Relics

by Mary Anna Evans

  “I’ve been planning to talk to him myself,” she continued, “so if there’s anything either of you would like me to tell him…” She could tell that the idea of her speaking to Raleigh about their concerns gave both men visions of pink slips and unemployment lines.

  “No,” Amory interjected, “Bingham’s the obvious person to represent our interests. He has tenure, so he’s less vulnerable to Raleigh’s…um…petulance.”

  “Well, then, let’s make a list of things we want to bring to his attention. First, his archaeology work. So far, he shows no grasp for designing a field study of this type. I’d like him to use a more hands-off management style. I know Carmen felt the same way before she died. Do you gentlemen agree?”

  “To a point—” Amory began.

  Faye interrupted him. “And I sense that you’re both concerned about receiving credit for your work when Raleigh publishes the results of this project.”

  Both men nodded.

  “As a scientist of experience—not to mention tenure—I’d think you could work with Raleigh to establish some guidelines.” She looked expectantly at Bingham.

  “I should think so.”

  “Good,” Faye said, pushing away from the table and standing up. “Because if you can’t work things out with Raleigh, I’ll give it a shot.” Both men looked absolutely terrified by the very thought.

  ***

  Light filtered through the screen door that separated the merchandise inside Hanahan’s Grocery from the moths hovering outside. It was past closing time, but the heavy door behind the screen was unlocked. Faye hurried through it in search of shampoo. Brent and Laurel had replaced her own shampoo, which had burned in the fire, with the body-building brand Laurel used on her own fine locks. Faye’s coarse straight hair had quickly taken on the look of black hay.

  She was alone, as Joe, who probably made his own shampoo out of slippery elm or something equally organic, had elected to stay at the bunkhouse. Faye quickly learned that finding shampoo in Hanahan’s Grocery was not an intuitive process. It wasn’t shelved near other toiletries like toothpaste and aftershave. A quick trip down an aisle that seemed to be reserved for “soapy” stuff—laundry detergent, facial cleanser, and insecticidal soap—proved fruitless, so Faye tried the shelves lining the building’s exterior walls, where no pretense of organization was made. Picking through the flotsam and jetsam scattered along the shelf nearest the door, her attention was drawn to a display that was distinctly uncluttered.

  A yard-long section of shelving had been cleared out for a teapot and six mugs sitting atop a large oval platter. Beside the platter were some salt-and-pepper shakers, a set of mixing bowls, and a collection of flower pots and vases. Each ceramic piece was finished with a gray salt-glaze that was unadorned except for the imperfections introduced by nature. The vessels’ shapes were equally simple, but their grace caught Faye’s attention in a way that gilded porcelain wouldn’t have. The sweeping handles at the neck of one of the vases rose like wings. Faye could picture that vase sitting alone on a severe and sleek table, holding only a single white tulip, gracing the cover of Architectural Digest.

  She picked up a mug and enjoyed the feel of its handle on her fingers. The subtle flare of its rim would feel good as it carried coffee to her lips. She wanted it.

  The price wasn’t marked, but she suspected she could afford it, which was too bad. Its maker deserved more. She turned the mug over and wasn’t surprised to see “R. Smiley” scratched into its base.

  Further along the shelf, she found several brands of shampoo. Having snagged one, she went to the cash register and found out why Jenny was still working when it was half an hour past closing time. A woman stood there, talking non-stop—a woman, who, Faye realized immediately, could only have been Amanda-Lynne Lavelle.

  In addition to being a gifted talker, Amanda-Lynne Lavelle was as startlingly attractive as a middle-aged woman could be. Her shoulder-length brunette hair was curly and thick. The loss of pigmentation common to the Sujosa had given her a white streak of hair that framed her left cheek so boldly that any grays she might have weren’t noticeable. Her blue-green eyes contrasted so strongly with her unwrinkled nut-brown skin and gleaming white teeth that Faye found herself focusing on the woman’s face rather than her words.

