by Ron Rash
“Please sit down,” their host said. “I saw you coming from a ways off so stoked the fire for you.”
A middle-aged woman entered the parlor with a silver platter. On it were bread and jelly and coffee, silverware and saucers, two cloth napkins. Luther placed a footstool between his guests, and the woman set the platter down.
“This is Molly,” their host said, “my wife.”
The woman blushed slightly.
“We just finished our noon dinner,” she said. “If we’d known you were coming, we’d have waited.”
Like Barafe, Luther and his wife had prominent accents, yet both spoke with a formality that acknowledged “d’s” and “g’s” on word endings. Barafe sat down and tucked his napkin under his chin with an almost comic flair. Wilson sat as well, only then saw that the Windsor chair was occupied.
The beldame’s face possessed the color and creases of a walnut hull. A black shawl draped over her shoulders, obscuring a body shrunken to a child’s stature. The old woman appeared more engulfed than seated, head and body pressed into the soft padding, shoe tips not touching the floor. And yet, the effect was not so much of a small woman as of a large chair, which, like the velvet lining, gave an appearance of regal authority.
“Granny,” Molly said. “We have guests.”
Wilson stood.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” he said, and gave a slight bow.
“This here is James Wilson,” Barafe said, suddenly impelled to use surnames. “He come all the way from England to learn old tunes.”
The matriarch blinked twice and then stared fixedly at Wilson. Her eyes were of the lightest blue, as if time had rinsed away most of the color, but there was a liveliness inside them. Wilson sat back down.
“He’s gonna learn ’em and haul ’em back to England,” Barafe added, all but waving a Union Jack over Wilson’s head.
“I do indeed come from England, madam,” Wilson said, “but my mother is a proud Scot and I too proudly claim the heritage of thistle and bagpipe.”
The proclamation was a bit disingenuous. Wilson’s mother, though born in Scotland, had moved to London at sixteen and rarely spoken of her Scots roots. Nor had she encouraged her son to think of himself as anything but English. The sole acknowledgment was a blue-and-black tartan that hung, rather forlornly, on an attic wall. The old woman made no reply, and Wilson, wondering if he should summon forth other lore worthy of a loyal scion of Scotland, decided on a more direct tack.
“And of course I will gladly pay you for your trouble,” Wilson added.
“If Granny learns you some songs, you’ll pay no money for them,” Luther said, “but it’s her notion to do or not do.”
At first it appeared that the matriarch might not deign to respond. Then the sunken mouth slowly unsealed, revealing a single nubbed tooth.
“I can sing a one,” the old woman said, “but I’ll need a sup of water first.”
Wilson opened his valise and took out the fountain pen and ink bottle, a calfskin ledger. He set the ink bottle by his chair, opened the ledger, and wrote Jackson County, United States, October 1922.
“If you could give me the title of the ballad first, that would be helpful,” Wilson said with proper deference.
“It’s called ‘The Betrothed Knight,’ ” the old woman answered.
Her voice was low but surprisingly melodic. Wilson wrote rapidly as the matriarch sang of a deceived maiden. Several words were pleasingly archaic, but even better for his purposes, the mention of a knight supported England as the ballad’s place of origin. Dipping the pen into the ink during the refrain, Wilson set down all the words in one listening.
“That’s a bully one,” Barafe said.
“Yes,” Wilson agreed. “Most excellent indeed. Do you know more, madam?”
The old woman appeared reluctant, so Wilson tried another approach.
“Your name will appear on the page with the ballad,” he noted, “so you will be properly honored.”
The appeal to vanity had the opposite effect intended. The old woman asked why she should get “notioned” for something that wasn’t hers. She pulled the shawl tight around her neck and chin as if to muffle any further word or song. Luther went to the hearth and picked up the poker, stabbed at the fire until the slumbering flame sparked back to life. As their host leaned the poker by the hearth, Wilson saw that, by accident or design, the poker’s prod was shaped like an M. Wilson nodded toward the bookshelf and its tome.
“Of course sharing your ballads does Scotland a great service as well,” Wilson noted. “You are preserving a vital part of your ancestors’ and descendants’ history.”
The old woman did not speak but her eyes were now attentive.
“And part of mine as well,” Wilson reminded her, and racked his brain for something beyond the Merry Olde England perspective of Scotland as a mere barnacle on England’s ship of empire.
Macbeth and a joke about bagpipes and testicles emerged first, then, wedged between William the Bruce and Bonnie Prince Charlie, a muddle of dates-feuds-clans and, finally, tam-o-shanters and tartans. Tartans. Wilson left the chair and walked over to the red-and-black tartan, let a thumb and finger rub the cloth. He nodded favorably, hoping to impart a Scotsman’s familiarity with weave and wool.
“Our tartan hangs on a wall as well, blue and black it is, the proud tartan of Clan Campbell, and no doubt ancient as yours, though better preserved, which is to be expected, since ours has not traveled such distances.”
“And not burned,” the old woman said grimly.
Luther and Molly glared at Wilson, and despite the fire, a gust of cold air seemed to fill the room.
“Your tartan,” Luther asked, “an azure blue?”
“Well, yes,” Wilson answered.
