On Bear Mountain

by Deborah Smith

  Mama, Daddy? I didn’t lose the faith. I just saw the cold, hard truth. In cash.

  I couldn’t hear my parents’ voices, couldn’t feel their spirit working in me, and wished they would give me a sign, the way Mama swore she saw crucifixes in clouds and plate-glass windows. I wanted some revelation to leave me frothing at the mouth in a fit of guiltless ecstasy. My head ached.

  Yet I didn’t doubt there was only one honorable way to honor my mother, take care of Arthur, and make peace with everything my father had sacrificed for his beliefs and, now, mine. Shivering, I got up and blew the candle out.

  When I returned to the kitchen, full darkness had settled outdoors, the ceiling light was on, and Quentin Riconni was studying the frayed cords of the light fixture over the sink. I sat down at the table, sinking, humiliated, a little angry. “Yes, the wires need to be repaired,” I said grimly. “Yes, everything around here is in lousy shape. No, I don’t need your help.”

  He inclined his head, then leaned against a countertop and crossed one foot over the other. “I’m not offering it. I’m also not offering a bribe, or lying to you, or trying to con you. I’m just telling you what the sculpture is worth, and what I’ll pay.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that simple. In a very real sense, the sculpture doesn’t belong to me.”

  “I assumed you inherited it from your father.”

  I nodded. “But it belongs to my brother as much as to me.”

  “You have a brother?”

  I explained about Arthur. His frown deepened. “But you’re his guardian. You can do what’s best for his future.”

  I gazed up at this hard-looking man who apparently had no understanding of kinship. “When my brother was ten years old, he still hadn’t spoken a word. We knew he was autistic and might never be able to talk. But one day he came indoors and out of the blue, he said to Daddy and me, ‘Mama told me to come and tell you I got hurt. And she said not to play with snakes anymore.’ He held out his arm. He had two punctures on his hand. A copperhead bite.”

  “So he talked,” Quentin said calmly. “It happens.”

  “It wasn’t just the talking. You have to understand, our mother came from . . . fundamentalist people. Their religion was strict, severe. They were snake handlers. She was bitten by a rattlesnake once, and would have died if my father hadn’t taken her away from her family. So that day, when Arthur came indoors and said that she’d warned him about snakes . . .”

  “He’d heard you tell that story.”

  “Maybe. Probably. We couldn’t remember if we’d ever talked about Mama’s past in front of him. As Daddy carried him to the truck, he asked Arthur where he’d been when Mama spoke to him, and Arthur pointed to the Iron Bear. ‘Mama Bear,’ he said. He’d decided that the sculpture talked, or that our mother spoke to him through it. He’s believed that, ever since.”

  I hesitated, then decided I couldn’t escape, and quietly told Quentin what had happened to my brother in Atlanta. “I hurt him, I lied to him, I didn’t take care of him well enough. So now his Bear is lonely and going to die, and he can’t talk anymore. That sculpture’s the only hope I’ve got of getting through to him again.”

  “I have a bad feeling you’re trying to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”

  I took a deep breath. I hurt all over. My very bones burned with disappointment, but there could be no equivocation, no wishful thinking or cool rationality, no practical brutality. “I can’t sell you the Iron Bear,” I said quietly. “Not for any amount of money.”

  “Let me talk to your brother.”

  “That won’t help. And I won’t allow it. He’s terrified of strangers.”

  “You need the money I offered you?” He asked that question with an admirable lack of irony.

  I managed a laugh. “To put it frankly, I’m broke and I don’t even know how I’m going to pay the bills in a few months. But this situation can’t be fixed by money.”

  “I don’t get the feeling the sculpture means very much to you — you don’t seem sentimental about it. It should be easy to make a decision and convince your brother.”

  “You’re wrong. A person can’t be neutral about the Iron Bear. That’s its brilliance — that’s why its effect on people is so strong. I’m sure that sense of provocation, that passionate vitality, that life, is why your father’s sculptures have finally been recognized. If they’re all like the Bear, they get down inside you and talk. You can’t shut them up.” I paused. “Would I sell it to you if Arthur agreed? Probably. I’m not a fool. That money would change the future for my family. But that’s a moot point. I won’t have a family if I break my brother’s heart.”