  “Do you think Jimmie will like these new energy bars? He does like chocolate. I do believe he’d eat it for breakfast, but I make sure he gets something with vitamins in it before he leaves for school. Lord knows what he eats for lunch. This label here has a list of vitamins as long as my right arm—”

  “My customers seem to like them,” Jenny broke in, taking the energy bar from Amanda-Lynne’s hand and ringing it up. “I ate one today for lunch, as a matter of fact. I don’t have anybody working here with me, so some days get long. Mighty long.”

  “Oh, I do know about long days. I don’t know how Jimmie does everything he has to do. I guess it helps to be young. He leaves early every morning for school in Alcaskaki then he goes to school all day. And then he goes to the library and works till they close at six. Some days, he doesn’t even leave at six, because he’s picking out books for himself. A library job is hardly even work for a child like that, surrounded by the books he loves all the time.”

  Jenny reached under the counter. “That reminds me. You haven’t picked up your mail for a few days, and Jimmie’s got a good little pile of college letters.” She handed Amanda-Lynne a double-handful of slick, brightly colored brochures.

  The other woman caressed them, saying, “It’s going to happen. It’s really going to happen. One of these colleges is going to pay my boy a big lot of money to come and study with them.” She turned, fanning out the brochures, and fastened her famous turquoise eyes on Faye’s brown ones. “Look at this! Ever since they got wind of Jimmie’s SATs, they’ve all been after him.” She waved her son’s mail in the air like a lottery winner flashing her millions and cried, “My son’s going to college. Charles will be so proud!” as she rushed out the door, leaving the energy bar behind.

  Faye wordlessly pushed the ceramic mug and the bottle of shampoo across the counter toward Jenny, who rang them up efficiently, took Faye’s money, then locked the cash drawer up with a key. Faye stood silent for a moment, willing herself not to gossip, but finally she leaned toward Jenny and asked quietly, “Isn’t Charles Lavelle dead?”

  “Yep,” Jenny said, shouldering her purse and herding Faye toward the door. “Six years now.”

  Faye opened her mouth to ask something else, but her gossip-hating self won out. She closed it again.

  Jenny took pity on her. “You never can tell what’s going to come out of Amanda-Lynne’s mouth. She’s the most entertaining customer I’ve got. But you know what? She’s a real good mother. Jimmie Lavelle has nice manners, and he works hard, whether he’s at school or at his library job. More than that, he’s got a kind heart. He’s good to his sweetheart, Irene. He spent most of the little bit he earns at the library to buy cell phones for the two of them, just so they can talk to each other when he’s at school and she’s at work. Now, it would be easy enough for anyone to be good to Irene, but Jimmie’s good to her mother, too—which makes him a better Christian than me.”

  Faye didn’t know how to respond. Jenny seemed so warm and gregarious that it was shocking to hear her speak so of a woman as ill as Kiki Montrose.

  The look on Faye’s face must have reflected what she was thinking. “Kiki never would’ve gotten sick if she’d stayed in her husband’s bed,” said Jenny. “She was always man-crazy. Why, she stole my boyfriend Ed, right before our senior prom. Now dear little Irene is suffering for Kiki’s mistakes, sacrificing her whole life for her sorry mother. It’s a crying shame. You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but that girl’s a genius when it comes to computers. But all she’s got now is an old clunker of a machine just good enough so she can browse the Internet and see all the things she can’t have. That cell phone lease would have paid f
or Irene’s schooling and a few pretty things like young girls need. Instead, the money’s going for drugs to keep Kiki alive so she can torment everyone around her for a few more years.”

  Faye tried to imagine Kiki as a femme fatale. Perhaps when her lank orange hair had been lustrous and fiery, and her lined skin had been the pearly white of a natural redhead, maybe then Kiki could have had her pick of men. Or perhaps Jenny was biased because of the old rivalry. There were, after all, other ways to get Hepatitis C besides sexual contact.

  Amanda-Lynne came fluttering back in the door, looking for the energy bar she had left on the counter.

  “I mustn’t forget this,” she said.

  Amanda-Lynne smiled sweetly at the two women, including Faye in her benevolent gaze as if she had known her all her life. It was impossible not to like her, quirks and all. Faye could hardly believe that she’d been reared in the same home as DeWayne Montrose.

  Suddenly Faye had a brainstorm. DeWayne Montrose’s mound wasn’t the only early settlement site—not if Carmen’s notes from the interview with Margie and Elliott were correct.

