On Bear Mountain

by Deborah Smith

  I nodded and straightened up. “I have to live here. I have to find some way to make a living in this community, and get along with people, and take care of the people who depend on me. Now, that’s going to be more difficult. But I made my choice. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “That’s not true, but I appreciate the pardon,” he said.

  I looked at him, shaking. No weakness. Show no weakness in front of this man. My research said he’d been a career soldier, a war hero. He didn’t have to prove his strength of character, that was obvious. It only made me more determined to prove myself to him. I could not tell him to go back to New York and leave us alone; the situation was already too involved for that. Had I known what he was really thinking about me I might have shaken harder.

  Or I might have simply held out my arms to him. I’ve been waiting for you, no matter what, I would have said.

  CHAPTER 12

  “In town the Tibers are saying the Bear’s worth a lot of money,” Liza whispered as soon as I got back to the farm. “You can’t sell it, Ursula. You’ll kill your brother’s soul.”

  “I know,” I answered wearily.

  When Quentin came by later that afternoon he found a crowd of two dozen neighbors and all five of my tenants waiting enthusiastically to thank him for being a hero on Mr. Beaumont’s behalf. Of course the neighbors’ main purpose was to learn all about this interesting man who’d come from Somewhere Else. He was a new local legend in the making. “I want to say I was here at the beginning,” one man told me.

  Quentin immediately directed me into my own kitchen and shut the door. “I have nothing to say to these people. I don’t want anyone’s gratitude.” We were awkward with each other after the intimate jail scene. He seemed moody and restless.

  “It’s too late to save your privacy,” I said grimly. “Word’s gotten around about your mission and the value of the Bear. One of my tenants already told me she heard.”

  “They’ve heard the price?” Quentin asked.

  “No. Just that it’s very valuable. Before long somebody’s going to tell Arthur why you’re really here. You have to make nice with this crowd and keep them away from him until I can decide what to do. They want you to answer questions about your father’s career. That’s all.”

  “I’m not here to be a tour guide. My father’s career ended twenty-two years ago. Thanks to my mother’s backbreaking work, he wasn’t forgotten, and also thanks to her, publicity finally overtook common sense. People decided to pay a lot for his work. That’s all there is to it. You and I need to talk to Arthur. Tell him the truth, and work with him on the idea of giving up the Bear. I believe I can persuade him to let me have the sculpture. And then you won’t have any money worries. Everything you love here — and you do love it, I can see that — will be safe.”

  I wanted to shout, Don’t you understand? I can’t sell the damned sculpture, but he never seemed to hear that. “I’ll talk to him when I feel the time is right. Not now. You don’t realize what’s going on, out there in the yard. These people brought pictures of themselves beside the sculpture. Pictures to show you. At first the Bear was just a joke to them — ‘Oh, that crazy Tom Powell’s put that ugly thing in his pasture!’ But somewhere over the years it became a part of their lives. There have been marriage proposals beside the Bear, and weddings, and christenings. People bring their houseguests — their ‘good company’ they call it — out here to see the Iron Bear. They bring their children. And their grandchildren. And those children seem to understand it. They climb on it, they talk to it, and they say it talks back. To these people, you’re a part of what makes the Bear special. They want to know about you and your family. Please, try. Just answer their questions.”

  There was a long moment when he looked down at me without answering. Everything I’d told him seemed like a fairytale; he believed he’d never understand that kind of reaction to his father’s work. The glimmers of his own mesmerized memories were a child’s dreams. Safe fantasies from a time before the truth eroded them. “It’s only metal,” he said.

  He walked out to the Bear with the group trailing him. His manner was stiff, not ungracious, but brusque. He regarded the sculpture as a thing with a price tag. I gazed at the scene in dull wonder. Who was this stranger who’d already begun to change my life? I’d peeked into the cab of his vehicle and seen a half-dozen books scattered on the passenger seat. They were much-read, much-loved volumes of fiction and poetry and engineering.

  He was a book lover, a scholar of Latin, a warrior, a businessman, a mystery. A gossipy, art-magazine profile I’d found on the Internet said Richard Riconni’s son had given up a full scholarship to MIT to join the Army. Why? And why was he so uncomfortable discussing his father? I knew that Richard Riconni had committed suicide long ago. I did not know what had led to his death.

