. Margie has a long haul to get to the community college, but she drives it anyway. I’ll have to go farther than that to find a decent job, but I plan to do whatever it takes to get ahead without leaving my home. Margie and I—and our kids, when we can afford them—are going to live where we were born to live, but we plan to have the things that everybody else in Alabama takes for granted—right here on Donis Cliff.
CJM: Do you know why it’s called Donis Cliff? I understand that the name “Donis” comes from the Cherokee. I’ve come across it several times in my research. It means “my daughter.”
Margie Young: Oh, God. How sad.
CJM: I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?
Elliott Young: It’s okay. Margie always was a sucker for a good ghost story. I can’t tell you how many times she’s dragged me around the river bank down at the bottom of that cliff, looking for Donis.
CJM: I’m a sucker for a good story, too. That’s why I’m here. Why don’t you tell me about Donis, Margie?
Margie Young: She lived a long time ago. Before the Civil War, for sure, because it was back in the slave times. Donis was a young Indian woman—maybe Cherokee, since you say that’s where her name comes from—and she fell in love with a runaway slave. Before long, she was a runaway, too. I’ve never understood that part, because I remember reading that many tribes sheltered escaped slaves. Maybe hers wasn’t one of them.
CJM: That’s possible. Some Native Americans even owned slaves themselves—
Elliott Young: I didn’t know that.
Margie Young: You need to get out more.
CJM: —So Donis and the young man might have been running from her own father. Or maybe his owner had discovered he was living with the Cherokee, and they had to run to protect her people.
Margie Young: That makes sense. Especially since she was pregnant. No mother would want her baby born to be a slave.
CJM: Do you know the name of the baby’s father?
Elliott Young: I always thought maybe his name was “Tiger.”
Margie Young: Why would you think— (She begins to laugh.)
Elliott Young: What’s so funny? We’ve got two bluffs—Donis Cliff and Great Tiger Bluff. His name could have been “Tiger.”
Margie Young: Have you ever looked at Great Tiger Bluff? It’s got stripes—golden-red stripes and dark black gullies. It looks like a tiger. That’s where it got its name.
Elliott Young: You were there when they named it? I still think the man’s name was “Tiger,” Dr. Martinez. You write that down. I have to put up with Margie’s foolishness, because I think she’s cute, but you don’t have to.
CJM: So what happened to Donis and…Tiger? (Elliott Young grins in triumph.) You said this was a ghost story, so I’m getting a bad feeling here.
Elliott Young (warming to the story): They were camping down at the bottom of Great Tiger Bluff. There’s fresh water there, and at least a little shelter from the wind, but they were still afraid of getting caught. When Miss Dovey’s grandmother climbed down the bluff one day to dig clay, they heard her coming.
Margie Young: They thought it was his master coming to take them away.
Elliott Young: Tiger’s master. (Margie rolls her eyes.)
Margie Young: They ran all the way to the river, with Miss Dovey’s grandma chasing them the whole time. They tried to swim it, but it was so cold and they were tired. They both went down. I guess Miss Dovey’s grandma was as tough as she is, because she swam in after them and dragged Donis back to the riverbank, but her lover was gone.
CJM: You’re right. That’s really sad.
Margie Young: It gets worse. They brought her up here to one of these houses on Donis Cliff and took care of her. She was young and healthy, and her body bounced back, but her mind didn’t. Time and again, they found her wandering the edge of the cliff, calling for her baby’s father. Soon enough, the baby was born, and she seemed to rally, but it didn’t last. As soon as the baby was weaned, she threw herself off the cliff right near where we’re sitting.
CJM: And her ghost?
Margie Young: It wanders the riverbank below us. She calls for her lover, and the sound echoes over the water until it seems to come from every direction. Everyone in the settlement has heard her. Don’t believe them if they say they haven’t. Elliott and I have seen her, more than once.
CJM: You’ve truly seen a ghost? (Elliott nods.)
Margie Young: Donis doesn’t look like a lady in a sheet. She’s just a little ball of light like you could hold in your hand, bouncing through the air. Once, I thought I saw another glowing ball, but it was just the first one reflected in the water. I did so want it to be the baby’s father, finally coming back to her. I think he will, someday.
CJM: What happened to the baby?
Margie Young: One of my ancestors raised her, and she married into a Sujosa family. So, in a way, Donis is still here.
CJM: Which family? What was the baby’s name?