“Argyle,” the beldame hissed.
Wilson removed his finger and thumb from the tartan.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I’m certain the tartan has been as well cared for as possible. It has just endured a longer journey than ours, across an ocean. And my touching it, I meant no disrespect.”
Barafe looked up from his plate, finally aware that some drama was unfolding around him.
“What did you say to vex Granny McDonald?” Barafe asked.
For a few moments the only sound was the ticking of the clock. A disquieting thought nudged Wilson, some connection between English Kings and Argyle Campbells and, thanks to Iago Barafe’s sudden gift of enunciation, Clan McDonald.
“Perhaps we should go,” Wilson said, stepping over to pack up his valise. “I’m sure we have taken up enough of your time.”
“Not till I sing one more song,” Granny McDonald said.
Luther latched the front door before crossing the room to the fireplace. He lifted the poker but, instead of poking the fire, nested the prod in the flames.
“You go on out and get your horse some water from the spring, Rafe,” Luther McDonald said.
Wilson watched as Barafe hesitated, then gave his erstwhile charge a shrug and stood. Molly unlatched the door, locking it back after the old man passed through.
“This song,” the old woman said, “it’s called ‘The Snows of Glencoe.’ Be it one you know?”
“I do not, madam,” Wilson stammered.
Wilson did, however, know about the Glencoe massacre. He had been roused from his usual classroom stupor when his don mentioned Clan Campbell’s involvement. That had sparked enough interest in Wilson to ask his mother about the event. It’s all in the past, his mother had told him, and refused to say more.
“The previous ballad really will suffice,” Wilson said. “I have another appointment and must be going.”
“Sit down and listen,” Luther McDonald said.
Wilson did as he was told and the beldame began to sing.
They came in a blizzard and we offered them heat
A roof o’er their heads and dry shoes for their feet
We wined them and dined them they ate
of our meat
And slept in the house of McDonald.
Some died in their beds in the grasp of their foe
Some fled in the night and were lost in the snow
Some lived to accuse them who struck the first blow
That slaughtered the house of McDonald.
They came from Fort Henry with murder in mind.
The Campbells had orders Prince William had signed
Put all to the swords these words were underlined
And leave none alive named McDonald.
The old woman’s lips tightened into a mirthless smile. For a few moments no one moved. Then Luther retrieved the poker from the fire, placed his free hand close enough to gauge the heat. Wilson withdrew a wallet from his back pocket.
“I wish to make payment for the songs as well as your hospitality,” he said, and rapidly began pulling out bills.
“We’ll take no money,” his host answered. “No man, not even a king, can buy off a McDonald.”
When his ship docked in London harbor six weeks later, Wilson’s tongue had not fully healed. Months passed before he was able to convey his thoughts aloud, and during those mute months he showed little desire to do so with pen and paper. Nevertheless, the previously unknown ballad Wilson brought back caused a sensation, in part because its purveyor had placed himself in such peril to acquire it. One London newspaper proclaimed James Wilson worthy of mention with Sir Walter Raleigh and Captain John Smith, those earlier adventurers who also left their civilized isle to venture among the new world’s Calibans.
Twenty-Six Days
It’s almost twelve thirty when I’m done sweeping the front steps, so I go inside to stash the broom and dustpan and lock the closet. In the foyer, there’s a crisis hotline flyer and a sign-up sheet beneath. Professor Wardlaw has volunteered for Friday, her usual night. I walk out of Cromer Hall and into a November day warmer and sunnier than you usually get in these mountains. The clock tower bell rings. In my mind I move the heavy metal hands ahead ten and a half hours. Kerrie is already in bed.
Over at the ATM, students pull out bank cards like winning lottery tickets. Probably not one of them ever thinks that while they’re sitting in a classroom or watching a basketball game kids their own age are getting blown up by IEDs. I think again about how we wouldn’t be in Afghanistan if there was still a draft. You can bet it’d be a lot different if everyone’s kids could end up over there. Just a bunch of stupid hillbillies fighting a stupid war, that’s what some jerk on TV said, like Kerrie and the rest don’t matter. There’s times I want to grab a student by the collar and say you don’t know how good you got it, or I tell myself I’ve given my daughter more than my parents gave me. That’s easier than thinking how if I’d had more ambition years back and gotten a welding certificate or degree at Blue Ridge Tech, made more money, Kerrie wouldn’t be over there.
I cross the street separating the campus from town and go into Crawford’s Diner. Professor Wardlaw’s in a booth with Professor Maher and Professor Lucas, who also have offices in Cromer Hall. Ellen brings my plate quick as I sit down at the counter. She has it ready, since I get just thirty minutes for lunch. I eat free, a perk, like Dr. Blanton letting us use his computer. Ellen pours my ice tea and gives me a fork and knife and napkin.
“Not a good morning?” I ask, because Ellen’s waitress smile looks frayed.
“It’s been okay,” she answers, speaking softer as she nods at the professors. “That one with the black hair is who said it, ain’t she?”
“Yeah,” I say, “but she didn’t mean nothing by it, not really.”
“When they came in, I had a notion not to serve them at all,” Ellen says.
