Torrent Falls

by Jan Watson

Hezzy fitted a nib onto a pen. “Thank ye. Most folks don’t look close enough to see what’s inside me.”

  Copper squeezed Hezzy’s shoulder before she left the room. A board in the porch floor squeaked under her weight. A hummingbird darted in and out of the red trumpet vine at the end of the porch. Hezzy’s words stung like salt in a wound, for she knew she was one of those folks. She hadn’t bothered to see the real Hezzy Krill until she was forced to. How many others had she summarily dismissed?

  Copper prayed for forgiveness as she walked. The grass felt as luxurious as the finest Turkish carpet beneath her bare feet. Soon she was at the bend in the creek where Remy’s bench waited. It was very comfortable with a rush seat and a sturdy back. Leafy tree limbs and sturdy grapevines twined together overhead, providing a cool and quiet bower for her time of reflection. It put her in mind of a brush arbor meeting. She wished she’d brought her Bible.

  Time stood still. It could have been as brief as minutes or as long as hours that Copper rested in that place of quiet beauty before she felt his eyes upon her.

  “I’m sorry,” John said from across the creek. “I don’t mean to disturb. . . . I just want to say good-bye.”

  Her heart fluttered painfully. Good-bye? She wouldn’t listen. She stood and turned her back, making ready to flee.

  “Copper,” he said simply.

  As always, his need called her back, bound her like the grapevine bound the tree limbs. Her beloved, her reason, was just across Troublesome. She faced him across the burbling creek. Feeling a rush of emotion, she rested her hand on the rough bark of a hickory tree. A mockingbird trilled its dozen songs high overhead. Her eyes played tricks, for she saw John through shimmered light like the reflection from a streaky, silver-backed mirror.

  “Sweet girl,” he said but made no move to cross the creek.

  “Ah, John.” Her voice broke on his name. “Don’t.”

  “I’m leaving. . . .”

  “No. Please,” she pleaded through streaming tears. “I won’t let last night happen again.” Her arms stretched out to him across the creek, and his responded, too far away for touch.

  “The dishonor is not on you,” he said.

  Her arms fell, hanging limply at her sides. She felt she might pitch face-forward into Troublesome. “Couldn’t we disavow the last few months?” Her voice sounded childish and petulant to her own ears, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Can’t we be friends again?”

  John snorted, a derisive sound that would have hurt her feelings if she weren’t already scraped raw. “You can’t expect that from me,” he said, angry. “I tried and it ain’t working.”

  “When are you going?”

  “In a couple of weeks, soon as I get things squared away here. You’ll have Dimmert and Ezra if need be.”

  She sat down on the creek bank, gathered her skirt under her legs, and dangled her feet in the cold water. “Do you reckon a body can die of a broken heart?”

  “Girl, I’m not afraid of you dying. I’m afraid your heart will mend itself before I even get off this mountain.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  “Sorry. But listen. I’ve got plans. Good plans. I’m going to—”

  “John,” she interrupted, “I don’t want to know where you’re going. I don’t want to know your plans.” With a little slide down the bank, she was in the cold water and crossing to stand below him, looking up into his eyes. “There is only one thing in the world I want from you now.”

  He dropped to his knees. “What’s that, Copper?”

  Her fists tightened in her apron pockets. One touch and she’d be lost. “Just tell me you’ll be back.”

  Early July brought a break in the weather. It had been so hot that the hens stopped foraging and instead spent their days under shade trees in the yard, their chicks gathered under their wings. It seemed to Copper that she spent half her time fetching clean water for her animals and the other half watering her pitiful garden. Most of June had been as hot as August normally was, too dry to make a morning’s dew. The hard-packed dirt in the barnyard was cracked like an old china plate.

  The Fourth of July was known as a day of storms, and this year was no exception. Thunder and lightning and hot winds ushered in great relief, and early on the fifth Copper gave thanks for the restoration of her garden. Dark clouds formed as she walked among the rows, searching for weeds.

  Rusty, the lop-winged rooster, pecked at potato bugs and the fishing worms that made their way to the saturated surface. The rooster had an affinity for Copper since she’d doctored him and liked to follow her around. He would have lived on the porch if she’d let him, but she wasn’t having that mess close to her house. Each night she had to carry him to the chicken coop or she’d find him crowing on her windowsill come morning. Lilly loved it of course. Rusty followed Copper, and Lilly followed Rusty.