  Frowning, he scrubbed his hands on a sheet of paper towel. With startling accuracy he lobbed the crumpled paper into a tin trash bucket Daddy had painted in bright blue and orange dots. The man had perfect aim. Men like him had a way of luring women into a dependent state that seemed far safer than it ever turned out to be.

  “The sculpture belongs in a museum,” he said. “Not a pasture. It was the definitive work of my father’s career. It should be displayed where people can appreciate it.”

  “I’ve lived with it all my life. I know its power far better than you do. If you think it isn’t appreciated out here in my woods, you’re wrong.”

  “Will you sell it if I raise my offer?” he asked.

  More than two million dollars? I got to my feet, shivering. He was torturing me. “Go back to New York, Mr. Riconni. You don’t have a clue. You’re not even listening.”

  He looked at me with shrewd curiosity, examining me as if I couldn’t exist in nature. I understood that feeling. I’d stripped chicken carcasses to the bone, sliced apart the meat and blood vessels, looked at the sinews and broken joints. After a minute under Quentin’s scrutiny, I knew how it felt to be in neatly carved pieces.

  The sound of a car broke the spell. When I looked out the kitchen window I confirmed the headlights of the Ledbetters’ ancient VW van, pulling a small trailer the tenants shared. The Ledbetters had driven everyone to the festival, towing the trailer loaded with boxes and canvases for the booth. They would go back for a second day in the morning. I turned on a pair of floodlights that lit the back yard.

  “You’re about to meet Arthur,” I said.

  “You’ve got my word I won’t say anything about offering to buy the sculpture.”

  I looked at him for a long moment, then very quietly warned, “Your word better be good.”

  • • •

  A few seconds later Arthur loped out of the darkness with Liza running after him. Hammer got up from his napping spot and woofed at them, then stopped as if he recognized a friendly dog in Arthur.

  “I told Arthur about Lassie on the way home,” Liza said breathlessly, as she reached the back door. She had called me to say they were packing up an hour ago, and I’d given her the news about the barn and the squirrels. “Arthur, Arthur, calm down,” she called, her voluminous blue peasant skirt fluttering around her like a bluebird’s tail. Arthur’s brown hair swung wildly and his pale, beautiful face constricted with misery. He made little pawing motions at his jeans and shirt, as if he were ready to attack as he bounded onto the porch. He swung the back door open with a bang, rushed into the kitchen, and stared at me with tearful fury.

  I pointed to a cabinet and Arthur leaped to it. When he opened the cabinet doors the baby squirrels were perched atop their wire basket. They squeaked in alarm then dove back into their transplanted nest. Arthur made a cooing sound, gathered the basket in his arms, and headed for the porch door. I blocked his way. Oswald, Juanita, and the Ledbetters were judging my command of Arthur’s situation, as usual, from the shadows of the porch. “Arthur, will you listen to me for one minute?” I held out both hands to my brother. “I couldn’t do anything to stop the hawk. I tried. It happened too fast. I did try. I promise you.”

  He pushed past me and Liza, hurrying across the porch and out into the yard. I darted after him a
nd grabbed him by one arm. “Arthur, we can’t go on like this. You’ve got to talk. You’ve got to listen to me. I wanted Lassie to live, and I want you to live. You’re my brother. I love you.”

  He swung around and shoved me, another act of violence so unlike Arthur that I knew it was all impulse, not malicious. I sprawled on my back, and a jolt of pain through my tender skull sucked the breath out of me. I was dimly aware of Liza bending over me, and then Quentin, who knelt and smoothed a hand over my forehead. His challenging presence made me sit up before he could help me. Arthur squatted on my other side, crying softly and pounding one of my knees with the back of his hand. “What are you, sweetie?” I asked with strangled dignity, bracing both elbows on the ground and trying to ignore the sick bile rising from my stomach. “What kind of animal right now? Please tell me.”

  He made clawing motions in the air, and at his throat, pounded his hands against his forehead, then snatched one of my hands and held it to his cheek, as he rocked. “I’m fine, Arthur. I’m not going to die. I’m okay. Don’t cry, sweetie. Please, talk to me. I know you can do it. You don’t need the Bear’s permission. We still have each other. Please tell me what kind of animal you are. I want to understand.”