  “Mrs. Lavelle?” began Faye.

  “Amanda-Lynne,” corrected the lady.

  Faye smiled. “I’m Faye Longchamp, with the Rural Assistance Project.”

  “How nice to meet you,” said Amanda-Lynne. “You’re the new archaeologist, aren’t you? That’s such an interesting subject.”

  “Yes. And I’m hoping you can help me with something. Amanda-Lynne, Elliott’s wife Margie mentioned the old Lester homestead.” She neglected to mention that Margie hadn’t actually mentioned it directly to her. “She said she didn’t know exactly where it was or who owned the property, but I thought it might be you, because she said it was back of your place. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Daddy showed me the place where his mama said the old house was. I can take you there. Well, I can get you close. I was real young at the time, and I might not remember the exact spot. There’s nothing there now but trees, anyway, but I’ll show it to you, if you like.”

  “Can I excavate there?”

  “Sure. I’d be real interested to see if you can find something.”

  Faye wished she could see DeWayne Montrose’s face when he found out that she was getting what she wanted, in spite of him. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this, Amanda-Lynne.”

  Amanda-Lynne graced her with an angel’s smile. “Charles will be so interested to hear this.” She backed out the door, waving good-bye with Jimmie’s energy bar.

  “Reckon your work life is fixing to get more interesting?” Jenny looked at Faye.

  The question was rhetorical, because Jenny clearly wanted to close the store and get herself some supper. As Faye gathered her purchases, she saw a mug like the one she just bought sitting on the far side of Jenny’s cash register.

  “I see you like Ronya’s work, too.”

  Jenny picked up her own mug, wiping a drop of tea off its rim with her thumb. “Oh, you’re talking about my coffee cup. This isn’t Ronya’s. Her mama made this for me, years ago. It’s just plain old pottery like people around here have been making for years and years. Most of us have got a set of this stuff that used to be our grandma’s. When somebody breaks something, Ronya’s real good about making another piece so much like it that you don’t miss the old one.”

  So that explained why Faye’s crew kept digging up gray potsherds. People had been making the same pottery for generations here, handing their designs down like an inheritance.

  Jenny was looking at her expectantly, as if she couldn’t understand why Faye didn’t pack up her stuff and leave so she could go home, but she was too much of a businesswoman to come out and say so.

  “I guess I’ll go make myself some coffee so I can try out my new cup,” Faye said, awkwardly covering her retreat.

  Jenny politely showed Faye the door, then locked it behind her.

  As Faye walked across the parking lot, she saw that Amanda-Lynne hadn’t finished her excited perusal of Jimmie’s college mail. Faye would have walked over and spent a moment making polite conversation, except Amanda-Lynne was in no great need of a conversational partner. Bright and lively chatter streamed out of the open car window as Amanda-Lynne regaled the empty passenger seat with news of all the scholarships Jimmie was in line to receive.

  Interview with Mrs. Amanda-Lynne Lavelle, November 5, 2004

  Interviewer: Carmen Martinez, Ph.D.

  CJM: Should I come back later? I don’t want to disturb Mrs. Montrose. (Interviewer’s note: Mrs. Lavelle was caring for Mrs. Kiki Montrose on the evening of this interview. Mrs. Montrose is in ill health, and she was asleep on the couch when I arrived at the Lavelle house.)

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: Oh, heavens no! Don’t you worry about Kiki. There’s not much that can wake her up when she’s having a good sleep.

  CJM: I see you enjoy handwork. (Interviewer’s note: The walls of the Lavelle home are covered with cross-stitch samplers, the furniture is cushioned with crewel-work pillows, and every available surface is covered with neat—extremely neat, in fact—stacks of books. There is not an undecorated spot nor a single mote of dust in the Lavelle home.)

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: I don’t have much time for my fancy work any more, not since Charles died. Charles wishes I had time to stitch, but when he says so, I just remind him that I work all day in Alcaskaki at the diner, now that he’s gone and took his paycheck with him. (Interviewer’s note: I feel compelled to mention that Charles Lavelle passed away in 1999.)