“You know she does a lot of good,” I say.
“That still don’t excuse her saying such a thing though,” Ellen answers, and takes the water and tea pitchers off the counter.
I watch in the mirror as Ellen fills glasses and makes small talk, except at Professor Wardlaw’s booth. Ellen lifts her eyes as she passes so that even if they do want something she’ll not notice. I shouldn’t have told her what Professor Wardlaw said, or made it worse by pointing her out in the parking lot. Ellen’s as good a wife as a man could ask for, but she’ll hold a grudge.
I check the wall clock. It’s 12:50 so I finish and take the plate to the kitchen. Ellen’s there changing an order and we talk a minute about Kerrie’s application. I come back and the professors are going out the door, backpacks hanging from their shoulders. A single one-dollar bill is on the table. I follow them back to Cromer Hall. Someone’s spilled a drink near the entrance, ice cubes scattered like dice across the floor. There’s a folding yellow caution sign by the entrance, so I set it up. I’m walking down the hallway to get my mop and bucket when I hear my name. Professor Korovich is standing by her office door, a stack of books in her hands.
“I have these for Kerrie,” she says.
I thank her and put them on the closet shelf beside the paper towels and disinfectants. I lift the mop bucket to the sink and fill it, pour in the Lysol and head down the hall. Professor Wardlaw’s office door is open but she’s alone. I think about last month when Professor Korovich gave me some books for Kerrie. When I came back up the hall, Professor Wardlaw was in her office talking to Professor Maher. Nadia doesn’t realize that he’ll just turn around and sell them, but better the flea market than the outhouse.
I mop the foyer and put the caution sign back up. I get my broom and dustpan and sweep the stairwells, then empty the bathroom trash cans and clean the toilets and sinks. When the 3:30 bell rings, the last classrooms empty so I sweep them. Since tomorrow’s a holiday, most of the faculty’s gone home. I get out my master key and empty their trash cans. When I get to Professor Korovich’s office, the light’s still on. She’s been at the college only since August and all her family is in Ukraine. Sometimes we talk about how hard it can be when you’re separated from your loved ones.
I knock and she tells me to come in.
“How is Kerrie?” she asks, saying the name so the first part’s longer than the last.
“She’s doing fine,” I tell her.
“Less than a month now?”
I nod as I empty her garbage can.
“Not so long,” Professor Korovich says, and smiles.
I ask about her family. She tells me her mother’s home from the hospital and I tell her I’m glad to hear that. I thank her again for the books and close the door. By the time I’ve done all the offices, the hall clock says 4:20. I check the bathrooms a last time and punch out.
There’s a note tucked under my windshield wiper from Ellen saying she’s working till five. I think about going over to the café and having a cup of coffee but decide to wait in the truck. Sometimes I’ll find a magazine in a trash can to bring home, but I don’t have anything like that so I look over the books Professor Korovich gave me. Three are about teaching but one is called Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov. I open it and start reading a story about a man whose child has died. He tries to tell other folks what’s happened but no one wants to hear it so he finally tells his horse. You’d think a story like that would be hokey, and maybe it is to some people, but when Ellen gets in the truck she asks if I’m okay. She says I look like I’ve been crying.
Before I can answer, Ellen raises her hands to her mouth.
“Kerrie’s fine,” I say quickly. “It’s allergies or something.”
Ellen’s hands settle back in her lap but now they’re woven together like she’s saying a prayer. Maybe she is saying one.
“Kerrie’s fine,” I say again.
“You’d figure it would be soothing that she’s made it this long,” Ellen says as I pull out of the lot, “but the closer we get to her coming home, the scareder I am.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and tell her everything’s going to be fine. When we pass in front of the quad, we both check the clock.
“A bunch of folks came in for early supper and Alex asked me to stay,” Ell
en says.
“We’ll be on time,” I say.
“I did make an extra nine dollars just on the tips.”
“That’s good,” I say, and smile. “You must have given them better service than I saw some folks get at lunch.”
I stop at a crosswalk and a group of college students pass in front of us.
“Alex said something to me about that,” Ellen says.
“They complain?”
“No, but Alex don’t miss much.”
Ellen nods at the books between us.
“Professor Korovich gave us some more?”
“Yes,” I say. “Remind me to tell Kerrie.”
We get lucky on the lights, three greens and one red, but once we pass the city limits sign a car is piddling along and I’m stuck behind it. The road’s curvy and the driver’s going thirty in a fifty-five zone. It’s two miles before the road straightens and I can pass. By the time we pull into the lot that says PATIENT PARKING, we’re running late but Dr. Blanton’s car is still outside. We hurry in and I tell him we’re sorry to be late.
“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “I’m just glad you won’t miss your call.”
He nods at the waiting room floor. There’s a red stain wide as a tractor tire.
“A logger nearly cut his arm off this morning. Tonya and I got a lot of it up but the floor needs a good scouring.”
“Yes sir,” I say, and check the clock.
“I left five more dollars, for the extra work on the floor,” Dr. Blanton says, and takes out his keys. “Tell Kerrie the man that brought her into this world says to be careful, doctor’s orders.”
“We’ll tell her,” Ellen says.