  Dimmert had fashioned a small hoe for Lilly Gray, and now she whacked at the potatoes.

  “Don’t dig up the hills,” Copper said. “Come chop over here.”

  Inch-high ragweeds poked their heads through dirt that had been hard just the day before. So surprising, Copper thought, how fast weeds grow.

  She was just thinking how pleasant it was in the garden, how cool and refreshing, how rewarding to see the tomatoes and beans flourishing after the rain when Rusty squawked and hopped straight up in the air. His too-short wings flapped as he jumped.

  “Nake!” Lilly screamed and flung her hoe. “Dimmert! Nake!”

  Copper picked her up. “We don’t need Dimmert. The snake won’t hurt you.”

  Lilly shivered. “Ugly, Mama.”

  “Yes, he is that, but he’s just hunting for food. He isn’t a bad snake.”

  Trapped between the trunk of a tree and the hostile rooster, the serpent coiled, flattened its head, and blew out its upturned snout. Rusty stood his ground, cackling and dancing. Giving in, the hognose snake thrashed about as if in agony, then twisted to its back. The snake’s forked tongue hung lifeless from the corner of its mouth. Victorious, Rusty threw out his chest and strutted away, still king of all he surveyed.

  “Oh,” Lilly said. “Nake died.”

  Copper squatted among the potato hills with Lilly in her lap. “The snake’s just playing possum—pretending he’s dead. Be real quiet and watch what happens next.”

  The snake stayed on its back for nearly a minute, looking as dead as dead could look. Then with a quick flip, it righted itself and slithered into the tall weeds.

  “Yay!” Lilly clapped. She left Copper’s lap and found her little hoe. “Nake still ugly.”

  Lilly Gray amazed Copper. So astute, she definitely took after her father.

  Thunder rumbled. Copper grabbed her daughter’s hand. “Run, Lilly Gray, before we get soaked.”

  A sight for sore eyes awaited her on the porch. Remy sat like a queen on the little settee dragged out from the house. She was propped up by pillows, and her feet rested on an overturned bucket.

  Copper stopped at the edge of the porch. A few fat raindrops patterned the dusty ground behind her. The coming storm was taking its time. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Surprise!” Darcy cried, fairly dancing with joy. “I carried her out.”

  “Hezzy?”

  “She’s taking in the air.” Hezzy grinned like a possum caught in the light.

  “Forevermore,” Copper said, “she’s holding her head up.”

  “When we brung her out, she kept her eyes open for the longest time,” Darcy said.

  Copper gave Remy’s shoulder a little shake. “Remy, wake up.”

  Rusty the rooster stalked the settee. Without warning, he hopped on the arm, threw back his ruby-feathered throat, and crowed to wake the dead.

  And wake the dead he did—the near dead anyway.

  With a tremor that started in her toes, Remy Riddle woke up. Her eyes were crossed, but they were open. Her voice came out feeble, but she used it. “I fear I’m going to live.”

  “
Praise the Lord,” Copper shouted.

  “Praise His name,” Darcy added.

  “God bless us all,” Hezzy said.

  Rusty flapped his stunted wings. Lilly Gray laughed. Remy sat staring, dazed but fully alive.

  A gentle zephyr stirred the tops of the trees. Leaves clicked like tiny castanets, heralding the coming storm.

  “We’d best get her inside,” Copper said. “We’ll put you by the window, Remy, and you can watch the rain.”

  John knew by the lay of the land that he was nearing the end of his journey. Mountains had given way to hills and hills to the beautiful rolling land of Fayette County. He’d taken his time and lost part of a day, but here he was. He hobbled his mount by a good-size creek and pulled off his saddlebags. He’d need to get cleaned up before he faced the likes of Alice Upchurch.

  A little lunch, a washup, and a shave and he’d feel better, so he gathered wood, built a fire, and heated water. He propped his sliver of mirror in the branch of a tree, then lathered up and scraped his straight razor over his ragged beard. He’d brought polished boots and a worsted wool jacket, which he hung from the limb of a tree so the wrinkles could fall out. Once he found lodging and established himself, he’d buy ready-made clothes suitable for facing a judge. He could have brought his wedding suit, but that didn’t seem right.