  He cried and rocked. Suddenly a deep voice intoned, “Arthur? Arthur. Look at me, pal.” After a second my head cleared and I realized Quentin was speaking to my brother. Arthur stopped crying and stared at him. Quentin held out one hand. “You’re a man,” Quentin said. “And a man says to his sister, ‘I’m sorry I knocked you down.’”

  My brother edged back into the shadows like a crab, hugging the wire basket to his stomach and staring up at Quentin with his mouth open. “Don’t be afraid,” I said quickly. “Arthur, this is a new . . . friend. He won’t hurt you.” And to Quentin, “Don’t force some brand of gentlemanly machismo on him. He doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, he does.” Quentin waited, his hand still outstretched. He wasn’t threatening; there was nothing in his face but quiet and stoic patience. “Arthur, my name is Quentin Riconni,” he said. “And I’m the Iron Bear’s brother.”

  Silence. I stared at Quentin warningly. Beside me, Liza made a soft sound of awe. Arthur gasped. “I’m the Iron Bear’s brother,” Quentin repeated carefully. “And I’m telling you that Mama Bear would want you to be a man and say you’re sorry for hurting your sister.”

  “Stop it,” I ordered. “Arthur, it’s okay — ”

  Arthur whispered, “Brother Bear?” Then he set the basket aside, got down on all fours like a bear cub, and crept to Quentin, giving him urgent, tearful glances as he did, and reaching up tremulously. Quentin remained on one knee, as if humbly waiting to be knighted. Arthur touched his hand, grew bolder, clasped it, then examined the fingers, palm, and knuckles as if checking for metal claws and wire tendons. Apparently, he found them.

  Shivering with excitement, Arthur released his hand, then crawled over to me. “Did you ask him to come visit us?”

  “I didn’t, I can’t — Arthur, I don’t want you to believe — ”

  “Yes, she did,” Liza supplied quickly, cutting her azure eyes at me to keep me quiet. “Arthur, your sister knew you wanted to meet Brother Bear and she brought him here especially to visit you. Because she loves you and she knew you needed your brother to help you and Mama Bear feel happy again.”

  Arthur’s eyes gleamed. He touched my face with a fingertip as tremulous as a leaf falling on my skin. I stared at him in teary surprise. He scooted away, grabbed his basket, bounded to his feet, and looked at Quentin. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” he said loudly, then hurried into the night. Stunned silence settled on everyone in the yard. All the tenants stared at Quentin. So did I.

  “My god,” Oswald drawled finally. “Arthur’s talking. He bought that horseshit.”

  Liza got to her blue-sandaled feet and gave him a firm glare. “Something special just happened here, and we won’t make light of it. There are forces at work that shouldn’t be ignored.” Oswald grumbled but said no more. The Ledbetters nodded in unison. Juanita crossed herself.

  Quentin offered me a hand up, and I took his aid again without thinking, but after I was on my feet I backed away from him. I needed to study him from a safe distance, to understand this man who analyzed people and barns with such merciless instincts for their weaknesses.

  “You’ve made yourself a part of our lives, now,” I said. “I’m not sure I want you to come back, but I don’t have much choice. My brother expects you.”

  Quentin called to his dog. The tenants gazed at him as if the afternoon storm had conjured an Appalachian mountain spirit with a Brooklyn Yankee brogue. What am I getting into? he asked himself quietly. He had not meant to prey on Arthur’s childlike faith, and it worried him to be depended upon so instantly, so trustingly. He hadn’t meant to care about Ursula, either. But he had to have the sculpture.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sister Bear,” he said. And then he left.

  CHAPTER 11

  I spent most of that night on my laptop computer, searching the Internet for art-world stories about Quentin’s father and the new fame that had led Quentin to me and the Iron Bear. I found confirmations for all the basic facts Quentin had mentioned, and read one detailed account of the January auction that made my head reel.

  I tried to sleep but just lay in bed, tossing under the old chenille covers, staring at the slatted ceiling. Arthur had spoken. My brother was recovering — finally — but I couldn’t let him be caught up in some fantasy about Quentin Riconni, who was just a stranger passing through. The damage to Arthur’s trusting nature might be permanent, next time.