  Suddenly I saw Arthur creep out of the woods, watching Quentin with gleaming eyes from a distance. I went over to him. He stepped back in the shrubbery, still wary of me on some level that wouldn’t let him be too friendly. I halted, miserable. “I knew Brother Bear was a hero,” he whispered loudly. I was so glad to hear his voice, but so afraid it was only a temporary improvement.

  “Sweetie, do you think Mama Bear is happy to see him?” I ventured.

  Arthur nodded fervently. His brown eyes were large and sad. “But . . . she wants him to give her something. I haven’t figured out what, yet. It’s important. She’s gotta have something so she’ll never feel lonely and scared again.” He touched his chest, over his heart. “How can she make it stop hurting? That’s what Brother Bear came here to fix. What does she want? I bet he knows.”

  I looked at my only brother, my only family, my shapeshifter and soothsayer, and wanted to cry. It’s you she wants. A good heart and faith. I’m going to lose you forever.

  The visitors gathered around Quentin. Their voices, rich with mountaineers’ drawls, soft vowels sliding over hard bedrock, politely inquired, one at a time. How many sculptures did your daddy make? Did he know he’d be famous? Where did he do his work? Which sculpture was his favorite? Did he make more bears? And on and on, each receiving a pragmatic answer filled with facts but little emotion. Until finally, someone said, You and your mama must be so proud of him. And Quentin looked at the person, an elderly woman with large, worn hands and hopeful eyes, and he said as gallantly as he could, We must be.

  • • •

  Quentin raised a 35mm camera as utilitarian as everything else about him, with scuff marks on the rim of the lens and a wide leather carrying strap bearing the marks of Hammer’s puppy teeth. He and Ursula were alone at the sculpture the next morning, standing knee-deep in an ocean of grass that undulated in a slow breeze. The Bear seemed to float on that green, inland sea.

  Mother will be interested in everyone and everything here, he told himself. He thought of how he’d tell her the news, the look in her eyes as he explained how he’d found Bare Wisdom and maneuvered to purchase the sculpture. The photos would enthrall her, although he knew she’d want to fly back with him immediately and see for herself. This is Ursula Powell. You’ll like her. She’s smart, she loves books, she’s strong. Family means everything to her. You two have a lot in common.

  He told himself he was only taking photos for his mother’s sake.

  • • •

  I stood back with Hammer sitting beside me, watching as he circled the sculpture and snapped it from all angles. “Come here,” he called, waving me over. “I need pictures of you with it.”

  I gave him a sardonic look but sat down on the old concrete pad. “Smile,” he ordered dryly.

  “Why? So you can prove to the folks back home that hillbillies have teeth?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I bared my teeth at him, and he chuckled. After he took the picture he sat down next to me. We looked up at the Bear, which was surrounded by a half-dozen small white butterflies who didn’t suspect its existential power. Quentin blew out a long breath, and the butterf
lies hurried inside the Bear’s ribs, as if seeking protection. Maybe they did know.

  “One of my earliest memories,” I told him, “is of going to visit the Bear with my father when the Bear was on the lawn of the administration building at Mountain State. And I remember sitting on Daddy’s shoulders one sunny day — it must have been summer — I remember the beautiful flower beds on campus, and there were butterflies everywhere. They came to us — those butterflies flocked around Daddy and me and the Bear as if we were flowers. It was incredible — like a fairytale — I was up so high, and surrounded by these beautiful little creatures. Daddy said, Don’t scare them, because they’re the tiniest angels. He said they’d come to whisper all the news of heaven and earth to the Bear, because the Bear couldn’t leave that spot to get the news firsthand. So that was how the Bear knew all about the world and everything in it, Daddy said.

  “Suddenly something startled the butterflies, and they all fluttered inside the Bear’s middle, just like now. And I said, Oh no, the Bear ate the news angels. Daddy laughed, and I’ll never forget the feel of his laughter under me, like this current of . . . of love and joy. He told me that every wise soul was a butterfly eater. I had no idea what he meant at the time, but now I do.”