  CJM: You and your cousin DeWayne are as pure Sujosa as two people can be. Our genealogists haven’t found an outsider on either of your family trees yet. You two are walking, talking history.

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: I’m not that old.

  CJM: Oh, I didn’t mean that you yourself were…I just…Well, anything either of you have to say about where the Sujosa come from would be so valuable.

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: I was just messing with you. I knew what you meant, but I don’t think I’m going to be any help to you. My mama always said the Sujosa just grew up out of the dirt, right in this spot. She wasn’t much of a story teller, except when she was playing the mandolin and singing. I see that light in your eye. No, she didn’t sing any old Sujosa songs and she didn’t write any of her own, and neither did Daddy. They just played other people’s tunes. They were real partial to Bill Monroe and Roy Acuff. But that doesn’t help you out any, either.

  CJM: Culture gets passed along in other ways. There are other folk arts besides story and song. (Interviewer’s note: At this point, the significance of Amanda-Lynne’s décor strikes me. Sometimes, I am exceedingly slow.)

  CJM: Did your mother teach you to do handcrafts? What kind of “fancy work” did the women in your family like to do?

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: Oh, why didn’t I think of that? I have my great-great-grandmother’s sampler. It may be the oldest thing in the house, although I guess all my stuff is getting old. There it is, hanging right behind you. Just look how finely she wove the handspun cloth. You can tell she hand-dyed the thread, too. And see the house?

  Some girls just worked out a design of any old house—four walls and a roof—but this house looks real. You can see the grain in the cedar shingles. And look at the brick foundation. She worked the mortar in a different stitch, so every brick stands out. And she put the house in a true-life landscape—see this little hump in the back yard? There’s an Indian mound on my cousin DeWayne’s property, and Mary Alice’s cross-stitched mound looks just like the real one. I guess she exercised a little creative license, since the Indian mound isn’t all that close to the old home site, but I’m inclined to ignore a little mistake like that in the work of a child. To think that she was only eleven years old when she worked this picture.

  CJM: Only eleven years old…you’re right. That’s amazing. (Interviewer’s note: The sampler is signed, “Mary Alice Lester’s work, finished in her eleventh year, A
pril 26, 1845.” Beneath the signature is a list of her family members: Father—Sam Lester, Mother—May Lester, Sister—Edwina Lester. This is information that I know Dr. Bingham and his associates will be happy to have.) I’ve heard the Lesters were among the first settlers, but nobody knows when they came to Alabama, and we lost most pre-Civil War records when the courthouse burned. If we can connect you to Mary Alice with this sampler, then somehow prove she lived here in the settlement—well, it would help a great deal.

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: I don’t know exactly where the house was, but I know she and her family lived in the settlement. I do recall my daddy saying there was a big hoo-ha when the Lester land was split up, sometime before the Civil War, so I guess we were here before 1860. Fortunately, Mary Alice and Edwina were not petty. They kept the trail hot between their houses, visiting back and forth like sisters do, while their children and grandchildren built up the biggest family feud that could be assembled without the help of the two injured parties. Feelings ran high, and there might have been killings, except it was mighty awkward to go shooting up your great-aunt’s house when you weren’t absolutely sure your grandmother wasn’t inside having a cup of coffee.

  CJM: Is the family still divided?

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: Well, the day came when the sisters were too old to get themselves through the woods to each other’s houses. Mary Alice talked one of her little grandsons—my grandfather—into running notes back and forth between them, and that worked for a little while, but she missed her sister. And she was afraid the shooting would start for sure now that she and Edwina were getting too old to keep people in line.

  CJM: What did she do?

  Amanda-Lynne Lavelle: She called her children together and told them that she intended to walk to her sister’s house, and that they might better come with her. If she collapsed and died of exposure, it would look pretty bad for their side of the family. Then she started walking. They didn’t have much choice but to trail after her.

  Now, old women walk slow, so there was plenty of time for word to get out in the settlement. Mary Alice’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren and all their in-laws came out to walk with her, until the woods were full of them. Edwina’s kin all rushed to her house to protect her, just in case shooting broke out. By the time Mary Alice dragged her old carcass up to Edwina’s front porch, there was probably a hundred folks standing there looking at each other.