  But this man saved your life. The dilemma tore at me. I got up a few hours later, swallowing aspirin and drinking black coffee laced with dollops of rich sourwood honey. Still dressed in the jeans and T-shirt from the night before, my hair unbrushed and wild around my face, I drove Daddy’s colorfully painted truck into Tiberville that morning. I intended to find Quentin at a local motel and restate my case. I had to tell him, as kindly as possible, to go back where he’d come from. To leave me and Arthur alone. To let us forget about him, which would be hard enough to do, already.

  I stopped at the Quik Boy on the way and filled up a cup with black coffee, wanting to be hyper-alert around Quentin, who had already seduced my brother’s friendship. The morning clerk at the Quik Boy was an old classmate named Rita. She looked at me oddly. The word was out. “Don’t you know your Yankee’s in jail?” she asked.

  I left the coffee sitting on her counter.

  * * *

  He had risen early and gone for a restless walk in the bright spring sunshine, surveying this new terrain like a soldier. Hammer snored on one of the motel room’s double beds. As he walked up the two-lane toward the square Quentin mused, Pretty town. It’s got good lines. He mentally catalogued the shady, turn-of-the-century neighborhood, the graceful church steeples, the college campus stretching over rolling green lawns, and the gilded courthouse cupola peeking above the treetops.

  He kept thinking about Arthur, and the barefoot redhead who quoted Latin and turned down money on principle. She made him remember his boyhood’s metal puzzles, something he hadn’t thought of in years. And he caught himself wondering, What if I were free to have her? The thought startled him. Free from what? He didn’t know.

  Birds sang, a few lazy cars eased along the early morning streets, and somewhere in the distance, if he listened, he could even hear roosters crowing. A strange sense of calm settled in him. This quiet world was so Mayberry that he didn’t know whether to admit he was charmed or pull back from it with wary restraint.

  He ate scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast at the Tiberville diner on the square, amused as he pushed a spoon through the gelatinous bowl of steaming grits the waitress included without warning. He felt the stares of the locals and the curiosity of the suburban visitors who had driven up from Atlanta for the July Fourth festival.

  How did they know he wasn’t
one of them? Quentin realized finally that the other men sitting at the diner’s bar with him had doctored their hot cereal with the traditional salt, pepper, and butter, while he had experimented with sugar and milk from the coffee creamer. Men in tractor caps and hunting shirts glanced his way with tongue-chewing smiles. “Next he’ll use some ketchup,” one drawled.

  “That’s how we eat grits in Brooklyn,” Quentin announced on his way out. Laughter followed him. People craned their heads to see where he went next.

  He walked around the courthouse square, now cluttered with tents and concession stands, though it was still too early for much activity. Only a few arts-and-crafts vendors puttered around, preparing their simple canvas booths for the festival’s second day. The Bear Creek Arts Farm banner stopped him. An awkward but heartfelt rendering of the Iron Bear graced both ends.

  I wish Papa had met Tom Powell, Quentin thought. Disturbed by the sorrow and regret rising in his chest, he turned away from the square and explored a narrow sidestreet lined with shops. He noticed the Open sign on Luzanne Tiber’s small antique store at the end of the lane. The simple mechanics of a mule-pulled seed spreader, displayed on the tiny patch of lawn, caught his eye. He walked down to study the archaic piece of farm equipment, then went inside to ask about the price.

  Mr. John’s older sister did not staff the store herself on a regular basis, but instead left the running to an elderly cousin, Mr. Beaumont Tiber. Mr. Beaumont was at least eighty, a little frail and hard of hearing. Quentin walked in to find him shaking, huddled in an old armchair behind the store’s rolltop desk. He got to his feet, swaying. Apparently the sight of a tall and powerful stranger was more reassuring than not.

  “Sir, please stay right here with me until the police come,” he whispered to Quentin, darting frightened glances toward the door to a back room. “I’ve got a pair of young men back there who’re in a mood, sir, an ill mood, and I can’t get rid of them. They pilfered a silver spoon from that basket over yonder, and I’m pretty certain they took an old compass over there, too. Just wait here for a minute, please, sir. I don’t want to be alone.”