  At the end of this sentimental confession I looked at Quentin shyly, but he was watching me so gently I knew he understood, or wanted to, at least. His face growing pensive, he looked away, toward the mountains, squinting against the sunshine and his own memories.

  The warm, damp heat of the earth rose around us, bringing the scent of our own skin, the fertile pasture, the mountains waiting for time and new children to squeal at their heights, birds singing old praises, insects whirring secret languages. He scanned the vista around us, and I watched him with my heart in my throat.

  “The Bear’s got a helluva view,” he said, and he included me in that view as his gaze slowly came back to my face. “Maybe it does know something we don’t know.”

  • • •

  Sunlight streamed through the barn’s broken planks and ruined roof, illuminating Arthur’s mink-brown hair like a halo as he looked down anxiously from the barn’s loft, where he had barricaded himself. Quentin cast troubled glances at my strained face. I could see he was thinking, She’s tearing her heart out over this. She’s trying so hard to hold her family together.

  “What kind of critter are you, sweetie?” I called up carefully.

  “An owl.” Arthur hunkered down on his heels and wrapped his arms around his knees, then gazed at us without blinking.

  “Why did you decide to climb up in the barn all of a sudden? Don’t you remember I told you it wasn’t safe?”

  “I got a feeling I had to see things from up high. So I can understand.”

  “What gave you this feeling?”

  “I heard Oswald say Mama Bear costs money.”

  “I think you heard Oswald tell Bartow Ledbetter that the Bear is worth more than money. He meant that nobody can put a price on Mama Bear. That’s good.”

  “Why is everybody talking about money? Do you have a secret?”

  I hesitated, agonizing over every word. Quentin said under his breath, “Let me talk to him.”

  “No. He’s on the verge of a full retreat. I have to talk to him. Not you.” To Arthur I called, “I do have a secret. And I’m about to tell you what it is. It’s a surprise.”

  “Like when Daddy died? You don’t want me to go back to Atlanta, do you?” His large dark eyes stared at me, but there was nothing placid or owlish about them. He looked horrified.

  “Oh, no, sweetie, no. It’s nothing bad. I promise you. I won’t make up any stories about it. I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “How will I know it’s the truth?”

  “You have to trust me.”

  He was silent. Big tears slid down his face. “I don’t know how, anymore.”

  His plaintive confession stabbed me. As I struggled to speak Quentin laid a hand on my arm. I glanced at him and nodded.

  “Arthur,” he said. “Watch.” He dropped to his heels. We stood beside the barn’s collapsed lean-to. My car, an old brown Mercedes sedan, was bashed under heavy chestnut timbers, strips of torn pine plank, and long pieces of the barn’s rusty tin roofing. I’d bought the sedan years earlier for two thousand dollars from an Emory classmate who had broken her foot kicking it after the latest in a series of expensive engine problems. I put a Chevy engine in it, and it had run ever since. Now, my hybrid car was flattened.

  Quentin felt around in the air between timbers and then under the car. I looked at this strange behavior in amazement. So did Arthur, craning his head. “Brother Bear?” he called in a worried tone.

  “There. I’ve got one.” Quentin thrust one large hand into a space between the jumbled boards, as if catching something. He pulled back his closed hand and studied it. “It’s in there. I can feel it moving. I didn’t hurt it.”

  “What is it?” Arthur called, craning his head more. I found myself bending over to look, then straightened quickly.

  Quentin stood, holding out his closed hand. “It’s one of the creatures who live in the air between things. Between rocks and the ground. Between the boards of the barn. Between the parts of the car. When I was a boy I called it a Tween. Because it lived Between.”

  “A Tween,” Arthur repeated in awe. “What does it look like?”

  “I don’t know. Tweens are invisible.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They hold the world up. Every part, every piece of every thing is held together and held up by Tweens. If you know how to make the Tweens happy, nothing falls down.”

  Arthur unwrapped his arms and pointed down at the lean-to’s crumpled roof. “I see them! There and there. There are hundreds of them! Gazillions! They’re not real happy, though. We’re all in a mess. That’s what they’re saying.”