  Over hot coffee and a stale ham biscuit he studied his Bible. He needed a Scripture to cover the next few weeks. It would have to be powerful; it would need to speak to his heart. Generally he favored the deceptively simple commands from the prophet Isaiah.

  John was a far cry from being a Bible scholar. He’d never read the Bible through like Copper’s father did every year, but he tried. Especially in times of trial he’d search for meaning and direction. Maybe he’d never be brave enough to walk naked in obedience for three years as Isaiah did, but still he believed. He figured that was good for something.

  Last evening he’d stretched out by his campfire, his head resting on his saddlebags, and read until he came to Isaiah 14:3. How come he’d never recognized that particular Scripture before? Funny how the Lord revealed His word in just such a way to give solace or direction when needed.

  Now, as he buttoned a clean shirt and shrugged into his jacket, he repeated those words: “‘And it shall come to pass in the day that the Lord shall give thee rest from thy sorrow, and from thy fear, and from the hard bondage wherein thou wast made to serve.’”

  He knew his sorrow and his fear. Living without Copper and losing Copper, of course. And his bondage? Ah, that was easy enough. Being hitched to a creaky wagon like Remy Riddle was burden enough for a dozen stalwart men. And way too much for him—fool that he was. Yet he wanted the best for her. Didn’t he? In his heart of hearts hadn’t he wished her dead when he pulled her broken body from that hollow log? His prayer as he prepared for the end of his journey was unassuming: “Forgive me.”

  Breaking camp, he covered the fire, packed his coffeepot and cup, and picked up his Bible. He always packed it last so it would be easy to get to. An ornate piece of paper loosed from its pages, caught in a draft, and fluttered away.

  “Oh no!” John yelled as he high-stepped down the creek bank. The paper flitted in the wind, teasing him. “No! No! Don’t go in the water!” Just before the document landed, his hand shot out and grabbed it, creasing what had been perfectly kept.

  His heart thumped as he scrambled up the steep cliff. “Man, that was close.”

  At the top he smoothed the license against his thigh. He’d never really looked at it and didn’t care to now. That piece of paper held the biggest lie he’d ever told—a lie to wreck his life and Copper’s, a lie that benefited no one but Remy Riddle. His gut clenched at the thought. He had some forgiving to do himself, he figured, before God was going to return the favor.

  John found Alice Upchurch’s house as imposing as the woman herself. He’d never want to live in a house like this, too big for itself. Even the entrance was pretentious, with double wide doors and huge brass knockers. Taking one in hand, he tapped it.

  No one answered.

  He tapped again—with authority this time—and was rewarded with a sweep of the opening door. A stately black man in some kind of uniform ushered him in. “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Umm, John,” he stammered. “John Pelfrey.”

  “May I have your calling card to present to Madam?”

  For a moment John was at a loss, his brain searching for meaning. Calling card? Oh, right, those fancy little announcements. Kind of silly since he was standing here in person. “Mrs. Upchurch knows me.”

  The house servant stuck out his hand. John stuck his out too, but the man didn’t take it. “Your hat,” he said.

  “Sure.” John handed over his slouch-brimmed felt hat. “You’re welcome to it.”

  John’s belly felt as if he’d just made a meal of green apples as he watched the back of the servant disappear. He was of a mind to head back out the door and let this fellow keep his hat, though it surely wouldn’t go with his strange attire. Instead he polished the toes of his boots on the back of his pants and straightened the sleeves of his jacket. Last evening he’d washed his extra pair of pants and hung them to dry with a crease down the legs. He’d thought he looked right presentable until he saw this fellow dressed in a starched white shirt with a stand-up collar and a long-tailed coat. It put John in mind of a penguin.

  Before John could think what he was going to say, the fellow was back. “Mrs. Upchurch will receive you now.”

  John, as nervous as a schoolboy called before his marm, followed down a long hall.

  Alice stood when he entered the parlor. Dressed in dove gray with a little frill of lace at the throat, she was a calming presence in the glitzy room. His eyes didn’t know where to light because there was so much froufrou about, every surface covered with books and pictures and funny white figurines.