Margie Young: Oh, I can’t tell you that. People won’t talk about it, and they won’t like it if I talk, either.
CJM: Because they don’t want to admit to African ancestry?
Margie Young: Some of them, yes. I would be proud to claim Donis and…Tiger. (She smiles.) But it’s not my place to make that decision for other people. The baby’s name has been such a secret for so many years. Most people my age don’t know she ever existed, much less whether or not they’re related to her. I’ll tell my children the story, so it won’t die. Other than that, I’ll let people keep their own secrets.
CJM: You know, Mrs. Young, you have a deep interest in history, and you seem to have read quite a bit on the subject. Have you ever thought of going back to school—maybe studying history?
Elliott Young: Margie’s already in school. Come spring, she’ll be a nurse.
CJM: Oh, good for you! Do you know what area of nursing you want to specialize in?
Margie Young: Right now, I’ll take any job I can get, but one day I hope to be a nurse-midwife. I want to bring babies into this world and put them in their mothers’ arms. It’s just something I want to do for Donis.
Chapter Thirteen
After her customary bag lunch—peanut butter and honey on a hot dog bun, because it doesn’t spoil on a hot day and because buns stand up to being banged around and because the combination tastes good—Faye felt fortified for an afternoon hiking the settlement hills. Joe and Elliott were working well together, and she knew she could trust Joe to make sure the job was done right. The sun was shining and the weather was mild. She’d assiduously studied maps and photographs of the Sujosa settlement, square inch by square inch, but there was no substitute for walking a site and looking it over, acre by acre. Even Raleigh had known that, according to Elliott.
Elliott had told her that the professor had seemed to spend most of the past month walking around the settlement, just staring at the ground. According to Elliott, Raleigh had called this activity “surveying the site for areas where artifacts were likely to be found.” Joe, in his own terse yet eloquent way, had said, “You’re saying he spent a lot of time dicking around?”
Which is why Joe was still chuckling when she left him in charge of Elliott and walked away. Elliott, the project’s big talker, had asked, “Where you going?” and she’d answered, “Nowhere special. Just gonna do some dicking around.” Elliott had watched her leave with the open-mouthed gape of a hardshell Pentecostal who’d never heard gutter language slosh out of the mouth of a lady.
***
Faye chose the footpath that branched off the main road to the north, which she knew led to the Smiley place. The path wound up a hillside so steep that she, in her flatlander ignorance, would have called it a mountain. Her goal was to get herself good and lost, looking for places that showed signs of human influence stretching back many years. The distinctions would be subtle—something as trivial as a grove of tremendous poplars edging into a forest of equally tre
mendous hemlocks could tell a tale to someone who spoke the trees’ language.
Faye knew that, in some climates, poplars were the first trees to retake disturbed land. A homesteader who abandoned a farm might come back years later to find his pastures overtaken with poplars. Hemlocks grow more deliberately than poplars but, given time, they grow tall enough to shade the poplars out. If the homesteader lived long enough, he would eventually see hemlocks wrest his long-overgrown pasture from the poplars’ grip.
Faye was also hoping to get a look at the built environment. Her aerial photographs told her that most of the Sujosa’s buildings were already built in 1939, but her on-the-ground observations told her that the Montrose family lived in a Craftsman-style house probably built during the 1930s. This suggested a surprising degree of prosperity during the Depression that, unfortunately, must have been the family’s last economic upturn in the twentieth century. Faye wondered whether they’d sent a son or two to work for the WPA, enjoying a brief influx of money into the cash-poor budget of a farming family.
When the footpath wound past a few Sujosa homes, she might get a look at outbuildings that pre-dated the houses they served. She had already glimpsed abandoned privies behind several homes. Often, an old homeplace was left standing to serve as a barn when a new farmhouse was built. If she got really lucky, she’d spy an old outbuilding that was just beginning to fall down, exposing all kinds of interesting construction methods.
Just past the Smiley house, a fainter path veered off to the left. Being Faye, she was irresistibly drawn to the route less taken. Part of its attraction was the fact that it sloped steeply downward, so steeply that when her boot landed on a patch of slick mud, she landed on her rear and slid several feet downhill before she even knew she’d fallen. Gingerly patting the affected parts, Faye found that everything was undamaged, but that she was smeared from waist to heels with slick and sticky clay. Irrationally happy to be outdoors on a cool, sunny autumn afternoon, she ignored her ruined clothes and walked on.
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