  Quentin opened his hand. “Go on, it’s all right, go do your job,” he said to the Tween, then blew on it softly. He made a show of watching some invisible thing fly back into the rubble. I found myself tracking its supposed route with hypnotic fascination.

  “Are all the Tweens good?” Arthur called.

  Quentin hesitated, gauging which answer would work best, then shook his head. “You have to be careful with Tweens. Some are bad-tempered. The bad ones make extra space and push things around. They make your structure weak. When you see too much emptiness, there’s usually a bad Tween involved.”

  “We’ve got a few really bad Tweens around here,” Arthur said somberly.

  “Don’t be scared of them. I know how to keep the Tweens happy. It’s really simple. If you lie to a Tween he’ll let the things you love most fall down around you. Am I going to lie to you, Arthur? Ask the good Tweens.”

  My brother bent his head and sat, deep in thought. I faced Quentin. “Where did you learn that wonderful story?” I asked softly.

  He looked at me like a man with amnesia, as deep in thought as Arthur, seeking his identity. “My father thought it up to keep me distracted while he worked,” he said, then turned away, his jaw clenched. “Brother Arthur? What do you think? What do the good Tweens say?”

  Arthur raised his head. His somber gaze went to me. “The good Tweens want to know what’s the secret you want to tell me.”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s not really a secret. Mama Bear belongs to you. Do you understand that? She’s your property. You’re the only one who can take care of her. Whatever you say about her, that’s what happens. Understand? You love her and you’re her protector.” He nodded, but with an incredulous and guarded tilt to his head. “Okay,” he said slowly.

  “But Quentin and his mother love Mama Bear, too. In fact, Quentin’s mother thought Mama Bear had been taken to the junkyard and cut up for scrap metal a long time ago. She’s so happy to know that Mama Bear is okay.”

  “Mama Bear’s still held up by the good Tweens.” Arthur looked at Quentin, who nodded.

  “Quentin would like to take M
ama Bear back to his home so that his mother can love her just the way you do.”

  Arthur shot up like a rocket. Legs braced, hands clenched by his sides, he stared down at us. My heart stopped. Beside me, Quentin said in a low voice, “I’ll climb up and get him, if I have to.”

  I held up both hands. “Arthur! It’s your choice. Don’t you remember what I just said? Mama Bear’s not going anywhere unless you think she needs to go.”

  Arthur trembled. He pointed at Quentin. “Brother Bear. You think she’ll die if she doesn’t leave here? You think that’s why she’s so lonely?”

  “I don’t know. You have to decide what’s best for her, and tell me. That’s all I want to know. It’s your choice.”

  “I don’t own her. She makes up her own mind.”

  “All right, then, you’re going to have to interpret for me.”

  “Maybe she wants to go. I’ve got to think about this.” He swayed on the lip of the loft’s sill. One wrong step and he’d fall twenty feet into the jagged debris of the lean-to. I was scared out of my mind. “Arthur, sit down.”

  “I have to talk to the good Tweens that hold her up, and see what kind of bad Tweens are around!” He took a rattled step forward. The toe of his tennis shoe now hung over the sill’s edge. Quentin raised a hand. In a deep and commanding voice he ordered, “The Tweens only respect a man who takes care of his own spaces. Be a man. Sit down.”

  My brother dropped to a squat with the speed of an unplugged toy. His eyes were soulful yet determined. “Like a man,” he said. I sagged with relief. But then Arthur’s eyes lit up and he pointed at me. “Sister! I see a great big bad Tween right in the middle of you and Brother Bear.”

  I rubbed my forehead. Quentin had created a whole new fantasy world for Arthur, one that quickly became aggravating. “I don’t see a Tween,” I said.

  “It’s a mean Tween,” Arthur insisted, louder. “It came out from under the lean-to. It’s floating in the air between you and Brother Bear.”

  “I’ll get it some iced tea and a cookie. It’s not mean. It’s just hungry. Calm down.” I faced Quentin. It was amazing that Arthur hadn’t gone into hysterics — or voiceless shock — over even the suggestion of selling the sculpture. But that was only a temporary reprieve, I felt. I was both angry and grateful to Quentin. “If we don’t get him down from there, the Tweens are going to cart my brain away to an asylum.”