  Alice offered her hand. “How was your journey?”

  He kind of patted her hand between his two. It didn’t seem right to shake it like she was a man. He felt like he should bow or something befitting a queen. But she was gracious and soon had him sitting in a comfortable chair, a cup of really good coffee at his side.

  “Tell me everything that has happened since I left,” she said.

  So he did and there was a lot to relate. Alice listened to every word as if it was of great import. He noticed her eyes light up whenever he mentioned Lilly Gray. Of course they would, John realized. Lilly was her late brother’s only child after all.

  The gilded clock on the mantel ticked the afternoon away. At one point Mrs. Upchurch’s daughter, Dodie, came in and played a song for him on a child-size violin. His heart seemed squeezed tight in his chest. He thought they’d never get to why he was here. It didn’t seem proper for him to bring it up.

  Finally all the niceties were over, all the proper etiquette of entertaining your dead brother’s replacement had been met, John presumed, for Alice looked at him straight on and said, “I have taken the liberty of talking to my husband about your predicament. Benton is an attorney as well as a banker.”

  John leaned forward, his hands on his knees. He wanted to hurry her up, and at the same time he never wanted to hear her next words. It seemed to him his whole life lay in the balance.

  “Benton is willing to petition the court on your behalf.” Alice sniffed delicately behind a snowy white hankie. “He believes you stand a good chance of winning an annulment.”

  John stood. “Mrs. Upchurch, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I care very much for my niece and her mother, Mr. Pelfrey.” Alice permitted him to take her hand before continuing. “If Laura Grace insists on raising my brother’s child on that mountain, I like knowing you would be there to protect them both.”

  “With my life, ma’am,” John replied. “With the last breath in my body.”

  John found the livery station easily enough. He left his horse and then walked to the address Mrs. Upchur
ch had printed on the back of her cream-colored calling card. Strange the way they handled things in the city. Back home you could show up in anybody’s yard, holler hello, and chances were they’d take you in for a night or a week. Here you had to have a special card, like a secret handshake, to gain admittance. He reckoned it was for safety—too many strangers lurked about.

  Mrs. Archesson’s boardinghouse was a white two-story with big round columns. Wrought-iron benches and pots of red geraniums adorned the veranda, making a body feel right at home.

  The door opened before he could knock. A crippled fellow held out a twisted hand. “I’m Tommy Turner. Come on in.”

  John hardly had time to take off his hat before he was seated at the kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea and a piece of gingerbread. Mrs. Archesson was a tiny, frail-looking woman with an outlandish flower-bedecked hat on. John must have interrupted something. “Please don’t let me keep you, Mrs. Archesson.”

  “Goodness me . . . goodness,” Mrs. Archesson said, “I have not another thing to do . . . not another thing.” She slid a second piece of warm cake on his saucer. “We’re so glad you’ve chosen to abide with us.”

  A little one-armed boy sidled up and pinched a piece of his gingerbread while smiling disarmingly. It must have been the long trip from the mountains and the nights of poor sleep that made John feel as if he’d stepped inside a circus tent.

  One by one a trio of elderly ladies inched to the table and creaked into chairs pulled out by Tommy. Clouds of talcum puffed out as they sat. The air smelled of faded roses. “Tell us about Copper,” one said.

  Another held a hearing aid to her ear; it looked like the horn of a phonograph, only smaller. “Yes, do tell,” she echoed.

  “No. No, mustn’t tell yet,” Mrs. Archesson trilled. “Wait for supper. Wait for supper and Andy.”

  “Yes, oh yes,” the ladies murmured among themselves. “We’ll wait for Andy.”

  The little boy made himself comfortable on John’s knee and licked cake from John’s plate.

  It took John a minute to sort everyone out. He remembered the story Copper had told him about how she rescued Mary Martha Archesson from a lunatic asylum and how ultimately the birdlike woman had opened a boardinghouse. The young boy must be Robert, the one Mrs. Archesson had adopted when he was an abandoned baby. And the Andy they mentioned had to be Andy Tolliver, Dodie’s brother and a real friend to Copper when she lived here. Copper hadn’t changed a bit; she still collected folks.